Palad Vol. 19

palad

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About the cover The world is too vast for a pair of eyes to see everything. *** Light. Darkness. Mountains. Oceans. Space. Hell. Future. End. Towering cities.

Shrinking woods. Slumbering animals. And the greatest creation—Man—the wounded, the victor, the loving, the war crier, the child, the beast, the praying, the sinner.

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palad

Literary Digest

Issue No. XIX May 2017

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palad

Literary Digest of Heraldo Filipino

Rochelle Rivera Palad Editor Nishtha Nigam, Shakira Austero, Hannah Fernandez, Ranica Lane Meralpis, Joseph Christopher Paz, Eva Tablada Writers Allan Popa, Ferdinand P. Jarin, Joseph Nacino, Danielle Vince Capuno, Yngwie Eusebio, Denise Anne Valentino, Maria Anthonette Gadon, John Joseph Gementiza, Jose Alfonso Sacdalan Contributors Lynoelle Kyle Arayata, Kathelyn Ann Bravo, Camille Joy Gallardo, Mikaela Torres, Chesleigh Nofiel, Chandler Belaro, Jose Mari Martinada, Bermanie Jean DoniĂąa Artists Camille Joy Gallardo Layout Artist

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Marc Galang Cover Model

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Message The world is a story—of creation and destruction, giving life and taking it. And with each birth, a thread is fashioned to weave itself into the grander story of the universe. That is the job of a writer—to create those stories borne from solace in literature and freedom in imagination.

Writing’s an uphill battle, but our writers have mustered up the courage to tell us the tales that need to be told. And while fiction might be a world within our minds, these stories and poems will make you wonder at the reality around us in way that you never endeavored to before you picked up this folio.

In the 19th volume of Palad, we introduce you to tales of birth and creation—from the very craft fundamental to planting the seeds of change in society. Dare to see for yourself and unravel the secrets of creation in the palm of your hand.

Anri Ichimura Editor in Chief

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Foreword Kung dadalhin kita kung saan nagsimula ang lahat, ano kayang makikita mo? Kung kaya ng mga paa mong balikan at tungtungan ang unang yugto ng buhay, paano mo ‘to sisimulan? *** Creation starts in the mind as thoughts begin to whistle.

When they mature into songs, we give birth to them through singing and others discover as they listen. But the very beginning—when the mind is thin dust, incapable of thoughts—silence echoes through hollowed spaces.

Imagine standing there.

Silence. Blackness.

Terrifying and suffocating—that as writers we fancy exploring; lingering to unknown depths. We, who lend god’s role from time to time, designing life and altering reality. We, while under the trance of our own creation, delve from nothingness into the birth of an extension of the universe—the invisible force of why it continuously expands; the storyteller’s theory.

The end result of restlessness and experiment—our masterpiece, a new existence that wasn’t at the point of genesis.

We tell what the eyes can’t see, but the mind can imagine. We talk about characters who, while they only live in the pages of our despair, take more deep breaths than we do and scream when we can’t.

As you flip through the pages, you will be taken to when you weren’t here—because every time you read, you give away a fraction of your reality.

So that what was fiction can arise, and you would become its reverie.

Now, thank you for lending us your existence, so that we too, can live.

Rochelle Rivera Literary Editor

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birth bərTH/ noun: The first moment of existence

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A miracle— among all the possibilities, probabilities, and places, to come into existence at a time and space as unique as itself.

Example of BIRTH in a sentence: <As fate would have it, the birth of a son at the age of fifteen changed her world in ways she never expected.> verb: Give birth to

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A sacrifice— amid all the agony, anxiety, and anticipation, to part with a piece of oneself so as to make half a life whole.

Example of BIRTH in a sentence: <Even as a four-year-old, he knew the lady he called Mom was not the one who gave birth to him.> adjective: Biological birth relation

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A bond— transcending all dimensions, distances, and destinies, to intertwine two souls in the sacred thread of the creation of life.

Example of BIRTH in a sentence: <And yet even years after, he yearned to be in the arms of his birth mother just once, for despite all her flaws, she chose to let him live.>

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CONTENTS

SHORT STORIES Jason Christopher Paz POEMS Nishtha Nigam

α Birth α

14 Children of the night 18 Unwanted Ω End Ω

Shakira Austero 16 Feather to quill 19 Heritage of freedom 20 From ashes and back Rochelle Rivera 17 Payapa

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32 Gifts for the enchanted 39 In the shadows Ranica Meralpis 36 Cicadamorphosis 50 Hating kapatid 56 Buhali with Rochelle Rivera Evee Tablada 28 Men of Earth 45 Amongst the creatures of Earth Hannah Fernandez and Rochelle Rivera 24 Mnemosyne

CONTRIBUTIONS Allan Popa 88 Ang Kamatayan ng Makata 89 Abot-tanaw Joseph Nacino 90 The death and birth of Mad Manila OTHER FORMS

Ferdinand P. Jarin

Rochelle Rivera

94 Tangke

63 For immediate release 65 Bagong Bayan 77 Alternative Rochelle Rivera and Danielle Vince Capuno 82 Kwentuhan

Yngwie Eusebio 98 Dear You Denise Anne Valentino 99 Hors dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;oeuvre Maria Anthonette Gadon 100 Bud John Joseph Gementiza 101 Serve while hot Jose Alfonso Sacdalan 103 Bloodâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s worth

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POEMS Children of the night Feather to quill Payapa Unwanted Heritage of Freedom From ashes and back

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Children of the night

As the sun packs its light and leaves for home, shadows merge into one another and the pregnant night glows in her star-strewn skin as her womb grows into a silver moon.

12 AM The night smiles at her firstborn as dreams take their first breath, wrapping their tiny fists around her finger while she carries them over surreal terrains.

1 AM As the cool wind dances around the night, and souls unite as one, passion is bornâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;naked and vulnerable.

Yet radiating a warmth that overwhelms the night as she holds this second child to her bosom.

2 AM The night carries her third-born in her arms, as thoughts as infinite as her own stars slowly open their eyes to gaze around, shooting from one star to another, then to another till a constellation of thoughts keeps the night awake.

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3AM From the strange emptiness of the night, her fourth child is born among shadows, as ghosts, demons, and monsters come to life â&#x20AC;&#x201D;their screeches and their wails send shivers down the spine of the night.

4 AM Wrapping her fifth child in a blanket of silence masterpieces are born to the exhausted night, their powerful cries announcing their arrival, demanding to be heard and felt by others.

When the sun returns in its halo of light, the night kisses her children to sleep, leaving a trail of stars in the twilight sky as she follows her beloved darkness.

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Feather to quill

From a fowl, a feather was plucked— one’s purpose is still unknown.

Detached from the rest, from what makes a wing, from heights it could have flown.

It was chosen for its sturdy built, and not meant to soar the skies.

But to be stained and swayed across paper, to express notions of great minds.

It plays with cursives rather than the wind.

Each stroke imposes danger— from revealing truths to provoking ideas, in wisdom that we hunger.

Sought after by wordsmiths, to preserve, relive, and immortalize, until it bleeds its last drop of ink.

But the tales it has imprinted, filling pages after pages— solely pacing on empty sheets of time, will be more boundless than any sky a bird could soar.

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Payapa

Katahimikan ang sigaw ng mga guni-guning may busal ang bibig, mga matang nakapikit. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Tahimik,â&#x20AC;? ang sagot ng mga boses na duwag pa ring aminin ang ingay sa dibdib, mga kamaong nakatikom, kinikimkim ang mga salitang nais bigkasin.

Walang kibo sa pagkakagapos ang mga katawang malamig, mga kaluluwang naglaho matapos patahimikin.

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Unwanted

You are the seed of sin planted among two accidental lovers, that grows on my land like a weed among my perfect rows of flowers.

Shall I tend and water you?

Or shall I rip you out? for you were never meant to be here, ruining the season of my flawless blossom.

Your roots pierce my being, your existence taints every joy: a reminder looming taller each day, that you are the mistake which wrecked my world.

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Heritage of freedom

A string, thin as veins pulsing for freedom, tied so tightly it creates a sound of revolt when strung on each ends of a coffee-colored, bent wood by a careful craftsman’s hand.

But alone, it is incapable— a futile attempt to inflict damage amid war.

A shaft carved from generations of sturdy trees affixed with a sharp end— it could pierce a marauder’s skin.

Light enough to spear through the air where winds can defeat the intent to go further.

In its solitary being, it is powerless and fails to bring forth into battles the glory that warriors want to win.

The nock kissed the string intently as one brave soul pulled with all his might.

He stretched it as far as he held back the sorrow he felt for his people.

He released the arrow— piercing through the foul wind of exploitation.

And the sound of triumph echoed through the air.

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From ashes and back

Only to rise from a soil of ashes— a bird of faux vibrancy.

Spreading its wings to welcome death— and slowly, piece by piece, it crumbles.

Spreading its wings to welcome life, singing songs of possibilities as the day breaks— a sweet release from a consuming cycle.

Or a facade of make-believe.

Singing songs of elegy as the night falls, with its claws— too weak to grasp any reason to stand.

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Its flight, a majestic stunt, yet desperately longing for rest— away from winds of expectations too violent to withstand.

One too many attempts to break past the unsteady skiesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; finally, calmness embraces.

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SHORT STORIES Mnemosyne Men of Earth Gifts for the enchanted Cicadamorphosis In the shadows Amongst the creatures of Earth Hating kapatid Buhali1

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Mnemosyne “What am I doing here?” A little girl woke up, smelling the damp scent of the ground. She found herself lying on a pile of twigs in the middle of a forest.

It was supposed to be a bright morning, but the towering oak trees of the forest blocked the brilliant rays of the sun from coming in. There were no green leaves, just endless binding branches of the trees. The sky was nowhere to be seen. Instead, it was filled with the eerie sound of crows flying above.

The little girl stood up. She couldn’t remember anything, neither her name nor the reason she was there. She appeared like an unfortunate lost soul surrounded by fog that veiled the farther depths of the woods. Despite the fright and loud rolling sounds of a drum beating through her chest, she decided to find a way out. She was cold and barefoot. With the thin piece of her dress not enough to give comfort to her body, she wrapped her arms around her as she continued to walk, trying hard not to cry. Soon after, she heard loud music nearby. She followed the sound, and was welcomed by a loud party at a small village.

It was her first time seeing people dancing, raising their hands in the air while marvelously following the rhythm of the music played with the strings of a guitar, the beating of drums, and the ringing of bells and maracas. They were so loud as they chattered and clapped their hands as three women gracefully waved their long skirts at the center of the crowd. There was also lots of food, vegetables, and drinks served in a row of stalls and tables. It looked like they were having a feast.

“A little girl!” someone exclaimed. The villagers immediately stopped what they were doing and gazed at the little girl who seemed fascinated by what she saw. They gathered around, examining her from head to toe. They noticed the bruises on her bare feet and the dirt on her face, arms, and legs. The villagers immediately concluded that she might have gone to the Forbidden Woods—the dark forest at the foot of the mountain where they have long restrained anyone from entering. The villagers consoled the little girl by offering her food and drinks. They asked her many questions but she just consistently answered, “I don’t know” with her trembling voice. It was as if she had no memories to recall and her mind was just a blank sheet of paper.

A couple came through the crowd and looked at the little girl lovingly. They were already married for 15 years and still, they had no child. For the longest time, they had always prayed of having one. They did lots of rituals, especially in every feast of the village, just so the saints and deities would grant their wish. Upon meeting the eyes of the little girl, they already knew what they had to do. They warmly offered their hands to her and took her home, thanking the gods for finally answering their prayers.

“What were the villagers saying about the Forbidden Woods?” the little girl asked upon arriving at the couple’s little house.

“Oh dear. You have seen it, haven’t you? The dark forest,” Anita said while preparing warm water and a towel to clean the little girl. “Not long ago, the captain of the village forbade anyone to enter that forest. It was because it was believed that the forest was inhabited by a mad creature.

Since the last blood moon, anyone who goes into the forest gets lost, and some never even come back. You are lucky you found your way out.”

Anita soaked the towel in a small basin and started scrubbing the little girl’s arms gently.

“What mad creature? What is a blood moon?” the little girl asked, followed by a couple of more questions as she was about to burst into tears. “Who am I? Where is my home? Why was I in

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that forest?”

“Oh dear,” Anita brushed the hair off her face and held her hands. “Stories say that when the silver moon turns red, the portal from the otherworld is opened and all the other creatures that live there come over here to walk the earth. But forget about that and the mad creature. Don’t worry, you’re safe with us. I and your Amang will take care of you until your memories come back.”

“This is Anita’s. It’s probably too big for you,” Emil entered the living room and handed over a bestida. “We’ll just go to the market tomorrow and buy you some new clothes.”

The couple made a comfortable home for the little girl outside the village. They were afraid that she might find herself lost in the Forbidden Woods again, so they decided to move faraway and into the city instead. They treated her like their very own daughter and named her Emma, after the name of Emil’s beloved Inang. They promised to be good parents. They worked hard and gave Emma all the things she needed. They fed her, dressed her, and sent her to school.

Most importantly, they raised her with such a good heart, that she reflected the same kindness and grew up to be a fine lady. Though they knew it was wrong, Anita and Emil silently prayed the whole time for both Emma’s memories and her real parents to never come back. And indeed, they never came.

As years went by, Emma graduated from college and worked at a corporate office. Because of her pure heart, she was easily loved by others. She soon met a man whom she fell in love with.

They spent lots of years together, and later planned to have a family of their own. Everything seemed surreal and perfect. She had everything—friends, family, and a man who sincerely loved her. There was nothing more she could ever wish for. Yet, deep down in her heart still laid an unexplainable feeling of emptiness like something was missing.

“Oh my dear daughter, you look so beautiful. Don’t you agree, Emil?” Anita said as her eyes began to water. She looked at Emma who was once a little girl they found in a small village and was now a fine young lady wearing a dazzling bridal gown.

“Our princess,” Emil agreed, looking a lot like his wife who was about to cry. Emma chuckled at her parents’ reaction as she was done fitting her wedding dress for tomorrow. She enclosed her parents in a tight hug. From time to time, she thought about her real family and how she ended up in the Forbidden Woods alone. But every time she looked at Anita and Emil, she knew she couldn’t be more grateful. Their love had always been enough that she didn’t think she still needed to know where she really came from.

While making last preparations for her wedding, Emma’s attention was suddenly drawn to the news that continued to flash on the television—there will be a lunar eclipse later in the evening. She was always fascinated by the moon without knowing why. Like a magic trick she couldn’t figure out, she just found its view beautiful and mystical. But though she loved looking at the moon every night, she had never seen a lunar eclipse. She always missed it for many reasons.

Now, before her wedding, she silently swore she was going to see it.

Later that night, she stayed in her room’s balcony to patiently wait and watch as the silver moon turned red. “The blood moon,” she whispered. While the cold breeze of the wind caressed her face, she recalled what her Inang Anita told her when she was younger. She remembered the story of how the portal from the otherworld opens every lunar eclipse the same way it closes whenever it ends, making a way for enchanted creatures to come and visit the surface of the earth. She smiled, thinking how silly the story was now that she was older.

But as she was about to enter the room and close the doors to her balcony, a man with the most beautiful face and the longest ears she had ever seen appeared before her.

“My sister,” the man said.

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At once, Emma felt a pang of pain in her head and she fell to her knees. Different images flashed across her mind rapidly like a movie in rewind. She let out a series of screams, but no one seemed to have heard. The images in her head gradually slowed down until she could see them clearly. There was an image of a different world made of crystals that shined like diamonds. The trees were made of gold and silver, a waterfall of rubies and sapphires, and a big castle made of ivory and pearl. She saw herself as a kid, dancing and playing on its grand balcony. Different creatures soon appeared—some were flying while others crawled, and some looked charming, while others seemed terrifying. Nonetheless, she felt like she had seen this all before. She could tell the name of every face that come across her mind. The images then shifted and she saw a great big door made of glass. It swung open and the faint light of the red moon revealed itself.

She saw everyone walk through the door and she followed, only to stumble upon a place that was not made of shining stones but still equally beautiful. It was the other side of the earth— where the ground was made of dirt and the sky a breath of air. It is where the trees don’t sparkle but bloom with fragrant flowers and sweet fruits. She saw herself wandering a little too far until the red moon faded and the big glass doors behind her closed. She ran so fast but she was too late. She was stuck in the human world. She cried and let out her outrage that shook the ground.

Her tears poisoned the trees and they all lost their leaves and flowers overnight. Her loneliness cast shadows around the forest and it made the whole place as cold as her heart. The images shifted once again, and started showing ordinary people who crossed the forest. With a song, she lured the passersby to face her and look straight into her eyes. She could read their thoughts and with a snap of her fingers, their minds turned blank. It was as if she deleted their memory with a single click. For many days, she roamed the forest, playing with people’s memories so she could watch them helplessly get lost in the woods with her. For one last time, the images shifted again and she saw herself looking at her reflection in the lake. She stared at her own eyes and sang. She was too tired of waiting for the next lunar eclipse, too tired of being alone and away from her family. She wanted to forget the days she waited.

She snapped her fingers and the images stopped coming.

Emma was back in her room, lying on the floor and heavily breathing. She slowly stood up, and saw the same beautiful man in front of her. She turned her head and saw her reflection in the mirror. Nothing was different except for her pointed ears which seemed to have grown longer than usual. She faced the man and said, “My brother.”

“We’ve been looking for you,” her brother spoke with longing in his voice. “We tried to call for you by humming our hymn, but it was like the song never reached you. Many lunar eclipses have passed and you never returned. By what I just witnessed, it looks like you’ve lost your memories and have been living as a normal human being.”

“Yes, I have,” Emma couldn’t find the right words to say. She did her best not to cry since she already knew what her tears could do to this world. “I didn’t make it in time. The portals closed. I was lost. Time runs too slow here.”

“You grew old.”

“I know,” Emma smiled. “And I was about to get married to—” “Come home with me.”

“But,” Emma stared at her brother, pleading not to raise the evident dilemma she had to face. “Two kindhearted mortals took care of me. You should meet them.”

“We have to go home.”

“But... their hearts will be broken. They are old. Who’s going to take care of them?”

“You can’t stay here!” her brother yelled and the ground almost trembled. “If you stay here

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and become a mortal again, you’re going to continue growing old. My sister, if you stay here, you’re going to die.”

“Well, maybe I don’t mind dying!” Emma blurted out.

“Look at you. You even think like a human!” her brother took a step closer. “Now that your memories are back, you’re going to stay in your true form. Do you think they’d still accept you? If you try to erase your own memories just to be mortal again, then you’d still have to forget about everything. You won’t remember the life you lived until now. And once you do that, I’m still going to get you home. You’re going to leave this place without even a memory to hold. Should I make you forget instead?”

“Emma?” her Inang Anita knocked from her bedroom door. “Emma?” another knock came.

“I think she fell asleep already,” she heard her Inang walked away.

Emma’s chest tightened as she roamed her eyes around the room. There were pictures of her carefully hanged all over the wall as a young girl together with her Inang and Amang, up until when she grew up and graduated from college. Her table was also filled with pictures of her friends and her groom. They were the people she loved, and the same individuals who loved her dearly in return. But, as much as she never wanted to leave them, looking at her reflection, she knew right where she really belonged. Emma faced her brother with her eyes full of sadness.

“Just give me a moment,” she said.

“You only have an hour until the lunar eclipse ends.”

Emma managed to cover her long ears through her dark brown hair. With all the courage she could gather, she went out the room finding her Inang and Amang sitting quietly on the sofa while watching their favorite romantic drama. She stared at them, secretly imprinting their image at the back of her mind. She inhaled deeply, and then approached and embraced them.

“Emma,” her Inang said, slightly surprised by her sudden presence. “I thought you were already asleep.”

“I took a shower,” Emma said as she sat on the center table, facing her parents. She held and caressed the hands of her ever loving Inang and Amang, “I’d like to sing for you.”

“Oh, our dear Emma. We’re going to miss your voice when you get married. Yes, darling, sing for us.”

Emma looked at her parents straight in the eyes and started to sing. One by one, she erased their memories of her from back when she was a little child up to this day when she was about to get married. She wanted to spare her parents from the pain of her being gone. As she removed every memory of her from their minds—all the things that bound her to them also withered into thin air and even the pictures faded like she was never there. Anita and Emil fell asleep in her arms, and she both kissed them in the forehead, whispering, “I’m sorry.”

She then opened her phone and recorded a voice message with the same song. She sent it to all of her friends, including the only man she had ever loved. She was running out of time to see him personally. He should be asleep by now, and in the morning when he woke up, he’ll hear her voice. Instead of waiting at the aisle, he’ll go back to sleep without a clue that he almost married an unearthly maiden.

As she looked at the red moon, she knew this was the sacrifice and the consequence she had to take. She entered the portal holding her brother’s hand, bringing not just the loneliness of being forgotten, but the joy of holding onto memories and the infinite ache of being the only one to remember.

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Men of Earth “Whe… where am I?” Joshua Dizon finds himself seated on the pavement at the back of what seems to be an abandoned building. His head is spinning, and he can’t remember the last thing he did that led him there. He notices he’s wearing a hospital gown barely covering his back. Shifting his vision down his torso, the first thing his sight lands on is his round belly that looks as if he swallowed a whole watermelon.

“Why am I all bloated?” he asks himself, turning his head to survey his surroundings.

A few feet from where he sits, he notices spilled rotten junk lying next to a trashcan, old shabby buildings, torn down posters, and scattered newspapers. He spots a headline that says, “Vaccine 286A decimates population.” He picks the newspaper up, flips a page and reads: Manila Today February 17, 2031, Monday The female population in the Philippines has dropped to less than thirty thousand within the last eight years, according to a report by the National Statistics Office released yesterday. Due to the loss of females and the drastically reducing birth rates, the Philippine population reportedly decreased from 132M to 36M by the end of 2030.

The population decrease was caused by a vaccine developed by Filipino biochemists, Dr. Emmanuel Roldan and Dr. Juliana Reyes, in January of 2023. Vaccine 286A, the patented cure for AH5N3, was designed to immunize each person in the country against the disease and cure those already infected with AH5N3. The vaccine had undergone trials and was proven effective by the Department of Health and of the Food and Drug Administration, and was also endorsed by the World Health Organization.

However, Vaccine 268A has reportedly transformed into an airborne virus capable of infecting persons who weren’t initially injected with the vaccine. The virus is said to rapidly attack healthy cells in the host body. Only humans with “xx chromosomes,” or females, were infected and those with “xy chromosomes,” or males, were left unaffected.

The side effects including an extreme fever, excessive nausea, vomiting of blood, skin rashes, internal hemorrhage, and drop in platelet count led to the death of all females injected with the vaccine, along with those who came into contact with them.

According to National Institute of Molecular Biology and Biotechnology (NIMBB) Chief of Operations Dr. Elenita Dela Cruz, “Mass graves are all over the city. Men are still grieving, and children lost their mothers and sisters in such a tragedy. Rallies in front of the NIMBB building have become increasingly violent. We are honestly on the verge of collapse.”

Meanwhile, other countries are facing the same chaotic effect as the virus has spread worldwide. Latest reports show that Korea, Japan, China, and other neighboring countries continue to have a rapid increase of fatalities. Malaysia and Indonesia have independently declared a nationwide quarantine and lockdown as further efforts to eradicate the virus are made.

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“What is going on?” he thinks to himself as he pushes himself up with both arms.

The place is dead quiet. The only sound Joshua hears is the frequent buzzing of broken electrical lines and flickering lamp posts in broad daylight. The streets are deserted and even the houses and establishments look bleak. He roams around until the air smells of rotten corpses and he almost throws up.

The sun burns his skin, so he takes shelter in the nearest grocery store. Its glass windows are broken, like most windows in the area. Shattered pieces of glass and a couple of big rocks are spread all over the floor. The store looks as if it was robbed.

“Uhm… Hello? Is anybody here? I, uh, I’d just like to take a few items. Sorry,” he says as he glances at the CCTV even though he isn’t sure if it’s still working.

He rummages through piles of food packs on disordered racks and shoves into his mouth whatever is still edible. He throws a few into his cart, but doesn’t collect much since most of the items were left open and rotting. He goes to the beverages next.

He finds specks of blood sprinkled on the floor and the terrifying idea of a zombie apocalypse pops into his mind. He does his best to shrug it off. Nonetheless, he still grabs a few water bottles through a refrigerator’s shattered glass door. He turns to the men’s wear section to get a pair of decent clothes. As he is about to untie the ribbon of his hospital gown, he notices his reflection in the convex mirror attached to the ceiling.

The guy in the reflection looks anxious with his face seemingly disoriented and sweat trickling down his brow. No, he isn’t terrified someone might catch him, but more frightened that he is alone—God knows what happened to all of the people who used to walk these empty spaces.

He tries comprehending his thoughts. No matter how much he manages to focus, he simply can’t remember what happened to him before he found himself in the alley.

He continues to put on his new shirt and pants. He then takes a backpack, stuffs inside all the food he can get, and ventures back to the desolate streets.

As he turns around the corner, he sees a white van. By the door is a person in a white hazmat suit complete with headgear and gloves—the one scientists and medical personnel wear when handling radioactive substances and biohazards. He approaches the van to take a closer look.

“Hey! Excuse me,” he says, but as he walks nearer, the person in the hazmat suit reveals a gun and aims it toward him.

