Palad Vol. 23 by Heraldo Filipino

palad

About the cover A crown made of gold is a crown made of blood. Perhaps, the stain is nothing but a speck of dirt that a royal hand can wipe. Despite the rigorous red, the splendid yellow remains. Endless, it lingers. Never, it fades. To dwindle are the forsaken, while power rules the world.

palad

Literary Digest of The Heraldo Filipino Issue No. XXIII July 2022

Jacinth Banite Palad Editor Jacinth Banite, Bernardo Sta. Ana II, Shekynah Angelene Samadan, Glaiza Bernadette Cabillon, Adriel Jerome Toledo, William Constante, Lance Mejico, Aprilean Octavo, Maria Victoria Busine, and Elaine Aznar Writers Emmanuel Esmilla, Alexandrea Rey, Alyanna Nicole Tiaga, Miguel Luis Abenales, Charles Howard Gaa, Ma. Bernice Victoria Obias, Hannah Nicole Bercasio, Julianna Patricia Octavio, and Jasper Huey Leyson Artists Alyanna Nicole Tiaga, Rachelle Ann Calaustro, and Alexandrea Rey Layout Artists

Message Kings and Queens wear crowns as a symbol of royalty. Politicians act like royal monarchs to assert power. But writers hold the most powerful force that could dismantle any kingdom: words. Words have always been the mightiest sword that any writer could bear, armed with sheer determination, bravery, and courage to speak truth to power. History has witnessed how stories had built and destroyed kingdoms, how fictions became a depiction of disheartening realities, and how words could challenge a status quo that is only favorable to the highness, and not its people. And so with words, we establish a Kingdom of truth that oppressors want dismantled. We build an army of storytellers that will combat injustices and inequality. We write stories that defy all abusive kingdoms: the cruel and ruthless system, the state that tarnishes democracy, the tyrants who want watchdogs and bearers of truth silenced. The attempt to shut this Kingdom down is now heightened, but so is our force to protect our royalty: the truth.

Lance Angelo Mejico Associate Editor

Foreword Courage. I couldn’t think of a better way to start this but with such a word. And no, this is not what the folio is going to be all about, some stories may not even tell you to be one, but this is how all our deeplyrooted tales and vision bind and come to fruition. Battling fear with courage, and turning this into a 60-page folio: that’s what this volume XXIII of Palad is certainly made of. Courage, as we surmount the odds we had to counter upon mending our words and sentences despite the frequent ellipsis, hanging commas, and blank spaces. Courage, for binding all the pages together despite immense gaps and crumpled edges. Courage, for driving us to the very thing we wrote about in this literary folio—Power. Each piece that you are about to lose yourself in is a depiction of our writer’s bravery as we dared to speak up about the abused and abuser, the oppressed and the oppressor, the long-standing dynasties in history, and the names they engraved deeply to the ground—all to castigate the powerful and hail the powerless. If power has one great alliance, it would be silence. Words are never silent, and so with words, we speak. This very notion ought to live through in a courageous collection of well-written works within every single page that this book bears. In the name of prose and poetry, fiction and stories, courage on as we speak truth to power.

Jacinth Banite Literary Coordinator

Table of Contents

prose & poetry The Waters We Tread

In the Pages I Lose Myself in

The City at Night

Attraversiamo

To-don’t List

Monomania

An Elegy to the Year I Lost

Shekynah Angelene Samadan

Kayla Nicole De Quiroz

Jacinth Banite

Sheka Ignaco

Lean Jane Pantorilla

Ahmad Mahusay

Maria Victoria Busine

Ink of Duty

Glaiza Bernadette Cabillon

Dearest reader, As I write this entry with words in broken strides, I retrace myself back to the time I used to walk miles with feet laid bare, trying to ink up my paper with strands of stories waiting to be told—right when I pledged my eyes to bear witness of the naked reality, and my pen to be the vessel of truth. I remember the nights when I pillow my head with piles of discarded papers. I blanket my shoulders with the hugging drifts of the wind. In the midst of racing wonders, my coffee serves as the soothing silence that keeps pouring in. And yet, it does not pour solely as a marvel but also as a flavor to possibilities. With only my quill pen and paper, I would travel places and cross paths with the odds. Whether it be a thunder or storm, it’s all in the whirlwind of my mind. I thought dark days were when I used to wring my mind just so it could tell more tales. But as I slowly unwrap, it struck me how the world does not revolve around one main character and a piece of paper. It is a large book scribbled with chaotic strokes of ink in its desperate need of being seen. Oh, how I beheld the very words I adore succumb to being made promises by lethal voices! All those pages full of vows set to be torn apart and buried deep, never fulfilled. But unlike those who let such a story unfold, I rewrite the chaos, bestowing it the ink so it could narrate itself. Even if telling one truth caused me to tear pages of a hundredfold. As you may know, the stroke of my pen has started breaking. My ink is running low. I have come a long way burning all the leaves of this journal up to its last page with blazing spalls of reality. For the last time, I am now filling it with yet another part of the truth I shall for life ought to tell.

So long, my friend, for I have long ceased to beguile myself from the overwhelming cuts and bruises there is in inking the truth so it could last. Perhaps, this entry would have found you well, had it not been written amid long, melancholic nights behind the cold surface of the prison bars. Farewell, a scribe

Indelible Bernardo Sta. Ana II

Millions of people resisting for good Thousands divided in this national feud Hundreds of sweet words but not all are free Tensed as we ink up our liberty Once these nails are stained, left are marks as we stood

Buhay ang Nagmamalabis Bernardo Sta. Ana II

Saan nga ba ang hangganan ng kalayaan sa paghayag Damdami’t prinsipyo’y lunod sa nakapaniping paglalayag Hanggang sa mapaos ang lalamunan, batid ang kahihinatnang Mahulog sa hangaring nabulag ng katampalasanan ‘Di magkandarapang magpadapa ng salungat na adhikain Salita’t dilang animo’y lansenta kung humiwa sa talim Sa higit niyong pagtalima, layuni’y kumulimlim Kung tama ang isinususog tumingin muna sa salamin Sinamantalang lubos ang mga taong nagkakawatak-watak ‘Di alintana ang mga luha’t dugong pumapatak Nakupo! Ang nakaupo sa itaas, akala mo’y mga manhid Tatak sa isipa’y kapangyarihang kinapitan nang mahigpit Halos sambahin, dinggin bawat kataga Katotohanan? Kabulaanan? Sa kinabukasan nati’y tataga May patutunguhan ba ang dali-dali nating pagtungo Sa mga pangakong madaling itanim at madali ring ibaon? Sa taas ng kapangyarihan, nalulula ang tumingin Sila ang yumuko, tayo namang tumingala, sino sa atin ang salarin? Isang hitik sa puso, isang kulang sa damdamin Ngayon, sino sa dalawa ang nagmamalabis?

Kaliwete Jacinth Banite Pasado alas-kwatro na ng umaga. Kadalasan tuwing ganitong oras, tahimik pa ang buong paligid, bigong makahabol sa madaling araw. Kadalasan, ang mga asong kalye lamang ang maririnig na kumakaluskos sa paligid. Mula sa pitik ng mga kamerang kumukuha ng litrato, busina ng mga police mobile na rumoronda, hanggang sa ugong ng makina mula sa ambulansyang nakaparada sa gilid, mababatid na hindi ito isang normal na umaga para sa mga residente ng Brgy. Binagbag, Maynila. Pati ang mga bulong ng mga taong panay ang tanong sa katabi nilang wala ring alam sa nangyari ay kasama sa lupon ng mga ingay sa paligid. Pero sa kabila ng naghalo-halong ingay, tila kaluskos lamang ang mga ito kumpara sa pagtangis ng isang inang yakap-yakap ang kanyang duguang anak na nakahandusay sa kalsada. Ayaw ko na sanang lumapit pa sa humahagulgol na ginang, ngunit walang palya ang pag-ring ng aking telepono mula sa aming desk na humihingi ng detalye tungkol sa nangyari. Mahigit kumulang isang oras na lang kasi at kailangan ko nang sumalang sa kamera para sa unang programa ng aming network. Sa puntong iyon, ang tanging alam ko lamang ay isa itong operasyong may kinalaman sa droga. Ayon sa pulisya, nanlaban umano ang biktima gamit ang baril na makikitang hawak pa nito. Ngunit habang pinagmamasdan ko ang hinagpis ng isang ina sa kalsada, alam kong hindi sa simpleng sagot ng mga pulis natatapos ang aking trabaho. May kasamang kaba sa aking dibdib nang lumapit ako sa mag-ina, bitbit ang aking mikropono. Ilang saglit pa, sinubukan kong tanungin ang humihikbing ale sa tabi ng malamig na bangkay. “Nay, may gusto po ba kayong sabihin sa nangyari?” isang simpleng tanong. Ilang segundo ang lumipas bago ito nakapagsalita ngunit malayo sa aking inaasahan ang kanyang naging tugon. “Kaliwete,” sabi ng ale.

Hindi ko inalis ang mikropono sa ilalim ng kanyang mukha sa pagbabakasakaling may kasunod pa ang maikli niyang pahayag. Hindi naman ako nabigo. “Kaliwete ang aking anak.” Hindi ko na nagawang sumagot pa. Sa halip, nabaling ang aking atensyon sa kalibre ng baril na nakakabit sa kanang kamay ng biktima.

Paradiso Maker Shekynah Angelene Samadan

A lazy daze fuels your desire for power as you plot to overcome what is now. In your head, you crafted a world you said was fit for me. A gravitas in your promise, it was an abstract thought that you try to mold into the horizon up ahead. A clear sign of respite for those who have slaved away their lives inside the rusty machines that run this failing city to rot like a drunkard’s mouth. Peace was an option for you. You said it was our only answer. But there must be blood, and blood should paint our houses, our knees, our hands before we could rest like God on the seventh day. War should be made first, and heads must pay for the tremors they inflicted in the depths of our skins. Yet, you cannot give the face of the enemy. In this mirror of a city, where should we look? “Onward!” you shout. And now here we are. In the paradise you have promised us we could build. Sleeping finally as you have said in your speech. In deathless slumber, the prophecy manifested itself through the way our detached hands forever praised you in greatness. Aligned properly to give you glory until this peace you have made runs its course. Until blood mummifies our vessels for good.