“What the fuck?” he instinctively turns and runs, yet more people in hazmat suits come out of the van to chase after him. Joshua feels getting shot in the right leg, but it isn’t a bullet. It stings though, as if a giant ant bit him. He runs as fast as he can, taking turns he doesn’t even know where they will lead to. His gut clenches with unbearable pain with each step he takes.

When he is sure he’s lost them, he wanders back to the streets, cautiously leaning on every wall he walks past to check if anyone is still following. And then, something kicks in his stomach. What follows is a familiar pain similar to being kicked in the nuts.

A gush of strong wind swirls and whips away all that scatters on the ground as a chopper hovers above him. He looks up and sees a man in military armor rappelling down the chopper. By the open door of the helicopter is another man, probably in his mid-40s, wearing a business suit and holding a megaphone.

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“Patient 0307-D, come with us. We won’t hurt you. We are here to help,” the man speaks over the megaphone.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” Joshua raises his voice, trying to beat the loud noise of the chopper.

“We just need you to go back to the lab. We’ll tell you everything when we get there,” the man answers.

“No! I don’t even know you. Some people just tried to shoot me!” He runs away, his palms gripping his belly like it’s about to explode.

He catches his breath as he hides in an abandoned building. He sits and crawls across the hallway to an empty room. Blood gushes out between his legs. He flinches from the excruciating pain radiating in his stomach and places a gag in his mouth to prevent screaming. He clenches his fists and swears he can feel something moving in his belly. Something is alive right now in his stomach, and it is turning his insides upside down.

He takes his pants off and lays down with his back on the cold floor. He takes a series of deep breaths and though he doesn’t understand why, for some reason his brain tells him he can push the thing out of his stomach. He begins pushing, letting out breathless screams while he bites the ball of cloth in his mouth, his chin almost touching his chest. He keeps pushing harder until he can feel something coming out between his legs. He manages to sit up just to find a real baby’s head. He holds its head carefully, and with a one last forceful push, he is able to bring the baby completely out of him. Once the baby gives out a loud cry, he passes out and everything goes blank. *** Joshua wakes up in a daze. Just like when he woke up in the alley, his head is spinning. But this time, the first thing he sees is a blinding white light. For a moment, he thinks he’s in heaven until a man’s voice speaks.

“Glad you’re awake. How are you?” says the voice. He adjusts his vision and turns to where the voice is coming from. He looks around, casually glancing over the man.

Everything is white. He must be in a hospital.

“I’m Dr. Raven Roldan. I’m here to help.”

“What’s going on? How did I get here?” Joshua furiously flips over the medical tools beside his bed.

“All your questions will be answered later,” the man calmly replies. “We found you at a filthy old building, thanks to the GPS my officer shot you with.” he said, pointing at Joshua’s right leg.

“What? I… I can’t remember anything.”

“I see. That’s common for most of the patients. You know, you should take a rest,” Raven motions to the man beside him. “Nurse, give him a double shot. Make sure he doesn’t wake up till tomorrow morning. I’ve had one too many headaches today,” he instructs the male nurse beside him.

The nurse is about to inject him with a big syringe when Joshua jerks up in panic, running through the door. He rushes outside without looking back, dashing through the halls of the building, noticing medium-sized rooms with huge glass windows. In the first few rooms, he sees the same scene—of doctors and nurses surrounding a

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person lying on a hospital bed. He pauses for a bit to finally look closely. They seem to be operating on a patient. He watches silently until one of the doctors lifts up a baby.

When the doctors leave the room, he goes to check inside. To his horror, the person who gave birth is not a woman.

He walks out of the room weeping. All he can think of is that this is just a dream that he has to wake up from.

He dashes through the hallways again, only to find more men—pregnant men. As he is about to reach the exit, Dr. Raven suddenly emerges.

“Did you enjoy the tour? You should have let me assist you. You can’t escape here for the second time. Especially now that you just gave birth. You can’t be doing extreme activities yet,” he commands.

“Nonsense! What do you mean I gave birth? Men. Do Not. Give. Birth.” Joshua yells in disbelief.

“Don’t raise your voice,” Dr. Raven says. “You want to know what is going on? The world is collapsing! You may have forgotten, but let me now refresh your memory.

You’ve been to the streets. You saw what happened. Almost everyone is dead. My mom and your mom—dead. Have you seen women? No—because every single one of them is dead. That’s why you’re here, and the rest of the pregnant men. We are doing our best to save the entire species of the human race,” he pointed out.

“H-how?”

“Ah, we conducted several experiments and tests. Finally, we’re able to provide a healthy space and baby-friendly environment inside a man’s body comparable to a woman’s womb. But that’s not the only upgrade we made. As you might soon discover, we’ve also become asexual beings. All of us men can reproduce and conceive a baby on our own,” Dr. Raven raises both his hands as if this fact is totally normal and something to be proud of.

Just then, a nurse enters with Joshua’s baby wrapped in a pink blanket. “Look,” Dr. Raven caresses the baby’s head. “She has your eyes and flat nose. But don’t worry, that can still be changed.”

Joshua slowly walks toward them. The baby girl, indeed, has the same nose, and eyes as big as his.

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Gifts for the enchanted I’ve always been fascinated by stories of Philippine mythical creatures. When I was a kid, my mother used to tell me about the Kapre, Nuno, and other Engkantos. She would sit me on her lap, with a candle on the bedside table serving as our only source of light because we couldn’t afford to pay the electricity bill. My favorite story was about a Kapre who visited our old home in La Union. He lived in an enormous, old Acacia tree on our land.

My mom told me stories about how a Kapre grants wishes in exchange for five objects close to a person’s heart.

Coming back to our province two years later, I decided to finally visit my parents. My wife had long been gone after we separated due to a lot of differences we never expected we’d have. I spent most of my time with a bottle in my hand, thinking I could drink my problems away. Because of this, I didn’t pay attention to my eleven-year-old son. He died in a car accident, and I was left alone. There was no one to blame but myself.

My parents looked older than before, but it was good to see their same sincere and smiling faces. I chuckled at the old picture frames and admired the wooden antique furniture, realizing that nothing had changed. I looked outside and saw the enormous Acacia tree my mother once talked about, the old tree where the Kapre lives. All of a sudden, smoke came out, creating a thick fog around the tree and then I heard a loud masculine voice, a voice so loud it could have broken the glass. The Kapre appeared, and he was sitting on the branch of the tree. He looked like a shaggy monster. But under the long hair covering him from head to toe, I could see a pair of shiny red eyes and a smug smile across his face. He jumped off the branch, and it felt like the earth rumbled as the Kapre’s feet touched the ground.

I gathered all my courage to look up at his horrifying face, and as his eyes pierced through mine, my legs felt like they were about to crumble.

A shiver went up my spine as he said my name. His mouth didn’t move, but I hear his voice inside my head clearly.

“H-how… How can I s-see you? How can you talk in my head?” I stuttered.

“People can only see and talk to me if they have something they want from me—a wish, perhaps?”

I didn’t answer.

“Am I wrong? I see desperation in your eyes. It screams a name you cherish deeply in your heart—a name you want to hold just as the darkness embraces the moon at night. You want to hear his voice again as though it’s the lullaby that sings you to sleep. Now, what are you willing to lose to hear that voice again?”

Sweat trickled down my temples, “M-my son. Can you really bring him back?”

5/5 My eyes snapped open as soon as I smelled the smoke in my room. I opened the lights and was surprised to see the Kapre sitting and smoking at the end of the bed, ashes ruining the white sheets.

“You fainted when I was about to give you my instructions, you poor man. Listen, for five consecutive days, you shall offer me one object a day that is close to your heart, and I might

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just be pleased enough to grant your wish,” the Kapre said. He gave me a list of things I had to pick from to bring.

A. Your father B. Your best friend C. Your son’s Mickey Mouse shirt “Y-you didn’t say I had to bring you people!” I shouted.

“Well, that makes it more exciting,” the Kapre said with a smirk on his face.

Of course I picked C, my son’s shirt. It was the same shirt he wore at the night of the accident. I stood up and looked for it in my bag. Since he died, I always carried it with me.

Tears stung my eyes as I touched the fabric. As soon as I made my choice, a burnt number five figure formed on the hem of the shirt.

I placed it on the ground at the foot of the Acacia tree where the Kapre lived just as he instructed. I suddenly felt a strong wind touch my face, and the shirt disappeared, replaced by black smoke.

4/5 Even when I left our old home and returned to my apartment in the city, the Kapre managed to follow me. I was washing my face in front of the mirror in the bathroom when he appeared behind me, making my heart jump out of my chest. I continued to wash the remaining soap off my skin while cursing under my breath.

“I heard that. Time for the second gift. Choose wisely.”

A. Your memories B. Your mother C. Your blanket Of course, I picked C again. It was the blanket my mother gave me when I was a kid.

I touched the soft fabric and remembered how I would cling to it when I was scared of thunder as though it was the laughter of the Kapres living in the trees, tricking the people lost in the woods. And I would hide under my blanket when I was scared of the loud sounds the rain made when it fell on our roof, imagining the footsteps of Duwendes.

The number four figure formed as I clutched the blanket to my chest. It disappeared, leaving black smoke enveloping me, and the Kapre chuckled.

3/5 Other than my daily interaction with the Kapre, I could say I still had a normal life.

But that was not until other Engkantos started appearing. When I woke up one day, two Duwendes greeted me good morning. Then when I was about to go home from work, a Tikbalang was following my co-worker. The Tikbalang was playing and sniffing her hair.

She greeted me and started to talk about her day when she complained that her neck was feeling oddly cold. I looked at her side and saw the Tikbalang licking her neck. “Don’t lick her!” I blurted. My co-worker stared at me in surprise.

The Tikbalang glared at me, “Mind your own business, buddy.”

“It is my business! You’re licking some girl’s neck right in front of me!”

The Tikbalang laughed, ran, and disappeared with a puff of smoke. My co-worker irritatingly told me that I was crazy, and left.

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Great, now they think I’m crazy, I thought when people started staring at me.

“Maybe they’re right. You’ve gone mad,” the Kapre appeared in front of me as I closed the door of my house. “It’s about time you make your third choice.”

A. Your best friend B. Your father C. Your son’s paper planes It was strangely easy to choose from the options. But I shuddered every time I heard those silly choices he kept on including.

I picked the paper planes my son made. When I walked across my kitchen, I immediately saw the paper planes on the dining table. They were in different colors of white, blue, red, and green. My son always wanted to fly with me, so he made the paper planes bigger than the normal ones. He would make them fly and follow them around wherever they went, dreaming of becoming a pilot.

I smiled and thought that he could be flying wherever he was right now. He could be in the clouds, seeing the sky he dreamt of visiting. I played with the planes and made them fly before I saw the number three on one of the planes. Before they could even land, they disappeared into black smoke.

2/5 “What made you wish for your son to be alive?” the Kapre suddenly asked. He was sitting on the railings of my balcony, a cigar between his fingers.

“He…he didn’t deserve to die,” I closed my eyes.

“Everyone deserves to die. It is just a matter of time. You must also be afraid of dying,” the Kapre said, a little smile on his face that I didn’t expect.

“Oh, I’m terrified. But aren’t we all afraid of doing things that are not certain in this world?”

A. Your father B. Your mother C. Your pendant Of course, I picked the pendant. It was a gift from when I was a kid. I would cry when my paper boats would sink in the lake my father and I used to visit. He told me that the paper boats sank because Diwatas were riding them. My father then gave me a chain with a bird pendant. He said it would protect me from bad spirits and Engkantos, and that the pendant symbolizes a magical creature called the Tiktik. He explained that although it’s always mistaken as an ugly and bad creature, the Tiktik is a good creature in nature. It even warns people if a Manananggal is nearby through their soft and loud cries.

The number four formed on the box and was swallowed by the familiar black smoke.

1/5 I leaned by the window with the Kapre watching from below, under the shadow of the lamp post. His voice reached my thoughts and whispered the last choices of gifts. He looked at me like how a predator looks at its prey, a predator that hides in the tall grass at night while the light of the moon grazes its starving face with its eyes focused on ripping the flesh of its victims. I realized what kind of monster I was facing.

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A. Your mother and father B. Your memories C. You I should have seen that it would all come down to this. The Engkantos never really grant a wish without a great price at stake. I picked my memories and waited for them to be erased like stars being sucked into a black hole, but it didn’t happen. The Kapre shook his head. It wasn’t the gift he wanted. I didn’t want to sacrifice my parents, so I offered myself.

As though someone was burning a cigarette onto my skin, the number one materialized on my forehead. The Kapre stood up and puffed an enormous cloud of black smoke around me that made me cough. I looked around, and I was surprised to see that I was flying. There were huge paper planes, and impossibly, I was riding one of them. The others were ridden

by Duwendes, Manananggals, Tikbalangs, Tiyanaks, and Aswangs. They were laughing and they looked happy despite their awful appearances. Then I saw my son falling from the sky. I tried to reach out and catch him, but his image transformed into the same blanket I gave to the Kapre. The sky became pitch black. I suddenly couldn’t move as though I was trapped in a little box. I fell into the water below, and just like my paper boats, I sank down to the ocean floor.

As it turned out, the ocean floor looked like a highway, or maybe I was just hallucinating.

I felt the wet concrete where my body lied, and then I heard a shark—or was it a truck— coming my way. I couldn’t move. I wanted to say something, but my throat was burning, like someone was starting up a fire in my lungs.

“Everyone deserves to die. It’s just a matter of time,” I heard the Kapre’s voice say. I slowly closed my eyes like curtains after a show. The Kapre’s laughter was like an audience’ applause that gradually became fainter and fainter.

0/5 I saw the score for my Wish Creature Compatibility Test. It was the test Engkantos had to take for them to be able to grant wishes as well. I touched my long ears, anxiously waiting for my boss’ sermon. I saw Tikbalang and Aswang opening the door, but they didn’t see me.

They almost stepped on my long beard as they passed by.

“Duwende! You failed your WCCT for the fifth time. How in the world will you help my Wish Foundation? There are so many foolish humans who are willing to sacrifice anything to us just to make their wishes come true,” Mr. Kapre said as he barged into the office. He was wearing a suit with a big “Mr. Kapre” on his uniform and the number one tattooed on his palm.

“In life, you make thousands of choices, but there are only a few chances to make the right ones,” Mr Kapre said and my eyes wandered over my co-workers that had the same tattoos on their bodies, matching the one on my forehead. They would tell me stories of how they became Mr. Kapre’s slaves and how their wishes were granted at such an awful cost. The saddest story I’ve heard was from the new creature in the Wish Foundation, a Tiktik. He had the number one tattooed on his belly. He loved to fly and brag about his wings that looked like the paper planes my son once made.

I didn’t know him that much aside from the coincidence that he once wished for his father to be alive, just like how I wished for my son to come back.

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Cicadamorphosis It was the middle of December, when the nights were colder and longer. A dark figure of a man mysteriously emerged from the crowded streets of Tondo, Manila. He had black shoulder-length hair tied with a thin piece of red cloth. He was wearing a necklace with a round pendant made of gold and engraved on it was an image of a cicada—the same thing tattooed on the right side of his face. The man’s voice was rarely heard, but he whistled in the rhythm of the old-fashioned lullaby Oyayi, a mother’s song to her child. He waited until nightfall to venture into the streets as he looked at the little orphans carrying rusted tin cans in their hands, begging for coins. It was said that this particular man just appears out of nowhere. No one knows where or when. He just appears randomly in places where the most unfortunate children reside. It was also said that when he appears, he takes the kids who cry the loudest— and this time, it was the little pale orphan called Labanos.

Labanos, a nine-year old orphan, was just one of the unfortunate kids who lived under the wing of the Kawit Bata syndicate in Tondo. It was led by a notorious old man named Amang Karpio. Labanos could still vividly recall how his mother sold him to Amang Karpio back when he was just five years old. Amang Karpio was a tall and muscular man with thick eyebrows and bulging eyes that looked at the children intently and wouldn’t let them escape his grasp. It was his vice to buy, sell, and kidnap children only to use them for his own good. Kawit Bata Gang was what people called his filthy business that used young orphans like Labanos, trafficking them on the streets to beg and steal for money. The orphans in Kawit Bata Gang were required to earn five hundred pesos a day. If the children failed to meet their quota, they’d be beaten until their little bones would break. Out of fear, most children simply stole—lurked in crowded places, picked from pockets and bags and even from their victims’ own hands. Their innocent minds have been corrupted to snatch just about anything that could gain them money and to do it swiftly so as not to get caught. But Labanos was not like that, he couldn’t bring himself to commit a crime. He would rather approach every judging pair of eyes to beg for coins. So among all the kids, he was the one who earned the least and thus received regular beatings from Amang Karpio.

“You little brats better be in this warehouse early, or else the Skin Crawler will gut and skin you like a fish!” One of Amang Karpio’s men warned with his stern voice. A boy raised his hand.

“What’s a Skin Crawler?” asked the little orphan.

“Well, you see kid, the Skin Crawler is a very deranged man. Even more dangerous than Amang Karpio. He kidnaps kids like you who wander during the night. When he catches you, there’s nowhere else to run.” The bald man gestured as though his right hand was holding a knife. “He will remove your skin apart from your flesh,” he continued as he glided his right hand over his left wrist to the elbow, demonstrating how they would likely be skinned. “He will just watch you with a smile on his ugly face as you scream for help,” he finally said, grinning and triumphant seeing the horrified looks of the orphans—except Labanos, for he knew that it was just a tale to scare them from escaping the warehouse. He was much more afraid of Amang Karpio’s beatings with his belt rather than the mythical tales about the Skin Crawler.

The next day went by fast and Labanos hardly earned anything. He went back to their hideout in an old abandoned warehouse near the docks, anxious of the impending punishment. When it was time for them to turn in and count the money they earned, Amang Karpio already knew that Labanos did not meet his quota. He pulled Labanos by the hair, followed by a forceful slap on his poor little face. He could only cry in pain as Amang Karpio continued to beat him. No one bothered to help, not even the older members of the gang.

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Labanos begged and begged, but everyone just looked at him—thankful for not being in his position. Amang Karpio kicked him one last time as he ordered the other children to go back inside their chambers and sleep.

Labanos’ pale skin has turned red and purple from all the beatings he received that night.

He thought he was going to die, and to make it worse, he was also forbidden to eat and drink even a glass of water. With his remaining strength, he managed to walk to the docks. He could no longer live the kind of life that he had. He was determined to end it all. As he reached the docks and the cold December breeze embraced his aching body, he looked at the light boats on the horizon one last time. When he was about to jump, he suddenly heard footsteps approaching. He felt his heart pounding loudly inside his chest.

He turned his head and the light from the lamp post revealed a strange man’s face. It was the prettiest face Labanos had ever seen. The man’s shoulder-length hair was tied with a thin red fabric and around his neck dangled a very old looking necklace engraved with a cicada.

He smiled and glanced back at Labanos, right into the boy’s innocent tearful eyes. He was humming an unfamiliar tune, but it sounded good and comforting, like he was being carried and swayed in a cradle of cotton.

“Sorry for frightening you, little boy. I heard you crying,” the man said as he took closer steps, his eyes fixed on the scars and bruises on the boy’s skin. Labanos felt ashamed, bowed his head, and cried as his shoulders trembled.

The man patted his head, “What’s your name little boy?”

“Labanos, sir,” the boy answered between sobs.

“What a very peculiar name, Labanos. What seems to be the problem?” the man asked.

“I can’t live like this anymore. I just want it to end,” Labanos cried.

“How about you listen to my song? You’ll probably feel better,” the man said, unbelievingly calm and he started to whistle an Oyayi.

Labanos listened in awe, as if every tune the man made slowly healed the pain etched in his mind and body. He started to feel something he never felt before—for once, Labanos felt safe. When the song ended, he pulled the hem of the man’s shirt in fear of being left alone.

Labanos was afraid that the man would leave him after the song.

“Would you like to come with me? I know a place where a child never cries. It’s a place full of joy and laughter, where they can just sing and dance all night long. It’s a place where you are free to do anything. A place where no one can ever hurt you again,” he explained, caressing Labanos’ heavily bruised face.

Labanos looked at the man knowing that he would do anything just to go to that place.

“Yes, I would love to come with you,” Labanos said, his eyes glinting with hope.

“Very well then,” the man leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, leaving a tattoo of cicada on Labanos’ skin. It crawled over the boy’s back swiftly like a real live insect and faded from sight. “Meet me here at the docks tomorrow night and I’ll take you with me. But you must understand that you will have to undergo a very difficult process to go with me. You’ve been tainted by this impure world you live in. We have to take that part away. Are you willing to do that for me?” the man asked, holding Labanos’ small hands.

“But who are you?” Labanos finally asked.

“You’ll know when we get there,” the man answered.

Labanos nodded in agreement, and the man patted his head one last time before disappearing into the night.

The next day, Labanos woke from the cold floor of the warehouse, feeling more relieved than ever. When everyone got up to proceed with their usual schemes, Labanos noticed some

37

familiar faces were gone, like the boy who asked the bald man about the Skin Crawler. He thought that maybe some of the kids were out early to earn some more money.

“Listen up, filthy brats! There’s a new curfew, so you need to be back in the warehouse at precisely 8 PM. If you’re not here before then, prepare to be whipped. And as for the quota, you still need to earn five hundred pesos, so hurry up and do your job!” Amang Karpio yelled.

But Labanos couldn’t seem to care any less. It was his last day after all.

Labanos just enjoyed that day. He walked around the town and played in the park. He bought fish balls and cotton candy near the church with the money he earned that day. It was a fun day, if only his nape wasn’t so itchy that he kept on scratching it. Little did he know that the cicada tattoo was already spreading all over his back.

It was already getting dark when Labanos decided to go where he was supposed to meet the unknown man. He went to the docks while hopping as he hummed his lullaby. As expected, the man was already waiting for him under the lamp post. Labanos smiled at once and ran into his arms. The man looked at the poor boy and noticed that the tattoo was now growing bigger as it crawled onto Labanos’ face.

“It’s time,” the man whispered. Labanos, not knowing what to do, just nodded and smiled.

The man started whistling his lullaby and Labanos suddenly felt weak to his knees.

He could feel the pain as it engulfed his body into its demise. His head ached as if his very skull was being stabbed. His body felt hot as if it was melting like butter in a hot fire. His screams sounded like screeching tires rubbing against the pavement. He looked at the man who continued whistling. His coffee colored eyes turned bright yellow, staring intently at his suffering.

I will endure this pain for that place, for my freedom, Labanos whispered to himself.

The pain grew more intense as the seconds passed by. The cicada tattoo on Labanos’ body grew darker and spread into his eyes. His fingernails started to fall off and so did his hair.

He screamed even louder as the pain tore his skin away from its flesh. When the process was complete, Labanos slowly emerged out of his pale shed skin. He was covered in his own blood.

All that was left of him was his flesh still latched onto his bones. Labanos always hated his pale skin full of bruises and scars, so he was not frightened seeing it peeling off of him.

“I thought I’d never get rid of my scars,” he looked at the man with tears of blood streaming down his face.

“Now, you are ready to go with me,” the man said. Labanos gave him a hug that drenched his white shirt with blood. But the man didn’t care, it happened all the time. He was about to offer his hand to Labanos when they heard Amang Karpio’s voice as he yelled.

“Let the boy go! He is mine!” Amang Karpio was behind them, pointing a gun at their direction. Labanos gasped in fear. He looked at the man whose coffee brown eyes turned bright red. His face was contorted with a terrifying grin very similar to a snarling mad dog.

“Well, not anymore,” the man answered. His voice sent shivers down Labanos’ spine.

Amang Karpio was about to shoot, but when the man raised his hand, the cicada tattoo flew out of his arm and into the air, multiplying into hundreds and making a loud droning noise.

Amang Karpio tried to run but his efforts were futile. The swarm of cicada feasted on him, and they didn’t leave until they bled him dry.

“Let’s go Labanos, everyone’s waiting,” the man said with a smile, as if nothing had happened. Before leaving, Labanos gave Amang Karpio one last look. He felt neither remorse nor hate. He actually almost wanted to help the man who made his life hell. He silently wished that this was the last terrifying thing he’d ever see in his life. The man, knowing what the young boy was thinking, started to whistle his lullaby and they walked side by side as they made their way into the darkness.

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In the shadows I’m sorry to inform you that your manuscript has not been accepted.

Jacob remembered the exact words of rejection he received from the nth publishing company he tried to submit his story to. He sat down on the sidewalk of a poorly lit street, a frown plastered on his face, feeling the weight of his shoulders getting heavier as though an invisible force was pulling him down. He kept walking the never-ending streets in an attempt to clear his mind of his unwavering thoughts.

As the cold wind embraced his thin body, he tried to warm himself by clinging onto his shirt and remembered that time as a kid when he used to curl up in his starpatterned blanket. It was when his parents would tuck him to sleep, and his eyes would glint with anticipation for a bedtime story. As he grew up, he developed a brimming passion for writing, and received praise from the stories he created. He wanted to study creative writing in college but his parents never supported him, arguing that he could have chosen a better course that would earn him more money. He tried studying what they wanted for him, but he ended up failing again and again, until he just decided to drop out of school. He worked different jobs, but he was always fired for having the worst temper. Since then, he went back to writing, contacting publishing companies and sending them his manuscripts. But his stories were always rejected for being too dark and violent, without any resolutions or enlightenment at the end.

No matter what they told him, he realized that writing had become a business like any other industry. That publishing books was more for the profit and not for the art of writing.

As a writer, he saw the world a little differently—as images of reality convert themselves into their rawest form before his very eyes. In return, these realities assemble into words of exaggeration—a crueler depiction, only to emphasize a gleaming light in the midst of darkness.