Hanggang sa Muling Pagsibol Shekynah Angelene Samadan

Kalimitan, baka malimutan Hindi kayo binurol, kayo ay tinanim lamang Sisibol, lalago, dadami Bubuuhin ang hardin Hanggang sa sila naman ang matakot sa atin Sa matabang lupa na tangan ang inyong sisidlan Mga gurong lumaban sa harap ng mga demonyong naghahari-harian Hawak ang sandatang kayo mismo ang nagpanday Pagmamahal ang inyong inalay para sa bayang inibig ninyong tunay Kaya ngayon, Tuloy pa rin ang pagpunla Sa aming paglago, hindi na magtatago Lalaban pa rin Habang hinihintay ang inyong muling pagsibol

Man up, Man down Jacinth Banite

Clandestine noises hobble in every corner of the dormitory. Hollow voices emanate from the inside of each door locked by chains. “Man up!” shouts the unseen shadow lurking in the dark abyss, loud as few slaps that followed. In between inkling grunts, giggles quaver like a choir out of tune. Of all the sounds discreetly creeping in, the stride of combat boots rings the loudest of them all. What an exquisite pair of disguise, concealing the vile intent of a man who uses honor as a façade. Certainly, they are heavy enough to mark whichever ground they step on, as they are vigorously hefty to leave bruises and cuts on crouching flesh and bones. As the dusk unravels the darkness of the day, the night is still too young to rest—so is the body that lies stiffly on the floor. The bleeding within his head stains his gaze until it completely dwindles into sleep. “Man down!” same voice, same volume, but the fury turns into fear. “Man down!” they repeat, like a choir out of tune. But the corridor remains still despite the secret it bears.

Thieves in their Jail Jacinth Banite

40-year-old woman jailed for stealing baby formula Manila, Philippines—A 40-year-old woman in Sampaloc, Manila was arrested on Monday morning after allegedly stealing a bag of baby formula from a convenience store. Manila police identified the suspect as Nancy Flores, a mother of four children and a three-month-old infant. In the CCTV footage from the store owner, Flores can be seen discreetly putting two packs of instant cereal and a can of baby milk inside her pack bag. The cashier of the store, Nestor Alcan, witnessed the incident and confronted the suspect right before it fled the scene. Despite being caught red-handed, the suspect refused to return the stuff she stole. Instead, Flores pleaded to the owner if he could let her leave, as she needs to feed her kids who haven’t taken any meal since Sunday night. This prompted the cashier to call the police. Flores was charged with Theft and is expected to be in prison for a maximum of six months unless a bail of P40, 000 will be posted. ***

Ex-City Mayor guilty of plunder; placed under house arrest Manila, Philippines—Despite a guilty verdict, former Manila Mayor Cynthia Reyes is yet to face a life inside a prison cell as the court granted the request for her to stay at home and remain under house arrest until further orders. This came after Reyes’ camp filed an appeal to the court, claiming that the 50-year-old ex-mayor suffers from health complications, and thus currently unfit for a public prison. Reyes rose to public scrutiny in 2019 after an unnamed whistleblower disclosed her involvement in a multibillion-peso corruption scandal during her time as the local chief executive. This indictment put Reyes’ properties in question, including her two rest houses in Cebu, and five units of luxury cars. Earlier last week, the Supreme Court favored the indictment and charged Reyes with a life sentence, a penalty she will barely endure inside the comfort of her home. This is a developing story.

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Mind as a Museum Bernardo Sta. Ana II

Welcome to the gallery of my wand’ring thoughts Roam around, look, you may touch it benign Murals, sculptures of ideas well-flaunt Let maladaptive daydreaming and realities align Most of these works change but not how you see it Sketch of your universe changes how it sees you Lines will be parallel if you act in its feat Keep tracing the edge ‘til the fantasy’s due Are you moved in this labyrinth of my forgotten dreams? Days spent painting what you want than you need If art is not worth a grasp then there’s no merit we can see You are the artisan and the truth you shall feed Thank you for coming to this gallery of mine Now, if you’d care to wake up, you lost track of the time.

Between Pages Glaiza Bernadette Cabillon

One flip, and the image of a pale young woman’s naked back damped with a splash of crimson wine set forth before your eyes. Such luminous darkness indeed in the depths of art. Quite interesting, even, to read the first line that says, “So with the faulty image as a start...” It makes you think how befitting each line is, like a thread of the web so tangled in your mind. Lost in the pool of words, you are a few pages ahead. As it reaches for another, your fingertips tell you are nowhere near the last page. The words are ocean deep which keep you afloat, but the urge to unveil the mystery behind these arcs pulls you in to drown inside. So dark and puzzling is this story, you think. Such a luring trap between pages and reality; a key to the door towards the world inside your head. Even without fire to illuminate the leaves, the narrative emits so much flame to gleam by itself. Despite the darkness that lingers, art grows brilliant in the light it sheds. In a book so heavily judged by its cover, you choose to dive in. Because the ones that find out the depth of one story are those who flip the pages. Oddly enough, the pace of your beating heart grows faster and stronger. It does so while the pages withheld by your left thumb grow thicker. There is a but and a dash at the bottom of the next right page your eyes are at. You flip right then but inkless pages follow after that. Promptly, you move onto the next one, yet blank pages ensue. You begin to wonder where the words went. The rest of the story is at large, maybe. So you run after them flipping pages after pages. Each time you do, in a more furrowed eyebrow than you did the page before. So much aggravation did it take before realization hit you... A gasp. You are yet to fill them with ink.