Stories should reflect what kind of people authors are, and maybe the world just isn’t ready to know him.

Despite the voices inside his head, telling him that he should just quit writing, he didn’t give up.

Even if his parents didn’t tell him, the look of disappointment was evident on their faces. He then decided to rent an apartment away from home, in the comfort of darkness and silence. Occasionally, he wrote essays for college students where he earned very little, just enough to buy food and pay rent. Other times, he would spend the rest of his day in the sanctuary of libraries and bookstores, trying to figure out what was in those books that got them published. One day as he was strolling through a bookstore, he saw a poster of bestselling books. Like a curious child, he picked the top bestselling book and scanned through it.

In the shadows was a man standing in the street, as dead as grave. The cold breeze touched his face as though comforting him.

Even though his eyes started burning from every word, he kept on reading till the end, frantically switching from paragraph to paragraph.

The man sighed heavily, like a big rock was stuck in his throat. His chest was filled

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with thick threads all tangled together and even the smallest of breaths made them wrap his heart— “…into a tighter hold,” Jacob was able to finish the sentence without flipping to another page as he gave in to the thought that those exact words were his.

The crisp smell of pages filled his nostrils as he ran his hand across the cover of the book. Everything was imprinted in his mind—the characters that made the story alive like the monsters and demons inside his head and how haunting the story was written like nightmares chanting names of the dead at night. Everything fit—except for that one strange name below the title embossed like a proud thief.

“Maybe, they got my name wrong. Yeah, that must be it,” he thought, trying to convince himself like a fool, ignoring the idea that something more unjustifiable went wrong. Jacob shook his head and decided to go to the publishing company to confirm his intuition.

To Jacob’s surprise, the editor in chief himself greeted and welcomed him. He was even invited to talk in their office.

“Good day, Sir Valentino. I did not expect this,” Jacob chuckled as he sat on the chair in front of Mr. Valentino. “The book that you recently published—” his breathing started to cut short, “is oddly similar—no, it was not oddly similar, because it was the exact story I sent to you, which you rejected. I’m thinking you might have made a mistake.”

Mr. Valentino nodded and grinned; an expression Jacob couldn’t quite explain. It was like the face of the proud thief he imagined the first time he read the wrong name, getting all the credit for his work.

“Honestly, I’ve been expecting you. You look like someone who is having,” he paused to look at Jacob intently, “a hard time.” He said, half-smiling as if it was something funny and he cleared his throat.

“So, I’ll make an offer you certainly can’t refuse. I reckon you know Jose Salvador?

He’s a good writer, and a better source of income. It’s just that lately, he’s been having a “crazy time,” or a writer’s block in your language. We can’t wait for him to be fine, you know. His fans are awaiting his new piece, and we can’t let all that hype pass,” he explained. “So we took matters into our own hands. It just so happened that your story was chosen and what better way to make money than to credit an already famous author instead? It’s called hitting two birds with one stone. But this is the fun part of our little partnership. You’ll write for us and in return, you’ll get—one percent share of royalties. But we have to print your works under Salvador’s name. See, if this all turns out to be successful, maybe we can reveal your true identity eventually.”

Jacob’s shoulders tensed. Time seemed to slow down as every word seemed like a meteor crashing from the sky, leaving embers that matched the excruciating pain in his heart.

He pounded his fist onto Mr. Valentino’s table, “That is bullshit! What moron will accept that crappy offer? Look. I may not have enough money, or the power to shut your whole company down, but at least I’m not like you guys who suck off people’s works and talents. I don’t need your money so you can just shove it down your throat.”

Not wanting his remaining pride to be shattered, he chose to just walk away, his breath hitching like a thundercloud releasing its repressed rage to the earth.

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On his way home, Jacob walked past a bookstore. He stood in front of the glass panel where his supposed books were displayed. He breathed slowly and a streak of dew spread over the glass. The cold air struck his face as he went inside.

Holding the book in his arms, Jacob suddenly crumpled the pages and started tearing them piece by piece. He sat down, feeling his legs giving up from exhaustion. As tears kept on falling down his cheeks, “T-these are my words.” Others had their phones out, taking pictures and videos of him. The staff called the guards and he was driven out, but not without paying for the book he destroyed. As roaring vehicles passed by, he stared blankly at the sky, hoping that the gods would turn back time to the day his life wasn’t a mess.

Jacob chose to stay in the darkness of his apartment. He avoided talking to people; concluded that he had gone mad, or even killed himself. But then he was going out of his apartment looking well-groomed and neat as if nothing happened. He went back to his old routine—visiting bookstores and scanning through the displayed books on the shelves.

One bright morning, Jacob found himself staring at a woman, dazzled by her brunette hair, and the way her face lightened up in the golden rays of sunlight. He followed her to a coffee shop and she sat by the window, reading the book that he wrote. With his remaining money, he went in to order coffee. He sat behind the table of the woman and waited for his order. Jacob tipped the glass of water with a surprise look in his face, causing the water to spill on the floor. The waiter walked past and slipped on the wet floor, spilling coffee on the woman’s white dress. The woman shrieked and jolted up, trying to clean the stain on her now ruined dress.

Jacob came to apologize for spilling the water and offered his handkerchief to the woman. There was an awkward silence between them until he asked to be seated with her with the sweetest smile he could put on. As he told her about his love for reading fiction, he asked about the book in her hand. Her eyes sparkled as she said it was a crime fiction, saying that it was her favorite genre. Their conversation ended with an exchange of numbers, sheepish smiles, and Jacob insisting on walking her home.

Upon reaching the woman’s house, they continued to talk about books. When she bid goodbye, Jacob asked if he could at least have a glass of water. She smiled and invited him in. Jacob scanned the living room. Other than the massive pile of books in her cabinet, there were pictures of her resting on the walls, and dirty dishes in the sink which only meant she lived alone.

Taking a deep breath, Jacob walked back and forth the living room, making the woman curious as to what made him so anxious.

“I forgot to tell you about this one tiny detail about me. Promise you won’t judge me, alright?” Jacob leaned on the woman’s face, snatching his book from her hand.

“Would you believe me if I said this was actually my story stolen from me? That I submitted a manuscript to this publisher and they rejected me. That after months, I found out they actually published it but used different names for the characters and credited someone else?” Jacob confessed with a hint of hope in his voice.

As the woman suddenly laughed, Jacob felt like a tree breaking from ferocious storms. It took several seconds for her to catch her breath and say,

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“You’re funny. You don’t look like someone who can write such masterpiece.”

Silence screamed between them as Jacob’s face got dim and a smirk played on his lips.

He looked at her like she was a blank sheet of paper, just waiting for vibrant colors to taint her skin. She stepped back, wanting to be away from the monster that was in front of her. She felt as though the man was a shadow creeping up behind her and started to shout for help, her eyes pleading for mercy.

“What are you talking about? You’re scaring me,” the woman stepped back.

Please, I’m not going to hurt you, he said and the woman felt the hairs prickling on the back of her neck as her heartbeat quickened like the thrumming wings of a caged bird.

“I’m narrating my favorite lines in the book which I wrote myself,” he smirked.

Jacob punched the woman’s stomach, causing her to flinch in pain. The woman was shaking with fear as she tried her best to crawl away from him.

“Exactly! Just like that!” Jacob saw a pair of plastic gloves from the sink and wore it. He suddenly grabbed the woman’s neck, trapping her breaths. “That’s more like it. Now, where was I? Ah, right,” once he was sure she stopped breathing, he started taking off her clothes.

The night was filled with colors as fireworks roamed the quiet night sky. And they stood still, skin to skin.

After Jacob finished putting his pants on, he touched the woman’s hand.

And as his hands ghosted over her skin as pale as powdered snow, he whispered to her goodnight and left like a thief in the night.

He closed the lights and went to the back of her house, where he dug up a hole and buried the woman’s body.

With every swing of his shovel and the dirt piling on the woman’s face and body, he buried his once perfect memories. He is now a monster in the shadows.

Jacob cleaned the house, erasing all evidence except the book with some of its pages folded. As he left the house, his breathing was fast like a loud runaway train reverberating through his bones. He wanted more—the feeling of blood rushing inside his veins and the constant drumming in his chest like a song that kept him awake all night. *** It didn’t matter if it was day or night, he would randomly go to different bookstores, watching and observing the people who came and bought that book.

He would follow them and pretend to befriend them. He would get them to isolated places—it could be in the comfort of their homes or even in dark streets where no one would see them. There he would confess about being the real writer of the book and with just one wrong reaction, he would demonstrate the murder scenes in the book, eventually killing them.

News about the mystery killings spread like wildfire. The police were quick to examine the crime scenes and they found a common thing from the victims— beside their graves were the pages of the book folded, containing the scenes of how they died. At first, the police thought that the suspect must be an avid fan of

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the book as the killings in the story were similar. Because of this, people stopped buying it, afraid of being killed as well. Its distribution ceased and sales eventually plummeted.

In every morning, the sun would kiss the grass, making flowers bloom kind promises of new beginnings and new hope.

Months passed and there had been a chase of finding the real suspect of the multiple murders that occurred. But the police were empty-handed in discovering who it was until they came across a video of Jacob in a bookstore crumpling and tearing the pages of the book. People who had seen Jacob in bookstores were then interviewed and it wasn’t long until they found out he was always with the victims before they died. By looking at his records and manuscripts sent to the publishing company, it was confirmed that the killer was in fact the writer of the book. Like a puzzle, they fit the small pieces to get the bigger picture.

And in the night, the moon would then bless the flowers with cold wind, protecting them from the scorch of the sun, because not everything in the light can be healed. Even the light can be blinding sometimes.

Jacob was watching the television when he discovered the sales of the book decreased and how the killer was the same person as the real writer of the book. Even though it was his face displayed in the television and his name was being repeated by journalists like a mantra, he grinned because now, he was rightfully credited for something he actually did, despite being a murderer as well. Jacob, a writer who hid in the shadows for so long, was now being broadcasted on television and headlines of newspapers and was now the main talk of the town. His parents were also sent for questioning and they talked about how Jacob only wanted the world to know about his stories. They didn’t expect that he would do such a thing.

Smiling, he got the revenge he always wanted, and that was enough for him to yield.

Jacob felt the coldness around his wrists as he went to the police station, promising complete surrender to the police. *** Jacob sat on the cold hard floor behind the jail bars that seemed to mock him for being confined in the darkness for too long.

As he reminisced the times the sun shone on him like a lit candle in a dark room, he would always remember how staying in the shadows made the most difference and changed who he was.

Stories should reflect what kind of people authors are, and maybe the world just isn’t ready to know what Jacob had become.

Every ending is a new beginning like how the sun scorches the water, and the steam brings it up to the skies, and there a blanket of clouds is formed, making an everlasting companion for the sky.

In the shadows of Jacob’s cell, the light on the ceiling flickered as he thought of writing a new story that was even deeper than the abyss he fell into, darker than the night sky he once adored—a continuation of the story that would spark even the brightest of thunders.

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Amongst the creatures of Earth 1 – Surface I woke up in a daze, lying on the cold hard ground. I slowly got up, trying to remember what I was doing in that place. My eyes widened as I faced my own shadow. I knew there was nothing to fear about it, but mine was in a standing position towering over me, when it should have been sitting. I tried waving my hands from left to right, but my shadow didn’t even flinch. I blinked. I blinked a couple more times, wishing it was just my imagination.

Even though it didn’t have eyes like me, I felt its stare piercing through my soul.

I peed in my pants with terror. Neither of us moved while I was still mortified. I found the courage to spring my legs up after a couple of minutes bargaining with myself whether to run or pretend I was frozen till it left my sight. I was about to run when I fell and hit the ground, diving into my shadow like it suddenly turned to a big sinkhole with unknown depths below. I went through it, warping to nothingness. I closed my eyes one last time, hoping to wake up from this terrible nightmare.

2 – The Enchanted Forest When I opened my eyes, I was transported to a forest—or more like an enchanted world scattered with trees that had glowing leaves and flowers dancing in a cheery rhythm.

I looked down at my feet that were standing on wet grass. But unlike normal green grass, I was standing in a bright red-colored prairie. I scanned through the rest of the field and noticed the grass was in different shades of red—a few areas had pink-hued grass, red orange, red violet, and some even resembled the color of blood.

Then I heard someone humming. The voice was sweet like when my Lola Fe used to sing me a lullaby. I wandered through the forest, following the lovely voice. I went past the trees and found myself standing on a meadow filled with an assortment of colored flowers.

As I walked further, I noticed that with every step I took, my feet felt a burning sensation.

The voice lured me deeper through the field, against my will. It was a force as strong as gravity. The grass grew into longer stalks, tying me to the ground, forcing me to lie on my back. I could not protest. I was paralyzed as I openly embraced the burns at the back of my skin.

I started screaming, cussing beneath my breath. I could hear my skin sizzling as though it was being roasted. The pain invaded my flesh, traveling through my veins. I just closed my eyes. Soon, the beautiful melody was replaced by a screeching sound, and I finally regained control of my body. I struggled to get up, wriggling the stalks that restrained my limbs.

My instincts dictated that I turn my head to the forest I had just walked past. There was darkness covering the trees, moving closer and closer to where I was seated. In desperation, I decided to bite the grass off my right arm then the left, and untangled the stalks at my feet using both hands. I ran as fast as my feet could take me, looking back at the darkness every few steps.

It took the life of every plant it passed by. The colorful flowery field lost its beauty and turned into a black hole. I ran faster despite the pain—as if I was being chased by a speeding vehicle. But my speed still wasn’t enough; I was devoured by the darkness. It felt like falling into the sinkhole again. I just closed my eyes.

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The screeching sound—police cars. Darkness—my old friend.

3 – The Fairy Cave It felt like I would fall forever, but eventually, it just stopped. I couldn’t dare look around to see where I was, afraid that I would be faced by another terrifying nightmare. I tried convincing myself that it was over and I’d be waking up in the comfort of my own banig.

Liquid droplets ran down my face. Curious of what it was, I finally opened my eyes. I found myself hanging mid-air, floating. I jolted, trying to balance myself. Before I could even adjust to my surroundings, a thick, braided rope bound my arms to my torso.

I moved my head to face the creature behind me. I looked at it from head to toe. Its skin was muddy and wrinkled. It had a long and pointed ears, chapped dark lips, and sharp fangs. Its eyeballs, which were pitch black, had the same fierceness as that of a hungry tiger ready to set onto its prey. With messy hair as if it never had a bath, its body was covered with dried blood, smelling like a rotten carcass.

It tugged the rope attached to my body, dragging me like a dog as it gradually walked into the deeper, more densely, rocky parts of the cave.

“Sino ka? Bakit ako nandito? Sa’n mo ‘ko dadalhin? Pakawalan mo ‘ko!” I tried to question it.

“Malalaman mo rin. May naghihintay pa sa iyo sa ibaba,” it answered, with a human sounding voice, entirely unfitting for its physical features. Before I could even ask what it meant, it pulled the rope down as we landed on the pile of rocks.

After a couple of moments later, the monster let go of the rope. “Oo nga pala! Sa ‘iyo ito.” I thought it would hand me the thing properly, but it was tossed far from me instead.

I leapt to catch it, afraid that it might land on a hard rock and break. As soon as I got my hands on it, I fell into a small gap leading to a narrow tunnel, and I skidded down the cave floors. I couldn’t see a thing, but I felt my skin getting scraped as my body touched the mound of minerals below me.

I felt a gadget in my hand, trying to guess what it was and what it could do to save me.

I pressed a button and it lit up in my hands. I remembered what it was—a mobile phone.

The lock screen photo—a woman I could sense I had met somehow.

4 – The Mystic River I had bruises all over my body. I looked worse than someone who had gone through fraternity hazing. The fall had drained all my energy, leaving my arms and legs limp.

Nevertheless, I still traveled for more than an hour. I knew I had to keep going, rather than die in that exact same place. I stumbled and even crawled my way until I came to a clear river. I could easily see a school of fish swimming a couple of inches under the surface of the water. I pulled up the sleeves of my hoodie and drank the river water with my bare hands.

In the middle of drinking, someone called out to me.

“Psst. Halika dito. Lapit ka.” I looked around to see who it was. “Gusto mo nang umuwi, hindi ba? Halika rito. Matutulungan kita.” I turned my head to where the voice was coming from.

I saw a woman yelling for me to come closer. Her lower body was submerged in water, farther away from where I stood.

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I walked through the knee-deep river, getting higher up my chest as I walked further.

There was rumbling beneath the surface of the bubbling water, getting more violent as I reeled closer. The woman’s features became more vivid as I reached just a few meters from her. Her long ebony hair was let down, giving her a more seductive appeal.

I was alarmed by a cold hand touching my foot. I looked down to my legs, but there wasn’t anything below. The moment I returned my gaze at the woman, she was gone.

A set of fingers gripped my ankle and pulled me into the abyss. I tried opening my eyes, even with the currents of water surging to my face. I saw someone, or something rather, pulling me from below. I wasn’t able to actually see its face. Its figure was vague, but I was sure I saw its long ebony hair and familiar tail covered with moss and algae—a river nymph, just like how my Lola described it. I remembered her story about how they lured men and dragged them into the river; and how they were never found alive after that.

I couldn’t breathe, but I still managed to fight for my freedom. I kicked at my left ankle with my right foot. But instead of her releasing my ankle, she used her other hand to grab my right foot. I suddenly lost hope of survival.

I accepted my fate and let the nymph drag me into the abyss. The water was awash with my blood from the scratches and wounds inflicted on my legs.

Red-coated finger nails—scratching through my skin.

5 – Nymphasia I regained consciousness. My head felt like it was being pounded on by a backhoe.

When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to find myself lying on my back, facing a porcelain white ceiling. I shifted my body and felt the soft but wet mattress my body was rested on. I almost jumped out of the bed when I saw a couple of scaly human heads with snub noses, pitch black eyeballs, and bloody red lips. Their bodies were a form of dull-hued fish tails with multiple fins and shiny-scaled skin. Their teeth were sharp, and when they laughed, I could see their gums were filled with another set of sharp teeth as well—like a shark. All of their faces had a number of hairy warts on them.

They seemed to be calm, unlike the one that dragged me here. Some were brushing each other’s hair while sitting on huge rocks lying on the sea floor, others were waxing their own tails, and all of them looked as if they were singing. I saw their mouths opening and closing, but I heard no voice. I got up and looked around. I literally leaped when I realized the porcelain ceiling and floor were actually the insides of a giant clam’s mouth and the soft bed was its tongue—no wonder it was kind of wet. I walked around and bumped into something transparent. I turned to look at what it was—a glass bubble. I was inside a damn glass bubble! How did I even get here? What were they planning to do with me? I had no idea.

A nymph tapped on the side of the glass, startling me. I tried talking to her even though I knew well enough that she couldn’t hear my voice through glass this thick.

“Tulungan mo ko, please. Parang awa mo na. ‘Wag niyo ‘kong sasaktan. Please. Gusto ko nang umuwi!” I begged, but she didn’t mind me. She just continued knocking… and knocking… and knocking… until the glass cracked. I screamed for her to quit tapping the glass. The bubble was breached with water, but she just continued tapping.

For every ounce of water coming in, the same amount of air escaped. The exchange

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of water and air slowly created a whirlpool that started small , getting bigger as more water came in. Before the nymph even completed shattering the bubble, the current took her as well as the other nymphs.

The vortex kept spinning, its current adding pressure to the crack in the bubble. The glass completely broke and I was again submerged in water. I tried swimming upward, but the current from the whirlpool sucked me deeper into it. My stomach twisted and turned as the eddy took me with its every spin. It took me deeper into the abyss. “‘Wag po! ‘Wag po! Kunin niyo na po lahat sa‘kin. Parang awa mo na. ‘Wag nyo lang po akong sasaktan. Please. Gusto ko lang makauwi nang maayos,”—I thought I heard myself screaming, until I realized it came from someone else’s, a woman’s voice.

6 – Burning Land The whirlpool eventually stopped as I hit the ground. It brought me to a scorching place—a desert, but even hotter. The water dripping from my wet body immediately evaporated, as if I was sundried for hours. The whole place was in a hue of red. It looked so familiar, like I had visited it before. I thought about it for a while. All I came up with were scenarios of a volcanic eruption I saw on television. Perhaps, it was.

Red—the color of her dress. Eruption—like the blood squirting from her sides.

The floor burned my feet. The air was too dry; it was almost impossible to breathe.

I thought I saw water in the distance. I tried to move, but it felt like I was walking on live coal. Still, I went for it but the further I got, the farther it seemed. My legs were sore and my feet scalded. A couple of miles more, I finally saw a gigantic gate. I made a run for it, burning with every step. I collapsed as soon as I touched its metal railings. I hoped I was dead.

“Hu…wag”—her last words.

7 – The Final Layer My memories flashed before me as I felt the gates of hell.

The wind was howling, carrying a lot of drizzle in its wake. In the middle of the night, while most people were in deep slumber, I walked down empty streets and dim alleys, trying to make money for my needs. This wasn’t the first time I had this kind of raket, me and my gang used to hunt here often, but that night I decided to go alone.

When I found the perfect spot, I leaned myself against the cold metal frames of a lamp post, waiting for prey to pass right before me. I kept my hands hidden, clutching a balisong knife underneath the pockets of my black hoodie.

It wasn’t long until a petite woman who was wearing a red dress walked past me.

She staggered as she walked with her towering heels. Her long red-painted nails were constantly moving with the sway of her fingers as she pressed the screen of her expensive-looking mobile phone.

She was too focused on her screen that she didn’t seem to have noticed me following her footsteps. And there, I crept, waiting for the right moment to pounce on my unknowing victim. I took out my balisong, ready for action.

Not far from her last turn, I enfolded her from behind, tucking her arms between our bodies. Before she even realized what was happening, I freed my right arm and

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captured her muffled screams with it while pointing a knife at her. She tried her best to escape, wriggling and kicking her feet. She dug her fingernails and scratched my arms violently.

I told her, “Holdap ‘to, ‘wag kang gagalaw!” I tried snatching the purse tucked on her right armpit. She clutched it tighter, but I still managed to forcibly take it.

I could not risk my identity so I stabbed her multiple times in the stomach, my left arm still hugging her body tight.

With her weak voice, she managed to plead, “’Wag po! ‘Wag po! Kunin nyo na po lahat sakin. Parang awa mo na. ‘Wag nyo lang po akong sasaktan. Please. Gusto ko lang makauwi nang buhay.” But I turned a deaf ear.

“Hu…wag’” she struggled making out her last words. I guess she died of excessive blood loss, but I continued stabbing anyway.

After, I immediately rubbed the blood off my hands using her dress. *** The shadow, as I can now recall, was actually a police officer standing firmly in front of me, with his gun pointed right at my head. I looked him in the eye, as if challenging him to pull the trigger.

He pulled a walkie-talkie from his pocket and radioed his backup. I took the chance and sprang to my feet while he was busy talking over. I ran, not daring to look back. I knew he was running right behind me but he wasn’t shooting. Instead, I could hear him continually calling for backup over his radio.

I kept my pace, jumping over fences as he followed. I knew well enough that it was safer if I stayed low in the alleys, but I was panicking and my mind was messed up. We continued the chase down to the open streets.

Screeching police car tires followed me as I dashed through empty lots. The police who was chasing me shouted words I was too hyped from running to understand.

Then, there was a loud bang. I staggered and fell right on the ground. I felt my left chest. Warm blood was dripping on my hand. Funny enough though, I couldn’t believe something bled in there. I had always accepted the fact that inside my chest was a hollowed space, right where my heart should have been. I never knew empty organs in my body could still bleed. I have committed so much crime in my lifetime; I guess this is a price I should pay. I had been in this raket since I was left to my Lola’s care. She was too old and weak, and I had to provide for the both of us. That’s how I started. As I grew older, I got used to the convenience that robbing unsuspecting victims offered me—fast and easy money, even if I had to kill. Plus, I became addicted to the thrill that each run gives me.

I closed my eyes one last time. I was imagining what hell might look like. Would it be burning like those prophets proclaim? Would there be a devil? Would there be a lot of tormented souls? Would I be one of them? I kept asking myself.

I opened my eyes and knew the answer. A man with the same height, face and figure as I did appeared before me. Our only difference was his flaming red skin, horns, and tail.

He shoved me up with his trident, leaving burn marks on my back, pushing me inside his smoking, pitch-black castle. He laughed maniacally as he saw my skin peeling off, revealing burnt flesh and bones. I opened my mouth to scream, but I could only let out a gasp.

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Hating kapatid The pungent smell of charred houses and gun powder lingered in the air, constantly reminding the people of the war that never left their town. The piercing screams and cries of the women and children synchronized with the deafening sounds of bombs and guns, echoing through the empty streets as if there was a parade. The noise of agonizing families filled the ill-fated region of Zamboanga del Sur. But these past few weeks were worse—the war had gotten louder and more brutal.

Amid the town’s destruction, Mika, a 10-year-old boy, pulled himself up from the pool of blood where he had laid unconscious. He was in the middle of street where other lifeless bodies seemed to be staring at him. His heartbeat was erratic.

He could feel the cold sweat from his skin. The fear inside his chest formed a lump in his throat that made it even harder to scream. He could not do anything but stare at the dying bodies around him. His legs were numb, but he tried crawling away from the gruesome scene anyway.

With all the strength he could muster, he pulled himself up and sprinted away as fast as he could. He ran with his knees shaking, like a drunkard clumsily falling with every step. He hurried through the forest to hide and analyze his situation.