The Hyperion Jacinth Banite

Seasons came and went Winter became spring, spring turned into fall The Hyperion stood on its ground despite all Carved with marks, yet unbent Only upward stares can reach the branches Like seeds sprouting from the same root Firmly brittle to no dispute Growing more than inches for decades and beyond The eyes got tired of glancing above, But unless a stronger wind would pass by, Even if the season returns to summer from fall The Hyperion stands on its ground despite all

The Chain that Binds Maria Victoria Busine

The chain that binds me, They trap me so I can never flee. I was made to believe, That I was not one of the free. The chain that binds me, They tease me to let go and leave, that the blue sky I see was nothing worth more than to deceive. But I know within me, that there is more to be. The chain that binds me has a key, to take back what they took away from me. To break free and see, what I will be.

Thy Name

Shekynah Angelene Samadan

Jesus is a song you pay for 1 dollar a play on your pocket, they have put a copyright on His name El-Shaddai enables a thief in 2022, with raised fists linked to one another Almighty in unity, they sing God is but a billboard sign on EDSA, to fill up ad spaces for the rich to gain profit from the traffic and for us to look up at the white letters in bold fonts the Bridegroom has fled the ceremony and left nothing but an idea of bread and fish with coagulated, rotten wine leaving the guests marooned alone to fend for themselves Good Shepherd only tastes good in Baguio 350 pesos a jar, tart and smooth once you descend the mountain you leave it to spoil next to unopened cans of assorted fruit

To Ghosts

Shekynah Angelene Samadan

Why do you linger so much? Your touches of ice cut deep beneath old stories long torn by age. You are a phantom who has my likeness memorized by how much you have stuck around without permission. Here you are, possibly counting every matting strand of my hair. Counting every step I take from passing back and forth. Observing how I change my clothes from bright Sunday Best dresses to worn-out, too big, dark shirts. You sit in my corner, revealing that I am stuck in this cycle with no end in sight. I know you eye me up and down all day and night. Judging me behind closed doors, laughing at the filth I became. I knew that if I lick these decrepit walls, I will taste you. Up and down, my rough tongue still knows your facade of sweetness. I am still familiar with your deceptive disguise that lures vulnerable hearts onto rotting pits once you are done toying with them. Whatever is left, you haunt them down until they scratch their skin red—killing their own nerves so as to not feel you even more. The piercing wind is cold enough. Please, just go home.

The Hunter’s Buck Fever Adriel Jerome Toledo

Gloom creeps into the painted blue sky Upon the veiled hills, heaven rumbles in fury In the nick of time, a moment won’t stand still By the emerald meadow Crumpling the oxeye daisies Striding in avarice Men slither in malevolence Trailing behind in plain sight Prey lost at sixes and sevens Flinching at inevitable peril The impaled frails lay in hindsight The worn-out leather boots now rest by the racks In Versailles plates one feasts In cobblestone walls hang the beheaded What a trophy for such a victor In deep slumbers, nightmares serve one well Surfacing in perfect clarity The unrest lingers, not bidding a farewell

Pledge of the Modern Slaves Elaine Aznar

We, the obedient Maharlikans, imploring the aid of Almighty Dynasties, in order to build an unjust and inhumane society, and establish a cult that shall embody our self-serving ideals and interests, selectively uphold the common good only for the ruling class, conserve and prosper our own version of history, and secure to ourselves and our posterity the bond of blind obedience and dictatorship under the rule of our beloved strongman, and a regime of deceit, injustice, slavery, loathe, inequality, and chaos, do ordain and enforce this list of Commandments.

Shekynah Angelene Samadan

If I put I in a room devoid of anything I likes, would I survive? Singled out, apart from humankind, will I crumble? Perhaps, I would be enlightened for the absence of woes life cannot help but bring, or maybe, I will finally find peace from self-help books that always come with a warning: “results may vary”. Where would I be? I, I, I… I, might just be a lone stem standing still. I, a line upward? or downward? i, in lowercase. decapitated. i, another one. a poem by J. W. Curry. I was tired of finding out, and I missed the company of A, E, and especially U. I could probably sound so much better if paired with different letters. I might even sound like others but with another structure. Aye, or Eye. I could not tell. As the spaces next to I remain empty, I wish I the best of luck finding it.