Mika lost track of the time as he continued to escape. His body felt weak from the excessive running, and eventually, he sat under a Narra tree to rest and gather his thoughts.

“Ano bang nangyayari? Nasaan ba sina Nanay at Tatay?” Mika whispered to himself, crying. He was about to embrace his legs when he felt something inside his pocket poking his skin—a yellow notebook covered in blood, and between its pages was a pink butterfly hairclip. He gently pulled the clip out of the page with a note that said: “Tumakbo ka, tumakas ka. Kailangan mong mabuhay at pumunta ng Dipolog.

Kailangan mo sabihin kay Tiyo Ben ang nangyari sa Nanay at Tatay. Kailangan mo maging matapang, Mika.”

It was his brother’s handwriting, Kiko. Mika furiously wiped the tears streaming down his face. There was no time for him to cry or to be weak. Kiko told him to do something and he would do it. With the butterfly hairclip that his brother gave him, Mika tucked his short hair behind his ear and whispered the words “Magiging matapang ako.”

He started venturing the forest to hide and find help. Unlike the never-ending sound of gunshots in the streets, the forest was quiet and still. The trees towered over Mika as if they were scrutinizing his every move. The sound of leaves rubbing against each other were like whispers of threats that something bad was drawing closer. The sun shone brightly above him, evidently showing no signs of life apart from the trees and the soft humming of birds. The woods that extended beyond what he could see made Mika felt like he was vulnerable—like a single pebble in

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the sand, an easy target. As a way to calm down, Mika thought about what his brother instead. They would usually write letters for each other, with Kiko always reminding him that he wasn’t alone. That no matter what happens, they would always stick together.

It did not take long before Mika found a river. With the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he didn’t mind how thirsty he was. The water from the river was cold and sweet. Mika then washed the blood off his body, and he caught a glimpse of his own reflection. His clothes were tattered and covered in blood and bullet holes. His face was pale from the exhaustion and hunger. Although inside a boy’s body, deep inside, Mika knew who he really was. He was a girl, in his heart and in his mind.

The stars had become visible in the sky, and everything was pitch black except the rays of the moonlight that served as Mika’s guide to his aimless venture inside the forest. Mika could feel the grumbling of his stomach. He could not even remember the last time he had a decent meal. He was cold, hungry, and weak, with no idea on how to get to Dipolog. He could feel his face burning up as tears started to trickle down. His hope for survival was starting to fade away like a flicker in a dark, hollowed space. But the thought of disappointing his brother was much worse than being alone.

“Si Kuya Kiko ang nandito dapat ngayon. Mas matalino siya kaysa sa‘kin. Mas alam niya sana kung ano ang gagawin,” he muttered to himself. Mika continued walking despite the hunger and fear that was devouring him. Then suddenly, Mika’s senses were heightened when he felt someone following him, like a predator stalking its prey. He could feel his blood running cold as he thought of the possible dangers that awaited him. He was about to run when someone grabbed the hem of his tattered shirt. Mika shuddered as the man dragged him away.

“Parang awa niyo na po huwag niyo po akong sasaktan. Maawa po kayo,” Mika begged as he choked on his own tears.

“Shhhhh! ‘Tang ina ‘wag kang maingay, ikaw na nga ‘tong tinutulungan ko.

Alam mo bang malapit ka na sa grupo ng mga rebelde kanina? Kung ‘di pa kita napansin, malamang patay ka na ngayon,” the man whispered with urgency. At first, the man’s words did not register in Mika’s mind. His initial instinct was to escape. He tried swatting the man’s firm grip on his shirt using his small lanky hands. Looking up at the man’s tall stature towering over his own small frame, Mika gazed at the man with tearful eyes but the man’s long tanned arms were still clenching onto him and his eyes were red as if he hadn’t slept in days.

Then the man saw Mika’s small body trembling in fear. He suddenly felt guilty and released his grip, patting the kid’s head.

“Ba’t mag-isa ka lang? Nasaan ang mga magulang mo?” The man calmly asked.

Mika wiped his tears away before answering, “Nahiwalay po kaming magkapatid sa magulang namin. Pinapapunta po ako ng Kuya sa Dipolog, sa bahay po ng Tiyo Ben namin. Kaso hindi ko po alam kung papaano ako makakapunta ng Dipolog mula dito,” Mika managed to explain, trying his best not to think about the dead bodies he saw earlier on the streets.

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“Nako, dalawang oras ang biyahe papunta roon at iisa lang ang paraan para makarating ka ng Dipolog mula rito. Sumama ka sa akin, tutulungan kita.” The man said as he pulled Mika’s lanky arms. “Ako nga pala si Simeon. Anong pangalan mo Totoy?” Simeon asked, looking at the frail boy behind him.

“Mika po,” the boy simply answered as he tucked his hair behind his ears.

“May sugat ka ba o may masakit ba sa‘yo?” Simeon asked. Mika just shook his head and ate the can of tuna that Simeon gave him.

“Kung gusto mong makarating ng Dipolog sumama ka sa akin mamaya. May isang trak ang mga rebelde na papuntang Dipolog. Mag-aangkat sila ng mga materyales para sa kampo nila. Walang laman ‘yong trak kundi mga basket na walang laman.

Kailangan makapasok tayo sa isa sa mga iyon. Wala tayong ibang masasakyan dahil hinarangan nila ang mga kalsada para walang ibang makalabas o makapasok ng bayan na ito.” Simeon explained.

“Maraming salamat po, Kuya.” Mika thanked his savior and tried his best to offer a smile. Simeon found himself admiring the little boy’s courage, especially after the horrendous things that happened in their town. Mika looked like he had been to hell and back, and who knew the things that he saw that might forever haunt him.

The hellish effects of the war were forever etched in his young mind, but still, he managed to smile at a stranger like Simeon.

The cold breeze of the night easily penetrated Mika’s tattered clothes as they silently walked through the forest. “Kuya Simeon, sa Dipolog din po ba ang punta ninyo?” Mika asked as he followed in the dark.

“Kahit saan basta ‘wag lang dito.” Simeon answered, not really looking at Mika because his eyes were focused on the trail that he made.

“Kuya bakit niyo po ako tinutulungan?” Mika asked again, clutching the yellow notebook inside his pocket.

“Andami mong tanong,” Simeon answered slightly sounding annoyed, “Katulad mo rin ako. gusto ko lang makaalis sa magulong lugar na ito. Bilisan na natin at baka mahuli pa nila tayo.”

Mika diligently obeyed as they made their way to the trucks parked near the campsites. The closer they got to the campsite, the louder they heard the rebels’ voices. Mika caught a glimpse of a rebel with an M-16 gun hanging around his body.

Cold sweat began to trickle down Mika’s forehead. Each one of the rebels inside the camp was carrying different types of guns. Some of them were drinking and laughing as they talked about their victories in the war. Mika felt a sudden chill in his spine as if something bad was about to happen. Mika and Simeon tiptoed carefully to the trucks. Because it was too high for Mika to reach, Simeon carried and placed him inside one of the empty baskets.

“Kuya Simeon, salamat po sa pagtulong sa aming magkapatid,” Mika whispered.

Simeon beamed as he ruffled the boy’s hair.

“O paano ba ‘yan, magkita na lang tayo mamaya sa Dipolog. Huwag na ‘wag kang lalabas hanggang ‘di pa kita tinatawag.” Simeon explained, and Mika nodded in agreement.

Simeon closed the lid of the basket made from shredded bamboos woven

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together, and went to the next truck to hide in the same way since the baskets were big enough to fit an adult. The flicker of hope inside Mika’s chest was starting to grow stronger. He was starting to feel safe now that he was on his way to Dipolog.

He did what his brother told him to. He knew that Kiko was going to be proud of him. With the small pencil tucked inside his yellow notebook, he started writing about his unfortunate adventures—the pile of dead bodies on the streets and the man who saved his life. The truck’s engine started, and the moment Mika heard it, he felt the huge lump on his throat suddenly disappearing. But deep inside him, he still felt weak. He could feel his entire body shaking lightly as the cold morning breeze grazed to his skin.

When the truck finally stopped, Mika sat inside the basket patiently waiting for Simeon to come and get him. He suddenly remembered what Simeon said about getting caught by the rebels. Suddenly, Mika heard the booming sound of curses, and through a small hole in the basket, he saw Simeon being dragged away by the rebels. Mika’s heart started to pound loudly as if his chest was about to burst open.

An endless stream of tears flowed out of his eyes. Simeon was almost unrecognizable with the bruises and wounds covering his body. Mika desperately tried his best to stop crying and maintain his composure. But his soundless tears slowly turned into soft sobs. Mika covered his mouth with his shaking hands as he tried his best not to make a sound when the soldiers were commanded to check the remaining baskets.

Simeon started panicking, not for himself but for the young boy inside the basket.

“Mika! Tumakas ka na!” Simeon shouted. As soon as he heard it, Mika jolted and jumped out of the truck. With his last strand of might, Mika ran as fast as he could while the soldiers began chasing after him. Mika heard a gunshot from behind.

Its sound echoed repeatedly inside Mika’s head knowing that the clamorous noise meant Simeon’s death.

“Kiko ano na ba ang gagawin ko?” Mika thought to himself, wishing his brother could do something. The rebels were running after him. He could hear their heavy footsteps crushing the dry leaves as they drew closer. Mika’s breaths were ragged as his heart beat like thunderstorms in his chest—he could feel the burning sensation in his lungs and thighs. Mika slipped into the dense parts of the woods where the branches scraped his already battered arms and legs. The whistling sound of leaves in the wind was messing with his thoughts, resembling laughs mocking his escape.

The trees spiked to the sky and loomed around, causing him to feel a sense of claustrophobia. He wanted to stop, but the thought of failing his brother was enough to keep him running.

“Putang ina kang bata ka! ‘Wag ka nang tumakbo at lalo ka lang naming magugulpi!” the man behind him bellowed. Mika started to panic as he searched for a place to hide. “‘Wag mong takutin ‘yong bata. Lalong ‘di magpapahuli ‘yon,” a voice said. “Bata ‘wag kang matakot ‘di ka namin sasaktan.”

Mika crouched behind the tall grass near a tree to conceal himself, but his uncontrollable sobs were not helping.

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“May naririnig ako sa banda ro’n,” one of the men remarked. They started walking closer to Mika’s hiding spot. He covered his mouth with his hands, but it was useless.

The rebels already knew where he was hiding.

“Alam kong nandiyan ka lang, lumabas ka ng bata ka para ‘di ka na masyadong masaktan.”

“Kiko sorry,” Mika whispered as he sprinted away from the rebels. Mika’s entire body felt numb in fatigue. The two rebels chasing after him began shooting in the air, but still, Mika continued to run. Both of the brothers’ lives depend on it. The men chased after him like wild predators ready to pounce on their prey. And as their groans of fury echoed throughout the forest, Mika ran until he reached the edge of a cliff. He clutched his fists and slowly turned around to see the faces of his predators.

One of them was a tall and bald man with a scar underneath his eyes. Beside him was a shorter guy with eyes as round and small as coins. His hair was red and his face was covered in tattoos.

“Paano ba ‘yan bata wala ka ng takas,” the man with the red hair said with a smirk.

“Walang‘ya kang bata ka pinagod mo kami! Bugbog lang sana aabutin mo sa amin. Pero dahil pinagod mo kami...” The bald man said dryly as he pointed his M-16 gun at Mika’s chest. Mika wiped the tears from his face as he pulled his hair clip off and gently placed it inside his pocket.

The bald man pulled the trigger, and the bullet dashed through the air with great speed. In a split second, Mika felt the sharp cold sting of pain in his chest—he knew it was over. He fluttered his eyes as he felt warm blood gushing out of his pierced skin. His strength slowly faded as the pain worsened. His feet were slowly taking him to the edge of the cliff. His weight pulled him down, while the pain that once burned like fire was slowly fading into numbness. A fog-like substance started to cloud Mika’s vision as he fell. His ragged breaths slowly turned into shallow gasps, choking on his own blood.

“Sorry Kiko. Ikaw naman ang kailangang tumakbo ngayon.” Mika’s final words faded into nothingness as his body collided with the water.

Kiko was awakened with unfamiliar voices surrounding him. He gently opened his eyes and saw nothing but white fabric covering his face. The moment he pulled the white sheet off, he was met with curious eyes filled with questions. His memories were still hazy about what had happened and how he got there.

“Buhay ka,” One of the men sitting in front of him gasped in shock. The man was wearing a military uniform with a patch saying “Philippine Army.” Kiko looked around and noticed that he was lying on the floor of a military jeep, and the men surrounding him were soldiers wearing the same thing.

“Bata ayos ka lang ba? Anong pangalan mo?” The other soldier asked.

“K-kiko po,” he stuttered. His voice sounded tired and raspy.

“Ako nga pala si Miguel, at ito namang kasama ko ay si Robert. Nakita namin ang katawan mo kanina sa may ilog na palutang-lutang. Akala naming lahat patay ka na. Asan na ang pamilya mo?” The soldier named Miguel asked, looking at Kiko in wonder.

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Everything came back in a snap. He remembered how the rebels shot his parents to death. He remembered the rough pavement scraping his skin as he ran bare-footed in the street, trying to escape. He remembered the pain he felt when the bullet pierced through his flesh. Kiko remembered losing consciousness.

“Mika,” Kiko whispered to himself. He could no longer feel her existence inside his body. It was like something was taken away from him. Beside him was their blood-stained yellow notebook and his sister’s broken butterfly hair clip. His shaky fingers reached for his mouth to stop his painful wails as he cried for his sister. He lost the ability to move. The fact that Mika was gone threatened to tear him apart from the inside.

Kiko and Mika were twins, but only Kiko’s body came into being. Their bodily tissues were a combination of two separately fertilized eggs, fused together to create a single person. Kiko’s body contained living remnants of both original embryos. They appeared normal, but the child showed two different DNAs interchanging from time to time. In Mika’s case, her body did not fully develop, but she still existed as another consciousness living inside her brother’s body. She appeared to control their body whenever Kiko was asleep. Compared to Kiko, she was weak because she didn’t have a physical form to support her existence. Despite their unimaginable situation, they never failed to acknowledge each other. When one was hurt, and the other resurfaced, their body regenerates like new again, a rebirth. The peculiarity of this phenomenon made their bond even stronger.

Kiko loved his sister dearly, and before their last birthday, he worked to earn money by collecting snails and selling them to the market to buy Mika a butterfly hair clip, a representation of the body she never had.

When Kiko snapped back from those memories to the present reality, his world collapsed. The walls that kept him strong were tumbling down, brick by brick. His muffled sobs burst against his chest. His chin trembled as he held back the screams of agony that had been wanting to escape from his mouth. He could not imagine the pain that Mika experienced when she controlled their body. The fact that his sister suffered made him feel worthless. Mika did not deserve to die.

“W-Wala na po akong pamilya. Pero may tiyuhin po ako sa Dipolog at ang utos po ng Nanay ay pumunta raw po ako doon,” Kiko stuttered while he cried. Miguel patted Kiko’s shoulder. Reassuring him that everything was going to be fine. “‘Wag kang mag alala dadalhin ka namin sa Dipolog. Kaya huwag ka nang umiyak, magiging maayos rin ang lahat.” Miguel said.

But Kiko knew better that things would never be the same again. Mika had fallen deep into slumber, a consciousness that will never be awaken again—buried among his memories that he’ll come and visit time after time.

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Buhali1 “I heard he just got out of rehab,” a girl announced in their class while waiting for the teacher.

“I heard he’s a Satanist2,” the boy with thick glasses told his friends.

“I heard he’s gay. He gave me the eye when he walked past me,” the gay student tweeted.

“I heard that he was in jail. I saw his tattoos,” the teacher whispered to her co-faculty.

It was a normal day for Romero. Everyone was talking about him again.

Romero watched his feet heavily stomping on the floor, his beat-up leather boots stood out amongst the other students’ polished shoes. The loud metal rock3 music playing on his headphones vibrated in his ears as if it was resonating the anger he was feeling inside. Despite the deafening music, he could still overhear their gossip about him. Romero clenched his fists inside the pockets of his black hoodie while cursing under his breath. He was infamous for being aloof and mysterious. Romero didn’t talk to anyone unless it was necessary, so no one really knew his story.

Rumors about him started because of a simple misunderstanding. It happened several months ago when he transferred into the university. He was on his way back to his apartment when he heard soft cries of a cat crying from a distance. He followed the sound and found a kitten caught in the middle of two fallen debris from a nearby construction site. His first instinct was to help the poor animal.

Using his bare hands, he tried lifting the bulk of rocks, but instead they collapsed onto the little kitten’s body. Devastated by what happened, he decided to bury the kitten on an empty lot. While Romero was on his way, a girl from his class saw him carrying the dead kitten with his hands covered in blood. The girl looked at him with disgust and walked away. Later that night, the girl posted what happened to twitter, labeling Romero as a freak for killing an innocent kitten. People who saw the post started fabricating theories behind Romero’s action. His simple act of kindness was misinterpreted by many. He didn’t even bother explaining himself, thinking it would only be a waste of his time to argue with those false accusations.

As he continued walking to his next class, he went past three girls lounging in the hallway.

“I heard Jana was missing because she embarrassed her family. She ran away because she’s pregnant. Do you know who the father is?” Lea, a girl with bright red hair said as her friends looked at her, enthusiastically waiting for an answer.

“It was Romero Verano—that weird Satanist kid,” Lea said, smirking. One of the girls tugged her shirt and pointed at Romero. Lea only met his glare, like she couldn’t care less.

Romero stormed away from the prying eyes gawking at him. He gritted his teeth as he tried to remain silent. His knuckles were slightly turning white from clenching his fists too hard. He went to the boy’s comfort room to clear his head.

He washed his face and looked at his reflection. His ears were flushed, showing

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the anger boiling beneath his skin. He thought about his friend Jana and her sudden disappearance. Just like him, Jana was another favorite topic in school. It began after she was accused of having an affair with one of the teachers, when it was really the PE teacher who persistently pursued her. Jana knew that it wasn’t right so she immediately dismissed his feelings. It hurt Mr. Miggy’s pride that he suddenly spread rumors about Jana trying to seduce him. She was instantly put to shame, and was isolated by her own friends, thinking that she was a liar and a slut. She couldn’t sleep and lost her appetite to eat. She couldn’t even focus on her studies anymore, and that was when Jana became good friends with Romero. They understood each other for both being outcasts4.

“Where are you, Jana?” Romero muttered to himself. It had been three weeks since Jana mysteriously disappeared. Her parents searched everywhere, but they could not find a single clue that might point them to Jana’s location. No one knew where she went nor her last whereabouts. Running away was a plausible explanation for Jana’s disappearance, especially with the rumors about her. But she wasn’t the type of person who would leave her family without saying anything.

Thinking about Jana made him ponder about his own situation. The rumors about him remained etched in his head, a terrible memory that he would never forget. The burning rage inside him hissed like a deadly poison demanding for release. He could just brush off every rumor about him, but associating Jana with it was something he wouldn’t take lightly. She was more than a friend for him.

It was a hot sunny day, but a sudden shiver coursed through Romero’s spine.

The silence inside the comfort room emphasized even the sound of water droplets from the faucet. Romero was washing his face in the sink when he heard a cubicle door closing. His pulse ramped up knowing that no one entered the comfort room after he got there. His eyes wandered around until he noticed a shadow looming in one of the cubicles. He felt a sudden grip inside his stomach as if a monster had come to get him.

“Is someone there?” Romero asked. The shadow didn’t move. Romero slowly approached the cubicle door, calculating every single step. He gently knocked on the door but no one answered. He pushed the door open, only to find that it was empty. Maybe it was his own shadow, he thought. He was about to leave the comfort room when he noticed a fog-like black smoke standing beside him in his peripheral vision. He felt goosebumps5 all over his body. He tried his best to ignore it and darted back to his classroom.

It was almost 9 o’ clock in the evening when Romero’s class ended. He took the long way to avoid his classmates. His heavy footsteps echoed through the empty hallways as the lights started blinking, causing the multiple shadows to be cast on the floor every half a second it turned off. But amongst all the shadows, one moved like it was following him. He walked faster, thinking that the sooner he gets home, the better. Romero blamed his lack of sleep for his paranoia6. He was about to sprint down the stairs when he heard someone sobbing inside the girl’s comfort room. He peeked through the doorway and asked, “Is someone there? Are you alright?”

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He slowly went in and saw a girl crouching on the floor, near the sink. “Miss?”

Romero calmly asked as he walked closer. The girl slowly raised her head to look at him.

“W-what are you doing here? You pervert,” Lea screamed as she started shoving Romero.

“What are you doing here?” Romero asked, bewildered.

“This is the girls’ comfort room, you perverted moron!” Lea exclaimed. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying. The makeup on her face was smudged because of her tears and sweat.

“Someone was following me. Wait, why are you here?” Romero said.

“What are you talking about? Everyone already left. I’ve been here the whole afternoon, crying. Andrew left me.” Lea said, repeatedly wiping the tears from her face.

Romero remained silent, not wanting to pry into other people’s business. A surge of anxiety coursed through his body, he was sure someone was following him earlier.

“I’m leaving. Don’t you dare tell anyone about this,” Lea warned Romero. She stood up and straightened her skirt. As she walked to the door, she glared back at Romero. He raised his hands as a sign of defeat. Lea twisted the door knob, expecting it to open. But despite her efforts, the door wouldn’t even budge, as if a heavy force from the other side was stopping it.

“Open the god damn door!” Lea yelled. She squinted her eyes as she peered through the tiny gaps on the door. She saw someone standing on the other side with a tall shadowy figure. She backed away as she watched the door slowly open.

Romero noticed her face suddenly turning pale. She burst into tears and her ragged breathing made her body shake uncontrollably. Romero stood frozen as he watched it moving closer. Lea managed to run inside the farthest cubicle to hide, while Romero felt like he suddenly lost the ability to speak or even move. A human-shaped, smog7-like creature glided closer to him. The creature’s face was blank like a dark, empty void.

Lea sat on the toilet with her shaking hands pressed against her mouth. For a while, she didn’t hear anything, until Romero’s screams pierced through the silence. Lea could hear his fingernails scraping the floor as he tried to escape from the grasps of the monster.

“Lea! Help me!” Romero repeatedly screamed, begging Lea to do something.

Lea pressed her hands on her ears, not wanting to believe what was happening.

She cowered inside the cubicle while mouthing every prayer she knew.

The moment Romero stopped screaming, Lea knew that he was already dead.

The sound of limbs being dragged away echoed inside the comfort room. Lea patiently waited, wanting to make sure that the creature was already gone. Using her compact mirror, she angled it under the cubicle door to see the other side.

From the mirror’s reflection, the comfort room looked empty. She went out of her hiding place and roamed her eyes around. Everything looked the way it should be, as if nothing really happened—except for Romero’s bag, sitting on the sink,

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a terrifying reminder that the monster was real and Romero was gone. Without hesitation, Lea ran away as fast as she could. *** It had been weeks since Lea stopped going to school. When she told everyone about the monster that took Romero, everyone started making rumors about her, saying that she was lying because she was desperate for attention. They also said Romero didn’t disappear, that he just eloped with Jana.

Lea sat on her bed, mindlessly scrolling tweets on her phone. She knew that there were going to be tweets about her. The tweets read: “I heard that her boyfriend broke up with her because she’s too clingy.”

“I heard that she cheated on him with that boy Romero.”

“I heard that she was pregnant and her boyfriend didn’t want the baby.”

“I heard she was insane. She was even confined in a mental institution before.”

Lea begged her Mom to take her on a vacation. Because of the trauma, she lost the will to do anything. But despite what everyone said, she knew what she saw—a creature dragged Romero away and they disappeared without a trace.

She went to her bathroom to freshen up. She looked at herself in the mirror and thought that this was how the victims of rumors look like—swollen eyes from crying every day, a nest of messy hair, and skin as pale as faded white paint from the walls of an old abandoned room.

She was washing her face when she heard someone enter the bathroom. “Ma, I told you I’m OK. I just want to be alone,” Lea muttered. When she looked at her reflection again, instead of seeing her Mom, a smog-like creature slowly glided toward her.

Smog - The hazy figure of a monster that your bathroom mirror reflects when you wash your face.

7

Paranoia - Fancy word for overthinking.

6

Goosebumps - Occurs when someone or something is staring at you while you can’t sleep at night.

5

Outcast - A person who stands by his/her own beliefs and prefers walking alone rather than with the crowd.

4

Metal Rock - A subgenre of music that most people attach to introverts who wear monochromatic colors; a form

3

of stereotyping.

Satanist - A name often attached to misjudged individuals by others who do not know how to accept different

2

views and beliefs.

Buhali – Derived from the words bulung-bulungan at halimaw.

1

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OTHER FORMS For immediate release Bagong Bayan Alternative Kwentuhan

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Appendix: Samples of crisis press release Exhibit 11-1a: First news release issued during the incident (courtesy of JLâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Best PR Practices of 2000)

Press information ANGELA WINGS MEDICAL CENTER MANILA, PHILIPPINES

Hostage taking at Angelwings Medical Center June 13, 2000

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

MANILA, Philippines â&#x20AC;&#x201D; A hostage-taking incident occurred at Angelwings Medical Center at approximately 2 AM. Nurses and patients in the surgical ward were taken as hostages. The motive and underlying concerns of the suspects are still to be determined, along with their identities. There are reports of injuries, but the extent of which are not known at this time.

A team headed by Norman Cruz, Angelwings crisis communications officer, is set to negotiate with the hostage-takers. ###

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Exhibit 11-1b: Later news release

(courtesy of JL’s Best PR Practices of 2000)

Press information ANGELA WINGS MEDICAL CENTER MANILA, PHILIPPINES

Five fatalities confirmed at Angelwings Medical Center Hostage-taking June 13, 2000

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

MANILA, Philippines — Five fatalities have been confirmed as a result of the hostage-taking at Angelwings Medical Center.

The incident occurred at 2:15 AM, when four suspicious men suddenly attacked and trapped the medical personnel on duty and patients in the surgical ward-B.

Norman Cruz, Angelwings crisis communications officer, told reporters that 20 people involving two surgeons, eight nurses, and 10 patients are currently being held hostage inside the ward. “We have sent notices to the families of the hostages.

As of now, we are still negotiating over the concerns of the hostage-takers who are armed with dangerous explosives and firearms.”

One of the hostage-takers was identified as Francisco Abad, the father of seven-year-old Andrea Mae Abad who had just recently died in surgery at the hospital due to complications. As a result, Francisco Abad filed a lawsuit against the hospital, but Angelwings won the case since no negligence from the part of the hospital and the doctors could be proven. As of now, this is the possible motive behind the hostage-taking that investigators are looking further into.

According to Dr. Ernesto Nando, director for emergency medical services, Abad’s daughter underwent tonsillectomy, which is a necessary medical treatment.

However, she experienced an unexpected allergic reaction to the anesthetic drugs that were given. “But that incident is very rare. They occur in less than 1 in 10,000 general anesthetics, and many are followed by a full recovery. Not even the best of experts could have seen or prevented it.” ###

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Exhibit 11-1b: Later news release

(courtesy of JL’s Best PR Practices of 2000)

Press information ANGELA WINGS MEDICAL CENTER MANILA, PHILIPPINES

One hostage-taker shot dead, three others arrested at Angelwings Medical Center June 13, 2000

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

MANILA, Philippines — Six persons have been confirmed dead including five medical personnel and one hostage-taker as a result of the hostage-taking at Angelwings Medical Center.

The tragic incident was carried out by Francisco Abad, the father of a patient who recently died due to complications during surgery at the hospital. He admitted in his negotiation with the Angelwings crisis communications officer, Norman Cruz, that he had planned it as a revenge for his late daughter. He had accused the hospital for not providing his daughter needed accommodations because they could not afford to pay for Andrea’s prescribed medicines—a denouncement refuted by Angelwings via legal means.

During the process of rescuing the victims, Francisco Abad died after incurring gunshot wounds when shots were fired by the SWAT team as he attempted to kill more of the hostages.

The hostage-taking ended with Abad’s death and the surrender of his three accomplices.

Cruz told reporters that the survivors of the hostage-taking, including five nurses and 10 patients, have been admitted to the hospital and will be offered counselling without charge.

He also expressed his grievances to Abad’s family, stating that no one wanted the incident to occur. According to him, “We were deeply saddened when Andrea Mae Abad, a sweet little girl, did not survive the surgery. We take the service and care we provide to our patients very seriously regardless of their status in life, and we were there to support the family during their difficult time. However, Mr. Abad might have misunderstood that the contract between the hospital, the doctors, and the patient isn’t a promise to cure the patient of the ailment, but that we will do our utmost best for the patient.”

Angelwings Medical Center is set to file charges against Abad’s three accomplices who were identified as his companions at a construction site where they work. ###

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Bagong Bayan This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Welcome to Bagong Bayan Though the houses were built in a rush, and they were just small blocks set in a row with no spaces in between, they were enough to be called homes. There weren’t any ceilings, but the roofs were newly painted and the walls and floors were properly cemented. Aside from these small houses, there were also two basketball courts. The grass in the park was still scheduled to be trimmed, but nonetheless, it was already a pleasing hang-out with its benches and good picnic spots.

There were also two sari-sari stores ready to open, a chapel, a clinic, and even a library.

From a distance, the town looked like beginnings and starting over again, and so they named it “Bagong Bayan.” At first, it didn’t matter what the place was beginning from.

But the residents who occupied the town couldn’t help but let their backstories leak out of their eyes. The marks on their skin, whether a tattoo or a scar, gave away what they were beginning from. And not so long after, it was not a secret anymore— that Bagong Bayan was for all those who were lost in a false world of temporary bliss and comfort, of getting high enough only to dive six feet below the ground.

CHAPTER 1: “Para makalimot o malimutan” It was not hard moving on from such a wretched life to a strange new place. For Miguelito San Juan at 46 years old, it was far better than rehab. At least here, they were just like normal people who found a fitting neighborhood for them to live in.

They were even given a job near the plantation and factory. They were free, and they were safe—for now.

What was hard for Miguelito were the nights that followed since he moved to Bagong Bayan. Those nights were so vicious as the dark hours brought him the faces of his wife and daughter. In his small room, he would weep silently until sleep crept in, but in most cases when sleep ditched him, he would stroll around the town until the dawn of the new day.

Like Miguelito, the pain of living in Bagong Bayan for most people was actually missing the loved ones they left in their real homes. For them, who had been victims of drugs in any way, it was being forced to live and cope up alone that made treatment more sickening and unbearable than the struggle of completely turning away from addiction.

For some, it would have been inappropriate to call them lucky, but because everyone in the family was involved in drugs, they were moved into the town together.

One of those was Mang Jose Tenorio, who had moved with his wife, son, and daughter.

“Puta. Akala ko makakatakas na ko kay Rosing e,” Mang Jose cursed while laughing.

“Buti nga hindi ka mag-isa dito, gago,” Miguelito rolled a newspaper from his hands and hit Mang Jose lightly with it.

“Ano bang problema mo? E ‘di ba sa susunod na Linggo, dadalaw naman sila?”

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“E kung hindi? Palagay ko kakalimutan na ko ng mga ‘yon.”

“Ganon ka ba naging gago para kalimutan nila?”

Like most people, Miguelito chose to surrender and move to Bagong Bayan to heal and forget. But now he worried not of forgetting, but of being forgotten. He thought about those times when he hit his wife for not making enough money when he should have been the one working for them. He thought about his daughter, Lilian, who had to stop going to school to help her mom sell vegetables in the wet market.

He thought about how Lilian begged for him to stop using shabu and hitting her mom. He thought about how he didn’t listen.

He thought, oo, ginago ko sila.

CHAPTER 2: Promised land At the end of every month, jeepneys came to visit carrying the loved ones of those who lived in Bagong Bayan—the wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, children, friends, and workmates—would each step down with their eyes immediately searching and yearning, hoping that the once wife, husband, mother, father, son, daughter, brother, sister, friend, and workmate they knew had gone back to their senses.

Soon enough, Bagong Bayan was surrounded with loud music and the smell of delicious food. It was almost like a town fiesta, when families would serve great meals good for the whole neighborhood, which gave a warm comfort for those who didn’t have any visitors like Miguelito.

For a while, it was exactly what the new administration had promised—a new hope, a new life. Better place of living, better lifestyle. The best treatment—the humane one. No one would have to die. Children would have their parents, sisters, and brothers back.

Every week, different NGOs would come and visit to conduct educational, medical, and feeding programs. They even held theatrical presentations and sports fests. It was the best six months. Withdrawal from drugs had never been this feasible to overcome.

And so, Antonio Pascual, a 19-year-old orphan, started to dream again. Now that he’d been doing good, he thought of going back to school. He didn’t even finish high school, but during one of NGO’s educational programs, he learned something about an alternative learning system. Maybe if he managed to finish a program, he would be able to get a decent job. Maybe he could be proud of himself again. Maybe he could live just like the good old times back when he still didn’t know about marijuana and heroin. Maybe he could pull his life together and become successful after all.

Maybe, just maybe.

Antonio loved the word “maybe,” because just like the word, he was mostly unsure about his life, but always open to possibilities.

CHAPTER 3: Lost causes maintain a good business The only problem with Bagong Bayan was that—the town was too good to be true, so much that it sounds like some shitty piece of fiction written and driven by wishful thinking.

The truth is, Bagong Bayan was a reimagined world, a utopian version of the war on drugs. There was simply no war. The approach was not savage, but humane.

But it wasn’t reality.

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The reality was, as it turns out, a cycle of a dystopian plot like the worst case scenario of Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events.

Let’s start from the real beginning—because Bagong Bayan didn’t just pop out of nowhere. Someone, for some selfish and unaffectionate reason, had to construct it.

Lemuel Ortega came from a family with a long history of tainted riches—the word “tainted” here means riches that came from the Ortegas’ past generations of corrupt politicians. Starting from his great, great grandparents to his time, they ruled the city for 50 years and counting. But as the new administration threatened drug suspects, he had to face a great dilemma—to lose the city or to lose his wife.

His wife, Maria Valeen Ortega whom he loved dearly, financed and even operated the biggest drug suppliers in and out of the country. As part of her family’s business, she simply managed it like how a hotelier’s heir manages her premium five-star hotels.

But Lemuel couldn’t surrender his own beautiful wife nor could he give up his position in the city. So they decided, one morning while having a fanciful breakfast, to open the city and start a community development project—to build and provide a resettlement area for all drug suspects who surrendered. It had been on the news that rehabilitation centers in the country were not enough, and that was how they came up with the idea. If they worked hand in hand with the new administration, maybe they could make a good and lasting impression out of it. If they provided homes for those they called “pathetic desperate poor people,” then maybe they could maintain their private business in plain sight.

Maybe they could even become more popular and be given recognition for doing such a great deed. Maybe they could even be called heroes. Maybe—a word too uncertain and hopeful at the same time. The same maybe that lured Antonio into thinking he could finally change his life. But there will only be one maybe that will meet expectations.

In writing, they call it foreshadowing, but in this story, that’s unnecessary.

Anyone would have guessed that it was the Ortegas’ maybes that came true.

CHAPTER 4: Love in a hopeless place Six months of productive living in Bagong Bayan were enough to feed the hopeful minds of its residents with fresh dreams and ambitions. Six more months, and those who attained a significant progress from addiction could be sent back home and live freely.

Six more months, Mirna thought.

Mirna Rosales, 26 years old, was a waitress at a night club. Her job did not only involve serving meals, but also joining the costumers’ cocaine sessions. Sometimes, she even provided extra service which meant having sex in their club’s private rooms or in Mr. Ling’s black Maserati. Mr. Ling was a 79-year-old rich Chinese businessman who owned six hardware stores and three estates. He once promised to get Mirna out of her poor situation. Mr. Ling promised he’d give her a decent job at one of his businesses. She believed him, and gave the old man her whole heart and body. But when the news broke about the new administration’s threat to drug dealers, Mr. Ling, being a drug dealer as well, left the country immediately. He went back to China without a word to Mirna.

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“‘Yong putang tandang na ‘yon,” she cursed every time she remembered the old man.

“Ano na naman ‘yan, Mirna?” Antonio appeared in her doorway. He payed her to do his laundry every Wednesday. “May iba pa bang puta dito bukod sa‘yo?”

“Tarantado ka,” Mirna snatched his basket of unwashed clothes. For some odd reason, they laughed. “Magbabagong buhay na ko. Paglabas natin dito sa Bagong Bayan ‘hu u’ ka na sa ‘kin.”

“Bakit? Anong balak mong gawin pag-alis dito?”

“E ‘di mag-a-apply ng bagong trabaho. Kahit sa fast-food chain lang o kahit anong kainan. O kahit janitress man lang. Basta hindi na sa night club at hindi na din magpapakalulong sa droga,” she said aloud like she was overcoming an unheard voice inside her head, asking if she had what it takes.

Antonio followed her at the mini backyard where she usually did the laundry.

He watched as she carefully added a teaspoon of detergent into a small tub, “Grabe naman ‘to. Ang tipid mo sa sabon.”

“Tanga. Ganyan lang talaga dapat,” Mirna snapped back. “Ba’t ba nan’dito ka pa?”

“Marunong ka din bang magluto? Masarap ba?”

“Oo, gago.”

“Ba’t ba lahat ng sinasabi mo may mura?”

“An’dami mong comment d’yan at tanong eh.”

“Ba’t hindi kaya sa bahay ka na lang imbes na magtrabaho?”

“Tanga ka talaga. E‘di paano naman ako mabubuhay? Sino bubuhay sa‘kin?

Magpapakain? Magbabayad ng kuryente, tubig, at renta ng bahay?”

“Tanga, e‘di ako.”

Mirna turned her head to Antonio, confused. “Magsama na lang tayo,” he added like it would make his point clearer.

There was a long silence. “Tanga,” Mirna finally said and returned to scrubbing the clothes.

“Ako din magbabagong buhay. Mag-aaral ako sa ano... sa TESDA. Tapos maghahanap din ng disenteng trabaho. Makakayanan kitang buhayin,” Antonio was in a dreamlike state, his eyes were different—they glowed with aspirations like he had never seen anything bad his whole life.

Well, not yet.

They remained silent the whole time until Mirna finished doing laundry. She thought about living with Antonio, and how it wasn’t so much of a bad idea. In fact, she liked it. Though he was much younger, the invitation appealed to her. Anymore convincing from Antonio, and she knew that once again, she’d be giving away her whole heart and body.

CHAPTER 5: Change has come As expected, not only the new administration, but the Ortegas were being applauded for providing homes for the drug suspects who surrendered. After a year of successfully transforming the lives of these people, news articles and social media posts hailed the couple’s advocacy, “Bagong Bayan, Bagong Buhay.” It was not long after people started cheering the Ortegas as modern-day heroes.

Just then, as Rosing scheduled that Saturday as her “general cleaning day” while standing in their living room and staring blankly at her husband sleeping on the sofa, three loud knocks came banging at their door.

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Her husband almost fell out of the sofa in surprise. He looked at her and said, “Nand‘yan ka pala, ba’t di mo buksan ang pinto?”

Rosing didn’t answer. Instead, she threw the dustpan and broom onto his face.

She opened the door, “Ang aga aga niyong mangbulabog!”

“Pasensya na, Aling Rosing. ‘Andyan ho ba si Mang Jose?” a shirtless man in jersey shorts asked.

“Uy Nilo pare, ikaw pala yan,” Mang Jose appeared behind Rosing, wiping marks of lustful sleep on his mouth.

Rosing left them without a word. She started sweeping the floor while listening intently to their conversation.

“May bagong trabahong inaalok sila Mayor!” Nilo said excitedly, then lowered down his voice so that Rosing wouldn’t hear. “’Tang ina, talaga?” Mang Jose leaned closely with a wide grin. “Aba e ‘di mas malaki ng tatlong beses ang suweldo kesa sa pabrika!”

Rosing’s ears turned up and she looked at her husband, “Talaga? Anong trabaho naman ‘yan?”

Mang Jose immediately grabbed a decent shirt from Rosing’s newly washed clothes, and said, “‘Tsaka ko na sasabihin sayo. Alis na muna ako.”

Rosing didn’t even get a chance to bid him goodbye. Her husband always seemed eager to leave her without even waiting for her reply. *** It had been a month since Bagong Bayan’s residents last heard of the people who were freed from their town to pursue a new life outside. Among these lucky people were Nilo, Mirna, Rosing and her daughter. Before Mirna went ahead, she promised Antonio she’d wait for him outside. Antonio kissed her forehead and smiled. It was a touching scene, if only Miguelito wasn’t there to spoil it by saying, “Sa umpisa lang ganyan. ‘Pag nagsama na kayo at may maliliit at madudungis na anak, mawawala na ‘yang pahalik-halik sa noo.”

Mang Jose laughed while nodding his head as Rosing felt upset leaving behind her son with him. Since he got his new job, Mang Jose always came home late, without bothering to tell her what his job was. Mang Jose and her son still had to stay in Bagong Bayan for another year. She wanted to cry, but seeing her husband’s face, she knew that he was glad he could finally get rid of her.

Oddly enough, it had also been a month since Bagong Bayan’s residents received their last newspaper delivery. It had also been a month since they saw the news channel on their TV. It had also been a month since the telephone lines were cut. And it had also been a month since the jeepneys visited carrying their visitors.

Authorities told them that there had been a serious crisis with newspaper publications outside. They also told them that news TV networks were having a system error and other glitches in the signal that they couldn’t temporarily broadcast. They also told them that telecommunication services were having an upgrade and would be unavailable in the meantime. And the same authorities told them that their jeepneeys were undergoing engine repairs, so they could not fetch their visitors for now.

The residents believed every single thing they were told. These authorities wore respectful badges on their blue and red uniform resembling the country’s flag after all.

So they spent more months without hearing from their loved ones or anything from the news. The last thing they heard was how the Ortegas’ received a medal

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of excellence, but apart from that, they had no idea what was happening outside Bagong Bayan.

They all just clung to that one good thing they knew—that after some more months, another batch of them would be sent outside to live a brand new life.

CHAPTER 6: Death parade What could be more brutal than killing a criminal without due process?

Killing a changed man.

Just three days after the first batch of Bagong Bayan’s residents got discharged from the town, reports of killings started without any suspects identified and caught.

Nilo Crisanto, 30 years old, had just had a nice dinner with his family, bringing home roasted chicken, a first in so many years. They were still celebrating his comeback and the new life they were about to share when strange men riding in tandem stopped by their house and poured bullets into its walls of galvanized iron sheets. Way back then when Nilo built their house, he was just thinking about the usual things he needed to protect his family from—the sun’s heat, rain, leaves, and fruits falling from a nearby Mango tree—so he thought that the iron sheets, the cheapest he could find, might be enough to make a home considering that most of the houses in their neighborhood were made of the same material. He never thought about raining bullets, so at that moment when they are being attacked, his whole family was as vulnerable as not having any walls at all. The little cylindrical and deadly pointed metals crashed through every direction. Nilo moved just in time to shield his two young kids and wife, but he was not lucky enough to save his own life.

After the attack had stopped and their home was filled with bullet holes, there was a five-second moment of dead silence. Just when Nilo’s wife thought they had left, one of the men showed up to their door and dragged her bleeding husband out of the house. She screamed her loudest—the most ear-splitting sound like iron sheets being torn apart.

The next morning, they found Nilo’s body in an empty lot veiled with garbage bags taped together with a note exposing the sin he thought he had completely turned away from. *** Miguelito wasn’t excited to leave Bagong Bayan, especially knowing that his family moved on without him. For one year, they never visited him once. He never received any calls. Every end of the month when visitors came, he would just stay in his house and wait for some good neighbors to share a meal with him.

But he thought he deserved it, so for all those times he felt lonely and miserable, he kept his senses open. He embraced the pain and lost several nights of sleep. He refrained from using drugs, but the darkness it brought around his eyes never left him.

If people didn’t know he had gone to Bagong Bayan, they might think he was still into it.

So he spent his first day outside Bagong Bayan alone in a cheap motel. It was a sad place to start off but he didn’t know where else to go. He had grown a thin face that he could not show in front of his family. They would be better off without him.

Or so he thought.

The second day, he spent his time wandering near their house. He had become a stalker of his own family because he just couldn’t resist not knowing how they’d

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been doing. The moment he saw Lilian, his heart fluttered like he was about to fall off a high tower. He wondered how she had grown so fast in one year. She was in her school uniform, and he was glad to know she was finally back in school.

The third day, he spent his time in a friend’s house on the same street where his family lived. To show some gratitude, he offered to buy them food and casually walked to a karinderia nearby. He didn’t think about the chances that his wife might see him.

His wife was still as beautiful as he imagined. But even more beautiful now that she was free from his mindless beating. When they saw each other, Miguelito thought he lost the ability to blink. He stared at her until the wind sting his eyes red. His wife, knowing he could not possibly be the one to break the silence, walked toward him and touched his face, “Nakabalik ka na pala.”

He was surprised to see tears in her eyes. And just like that, without saying anything, he hugged her tight and cried.

It was quite a scene, a touching one, if only four men didn’t spoil it the way he did with Antonio and Mirna. But these four men did worse than just tease them. The four men had strong arms that they used to easily snatch Miguelito from his weeping wife.

They carried him inside a gray van with no plate number.

The next day, they found Miguelito’s body wrapped in cardboard with a note exposing the exact reason why he spent a year in Bagong Bayan, away from his family. ***

More deaths were reported in just a span of three days. All had the same patterns—the people killed were once drug suspects. They were abducted and tortured by strange men in a gray van or riding in tandem, and were horribly disposed like an unwanted package with a note or a label, as though murder could be justified.

CHAPTER 7: War of the villains When a hero comes out, a villain follows.

The only problem is that sometimes, the heroes were the villains themselves in the first place. Villains with too many envious enemies who liked to be dressed as heroes.

During the Ortegas’ peak of heroic popularity, while almost everyone cheered for them, many others were disgusted. These people were the ones who knew the Ortegas a little too well simply because they shared businesses with them. They knew that the Ortegas only built Bagong Bayan to cover up their private business like a cape on a superhero’s costume—a mere prop to improve the image, but really without use.

Without use because behind the perfect town they built was a secret transaction.

Instead of giving treatment and supporting the advocacy against drugs, they hired a few residents of Bagong Bayan in their drug dealing business thinking that these people were used to this kind of work. It was the same job Nilo talked about with Mang Jose that Saturday morning of Rosing’s general cleaning day. But at that time, Nilo was oblivious to what the job really was. He was just told that the salary was three times higher than in the factory. When he was about to go at the Barangay’s office with Mang Jose and the others, he suddenly received a call from his wife. He was thankful that the call spared him from being a part of the hideous job. But not Mang Jose.

Mang Jose, clearly knowing that he should have been seeking a new life at Bagong Bayan, accepted the offer without hesitation. He even called his son to share the information. They were forbidden, of course, to tell others. They were made to sign a confidentiality agreement, with their death being the consequence had they slipped their tongue to the wrong person.

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And this fatal flaw in the Ortegas’ heroic plan was all their enemies needed in order to expose and destroy them.

That night before the first batch of residents got discharged out of Bagong Bayan, someone started a rumor about how the mayor hired drug dealers inside the town.

Miguelito had confirmed it with Mang Jose, and he could only look at the old man with pity and distaste. Still, he promised not to tell Rosing for her own sake. Nilo and the others who heard about it, as enraged as they were, chose not to do anything about it. They couldn’t care less, aside from the fact that they were leaving the town soon.

Antonio, on the other hand, did his best to distract Mirna. He knew that if she learned about it, she might judge and accuse him of being a part of it.

The next morning came, and everyone who was supposed to leave the town had gone and left. Along with their hopeful mindset was the breaking news that flashed across the TV screens. The report had the same information as the rumor that spread in Bagong Bayan, except it was more detailed—allegedly confirmed by a witness, Lemuel Ortega’s own cousin.

CHAPTER 8: The great scandal One may think that the world was beginning to crumble for Lemuel and Valeen Ortega, and that this chapter will be all about getting revenge and attaining justice, but— It isn’t so.

As news of their malicious involvement in illegal drugs continued, reporters followed them everywhere they went. And everywhere people went, stories of their shameful and despicable deeds appeared across different social media sites, TV screens, newspapers, and radio stations. For more than three weeks in a row, the Ortegas were the face of intense criticism. Organizations from different sectors gathered to initiate rallies in front of their main office, outside the gates of the city hall.

The controversy didn’t spare the new administration themselves, and the name of the elected president inevitably got dragged down. They finally sent out an official statement rectifying the allegations and detaching themselves fully from the Ortegas.

They swore to the people that they had also been fooled, and so they would do their best to investigate the issue.

At that instant, Lemuel Ortega and his wife were summoned by the Senate.

This of course scared the sleeping souls inside the couple and their whole family— even their past generations, if only they were still alive to react. At that time, it occurred to them that maybe the world had really begun to crumble under their feet.

But as months went on, the Ortegas’ case died along with all those people who were still hunted and killed by unknown men.

Lemuel and Valeen Ortega’s face and dignity had been defamed and they were the most hated couple of the year, but that was the worst they could get. In the end, without anyone knowing how, they had already made up with their “star-witness” cousin and their private business had just been put on hold, but not forever. In a year, their once “great scandal” had long been forgotten. They had already come up with conclusions for themselves that in two or more years, they would still be re-elected to reign over the same city, and they would go back to having a peaceful and fanciful breakfast while watching news that didn’t remember them anymore.

Maybe.

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CHAPTER 9: A fiery end While the world outside Bagong Bayan was in a state of disarray and confusion, the residents inside were left clueless. They were having their usual daily routines but without hearing any news or having visitors. It could have been their too normal and peaceful day-to-day lives that made them not question anything at all. They had a fair share of the most complicated and worst days with drugs when just breathing was wrong. So now they were just contented that they didn’t mind the little details. Their mindsets were fixed on thinking that Bagong Bayan was a perfect safe haven for them, and that it offered only a new life, a new beginning.

And of course, it is often too difficult to question something that was believed to be that good.

Even the rumor that once spread just before a batch of them left Bagong Bayan faded away like it never happened. It died like a fire caught by accidental strong winds before it could even consume them.

But one person knew something was awfully wrong.

Since he heard the rumor, Antonio knew that staying in Bagong Bayan was not good. He spent his days just sitting in his room, thinking and thinking—mostly about Mirna, and sometimes about his ambitious dreams. He couldn’t explain why, but he was terrified he was already losing another future. He wanted to know what was happening outside the town. It was just too impossible for the news channels, newspaper publications, telephone lines, and jeepneys to all get disrupted at the same time.

Something really bad must be happening outside.