Illicit Touch Jacinth Banite

You tighten your grip and caress the brush in silence Make sure no one sees the trace of smudge on your fingers Is it an abstract you’re making? ‘Cause behind the stilly strokes is the truth well-hidden Maybe it’s the color of your choice—red in different shades But something about the piece is unforgiving Still, you call it your masterpiece Keeping the pleasure to yourself and never mine I guess you wanted to become an artist With such heavy and lurking hands You chose to paint me with your everlasting stain When you could’ve left me as a blank canvas

Alingawngaw Bernardo Sta. Ana II

Mga binusalang bibig, kamay na ginapos Pagkataong pinagkaitan ng karapatang mamaos “Manahimik! Magtigil!” ang siyang tanging sigaw Iyak-tangis, dugo’t danak ang siyang alingawngaw Yamang kinamkam habang baya’y namumuhay sa agam-agam Sikmurang kumakalam, siyang nagpaalab sa pagkasuklam Mas maingay ang gutom, mas matapang ang dehado Ang masang lumalaban, mas nagniningas ang baga ng puso Kawal-alagad ng bandila’y natuto nang tumindig Malaya at mapagpalaya ang hangaring kapit-bisig Gutom man sa demokrasya at dehado sa karapatan Tinapatan ng katapatan ang trumono sa kasakiman Tangke’t ripleng inyong bitbit kontra sa’ming paninindigan Lakad-pwersang puspos sa pagbabagong pinakaiibigan Kung akala’y walang bigkisan at patuloy sa kawalang-imik Walang mananahimik, sa kalayaan kami sabik! Mga binusalang bibig tuluyang nang nakasigaw Mga kamay na ginapos bandang huli’y nagpumiglas “Pilipino para sa Pilipinas!” ang siyang tanging sigaw Punyagi’t paglaya ang siyang alingawngaw

Piyesa ng Makina Bernardo Sta. Ana II

Ito na ang tamang panahon para iyong mapagtanto Makilala ang sarili sa likod ng unipormeng de kwelyo Kurbatang ginawang tali ng mapang-aliping amo Buong araw pagod para sa maliit na porsyento Papel na malutong ang sinasabi nila’y katibayan Tinatak sa kabataan, pasan sa kasalukuyan Anila’y susi sa kandado ng nakaawang na kinabukasan Kinakalawang man ang pangako, ika’y patuloy na pakikinabangan Bitbit ang sarili’t papel ng pagpapakilala Nakipagsapalaran sa pag-asang papabor ang tadhana Inihandog ang sarili sa iisang pirma Kalakip ang mga pangakong labas sa kabilang tenga Tayong mga piyesang kinukundisyon buwan-buwan Pagpatak ng akinse at atrenta saka lang lalangisan Tagtag na sa pagod ngunit hindi pa napuna Na ang pinapaandar mo’y makina ng iba

Magkalaro Jacinth Banite

Nakapatong ang karton-karton na mga tsokolate at biskwit sa lamesa na nasa sulok ng kwarto. Bigay lahat ito ng kaibigan ni Mama sa ibang bansa. Uyy! Andoon rin ang paborito kong flavor. Kaso lang, hindi pa raw sila pwedeng buksan. “Mamaya pa” paulit-ulit na paalala ni Mama habang abala sa kanyang ginagawa. Sabi nga ng mga matatanda, “Ang masunuring bata ay pinagpapala,” kaya naman hindi na ako nagpumilit pa. Siguradong matitikman ko rin ‘yang mga yan mamaya. Sa ngayon, hihintayin ko na muna si Mama na samahan ako sa kama. “Basta sundin mo lang lahat ng sasabihin ko ha” sabi niya habang binubuksan sa harapan ko ang isang lumang computer at ikinakabit ang kamera rito. Kapag umilaw ng pula, maglalaro kaming dalawa. Minsan nakahubad, minsan nakahubo. Pagkatapos ng laro, tiyak na mas maraming pagkain at regalo pa ang darating mula sa mga kaibigan niya sa ibang bansa.

The Devil in the Church Jacinth Banite

It was a typical Saturday morning with me sitting on one of the temple’s wooden benches, waiting for the day to be over. There goes the pastor preaching about faith and love upheld by the choir singing solemnly in the background. As such a moment in time elapsed, someone strange to many entered the front door. Donning a satin pink dress that went perfectly with her stunningly beautiful long hair, she was all about elegance. The maleness she was born into was in no way unveiled. Everything about her was perfect, but not for the eyes she had caught. “Look! It seems like the devil just entered the church again,” the old maiden on my right whispered. Unwillingly, I turned towards the voice beside me and answered with such certainty that I did not even dare to blink. “I beg to differ, Madam. The devil has long been in the church.” “Amen!” the whole crowd exclaimed to the pastor at the altar, as they continued preaching about faith and love.