After weeks of sleepless nights and restless days, Antonio finally decided to go to the Barangay’s office. He just wanted a decent talk with the captain appointed by the city mayor to look after the town. He was hoping to get some information, but he was dismissed before he could even enter the office. He was told that the captain couldn’t entertain anyone who didn’t have an appointment, and that his unscheduled visit meant his presence and questions were not necessary.

When a person has had a great lack of sleep, he/she has the tendency to not act wisely in certain situations—and this very situation triggered Antonio to do exactly that. He glared at the guards, pushed them, and yelled, “Kung ‘di niyo ko kakausapin nang maayos, ipagkakalat ko kung anong tinatago niyo sa lugar na ‘to!”

It would have been better if his emotional outburst only consisted of curses, but he blurted out words he shouldn’t have. Words that were far more dangerous than swearing.

The other residents went out of their houses and watched as Antonio continued to make a scene. Some of his neighbors stepped up and tried to calm him down. They walked him to his house, and he shut his door closed. He heard someone called him an “ungrateful bastard.” He sneered and punched the cemented wall. His knuckles cracked, and he grunted in pain.

When he finally realized he just made himself vulnerable of an incoming unknown danger, he started to pack his things. He was determined to leave, with or without permission. He just knew that he had to leave right now.

Three loud knocks pulled him out of his thoughts—it sounded like an out of beat striking of drums which his chest reciprocated with a painful throb. He swallowed hard and peeked through his window. He saw three men, wearing badges and a blue and

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red uniform. They were the same officials tasked to roam and guard the whole town.

The same men who explained about the “crisis” in delivering news and bringing back their visitors.

Antonio knew they came to kill him, otherwise why would they come to his house in the middle of the night. The whole neighborhood must have been already asleep.

The dead silence of the night gave away the whispers of the men from the other side of the door.

“Tutuluyan ba agad?” “‘Di pare. Pahihirapan daw muna.”

Antonio shivered, and with his trembling knees and cold sweat, he stepped backwards. But then he stumbled down to the floor when the men outside kicked his door open. They put a gag on his mouth and swiftly tied his hands. He was dragged and forced to get on a trike, with two men escorting him. *** Antonio was taken to the factory where most of Bagong Bayan’s residents worked in the day. He was locked in one of the underground storage rooms and chained to a wooden chair with bruises all over his thin body. He could barely see as his eyes were swollen from all the punches he took.

He thought about Mirna’s face, and how he would never see it again. He thought about how upset she would be, and how she was going to curse him one day for believing a teenage boy’s promises and dreams.

Antonio was just about to bow his head and dramatically close his eyes, thinking it was his cue to die, when he heard the windows of the storage room shattered. He looked up and saw an equally bruised face. He thought his soul has separated from his body and that he was facing himself. But then he noticed that the face was much older and uglier. He recognized it was Mang Jose, untying him with great urgency. “‘Tang ina nagkatrayduran na,” he said as he removed Antonio’s gag.

“Anong nangyari sa‘yo? Bat puro bugbog ka din?”

“Mamaya na tanong totoy,” Mang Jose helped him get up. “Kaya mo bang tumakbo?”

He looked at Mang Jose with such confusion that he just stood still until loud thumps of footsteps came from the door, and he saw the knob turning. Mang Jose pulled him, and they immediately climbed out the window.

They ran and got away just in time before armed men entered the room. They ran through the cold and empty night, heading to the town’s north wall where Mang Jose’s son was waiting. Ten blocks away from the north wall, Mang Jose stopped short, catching his breath. “‘Di ko na kakayanin,” the old man said, starting to cough and spit blood.

“Konti na lang ho. Malapit na tayo, ano ba kayo,” Antonio forced him to get up but Mang Jose was too heavy.

“Nando’n si Kaloy. Akyatin niyo ‘yong pader sa likod ng dating tinitirahan ni Lito.

Walang nagbabantay do’n. Tumakas kayo. Hanapin niyo si Rosing. Sabihin mo, ako bumugbog sa‘yo,” the old man managed to utter the words in between coughs.

“Bakit ko naman sasabihing ikaw ang bumugbog sa‘kin?” Antonio, with his remaining strength, pulled Mang Jose up but both of them only fell to the ground.

“Para isipin niya na hanggang sa huli gago pa rin ako. Para hindi na niya ‘ko hanapin. Para kapag nakita niya ang bangkay ko, hindi na niya ako pagluksaan.”

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Antonio knew that the armed men were catching up as he could already hear their voices. He looked at the old man and clenched both of his fists only to bawl like a child.

He slowly turned his back and started walking faster and faster, until he was running again—without looking back.

When Antonio reached the north wall, Mang Jose’s son was nowhere to be found.

He paced back and forth, stretching out his neck and searching. He thought it was finally Kaloy when he saw a shadow moved at his back, but when he turned to see, it was a man pointing a gun.

“Pucha.” *** Antonio found Mang Jose’s son in an abandoned house, taped and tied. He was brought to the same room, and they just looked at each other helplessly. Even without the gags in their mouths, Antonio didn’t possibly know how to tell him that his father must have been dead by now. So he just stayed still, avoiding another eye contact.

Just an hour and a half and the sky would turn pink, signaling the start of the new day. Ironically, for Antonio and Kaloy, it could only mean their upcoming death.

They were preparing themselves to be tortured and beaten until they died, but they were left alone just locked up in the house. They heard the men talking outside and relentlessly moving. Shortly, they smelled smoke thickening inside their room and the windows were illuminating a bright orange light. The house was being burned.

Antonio rushed to peek and used his face to move the curtains aside. He gasped in horror, as he saw groups of men in the same blue and red uniform locking up every house and burning them with their torches. He sat on the floor with his back on the wall. His eyes that once shined like they had never seen anything bad his whole life, had now seen it all—every wicked and hopeless thing. He rested his head in between his knees, trying to cover his ears from the screams of the people being burned alive outside. He fell to his side, shedding endless tears as he suffocated his future away.

At the crack of dawn, the whole country was awakened with the biggest fire in recent history. Looking from afar, it looked like a sea of fire with its smoke as dark as storm clouds—hungry for spectators and attention. It was screaming to be seen, to be witnessed, to be remembered. It was the ending of something—a grand resolution where all the characters of a story just stopped existing after the book was closed. It demanded to leave such a great impact that even after the show was over and the curtains closed, one could still hear the audience’s applause.

CHAPTER 10: Town of ashes It took almost a day before they could put out the fire.

Reporters from across the world visited just to capture the tragedy that killed a whole town full of people. A fire that brought damage comparable to a volcanic eruption. No bodies were saved or identified. Upon hearing this, Rosing and her daughter rushed toward the town. They joined other families and loved ones of Bagong Bayan’s residents as they gathered together, letting out a chorus of cries.

No matter how many arms held her, Rosing contended and forced herself inside what remained of Bagong Bayan. The still searing wind, carrying in it the heat of burnt homes and bodies, brushed her face. She knelt down and embers flickered away as she strokes the ground. She collected random ashes on her palms like they were pieces of her husband and son. Mang Jose once again left without her hearing from him. He

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even took her son with him. Rosing clenched her fists with some of the ashes still intact on her hands, while others fell like dust blending with the wind. There she cried and cried until she was carried away from the dreadful site, far from the ruins, but still not far enough to pretend that it was just make-believe.

Meanwhile, as everyone’s attention focused on the worst fire incident in recent history, the Ortega couple was arrested. Even when investigators hadn’t released an official statement about their findings and the cause of the fire, rumors had already spread that it was arson. The motive was clear—the Ortegas were afraid of being accused and questioned again, so they decided to kill everyone who could tarnish their names and who knew of their ongoing private business of illegal drugs. There were also witnesses from a neighboring town who saw the mayor’s men riding in jeepneys just at the time when the fire broke out. They said it was impossible for them to not rescue even just a few residents. There was also evidence found that the houses were probably locked from the outside so people couldn’t go out.

But though it really wasn’t the Ortegas’ doing, they wouldn’t be able to defend themselves. Especially after getting arrested, a “shoot-out” took place when they were halfway to the prison between the police officers and the men in blue and red uniforms. Lemuel and Valeen Ortega, along with the ones who allegedly started the gun battle, were confirmed to be dead. *** The whole town, which was once the picture of new beginnings, had turned into ashes.

Years after, the 22 acres of land where people sought a new life remained unoccupied, surrounded by old, yellow caution tape covered in dust.

It looked like a preserved site of desolation and despair, of ambitious dreams that never came true, and of thousands of “maybes” that died away to tragic uncertainty.

A woman who, because of nights spent in yearning, looked much older than she really was walked past the caution tape and roamed over the ashes. She stopped by the spot where she believed she had her last conversation with the man who could have loved her all his life. She sat and cried, murmuring words like a mad woman who had lost her sanity. But even the tenebrous soil that could have been the remnants of a house or a body would know Mirna was not insane.

“No’ng nalaman kong pinapatay na sila isa-isa. Nagtago ako. Ginawa ko lahat para mabuhay. Akala ko ba....sa bahay na lang ako para magluto at ipaglaba ka. ‘Tang ina mo, hinintay kita.”

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Alternative The future is unpredictable, unwritten—a blank white slate of circumstance. We tried, many times, to control our lives according to its uncertainty.

But would it happen, like how we planned, like how we thought about it? Is a person’s inescapable fate already etched in his palms? Or do those lines represent the different lives we could have lived as they change without us knowing—like a playful thread woven and torn by the universe, time after time? *** Moymoy, a seven-year-old kid whose mother left him after birth like a product bought and thrown after realizing it was unwanted, sat on the sidewalk, facing and watching the LED screen beside the stoplight. He knew it was counting down but he barely recognized any of the numbers. He just likes to wait and watch at the intersection where a green overpass, a box-like structure towered over the four roads leading to different destinations he wondered where. Unlike the other kids his age, he doesn’t go to school. His foster father, Mang Enrique, said it would be better for him to work as early as he could, so as not to waste time sitting in a classroom, knowing he would still end up nowhere.

As the cold night approached, he quietly sat still. In his dirty pale hands were a few coins he didn’t even know how to count. He felt his stomach growling and with his little palm, he tried to stroke it gently, as if that was enough to make it stop.

When the stoplight turned green, he stood up and decided to walk home—like the signal was for him and he was just one of those moving cars, only without a clear destination.

He walked with his bare feet dusting the rough ground. He walked hungry and thirsty and too tired for his young days. He walked with the flies and mosquitoes following him, settling on his skin from time to time. He walked, never minding their buzz, never minding the red spots that formed on his limbs. When he reached their house, Mang Enrique, drunk and wasted, welcomed him, asking how much he collected from begging inside jeepneys and through the crowded streets. Moymoy opened his palm and revealed three five-peso coins and four one-peso coins. Disappointed, Mang Enrique smacked his face with the bottle of gin he had been drinking all day. He cursed and cursed, while hitting the little boy’s frail and starving body. Moymoy didn’t understand why he was being beaten— he could only cry from the pain. That night, he slept with bruises on his arms and legs, and a grumbling stomach that even the murky water he drank from a bowl he found near a dog’s cage could not tame.

The next morning, Moymoy went on to his usual routine. He strolled around town, begging for coins. He rode jeepneys and sat with passengers avoiding his pitiful gaze.

Some met him with a sad glance, others with a threatened look. He tried to smile, but they only moved their heads sideways. He didn’t understand the gesture, nonetheless he thanked them after a minute of waiting. He thanked even those who pretended not to see him.

Moymoy extended his open little palm to every passersby—to a man in a good long sleeves and a beautiful shiny watch he looks at from time to time, to a young lady

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who was busy scrolling through her phone with an elegant big screen, to a woman with her little daughter messily eating ice cream, to three high school boys who tore pages from their books with their low scores in it, and to an old man who just glared at him.

He walked past food stalls where he pleaded for something to eat, but the vendors shooed him away like a bug that would spoil their goods. They looked at him with disgust, and Moymoy felt himself growing smaller and smaller, like his bones and flesh were compressing themselves, shrinking away.

As the day quickly turned to night, he sat on the same sidewalk, facing the stoplight. He watched as the fancy LED screen flashed numbers. The cold breeze hugged his freezing body—he coughed and coughed.

When the stoplight finally turned green, he stood up but instead of going home, Moymoy walked across the speeding cars. He thought he saw a carton of food thrown on the other side of the street. He recognized the image, the logo designed on the red box. He went ahead without looking sideways and ran, hoping he could eat the leftovers inside. But he never made it across.

He thought Mang Enrique came to grab and hit him again. But no, it was a silver jeepney with a big label of “MABUHAY” on its front. He glanced at it in wonder before rolling lifeless on the cold pavement. The irony from when his mother chose to leave him to that moment of deathly impact did not register in his young mind because he couldn’t even read. He died just wanting to taste a decent meal, if only he had eaten that day.

-endWhen the stoplight finally turned green, he stood up, finishing the last piece of fish ball he bought from the coins he collected. As he was walking home, he felt his throat dry of thirst. The sun’s heat seeped through his skin and he could almost feel his skin cracking. He tried damping his lips but ended up tearing dead skins. He tasted blood.

He continued to walk, pooling saliva and then gulping it down. He did it repeatedly until even his mouth turned to a river in the face of drought.

Slowly, his vision swirled and his surroundings started to look like a distorted painting of melting colors. He tried to blink many times when he heard loud noises from stray cats and dogs, fighting for a trash’s worth of their meals. He stopped and rubbed his eyes. He watched them wrangle, and followed one of the cats who got the biggest treat. The gray cat, who had its hair almost shaved off, revealing its peach bruised skin, ran at an abandoned lot. It turned out that the cat has a home—a wooden box with a small tub of water.

Moymoy snatched the tub of water and drank it, thankful that the cat was too busy devouring its hunt to notice.

Just minutes after, his visions started blurring again. This time he had cold sweats and was feeling an unexplainable pain in his abdomen. He leaned onto a light post and vomited chunks of fish balls, the only thing he had eaten all day. When he was sure he just wasted food and money, and that his stomach was nothing but empty, he vomited again and again until he could only open his mouth to hurl air.

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Moymoy knelt down to the cold pavement and cried. No one came to his rescue even with the light post gleaming on him like a spotlight and he was just on a tragic end of a drama. But he was not on stage and there were no curtains to close—only his innocent tearful eyes, if only he had a decent water to drink.

-end When the stoplight finally turned green, he stood up, finishing the last piece of fish ball and gulping down the cold water he bought from the coins he collected. Satisfied, he decided to walk home, along with some company he got used to having—the flies and mosquitoes that seemed to be the only ones that liked his smell as much as the taste of his blood.

Days passed and these friends of him kept their loyalty by his side.

But this time the buzzes bothered him, the noise hurt his head. He tried swaying his arms, shoving away the little pests in the same way people dismissed him.

His skin which was poorly covered for only wearing ragged clothes, has revealed red and purple blots. He didn’t know when it started but he has been feeling a crippling chill throughout his spine that his hands and knees shivered.

It was not raining that night, nor the wind was cold. While he was on his way home, just after the stoplight turned green, he couldn’t help his mouth from trembling as his teeth created a rattling sound. He hugged himself, thinking he could ease the coldness he always felt.

He fell on the hard ground as blood oozed from his nose and his head ached some more. He could hear their buzz getting louder.

Moymoy was brought to the hospital by some concerned witnesses who saw him collapsed. But he never made it. Dengue immediately consumed his fragile and malnourished body, if only his faithful companions didn’t nag him.

-endWhen the stoplight finally turned green, he stood up, finishing the last piece of fish ball and gulping down the cold water he bought from the coins he collected.

Satisfied, he decided to walk home alone, as usual.

He passed through the same streets, glancing at other kids having a good time.

He paused to watch how they hit a tin can with their slippers. He watched as they run, laughing their hearts out like they had nothing else to do. Moymoy laughed with them, but he was never asked to join.

As he reached their poorly-lit home, he could already hear Mang Enrique grunting.

He saw him lying on the pallet, with bottles of beer around.

“Andito na po ako,” he softly said, as if he didn’t even want Mang Enrique to hear him and know that he was home.

Mang Enrique glared at him and asked, “Magkano nakolekta mo ngayon?”

“Wala po. Nipambili ko po ng pagkain,” Moymoy answered, his heart throbbing like he did something wrong and was about to get punished.

And he was right, he did something wrong—in the eyes of his foster father.

Mang Enrique stood up and picked the empty bottles scattered on the floor.

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He cursed and cursed.

He hit Moymoy with the bottle in his hand and it shattered on the poor boy’s fragile head. “Punyeta kang bata ka! Wala kang kwenta!”

Moymoy could only lay on the floor, unable to defend himself. His body twitched and jerked, while his eyes turned white for a moment before he fell unconscious—if only Mang Enrique never found him when he was left as a baby beside the trash.

-endWhen the stoplight finally turned green, a young teenage girl remembered that time when she met with the man she has been exchanging messages for the first time. She was wearing a pink dress, and she could still wince from recalling the words of her 30-year-old chat mate upon seeing her that day, “I’d like it more if I take that dress off of you.”

The next thing she knew they were in bed and she was crying. She went home feeling dirty. She felt disgusted, and for several days she avoided seeing herself in the mirror. She only wanted to find someone who could treat her as special. She was tired of being contained at home. She wanted to experience something more. And just when she thought she had enough, she suddenly felt changes in her body. She was delayed for several weeks already. When she finally confirmed it by taking a pregnancy test, she cried as silent as she could, locked up in her own room.

She tried many times to abort and take the life out of her but she just couldn’t do it. She decided not to tell her parents and ran away from home.

Now, she stood at the intersection with her newborn baby, not sure where to go.

With the baby sleeping peacefully in her arms, covered in a white blanket, she made up her mind. When she was sure no one was looking, she laid the baby on a pile of trash, like her heart had turned numb and her eyes had turned blind.

She walked away and didn’t look back.

That night as the dark skies threatened to descend a storm, a drunk man from a club was on his way home. He was about to rush to the nearby trash to vomit when a group of men tugged him. They were asking about his debt and when he refused to pay, they started throwing punches and kicked him. The man drowned in his own pool of vomit and blood.

The rain continued to pour the whole night, and flash floods were reported repeatedly on the news. It washed away everything it came across, just like the unconscious man and the nearby trash.

As the dark clouds left and a new day dawned, an old maid was up early to do her chores. The first thing on her list was to throw out their household’s trash.

When she was about to pile their garbage bags, the muddy street welcomed her. She decided to sweep and clean up first until she noticed a suspicious white blanket that seemed to reveal a small pair of pale feet, settling under a jeepney parked on the other side of the street. She tried to brush it with her

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broom only to confirm that it was indeed a pair of human feet from a baby boy’s lifeless body. His face, a gentle depiction of an angel. His life, a once blank white slate of fortunate circumstances—if only his mother came back for him.

-end When the stoplight finally turned green, a young teenage girl with a baby sleeping peacefully, covered in a white blanket, made up her mind. When she was sure no one was looking, she laid the baby on a pile of trash, like her heart had turned numb and her eyes had turned blind. She walked away.

The cold wind touched her face and she looked up, noticing the dark clouds about to descend a storm. For a while she stood with her head up, as if daring the rain to pour heavily on her.

She sighed and continued to walk, trying with all her might not to remember how her baby boy’s face looked like—the sound of his cry, and the first time he smiled at the world, never knowing what kind of place it was, never knowing what kind of fate he has.

With each step, she felt like it was getting harder and heavier. She knew well how gravity works—it pulls you down, but for some reason she felt like it was pulling her backwards.

The stoplight turned red.

Everything stopped, even the noises inside her head.

Soon enough she felt drops of water from the sky, and she remembered the name she would have wanted to call him.

Luis.

She thought about his gentle and soundless breathing—that he wasn’t anything like his father. She thought about keeping him and taking care of him, of sending him off to school and of watching over as he played with his friends.

As she tried her best not to cry, she thought maybe she could take a one last glance. Several steps away, she paused and looked back.

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Kuwentuhan Mga Tauhan DANTE – lalaki, edad 45. May dalawang anak, at paboritong gawan ng tula ang kaniyang asawa. Isang kolumnista ng ipinasarang pahayagan sa utos ni Marcos.

Nakaupo sa papag at nakasandal sa malamig na pader. Nakaputing tshirt at maong na shorts.

ALFRED – lalaki, edad 19. Kolehiyo. Ikatlong antas sa kursong Civil Engineering.

Aktibong sumasali sa mga rally para sa kaniyang mga pinaglalaban. Siya ay nakahiga sa sahig, puno ng pasa at nanghihina. Nakasuot ng polo shirt at pantalon.

Tagpuan Isang madilim at maliit na kuwartong walang bintana. May metal na pinto at nakakandado. Malamig. Tahimik. Ang tanging maririnig ay ang pagbuhos ng ulan sa labas.

Panahon 1973, isang taon matapos ideklara ang Martial Law. Bubukas ang malamlam na ilaw, makikitang nakaupo si DANTE sa sulok, nakahiga sa harap niya si ALFRED, bugbog-sarado at nanghihina.

DANTE:

Sayang. ‘Di ko man lang maibibigay ang bagong tula na ginawa ko para kay Sol.

ALFRED:

(‘Di kikibo)

DANTE:

Kung siguro kasing edad mo ang mga anak ko, ‘di ko na sila hahayaang makisangkot sa mga rally. ‘Di baleng ako na lang ang magpakita ng baho ng sistema at sila na lang ang makaranas ng tahimik na buhay.

ALFRED:

(Ibabaling ang ulo kay DANTE) Bakit ho dinala nila kayo dito?

DANTE:

Isa akong kolumnista.

ALFRED: Matagal nang pinatigil ang pag-iimprenta ng mga dyaryo ‘di ho

ba? Matagal na nilang nahuli ang mga gaya niyo. Bat ‘di pa kayo nagpakalayo-layo?

DANTE: May mga responsibilidad tayo sa ‘ting bayan na ‘di natin maaaring takbuhan.

ALFRED:

(Mapapangiti) Ano ho palang pangalan niyo?

DANTE:

Dante. Dante Francisco.

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ALFRED:

Ako ho si Alfred Paderon.

DANTE:

Anong ginawa nila sayo?

ALFRED: (Susubukang umupo pero mananakit ang katawan) Ginapos ho nila

ako, binugbog, at hinampas gamit ang armalayt nila. Pero hindi

ho mapapaluwa ng simpleng hampas lang ang lokasyon ng aking mga kasama.

DANTE:

(Tatayo at tutulungang sumandal si Alfred sa pader)

ALFRED:

Hindi ho sa gusto kong maging bayani pero sa palagay ko po, hindi matutupok ang apoy hangga’t may natitirang ningas. Hangga’t may natitira pong naghahangad ng repormasyon.

DANTE: (Tutungo) Gaya rin yan ng pagsusulat. Habang may papel na hindi

nadudungisan ng katotohanan, hindi rin titigil ang kamay ng isang manunulat.

ALFRED:

Pero bakit mag-isa lang kayo? Nasaan ho ang mga kasama niyo?

DANTE:

Ang iba sa amin tinamaan ng takot kaya mas pinili na lang manahimik. Pero ang mga tulad kong parang ballpen na nagtatae ng tinta, halos ‘di makatulog nang hindi nakakapagsulat. Mas takot akong ganito na lang tayong laging inaapi, kaysa mamatay.

ALFRED:

(Tatawa) Pareho ho pala tayong mamamatay ng nagpapaka-bayani.

DANTE:

Oo, ‘tang ina (Susuntukin ang sahig gamit ang kaliwang kamao).

Kahit na pinasara nila lahat ng pahayagan, sikreto kaming naglilimbag at nagpapaikot ng mga kopya. Sikretong nagiimbestiga, sinusundan ang bawat malalagim na kuwentong akala ng iba kathang-isip lang (Ibabaling ang tingin kay ALFRED).

ALFRED:

(Isasandal ang ulo sa pader sabay titingala sa kisame) Bago pa man ako sumali sa mga rally at bago ko pa ipagsigawang itinatakwil ko ang gobyernong ‘to, tinanggap ko na maaaring maging isa ako sa malalagim na kuwento na ‘yan, na balang araw ay babalik-tanawan ng mga susunod na henerasyon.

DANTE: Tatayo at iika-ikang maglalakad sa palibot ng kwarto, hihimasin ang

mga pader na parang naghahanap ng secret passage palabas.

Ididikit ang kanang pisngi sa pader.

Umaga na kaya o gabi? Wala akong makita, wala akong marinig.

ALFRED: (Magpapatuloy sa sinasabi na parang di narinig ang tanong ni DANTE) Sana lang, hindi magbunga ng takot at kahinaan ng loob

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kung mababasa man nila ang kwento natin. Sana mas maging

matapang pa sila. Na magsilbi tayong batayan para matutunan

nilang hindi mahalaga ano man ang edad o antas para mapuntong may mali.

DANTE: Tutungo at uupo sa kabilang gilid ng kwarto.

Sa puntong ito, magkatapat na silang mag-uusap. Nakasandal

pareho sa pader ng magkabilaang kwarto.

Pero diba parang napakabata mo pa para dito? Para mamatay?

Ako, nakatapos na ng pag-aaral. Nakapagtrabaho. Nakapagpa autograph kay Amalia Fuentes. Nagkaroon ng dalawang anghel at

isang mapagmahal na asawa. Masasabi kong nasulit ko na ang oras

ko kahit pa mamatay na ako ngayon.

ALFRED:

Hindi ho ba makasarili na maiiwan n’yo silang malungkot?

DANTE:

Hindi ‘yon makasarili kung mamamatay akong ipinaglalaban ang para rin sa kanila.