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Roses in Pots Glaiza Bernadette Cabillon

I am made, not born to become what was then called wonder I was planted to bear in growth glamor like no other pairs of eyes are upon me from when I was still a seed till I grow should I lose some petals that are bound to wither, I am stuck in this pot until I am bought for I am groomed to be seen and later be sold I am a flower you pick on and later you throw symbol of love so they say, yet all merely for a show so I dream of the day that I am at last seen not for the colors I flaunt but for the spirit within I battle for the day where it be known that behind my full-grown facade is a life yet to bloom I dream of the day where roses in pots become beauties of their own until then, I shall be stuck behind my charm and bleed for my thorns

Words, Swords Glaiza Bernadette Cabillon

No breeze nor glimpse of light from the outside has invaded the restricted space of her room. None, but quite the glistening tears that smeared her mascara off her face—cascading down her lips like a spilling ink. There goes the taste of her sadness, flooding across the rim of her mouth. Drowning, despite its immoderate thickness unparalleled to the modish heart shape they would have showered with praises. The next drop pushed the pair of tears down to her breasts which they think are too much for a lady. She felt a sudden pinch of nausea as her stomach complained for nourishment. Her hands reached for her belly where she noticed brave marks of changes molded from sweats which they found unpleasant. All before welling the wounds up on her feet—but the list went on and so the next drops unceasingly poured. Like others, she faced her reflection in the mirror who drained the tiniest speck left of her self-esteem. She found herself to be the same round, stout, and hideous girl whose fleshes she began thinking were bulged in the most inappropriate places. There was nothing that could shield her from the world that fostered her inside a bladed cage. A place so cruel to scrape off the love for herself she worked so long to build and took no seconds to shatter. She flashed a steady curve on her lips detached from her eyes and asked inwardly, “When has a mirror been so broken in your eyes that you only ever see its sharp edges? Perhaps, all because of the shards of words you melt into iron that cast a sword so you could cut and stab and peel a portion of your skin and patch it with pieces that are not even yours to seize.” But do they know how much she had gone through listening to their sharp and cutting utterance that formed her bruises, bleeding over and over again? That for a time, it is not her stomach but her soul that she starved from living. She was fine being naked until they carved a thousand cuts on her skin. With a tattered soul, she struggled to crawl away from fools whose words she so believed. She let their words tear her into pieces and cast her figure to suit their expectation, yet she watched them pass by to set their eyes too low upon her... Like a glass once immaculate and pristine, now shattered from within.

To What Once Was Shekynah Angelene Samadan

I am nothing like sixteen stuck on a feeling of permanence and certainty on what is yet to come like I was God against Man all-knowing, divine to the bone, I was so sure I can conquer all with letters from Sunday’s troubles to give you fortitude and blessings galore I used to be kind in my takings and brutal to my givings in each appraisal, I felt every vein turning electric, ready to burst quenching my thirst I used to dream far, and far I did went and far I was with nothing but reverential madness to give life to words but now I am twenty-one, polishing my own ball and chain paved a path so menacingly different that even I am surprised however, here we are unabashed by the impeccable weight but moving forward, eventually

Bangungot Lance Angelo Mejico

Nagulat na lang ako nang nakita kong sinampal ni Lola ang tatay kong nasa duyan habang nasa kalagitnaan ito ng mahimbing na tulog. Humihiyaw, ngumangawa, at tila may kaaway kasi ito habang nakapikit at nakahiga. Binabangungot daw ito sabi ni Lola. Kaya naman tuwing gabi, hindi kami pinapakain ng maraming kanin at ulam kasi bawal daw matulog ng mabigat ang tiyan. Sabi ni Lola, maari raw bangungutin ang isang tao kapag marami itong kinain sa hapunan o di kaya’y pagod at maraming iniisip. Wala itong pinipiling oras—maari ka nitong dalawin maging sa umaga, tanghali, at lalo na nga sa gabi. Tipong pilit mong iginagalaw ang iyong mga bisig at paa pero hindi ito magkamalay. Pilit mong hinahabol ang iyong hininga pero palagi itong kapos. Pilit kang gumigising sa isang panaginip kung saan pawang dilim lang ang iyong nakikita. Kaya ala-sais pa lang ng gabi, oras na palagi ng hapunan sa bahay. Maaga ako laging matulog kasi ayaw kong matulad sa tatay kong nasa duyan. Ayaw kong masampal ng magaspang na kamay ni Lola. Ayaw kong bangungutin. Hanggang sa dumating ang isang madaling araw ng Lunes. Hinahanaphanap ko ang noo’y tinatakbuhan kong mga palad ni Lola. Hindi kasi ako makagalaw, kapos ang paghinga, dilim lang ang nakikita. Ang kaibahan lang, nasa harap ako ng kwadradong telebisyon sa isang sulok, dilat ang aking mga mata, pawang nakatulala sa mga numerong patuloy na tumataas katabi ang litratong ni sa panaginip ay ayaw kong masilayan. Humihiyaw at ngumangawa—parang nasa isang duyang walang katapusang umuugoy. Ganito pala ang pakiramdam ng isang bangungot.