ALFRED:

‘Yun na nga rin ang punto ko. At sa mga magulang ko, patawad.

Kung ang pakikipaglaban para sa bayan ay pagiging makasarili naman sa mga oras na dapat sinusulit ko na lang para mag-aral at mangarap, ayos lang. Sulit ang sakripisyo.

DANTE: Kahit pa ikaw ang pinakamagaling sana sa klase? Na kung pagtitiisan

mo lang ang mga maling nakikita mo, matutupad mo sana ang pagiging inhinyero?

ALFRED:

(Lilingunin at tititigan ng ilang segundo si DANTE) Pano ho n’yo...?

DANTE:

(Hindi patatapusin si ALFRED sa kanyang tanong) Naranasan mo man lang bang mangligaw ng babae?

ALFRED:

(Mapapa-iling at matatawa) Hindi, kasi magtatanong pa lang ako, iiwas na sila. Magaling lang ako sa rally. Pero sa mga babae, palyado.

‘Di ho ako katulad niyo na kayang sumulat at mag-alay ng mga tula.

DANTE:

Kung sa ibang pagkakataon lang tayo nagkakilala, tuturuan sana kita kung paano.

ALFRED:

Hayop na Martial Law ‘yan. Edi nanghaharana pala sana tayo ngayon.

DANTE:

Puwede naman sana. Mas pinili nga lang natin ang ganito.

ALFRED:

Masyado nang huli para magsisi. At hindi naman talaga tayo nagsisisi. Ano po pala ‘yong tulang isinulat n’yo para sa asawa n’yo?

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DANTE:

(Maikling katahimikan) Bubukadkad // ang bulaklak sa pagkakaikom nito. // Dudulas ang butil ng tubig // at dadalhin sa lupa ang natatanging bango. // Dadating ang hardinero.

ALFRED:

(Tatahimik muna na parang naghihintay kung may kasunod pa o kung ‘yun na ang kabuuan ng tula ni DANTE) Para ho ba talaga ‘yan sa asawa n’yo? Hindi ho ba mas akma ‘yan sa bayan?

DANTE:

(Ngingiti lang)

ALFRED: Hindi ho nagkataon lang na nandito kayo kasama ko no? ‘Yong

sinabi niyong sinusundan niyong kwento, ak...

Maririnig ang matinis na langitngit ng metal na pinto. Papasok ang

maliwanag na ilaw.

May dalawang sundalong lalapit para kunin si DANTE. SUNDALO 1:

Sumama ka samin!

DANTE:

(Titingin kay ALFRED) Mauuna na kong maupo sa silya.

Itatalukbong ng dalawang sundalo ang isang sako sa ulo ni DANTE at pagtutulungan siyang kaladkarin palabas ng kwarto.

Bubuhos ang malakas na ulan. Muling ikakandado ang pinto ng kwarto at maiiwan ang malamlam na ilaw. Mananatiling nakaupo habang nakasandal sa pader si ALFRED. Yuyuko siya at yayakapin ang kanyang mga binti.

Dahan-dahang magdidilim at tuluyang mamamatay ang ilaw ng tanghalan.

WAKAS

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CONTRIBUTIONS Ang Kamatayan ng Makata Abot-tanaw The death and birth of Mad Manila Tangke Dear You Hors d’oeuvre Bud Serve while hot Blood’s worth

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Ang Kamatayan ng Makata Laman ng balita Isa-isa nang namamatay ang mga makata Isa-isang namamatay ang mga makatang sinubaybayan ang mga likha Sinubaybayan tulad ng balita dahil nagtiwala sa mga likha na magpapatuloy ang paglikha Ngayon, wala na Wala nang malilikha Wala nang balita Isa-isa nang namamatay ang mga makata na dahilan kung bakit lumilikha Isa-isa nang namamatay ang mga makata katulad ng hindi mga makata Ang kamatayan ng makata ay katahimikan ng kanyang tula ay katahimikan ng maylikha

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Abot-tanaw Munting gasera, munting apoy, ipauubaya kita sa mga alon.

Maglalaho ka sa lawak ng dagat ngunit hindi kailanman sa aking isipan.

Munting bangka sa laot ng paglimot, dumaong ka sa kanyang pinaglahuan.

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The death and birth of Mad Manila Part 1 —How It Ended One day, the traffic just stopped in the streets of Manila. There was nothing apocalyptic about it: at around 3:18 p.m., a dozen vehicles, refusing to give way to each other, gridlocked at the intersection of Buendia and Taft despite the presence of stoplights and traffic enforcers. It was a random configuration of unmoving buses, jeepneys that were picking up passengers, and private vehicles too dog-bone stubborn to let the littlest inch pass before them. But it was the right random configuration because afterward, all the vehicles were trapped against each other, unable to move forward, backward, or sideways. And no amount of handwaving, curses, and pleadings by the enforcers could help them untangle the traffic jam before them.

Part 2 — Gridlock The traffic jam soon started to spread as more vehicles from the four points of the intersection followed each other to a stop, a traffic singularity that rippled throughout the streets of Manila. Each random occurrence added to the ever-growing gridlock of stuck cars, buses, trucks, and jeepneys. Like a line of dominoes, the gridlock spread to the other major thoroughfares like Quirino Avenue, Roxas Boulevard, Vito Cruz, Libertad, and even EDSA on Pasay. Some of the drivers tried to avoid the growing traffic jam. They heard the updates on the radio or used traffic apps on their smartphones.

They took alternate routes and side streets, and made illegal U-turns on crowded 2-lane roads. But most of them didn’t get far, sucked back in by the spreading gridlock.

Part 3 — No Escape Those who traveled on motorcycles and scooters fared slightly better as they weaved in and out of choked lanes and avenues. Hordes of them crowded passages between taxicabs and buses, desperately trying to squeeze through the slightest give between vehicles. But the burgeoning gridlocks soon began to wrap shut around them, one or two at first, then scores of them. These riders vainly tried to find an escape route but found themselves trapped. Eventually, most of those trapped resigned themselves to wait it out. But the heat and the exhaustion eventually started driving others to abandon their motorcycles where they were and flee to breathable areas, an ominous precursor of what was still to come.

Part 4 — Rush Hour As the traffic jam grew, dusk soon fell and rush hour began. From Manila, the gridlock spread to Makati, Mandaluyong, and Pasay as those working in the commercial areas started their trek home. Likewise, minor accidents added to the chaos, causing further pockets of traffic standstill. Some of those who had been stuck in their commute for hours began to leave buses, jeepneys, and cabs to begin their long walk home. Others, already forewarned about the horrible state of traffic through social and mainstream media, did not even bother, preferring to pass the evening in malls, restaurants, coffee shops, or even their offices. Unfortunately, as malls began to close

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as well, these people discovered the traffic on the road unmoving and unchanging.

Lacking no option, they joined the fray on the road, most falling asleep uneasily in taxi cabs and buses, or their own private vehicles.

And then rain started to fall.

Part 5 — The Rain The deluge that fell that night was not as bad as Ondoy, the tropical storm that had left psychic scars on the people years ago. However, the rain that fell on the metro was heavy enough to immediately raise water on the streets. This broke the city’s efforts to stave off the growing gridlock to the other cities, the enforcers fleeing either to cover or higher (and dryer) ground. Prior to this, many of those commuting had already started to abandon the public utility vehicles stuck for hours in traffic (to the heavy cursing of their drivers). That’s why when the rains came, many of them were caught on the roads unsheltered. Like fleeing flocks of birds, multitudes of commuters ran pell-mell through car-crowded streets, some of them sliding on top of the hoods and car trunks in a bid to reach the smallest overhang. Some vehicle owners took pity on the drenched commuters and gave them shelter against the wind-lashed rains. But most were not lucky enough.

Part 6 — Acts of Violence Random acts of violence began to flow as tempers and patience broke under this constant battering. A harried push, a shove without thought, and soon fists started flying. In a blink of an eye, parts of the multitude became a chaotic mob: rain-drenched commuters not only fighting each other but also pulling drivers and passengers out of cars, smashing windshields, slashing tires, and tipping over vans. Those who had stood by their motorcycles were swept aside, unable to protect themselves as the violence washed over them. Passengers in buses tried to shut the doors to keep the fighting out. As the fighting went on, the rain continued falling but failed to extinguish the burning anger and frustration that had taken over the crowd.

Part 7 — The Futile Police Most of the people fled from the fighting though enough joined in to add to the violence. Police and traffic enforcers were called to rein in the mob, but with the rain, and their bodies already tired in sorting out the day-long traffic jam, most of their efforts were half-hearted. Until one of the policeman — a young rookie still unused to his uniform — drew out a gun and fired a shot into the air to calm the mob. This inspired the opposite effect as the crowd centered on him and began to beat him up.

His gun lost in the initial attack, the policeman tried to defend himself but they were too many. The policeman’s colleagues came to his rescue, using their truncheons and pistols to create a path through the violence. The mob became even more angry.

Rocks flew and several young men started brandishing wooden dos-por-dos sticks.

Unnerved by this palpable anger, several of the police drew their guns and started firing. But it was raining and their shots went mostly wild. Some of them hit people; three or four of them were killed, their bodies slumping against cars or lying on the

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road bloody. But most of them ducked and hid until the shooting stopped and they could begin their attack again.

As the violence spiraled further, more people still in their vehicles began to leave them, adding to the chaos.

Part 8 — The Fires Start The police were driven back, and the riots — and the violence had truly degenerated into riots now — spread to the sidewalks and the buildings. Looting and destruction overran the nearby shops, 7–11 and Mini-Stop convenience stores were ransacked, and cars were overturned. And then the fires started: first a few motorcycles, then one or two shops, and a few minutes later, someone began throwing bottles of gin stuffed with burning rags. Fires soon began to bloom in the streets like unholy night flowers.

As if by a switch, the rains had stopped falling and the drenching the city had received kept the fire from spreading too fast from one building to another. But the bottles still flew and fires began to jump on their own, finding new things to burn. Some of those things that burned — the cars and the motorcycles — began to explode, adding to the destruction.

Some fires started in areas like Tondo and Bagong Silangan and these spread unceasingly as fire engines in different cities of the metro were unable to respond to the calls for help.

Part 9 — Chaos Spreads It was as if a large group of Filipinos had gone mad and had decided to tear down their whole world in a crazed bid for change. The initial mob had begun to break up in smaller groups seeking a relief to their frustrations. More fights broke out. Looters started hitting small cafes and boutiques, and even the SM and Robinson malls in Manila and Sta. Mesa. Riot police forces straddled Ayala Avenue to prevent the madness from spreading towards the Makati commercial area after a Zobel had called up the city mayor about protecting the now-shut malls. When the mob reached the police line, it broke despite the water cannons and the raised truncheons that became bloody in the aftermath of the attack. Emergency services were stretched too thin as ambulances ferried bloodied and broken bodies to crowded emergency rooms of hospitals around the city. The media were a harried bunch, trying to report on the frenzy around them. Most of them escaped the angry crowds they were reporting on and the fists that clutched their journalists’ vests, determined to drag them down.

Some reporters from radio stations, and broadsheets like Manila Bulletin and Standard weren’t as fortunate. Their ringing cell phones left unanswered on the streets, these soon joined the growing number that were fell during the violence.

Part 10 — The Military Cometh The President—the one whose mother had died and pushed him to run for the highest position in the land—then called for the military and signed a declaration of Martial Law. This was the biggest mistake he could make, worse even than the police operation that killed the terrorist in Mindanao but cost the whole team. Trucks

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of soldiers trooped into the hot spots but even they were not ready to deal with scattered mobs that had no fear of guns and authority. Some of the soldiers fired into the crowds and many died. But there were many others who were willing take them down. Soon, the soldiers and their commanders were in retreat or trapped in areas, running out of ammunition. The military generals wanted tanks to roll into what had become a war zone but the President shook his head.

He knew his own mistakes, but battling his own citizens would never be one of them.

Part 11 — The Call Rings Out That was when people started fleeing Metro Manila. For the most past of the past few days, the public had hidden in their houses, condos, or their apartments, and watched fearfully from TVs, or listened to the radio, or scanned the Internet for further news. As buildings and houses started burning, the occupants fled to safer ground outside the metro. Soon other people started loading essential goods into their vehicles and heading out on the north and south expressways, while others mobbed provincial bus stations in hopes of catching a ride away from the metro.

Eventually, the NLEX and SLEX was crammed full of vehicles moving away from Metro Manila. Even those living in the outskirts of the city—like Paranaque, Valenzuela, and Rizal—also took it into their heads to flee the city. What they didn’t know was that an idea had been planted in their dreams while they slept anxiously at night, telling them to “Go! Leave the city!” They didn’t know that the idea planted was not theirs, a seed that soon sprouted and wrapped itself around their minds that made them think it was theirs and theirs alone. It echoed loud and clear in their subconscious: Leave! Leave Manila!

And those words were the first words spoken by an awakened metropolis.

Part 12 – The Birth of a New City In the end, the death of Metro Manila was the birth of a new one. After the fires had burned out and the National Government had set up in Cebu, the metropolis that was left was a different one from the year before. Though many of its inhabitants had escaped Metro Manila, there were others who were left behind—or were allowed by the city to stay. Many of those that remained surmised that they were given leave to keep the city running: the electricity that powered it, the lights that kept it bright, and the machines that repaired its roads and buildings. Those that tried to come back to the city were unable to, fear clouding each step leading back into Metro Manila.

Soon, everyone stopped trying and only the scientists and the military crowded the borders of the city, trying to understand what had happened the previous year.

Urban scientists also started throwing around concepts of “wakened cities” and “maddened urban ecologies” for that was what it was: a city that had rejected its cause for being and deciding to live for itself.

And nations looked to the Philippines in fear, wondering if there would come a time when their own great cities would one day wake and throw them out into the wild.

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Tangke Gusto kong maging mataas. Tumangkad. Lumaking tao. Lahat ng uri ng pagangat na magsisilbing daan para tingalain din ako. Na hangaan din ako ng mga tao. Paulit-ulit ko itong mantra noon nang nag-aaral pa ako ng elementarya sa Candelaria Central Elementary School sa Candelaria, Zambales.

Ako kasi ang laging nasa unahan ng pila tuwing Flag ceremony. Ako ang madalas utusang pumulot ng bola. Ang madalas pag-tripang hubuan ng salawal.

Ang madalas sigain at takutin ng malalaki. Ang kaltukan pasimple ng mas matatandang estudyanteng nakukulitan sa akin dahil sumasabat daw ako sa kanilang usapan. Ang dami ko raw kasing tanong.

Kaya noong panahong ‘yon, bata pa lang, sawa na ako sa pagiging maliit.

Naitanim ko sa isipan noon na ang maliit ay laging tinitingnang mababa di lang sa pisikal na aspekto kundi maging sa lahat ng gagawin n’ya.

Gusto ko na agad tumanda. Lumaki.

Ipinanganak ako sa Maynila. Sa Cembo, Makati. Nang maghiwalay sina Mama at Papa, napadpad kami ng aking ina at nag-iisang kapatid sa tahanan ng aking Lolo at Lola sa Sitio Quinabuangan na bahagi pa rin ng pinaka-Poblacion ng Candelaria. Ganoon kadrama ang pagkakapadpad namin sa probinsiya. Lalo pang naging madrama nang kailangan kaming iwan ng aming ina sa lugar na ‘yon para magtrabaho sa isang patahian sa Mandaluyong. Saklap.

Sa eskwelahan ko sa Candelaria Central Elementary School, walang epekto ng popularidad ang sabihing ipinanganak ka sa Maynila. Isa ako sa mga estudyanteng mahirap at ‘di anak ng mga pulitiko ng bayan o mga maykayang pamilya na nakapag-abroad ang mga magulang. Kaya madalas na walang barkada agad.’ Di sikat sa klase. Idagdag pa dito ang pagka-dehado lalo na sa pakikipag-usap sa mga kaklase na nagsasalitan ng Sambal na katutubo nilang wika at tagalog lang kapag tagalog ang kausap tulad ko. S’yempre gusto ko rin namang maintindihan sila dahil ayaw kong maulit ang dating sitwasyon na titingnan muna nila ako, maguusap sa kanilang wika kasunod ay malumanay akong sasabihan na: lupa kang bako. Mangingiti ako. Para akong pinuri e. May lambing ang pagsasabi. Pagkangiti ko, malakas silang magtatawanan at bigla akong iiwan na nagtataka. Huli ko nang malalaman na ang salin pala nito sa tagalog ay “mukha kang unggoy”.

Pero segurado akong ‘di ako mukhang unggoy. Dahil “ bubuwit” ako.

Matatagpuan sa likurang bahagi ng aming eskuwelahan ang Industrial Arts Building gayundin ang malaking lote na nagsisilbi naming taniman sa asignaturang Agriculture. Barbwire ang nagsisilbing bakod ng eskuwelahan sa bahaging ito. At malapit ang bahaging ito sa Quinabuangan. Maraming araw mula Grade 5 hanggang Grade 6, lalo na’t hindi lunes na kailangang dumalo sa Flag Ceremony, nilulusot ko ang bubuwit kong katawan sa pagitan ng bakod na ito. Hahawakan ko ng kaliwang kamay ang bahaging itaas ng barbwire (iiwasan syempre ang matutulis na bahagi) at iaangat ito ng mataas para maipasok agad ang aking kaliwang paa kasunod ang aking ulo. Itutulak naman ng aking kanang kamay ang ibabang bahagi ng barbwire para maisunod ang bandang kanan ng aking katawan hangang mailusot ko ang

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kanang paa at presto! Nasa loob na ako ng eskuwelahan. Mabilis akong maglalakad para mahabol ang lumalakad nang pila ng aking mga kaklase at saka ako sisingit na parang nanggaling din mula sa assembly bago pumasok sa mga classrooms.

Pero na-master ko lang ang paglusot na ganito matapos ang mangilan-ngilan ding pagkasugat muna sa barbwire. Darating din ang isang araw na maninigas at mamumutla ako bago lumusot. Nagmamadali ako noong pumasok dahil huli na akong nagising. At dahil nga saulo na, di ko na tiningnan ang barbwire at bigla ko na lang hinawakan para maiangat na agad. Doon ko mapapansing di bakal ang nahawakan ko. Madulas. Malamig. Ahas! Nagising ang nakapulupot na ahas.

Tumitig at naglabas ng dila. Naninigas ako sa takot. Halos madapa-dapa ako sa panlalambot ng tuhod nang tumakbo na patungo sa gate ng paaralan. Hanggang makapasok ng classroom, namumutla pa rin ako habang pinagtatawanan ng mga kaklase ang itsura ng takot kong mukha. Kahit kailan, ahas ang kinatatakutan ng bubuwit.

Gusto ko ang kumanta ng Lupang Hinirang at bigkasin ang Panatang Makabayan. Sumama sa ehersisyo sa saliw ng kantang “Mag-exercise Tayo Tuwing Umaga” ni Yoyoy Villame. Kaya tuwing lunes ko lang gustong dumaan sa main gate ng eskuwelahan para makiisa sa Flag Ceremony. Pero ang tunay na dahilan, tuwing lunes lang din kasi maayos, mabango at malinis ang damit ko. Ang mga susunod kong isusuot ay tiyak na ipinambahay ko na muna. Pinambahay ko, ipinampasok ko. Wala kasi akong kadamit-damit noon. Madalas pang mabilis ngumiti ang sapatos ko kaya iniiwasan kong masita ng guro ang tsinelas na pinampasok ko.

Wala rin naman kasi kaming uniporme sa eskuwelahan noon. Hayskul na ako ng mabalitaan kong may uniporme na ang pinanggalingan kong eskuwelahan noong elementarya. Kaya malaking solusyon talaga ang pagsuot sa barbwire na bakod sa likod ng eskuwelahan tuwing martes hanggang biyernes mula sa problema kong mapagtawanan, iwasan at pag-usapan ng mga kaklase. Naiiwasan kong lumiit nang lumiit nang lumiit sa paningin nila sa pamamagitan ng pag-aastang “bubuwit.”

Pero ang solusyon lang talaga sa lahat ng diskriminasyong ito, alam ko, ay ang pagiging mataas. At gagawin ko ito noon sa araw na walang pasok.

Tuwing sabado ng hapon pupunta ako sa eskuwelahan. Susuot muli sa bakod na barbwire. Mabilis kong tutunguhin ang bahaging playground ng eskuwelahan.

Sa gilid ng playground, may isang mataba at mataas na punong mangga na ordinaryong makikita sa maraming bahagi ng Candelaria. Sa ilalim ng puno, minsa’y masusuwertehan kong makapulot ng pwede pang makaing bunga. Pero hindi ang pamumulot ng mangga ang talagang sadya ko. Pambaon ko lang ito na mangunguya sa lugar na talagang gusto kong puntahan: Ang tangke ng tubig sa tabi ng punong mangga. Partikular ang tuktok nito. Titingalain ko muna lagi ang taas ng tangke at matapos huminga ng malalim at humugot ng lakas ng loob ay matatag na kakapit at aapak paakyat sa mga bakal na nakabaon sa poste ng tangke na nagsisilbi nitong hagdan. Pagdating sa itaas nito, dahan-dahan muli na uupo ako sa gilid ng bunganga ng tangke na laging walang takip. Mas pipiliin kong tunghayan agad ang lamang tubig ng tangke at masdan ang mga namumuong lumot sa paligid ng kalooban nito kesa sa tumingin agad sa lupa sa ibaba ng

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tangke. Tiyak kasing mararamdaman ko ang pagkalula at takot kapag ito agad ang tiningnan ko. At sa oras na alam kong matatag na ang pagkakaupo ko at di na hinahabol ang aking hininga, dahan-dahan kong ililibot ang pananaw ko mula sa pinakamalapit hanggang sa pinakamalayo na maabot ng aking paningin. At sa puntong ito, mararamdaman ko na ang pagiging mataas ko. Kitang kita ko mula sa tuktok ang kabuuan ng Poblacion ng Candelaria. Sa bandang gitna ang simbahan ng San Vicente Ferrer katabi ng palengke. Sa kaliwa ang munisipyo, sa kanan ang public library at ekstensyon ng eskuwelahan at pinagigitnaan sila ng aming malaking plaza. Pati ang mga monumento ni Rizal at isang agila na alaala naman ng mga sundalo ng bayan na nagpakabayani sa mga nakaraang digmaan.

Sa likod ng simbahan matatanaw ko ang mga magagandang kabahayan ng Sitio Tambo pati na ang mga nakabilad na palay sa mga daan nito. Sa kanan ang mga kabahayan ng Barangay Panayunan kasama na ang mga daan patungo sa Barangay Libertador na katatagpuan ng karagatan ng Candelaria. At siyempre pa, sa kaliwa, ang malaking bahagi ng Quinabuangan pati na ang bukid nito.

Sa mga ganitong pagkakataon, akin ang lahat nang matanaw ko. Akin ang maganda at malaking bahay na ‘yon. Akin ang mga sasakyan na ‘yon. Akin ang mga nakabilad na palay na ‘yon pati na ang mga kalabaw sa bukid. Akin ang buong bayan. Ako ang kanyang panginoon. Kaya kong pasukin ang isip ng mga taong naglalakad at nag-uusap na nakikita ko. ‘Di nila alam, pinakikialaman ko na ang kanilang mga buhay mula sa tuktok ng tangke. Ginagawan ko na sila ng kuwento.

Sa tuktok ng tangke, natatakasan ko ang kahirapan. Ang diskriminasyon sa pagiging maliit. Dahil nasa itaas na ako. Mataas na ako.

Pero ang pinakagustong-gusto kong gawin, ang tanawin ang mga di -abot ng aking paningin. Lubos kong dadamahin ang malakas-lakas na hangin na humahaplos sa akin sa tuktok ng tangke. Diretso kong tatanawin ang dulong imahen ng lugar na aking nakikita. Matapos ay pipikit. Unti-unti, makikita ko na sa imahinasyon ko ang itsura ng isang lugar na puro kongkreto, nagsasalubungan ang madaming sasakyan at mga tao. Walang bukid, kalabaw at palay. Makikita ko sa lugar ang kutitap ng maraming ilaw tuwing gabi at maririnig ang maiingay na tugtugin kumpara sa maiingay na kuliglig tuwing gabing sobrang tahimik at dilim.

Sa lugar na tinanaw ng aking imahinasyon, isa na akong Piloto, Inhinyero, Doktor, Propesor, Abogado, mayaman, marangal, kilala. Isa na akong mataas na tao.

Kapag pumipikit na ako sa tuktok ng tangke, nangangarap na akong bumalik na sa Maynila. Iniiwan ko na ang Candelaria. Nangangarap na akong kapiling na namin ni Michael ang aming ina. Sa tuktok ng tangke, natatakasan ko rin ang lungkot ng pagiging dayuhan.

Matapos ang isang oras, mapapagod din ako sa pagtanaw at pangangarap.

Mararamdaman ko na ang pagkalula. Syempre pa, mararamdaman ko rin na talagang malungkot ang pag-iisa sa tuktok. ‘Di masaya ang walang kausap.

Nakakatakot din isipin na baka malimutan kong nasa itaas ako habang nakapikit, mahipan ng malakas lakas na hangin at makabitaw sa pagkakapit, tiyak hulog!

Dahan-dahan akong bababa sa katotohanan. Na maliit talaga ako at ‘di titingnan na mataas. Magmamadali na akong lulusot muli sa barbwire pabalik

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sa bahay namin sa Quinabuangan dahil ako ang nakatokang magsaing para sa hapunan. Mamumulot pa ako ng mga kahoy na ipampaparingas sa kalan. Pero patuloy din naman akong aasam habang lumalakad pauwi na sana dumating agad ang araw na kilalanin at tanggapin din ako ng mga kaklase na di ko na kailangan pang umakyat ng tangke at mangarap makabalik ng Maynila.

Dumating ang araw na ito dahil matutuklasan ng klase na marunong pala akong kumanta at tumula. Sa loob ng klase, dala ng paghahangad na makilala, ilalabas ko ang mga dati’y kinahihiyaang ilabas na mga talentong ito. May mga pagkakataong pipiliin ako ng ilang guro para ilaban sa kantahan at declamation contest. Magkakaroon ako ng matatalik na kaibigan na nahilig makinig sa mga gawa-gawa kong kuwento habang kami’y nagbubunot ng damo sa gilid ng mga tanim naming kamote o petsay. Isang araw, dahil sa magiging palasagot ako sa mga tanong tungkol sa kasaysayan ng bansa, pipiliin ako ng aking guro sa Araling Panlipunan na lumaban naman sa isang pang distritong Quiz Bee. Makukuha ko ang pagiging unang puwesto dito.

Lalong dadami ang mga kaklaseng kakausap at magiging kaibigan ko na. Higit sa lahat, madalas na silang mag-uusap ng tagalog at lubos ko ng maiintindihan ang wikang Sambal dahil may pagkakataong makikipag-usap na rin ako, kahit pasundot-sundot lang, gamit ang wikang ito. Sila na ang sinasabihan ko na Lupa kamong bako halban! (Mukha kayong unggoy lahat!) matapos ay tatawa ako ng malakas. Gaganti sila ng Paltak mo! (Bayag mo!) at halos ‘di na kami matitigil sa pagtatawanan.

Nang dumating ang araw na inaasam kong makilala at h’ wag maliitin, huli ko na ring mapapansin na ‘di na pala ako umaakyat sa tangke. Ang mga pangarap ko balang araw ay naikukuwento ko na sa ibaba ng tangke. Sa piling ng aking mga kaklase. ‘Di na ako mag-isang nakakaalam lamang nito. At sila rin, magkukuwento naman ng kanilang mga pangarap ng pagiging mataas at kilala balang-araw. Sa loob man o labas ng Candelaria.

Isang hapon, nagtapos kaming lahat sa elementarya. May karangalan man ang iba at marami ang wala, nagdesisyon kaming bago maghiwa-hiwalay ay sasakyan namin ang lahat ng rides ng peryahan na nakapuwesto sa plaza bilang selebrasyon. Despedida na rin ito ng mga lilipat na ng eskuwelahan sa High School. Ang iba ay sa Olongapo mag-aaral, ang iba naman ay sa kalapit lalawigan. Ako naman ay babalik na at mag-aaral na sa Maynila.

Habang sakay kami ng paikot-ikot na Caterpillar, natanaw ko ang tuktok ng tangke ng tubig ng aming paaralan. Mabilis kong mahigpit na hinawakan ang medalya na nakasabit sa aking leeg. Napangiti. Alam kong sa oras na ‘yon, mas kailangan ko ng ibayong pangangarap para magtagumpay sa Maynila.

Higit sa lahat, mas lalakas ang pangangarap na ito kung lagi kong aalalahanin ang mga karanasan ko sa Candelaria, mapait man o matamis. Wala ng tuktok ng tangke akong mauupuan pagdating ng Maynila, alam ko. Pero ayos lang.

Kahit maliit pa rin ako nang umalis sa Candelaria, nasa kalooban ko na ang tangke na alam kong patuloy kong aakyatin at uupuan ang tuktok para makatanaw ng mas malayo at malawak para ako tumaas.

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Dear You Dear you, I think you should know that even though the dark sky will shed shadows of doubts on what your tomorrow might be It doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be fine Be strong, Sail the seas of uncertainties Let your heart shine brightly to guide you on your way.

Dear you, there is no point on mending the broken lines to make an outline for a better tomorrow Because there will always be one, Smile

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Hors d’oeuvre 1. Atlantis

This is the story of how I never existed.

2. Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

I’ve been having trouble sleeping ever since my boyfriend and I broke up.

And every time I do fell asleep there would be no dreams, just me aware and alone in complete darkness for hours until I woke up. No images, no sound. I was worse than having nightmares. Nightmares I can take, but not this. Being Dream’s girlfriend was hard, but being his ex is harder.

3. Mind mysteries

The problem with the most beautiful true stories is that they are too beautiful to be true and most human minds can never accept the existence of such. There is a reason why myths and legends are mostly about creation—and at the same time very, very beautiful.

4. Wakers

Yesterday, Patrick Oliver Ching was a young businessman at the peak of his career. Today he woke up as a Meralco electric post along the sidewalk.

5. Mga kuwento ni Lola at iba pa

When your great-grandfather was lying sick on his deathbed, he sold his eighteen-year-old granddaughter to the devil for immortality. Don’t get the old man wrong. He had offered his soul first, of course, but the devil refused. The devil wanted nothing but to have your mother’s hand in marriage.

6. Heavenly bodies

It was a beautiful summer day with clear blue skies and a promise of a nice walk in Luneta Park while eating dirty ice cream, until naked bodies started raining down the streets of Manila.

7. The paradox girl

The best day of my life was when my parents and I went for a road trip across Tagaytay. We ate inside the car while driving. We took embarrassing photos of one another. We laughed at every little thing we saw. We were happy. We were young. We were all eighteen and they didn’t know I was their daughter.

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Bud Dear lolo, First of all, I am writing this letter to say sorry for I haven’t watched any news on TV since the last time I saw you aired while fervidly embracing your most valuable workmate: the microphone. I don’t know, but you always have the voice that could sink a thousand thrones that I wouldn’t want to hear anybody else anymore. I think no one else can do it better than you can. I could still remember the day when your research set our mayor’s chair on fire, that it finally made him stan up and leave his place. That was a freak trick, lolo! If there is one thing I really want to learn from you, it is how you put the important things into its right places.

But I think I’m learning it now.

Second, why didn’t you tell me that you are good at gardening? I have started a shop with all the flowers you left here at the frontyard to grow. Guess who my next customer is—It’s the mayor! The last time I had a glimpse of him was when he was running after you outside our house. The night was a little dusky but when he lit his gun, a part of his face was unshaded—just in case you wanna know how I know it’s him. Well, good thing it’s the season for orchids now. I’ll be delivering healthy standing flower sprays with Tulips and Carnations on it as well. If his family will ask me why I bothered sending my sympathies, I’d say my reason is six-feet deep.

And lastly, I won’t write long. Wouldn’t want to spend much ink as I’ll be burning this letter after, scatter the ashes across our blooming yard to send it quickly to where you stay. Please respond to me when you receive this by growing more Chrysanthemums. I think I’ll be needing them for more sympathies to offer.

I miss you so much.

Your loving heir, Ellen

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Serve while hot Can those who cook remember the first time they cut their finger from chopping onions because the knife slipped big time? Maybe, the next time they do it, they wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cut their nerve-filled fingertips. So, do they remember the smell of soup evaporated by the flames below the pot, for it reached its boiling point and grumbled as it belched out the boiling broth? Probably, since the next time they boil the soup, they would temper the heat enough for full flavor. But would it mean that when you combine those together, you can make a dish that can tantalize even the ones from other realms? Maybe, because they already have their dishes on their makeshift serving carts, possibly sheltered from the impact of dashing from one realm to another. Will they make it, you ask? Ah, who knows? Once it reaches their destination, all I could say is that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s their responsibility to send it to the realms. What if they succeed, and what if they fail? If they fail, then they fail, and the realm would only savor remorse. And if they succeed? Well, then they savor satisfaction. Then, after all of that, what comes next? Next? That, I only know in bits and pieces, but they must surpass their dishes beyond what it is.

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Blood’s worth Day 7 Blink.

Blink.

My arm feels like it’s being crushed between walls and steel doors every half a second. My stomach aches like jaws and sharp teeth are eating their way out of my insides.

I am stuck in a dark corner inside a mall’s hardware store, beneath a slope made of fallen debris. I’m sitting on the floor with my back absorbing the coldness of the wall.

My left arm is freshly cut to the elbow, slowly bleeding out the rest of my life.

Punyetang rescue team ‘to.

It has been a week since the earthquake. My head feels like it’s being squished between two opposite walls. I don’t have enough strength to move.

The place reeks with the smell of gasoline, combined with the stench of rotting, mutilated corpses that my brain can’t focus on anything.

Blink.

Sasha squeezes my hand, “Kaya natin ‘to,” she assures. It is only then I realize that I’ve been trembling so hard.

I stare at her face, nod, then try to relax. I inhale, deep and slow. I think about all the things I will do after I’m out of this place, then exhale.

Sasha smiles at me with her dimples burying inside her cheeks, and I calm down a bit. She then helps me eat by hand-feeding me meat.

For some demented reason, it feels good having her stuck here with me.

During the earthquake, when the mall’s upper floor collapsed, I thought that would be the end of it. But with God’s miracle and science’s probability jackpot, the upper floor slumped to the side, falling into a slope. It shielded our group from all the falling rubble and left us untouched. untouched (adjective): not affected or damaged in any way.

Electricity was the first to go out, leaving us blind and lost in the dark. At first, we were just happy that we survived. But as the days went on, we were forced beyond our limits.

There are better places to be stuck inside a mall, but at least in the hardware store we have tools to work with. We tried everything—we drilled through the big boulders that trapped us in one corner. But they just crumbled into more pieces of rocks, covering every possible passageway. In the first 72 hours, we interchangeably used power tools, hand tools, vacuums, and other general hardware materials we could find to get out, but after losing our energy without any intake of food, we ended up smashing a water sprinkler straight to its pipeline, turning it into something like a faucet. It is the only rescue we can afford ourselves. It served as the solution to our thirst, and it filled our stomachs in exchange for food. But still, water can only replace food temporarily. Our bodies need protein and carbohydrates just as much as it needs oxygen.

Blink.

Sasha grabs more strands of meat and feeds them to me. I chew, munch, and swallow it. Once you get too hungry to even consider the taste, you’ll stop thinking about what you eat and just focus on the fact you’re eating.

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She slices another chunk of raw flesh from my recently amputated arm, then proceeds to put it in my mouth. My teeth munch it like it’s undercooked tocino. I savor my own blood like juice squishing out of good meat. “’Toy, salamat ah,” Mr. Martin says with his old scruffy voice, calm and gentle.

He rubs my shoulder, trying to comfort me. “Iniligtas mo kami lahat dito, at ‘yon ang mahalaga.”

He reminds me of the old movies I never liked. I used to hate those lines about sacrifice or being heroic and all that cringe-worthy crap. But today, they sound like music to my ears.

It is a rational decision. We all have sacrifices to make, and this one is mine. Yes, it’s my arm, but what’s a piece of limb compared to all the lives it can save?

“Pero pakiusap lang, ‘wag n’yong sabihin sa anak ko kung ano ‘tong kinakain niya,” Mr. Martin instructs. He turns to look at his seven-year-old son, whom we refer to as Junior, mindlessly eating a chunk of meat.

Day 8 Blink.

Blink.

I wake up with my throat as dry as a drought and my head a spinning sandstorm.

My fever isn’t helping either.

Tubig, is the first thought I had in my brain. I was going to use my left hand to help myself up, but I am immediately reminded that it is gone. I groan, swearing I can still feel it.

“Huy,” Joseph comes to help and walks me to the broken pipeline. Water rains from above, caught inside an empty tool bucket. Joseph carries the bucket up to my face so I can take a big gulp. I let the liquid flow directly down my throat.

On the day of the earthquake, it seemed like divine intervention for leaving us alive.

Today, I consider it damnation for being given the slowest possible way of dying.

Sure, we share stories and the talking somehow makes things cozy. We can forget about the situation we’re in, even just for a moment. Joseph and I had casual talks about the crappy system of contractual work, since we both worked as salesmen. Mr. Martin and his son shared stories with us about the rich countries they had visited, lightening up the topics a bit. And Sasha, a God-sent nurse, reminded us to be strong.

She told us about her most hopeless patients, and how some survived imminent death.

That was after we stopped trying to get out, after we accepted the fact that only bulldozers can destroy these walls and set us free. But as time went on, our shared hunger and paranoia fed our doubts. doubt (noun): uncertainty.

We’re hoping for rescue. This is an earthquake with enough magnitude to bring down a mall, so how come the rescue operations haven’t started yet? How is it that we hear no machines outside or people shouting for survivors? Have they abandoned us?

It has been more than a week. In two more days, it will be Joseph’s turn to give up a limb. We cannot survive with just water alone.

Sometimes I like the idea of being crushed under debris better than eating yourself to death.

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Day 10 Rescue has not yet come.

Today is Joseph’s turn to sacrifice a limb. Other than me, he is the second most capable survivor in the group. At least he is just as willing as I am. He decided to have his leg cut off since it contains more meat and they promised to save up for our prosthetics.

I can still feel the hand saw burying itself into my arm, the blade grinding against my bone. I remember passing out from the pain.

Soon, there will be a new member of the amputee cannibals club, and I don’t ponder a single thought about how hard it will be for Joseph to share my fate. The only thing I care about is that today, I’m going to eat.

Blink.

Blink.

“Junior . . . Junior!”

I wake up to Mr. Martin’s cries from a distance. I scramble to my feet, half-awake.

“Kung nagsabi ka lang sana,” Sasha speaks in a muffled sob.

I rub my eyes as I sprint through the rubble. My stomach growls, my head aches. There is Junior, lying motionless on the asphalt. His shorts are torn on the left, revealing a swollen narrow wound on his leg. The cut is already yellowish, rotten, and is surrounded with dried blood. It starts from his upper knee, ending at his lower waist.

His eyes are open the whole time, never blinking once. His whole body is still—stiff. stiff (adjective): not moving as freely as is usual or desirable.

Mr. Martin sits beside him, crying and staring at his son.

Joseph stands in front of them, his hands shaking.

“Martin,” he mumbles, his face dripping with sweat. “Wala na tayong magagawa.

Hindi na siya maisasalba. Pero may naiisip ako. Alam kong anak mo si Junior. Pero alam ko rin na gutom na tayong lahat,” he continues, his right foot taking a slow step forward. “Tatlong araw na tayong hindi kumakain Martin, at...” Joseph looks at Junior, and I know that in that moment he isn’t looking at a corpse. I know that in his eyes, he’s already looking at his food.

“Wag mong hahawakan ang anak ko!” Mr. Martin sweeps his son into his arms.

“Hindi ako masamang tao at alam kong hindi tama na sinasabi ko ‘to ngayon,” Joseph reasons out. “‘Tang ina magpapaputol nga ako ng binti para may makain tayo e,” he mutters, his fist closing in. “Pero ngayon na nangyari ‘to baka naman puwedeng ...”

“Bangkay ‘to ng anak ko!” Mr. Martin’s voice echoes throughout the room, his whole face turning red. “Ipalilibing ko siya ng buo!”

Sasha begs for them to stop, pulling Joseph by the arm, but her words fade into white noise.

And in my ears, they all speak in a symphony of chaos and disorder.

Joseph’s eyebrows fold underneath, “Sige pare, ililibing natin ‘yan, tapos ano?

Itutuloy niyo pagputol sa binti ko? ‘Tang ina niyo, ‘di na ko papayag kung meron naman na tayong ibang pagkukuhanan ng makakain!”

Their voices ring in my ear like church bells swinging back and forth.

“Subukan mo lang!” In a quick second, Mr. Martin rises to his feet, his height meeting Joseph’s. His balled fist swings straight into Joseph’s face.

Joseph keeps his footing, his nose leaking drops of blood.

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blood (noun): juice squishing out of tender meat.

Joseph knocks Mr. Martin to the floor. He wrestles over the old man’s chest, landing punches against his cheek.

My stomach grumbles at every forceful strike at Mr. Martin’s head. It feels like a spell, like a requiem forming as my insides beg to be fed.

Blink.

Mr. Martin reaches for a screwdriver he keeps in his pocket as Joseph delivers another swing.

I think of tender pounded meat.

My eyes turn to Sasha, who grabs my shirt, shaking me back and forth, “Awatin mo sila, Adrian!”

Blink.

Blink.

I pull Joseph away from Mr. Martin. He has bludgeoned half of the man’s face. Mr. Martin’s right eye has swelled half the size of a golf ball.

“L-l-lumayo ka s-s-sa anak ko,” Mr. Martin can barely speak.

I turn to Joseph, “Ano bang iniisip m—” I gasp.

Blink.

A screwdriver is impaled from his eye straight through his skull, and his body falls to the floor.

Blink.

In my head, I think of barbecue skewered through a stick.

Day 11 Mr. Martin sits against the wall, blood painted on his shirt.

I offer him a chunk of Joseph’s flesh. “Wag niyo na hong masyadong isipin ang nangyari,” I tell him. I want to give him back the same pep talk he gave me when I offered up my arm. “Tapos na. Nangyari na.”

He simply nods.

“Kumain na lang tayo,” I say. “Kaya nating mabuhay ng ilang araw sa bangkay lang niya.”

He turns to me like I told him a bad joke. He sighs, “Ano na nangyari sa ‘tin?” It feels like a rhetorical question, seeming like the beginning of an old man’s lecture.

“Pumatay ako ng tao, at imbis na magluksa o mataranta, ginawa nating pagkain.”

Ideally, he is correct, but he got the situation wrong. I want to tell him that it is simply a rational decision, that we did what the situation forced us to do, that we’re just playing the cards we were dealt with.

But he is way past his breaking point. I see it in the way he looks at random spaces as if every pile of rubble gives him an existential thought or a moral crisis. crisis (noun): a time of intense difficulty.

We need to eat, and none of the dust, rocks, or hardware tools are at the very least edible.

“Parang hindi na tayo tao,” he declares. He looks at Junior’s corpse, lying in the far corner. “Wala na tayong pinagkaiba sa mga hayop—” I toss the chunk of meat on his lap. “Kumain na lang tayo.”

He stares at the meat—Joseph’s hand. He pauses for a moment, just looking at the palm instead of eating it, then looks back at me teary-eyed. “Kumakain tayo ng tao,

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Adrian, at pumatay ako,” he says. “Patawarin sana tayo ng Diyos.”

Day 12 Sasha wakes me up when she notices that the water has stopped gushing out the broken pipeline. I try to make a larger hole, but not even a single drop falls.

I gaze at Mr. Martin. I remember that he filled his stomach with water, since he refused to eat human meat after our conversation. So, if there is one of us who has had a lot of drink, it’s him.

“Mamamatay na tayo dito!” he yells. Between his fingers is the largest hammer available to us. He smashes the wall, again and again, but he can only come up with a single crack. The room roars to life, the ceiling shaking a bit. If he doesn’t stop, our tiny space would cave in and crush us.

He is about to strike again when I push him back. “Tigilan mo ‘yan!” I tell him. “Lalo mo lang tayong mapapatay sa ginagawa mo!”

Day 13 We wake up in a pool of blood from Mr. Martin’s corpse, his throat is cut. In his hand is the same hand saw used to cut my arm. And the only thing I can think of is the thought of raw, juicy meat lying on the floor.

In my head, he isn’t the same living, breathing, caring father we knew. Because right now, he is just a corpse. Dead. Lifeless. Decaying organic matter. Urgently-needed source of meat. meat (noun): the flesh of an animal as food.

It is simply a rational decision. We need to maximize what we have.

Sasha—the alive meat source—can only bury her face in my shoulder as the last ray of hope escapes her eyes. Every inch of her body is trembling hard, her hands are vibrating as she presses them against my back. And in this moment, I know that she has had enough. That she can’t take it, not anymore.

It feels good having her stuck with me, knowing I have warm meat ready to be butchered at any time famine strikes.

“Kaya natin ‘to,” she assures, but she sounds so much like she’s trying to believe it herself.

Day 30 Blink.

Blink.

I’m being carried to the inside of an ambulance. Beside me is an old woman, wiping gauze and alcohol to clean the cut on my left arm.

“You are Adrian Caguiat, correct?” she asked.

I want to nod. I want to tell her “yes, that’s me” and that I survived. But I’m not Adrian, at least not anymore. Because Adrian is a cultured, educated man who lives a life so cushioned that survival is never an issue. But inside me, that Adrian is already dead. I am barely even a remnant of what Adrian is.

“Anong masakit sayo?”

“Putang ina,” Adrian would have never cursed. Adrian is supposed to be a good young man who’s willing to give his left arm to save other people. But Adrian wouldn’t have slaughtered Sasha. Adrian would never consider the idea of killing someone just

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so he could eat. And of course, Adrian would have never survived. survive (verb): continue to live or exist.

That’s what I did, and that’s what was necessary. Perhaps the proper question to be asked is, “Ba’t ang tagal n’yo?”

It was a magnitude 7 earthquake, enough to crumble Manila and its old set of structures in just a few minutes. The rescuers lack numbers and are working in small groups. The country just doesn’t have the resources to respond quickly to such a massive catastrophe.

Blink.

“Paano ka nakali gtas?” the woman asks. “Ikaw lang ang nakita naming buhay sa building na ‘to,” she continues. “No offense, pero after a month most people would have lost hope. Marami na kaming nakitang nag-suicide.” she adds. “Pero ikaw, pinutol mo pa ‘yong braso mo para lang may makain ka. That’s so brave, how did you survive all that?”

It is an interesting question, and somewhere inside Adrian Caguiat, he can’t help but grin.

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end /end/ noun: The beginning of an alternative existence

1

The horizon— where one may choose to return, rewind and repeat, or leave behind a part of oneself so as to begin again.

Example of END in a sentence: <The fifteen-year-old feared the life that had just begun in her belly marked the end of hers.> verb: Finish

2

A choice— to free, finish and forget every trace of the past to create a new present.

Example of END in a sentence: <As her belly grew along with the number of stares, she couldn’t help but think of the life she would be living had she chosen to end the pregnancy.> adjective: Ultimate

3

The finality— of a process, time or relation, bidding farewell to its origin to begin as a separate creation.

Example of END in a sentence: <Gently removing her finger from her sleeping newborn’s grasp, her hands trembled as she left her newborn—the end result of nine months of regret—on the cold doorstep of an orphanage.>

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WRITER’S PROFILE

Rochelle Rivera Mapalad ako at hawak ko sa ‘king palad ang mga Palad na lulan ng aking pagkahapo’t sigla

Nishtha Nigam

Shakira Austero

Refecting pieces of you and me

A pile of Sundays and Sonder

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Ranica Lane Meralpis

Hannah Fernandez

Love is an artistic deception

Ad astra per aspera (Through hardships to the stars)

John Christopher Paz

Eva Tablada

Even the light can be blinding sometimes

Like the pokemon Eevee, but not really

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ARTIST’S PROFILE

Lynoelle Kyle Arayata

Mikaela Torres

Chandler Belaro

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Camille Joy Gallardo

John Chesleign Nofiel

Kathelyn Ann Bravo

Jose Mari Martinada

Bermanie Jean Doniña

CONTRIBUTORS

Allan Popa

Joseph Nacino

Nagtuturo si Allan Popa sa Ateneo de Manila University at kumukuha ng Ph.D. in Literature sa De La Salle University. Nagtapos siya ng MFA in Writing sa Washington University in Saint Louis kung saan siya nagwagi ng Academy of American Poets Prize at Norma Lowry Memorial Prize. Awtor siya ng sampung aklat ng mgatula kabilang na ang Incision (UST Publishing House, 2016), Drone (Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2013), at Laan (De La Salle University Publishing House, 2013). Ginawaran na siya ng Philippines Fress Literary Award at Manila Critics Circle National Book Award for Poetry. Isa siya sa mga kasaping tagpagtatag ng High Chair.

Joseph Nacino is a freelance writer. He was the Publisher and Editor-In-Chief for Estranghero Press, which promotes speculative fiction written by Filipinos.

At the 2nd Philippine Graphic/Fiction awards in 2007 he won for his work “Logovore.” He has had stories published in Kenneth Yu’s “The Digest of Philippine Genre Stories” and the “Philippine Speculative Fiction” series edited by Dean Francis Alfar. He published the first three anthologies online, had it printed with UP Press then as ebooks with Flipside. His works include: The Farthest Shore, Demons of the New Year, Diaspora Ad Astra, All That Darkness Allows.

Si Ferdinand Pisigan Jarin ay kasalukuyang propesor ng Malikhaing pagsulat sa Kolehiyo ng Arte at Literatura sa UP-Diliman. Awardee ng Don Carlos Palanca at National Book Award ng Manila Critics Circle. Siya ang awtor ng Anim na Sabado ng Beyblade at iba pang Sanaysay mula sa Visprint Publishing.

Ferdinand P. Jarin

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

EDITORIAL BOARD AY 2016-2017 Anri Ichimura, Editor in Chief Fernan Patrick R. Flores, Associate Editor Ricardo Martin O. Cabale, Managing Director Naomi Lane T. Tiburcio, Copy Editor Kristine Mae H. Rebote, Office and Circulations Manager Jazmine N. Estorninos, News Editor Ma. Bianca Isabelle C. Lariosa, Features Editor Rochelle G. Rivera, Literary Editor Ezekiel A. Coronacion, In charge, Sports Lynoelle Kyle E. Arayata, In charge, Art Kathelyn Ann M. Bravo, Chief Photographer Camille Joy D. Gallardo, Graphics and Layout Director Christian F. Mateo, Web Manager Mr. Mark A. Ignacio, Adviser

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

The Literary works published remain as properties of their authors.

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