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Magpapatuloy Aprilean Octavo

Tuloy ang paglalakbay Titindig nang sabay-sabay Patungo sa daan ng tagumpay Bandera’y patuloy na iwawagayway Tuloy ang pangungutya Sandamakmak na mga mata ang huhusga Panonooring madapa Titingnan mula ulo hanggang paa sa oras na matumba Tuloy pa rin ang paglalakad Ipapakita ang pamumukadkad Pagsusumikapang abutin ang hangad Kakapitang mahigpit, ikukuyom sa mga palad Tuloy-tuloy ang pagsubok na daraan May mga taong tayo’y hahadlangan Ngunit patuloy na panghahawakan Kapangyarihan ng matatag na samahan

31M

William Clarenz Constante

Millions of hearts, millions of minds Millions persist, millions left behind Collective voices, Collective hands All in a day’s work, of one well-mannered man

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Zen

William Clarenz Constante

I dream of something nice amidst the piercing cries My eyes remain open as I watch their last goodbyes

The Nation’s Hope (Confused Version) Elaine Aznar

The present knows none The past is ours, leave it be! The future is You

A guide to dominating the world Maria Victoria Busine

An abandoned document from the archives, dated back approximately to May 2022. Dear reader, Here’s a four-point guide on how you could dominate the world. Execute these one by one and the world will undoubtedly bow down at your feet. Glory Paint a perfect picture of the ideal world with you at the center of it. Make this perfect picture believable and plausible to the people who glance at it, shape it into a promise that can be fulfilled only through your hands. Machinery You will also need to build the tower of lies that will gear and protect the remarkable promise of utopia. Forget these ivory promises that are actually rotten to the core, and people who are deluded enough for choosing to become cogs in the sturdy machine of yours. Unity As they say, birds of the same feather flock together. Stitch together a narrative that fosters unity, the kind that dictates how no one should be different from others. Forge an idea of unity that creates and widens a divide among people instead of being united. Distinction and conviction are a threat to the power you hold forged from the tower of lies. Anyone who dares to take a different step pays for the consequences that it entails. Violence To dominate the world, you will also need violence to take down those who dare to speak up against you. You will need guns and force to fight against those in the streets. Manipulate the people’s greatest fears, use it to your advantage and keep them in check under your thumb. Assure them that it is all for their own safety rather than a means to maintain the status quo that you carefully instilled for your own benefit. Caution: Heed my warning, dear reader. Hold on to these things without hesitation, not even for a moment. Once you falter, you will live to see the day where you will feel the wrath of the masses. The streets will run red, with your blood spilling on their feet, in the same way the rainwater flows down the drain.

Sigasig; Sagisag Bernardo Sta. Ana II

Masigasig kung tumindig, hanggang dulo’y kapit-bisig Pilas ng kalendaryo’y saksi sa lumipas na nanimdim Katapatan sa sagisag, katapat ng pagkalundong sa tiwali kumakabig Kilos ang puhunan, sandata mo’y iyong bibig Hindi kailanman mag-iisa ang mga pinag-isa ng iisang mithiin; Masigasig kung tumindig hanggang dulo’y kapit-bisig Sindihan ang paninindigang makisapi sa pag-uusig Kaisang-isip na kapatirang papatid sa buklurang huwad; Katapatan sa sagisag, katapat ng pagkalundong sa tiwali kumakabig Itaas ang kamao, taas-noong isigaw ang ngalan ng manlulupig Ngalang ‘di pasusupil, kayong may boses na ‘di pasisiil Masigasig kung tumindig hanggang dulo’y kapit-bisig Katotohanang tila mga balang tumatama sa mga mali Tamaan nawa ang magkakamaling magtanggol sa nanggagapi pagka’t; Katapatan sa sagisag, katapat ng pagkalundong sa tiwali kumakabig O Pilipino, kung paglaya’y inyong ibig Palayain ang sarili sa sistemang tumatali’t isapuso: Masigasig kung tumindig hanggang dulo’y kapit-bisig Katapatan sa sagisag, katapat ng pagkalundong sa tiwali kumakabig

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On Affliction Shekynah Angelene Samadan

caught in the middle of two contradictions in leverage of frailing lungs & a dirty liver the moment I turned of age, I lost independence gained toxic waste as fuel inflicting dirt to my veins, like coal to the fire

I wish I was kinder when I first met myself halfway by strange circumstances, I wanted blights instead of beauty the woes I bring to my little life

a dagger to my chest to live and let live instead of worrying on the lengths who was I? welcoming myself with such disdain?

R.E.H.I.M.E.N. Glaiza Bernadette Cabillon

R egadera, para sa mga buhay na nalanta

diligan mo nawa ang natuyo nilang pag-asa mula nang mapukaw sa mga binhing kailanman ’yong ’di ipinunla

E tiketa, tamnan mo ng halimbawa

ang lupain nilang sinasaka kung saan nalagas ang mga dahon, kasabay ng pag-asang sa putik ay makaahon

H ustisya, sa pagitan ng masaganang ani

at ilang butil ng barya, tumayo ka sanang patas sa timbangan nang hindi sinusukat pati gaan ng ’yong bulsa

I law, tila ka dakilang araw

muli mong sikatan ang nalunod na mga tanim nabuwal sa agos ng buhay, nasilaw sa patalim bunga ng tulad mong ugat ng lipunang sakim

M anilbihan—makiyuko ka sana’t umalalay

sa pagsasaka ng pinagpawisan nilang palay bagamat sa likod ng sako-sako mong ani, walang bahid ng dungis ang ’yong mga kamay

E mblema ka ng kasaganaan

pangatawanan ang pangako sa tungkuling inako ’pagkat sa labas ng mariwasa mong mundo, may kalabaw sa bukid, nagbabanat-butong mag-araro

N agmamahal at umaasa,

Magsasakang balat ay sunog

Royal Confront Jacinth Banite

“I know the King’s death was not caused by an illness,” the servant claimed, facing the queen despite the presence of armed royal guards. Her voice echoed around the chamber, uncrowded but filled with tension. Wearing her majestic funeral dress, the queen remained firm on her throne, calm despite the illicit revelation. Unconsciously rubbing her thumb in between her fingers, she stared profoundly at the peasant in front of her. The trace of tears in her eyes from the burial that morning was no longer visible. The spur of sorrow easily subsided as a disrelishing look peeped through her gaze, disgusted with the servant’s tattered clothes— worn only by someone who is tasked to clean her majesty’s bedroom. That pair of worn-off sandals shouldn’t even be that near to a queen, the queen thought so. The servant’s filth was already unbearable for the highness, but nothing more disturbing than the bottle of poison in her hand—a dangerous yet powerful possession so familiar to the queen. As long as it is covered with her tight grip, the servant’s presence must be tolerated by the queen. “What do you want?” the queen responded without removing her gaze from the servant’s clenched fist around the poison’s bottle. “Give me one of your kingdoms, fix me a marriage with a nobleman, and no one must know what you’ve done,” the servant dauntlessly responded. “What made you think that a queen will obey a command from you?” mocked the queen. “Because I know a simple yet tormenting truth, your grace,” the servant answered, maintaining her chin apart from her chest. “And what truth is this?” another question from the highness, intrigued but far from being bothered.

“Knowledge is power, your grace,” a provoking smirk slowly curved on the servant’s lips. Despite the attempt of scaring the queen, there was no sign of fear on her face. Instead, her majesty responded with a burst of sinister laughter— loud almost like a madwoman. A couple of seconds had passed, and the laughter suddenly stopped. “Seize her!” ordered the queen. Two of the guards held both the servant’s arms while the other one placed a sword under her chin. “Slit her throat and feed her body to the hounds!” the queen ordered. “Your grace!” shouted the servant, well aware that only the queen and her loyal guards could hear her. “Wait!” the queen demanded with a slight gasp. “Let go of her arms, leave the sword on her neck” The two guards who were holding the servant’s arms did so. “Turn around and take three steps back,” ordered the queen to the two guards. The guards turned around and took three steps back, doing what they were told. The queen stood from her throne, gracefully carrying the weight of her crown while walking toward the servant. A step away from the maiden with tattered clothes, the queen stopped and leaned forward to whisper in her ears. “Power…is Power” Afterwards, the queen grinned at the guard holding the sword and walked slowly back to her throne.

Patas Ang Hati ng Kulay Jacinth Banite

Muling ginuhitan ng linya Ang isang sulok ng mapa Ang isa ay pilit binubura, Ang kabila’y pinupudpod sa tasa Minsan nang natabunan ng alikabok Ang dungis na ipininta ng pusok Nang puting tinta ang pumahid sa pluma, Lalong tumingkad ang mantsa Patas ang hati ng kulay! Parehas sa mata’y malumbay Sa anino ng pulang nagbabalatkayo, Sino ang rosas, sino ang dugo?

Hourglass

Glaiza Bernadette Cabillon

nothing is more real than time it dawned upon me we are caught up in an infinite race bypassing the clock thoughtless of its hands pushing the present into becoming the past what an unrelenting vision to see time in reversible bulbs perpetually trapped in a glass comes an ever-cascading sand falling forth and never aback it catches you in wonder how something so apparent, impotent with our touch, becomes fragile and true oftentimes, you lose it the very moment you had it perhaps, we only begin seeing the truth that lies in moments we realize we’d just lost a fragment of life

Stage Hour

Glaiza Bernadette Cabillon

The speck of dust in the ceiling glows as the footlights of dreams turn on. The audience bids reverberating silence. The burdened chest breathes confused words. In the window, the wind from the sound spins, carrying parched chuckles and feathers. The whispers are kneeled at; what is uttered, renounced. But the untold truth unfolds. The trouper falls, producing a burst of laughter. The mirth has passed. What used to be a vibrant reverie has faded into shadow—the hands are without shelter, as all the wilted trees are lying down. In the midst of a deep abyss, a wind blows as the clock ticks, and my hour is past.

Kayo ang Katipunan Bernardo Sta. Ana II

Kandaluhang mga matang titig sa kawalan Kawalang-bahalang pagkiling sa piring na kaisipan Kitil na paniniwala lang ang natirang laman Kusang kinulang sa minsanang paglingon Kadalasang dinasala’y taong nagpapakapoon Kadunungang dinumog ng mapanibong kombulsyon Kumilos na! Siyang sigaw ng paos Kailangan ka! Siyang pipigtas sa gapos Kaharap mo na! Problema’t lunas na pinagtuos Kalasag ng prinsipyong palaging nakatangan Kampilan ng salitang animo’y adhikaing pandigmaan Kamisa ng karapatang suot-suot kahit saan Kayo ang katipunan, hinabi upang kumalampag Kayo ang katipunan, iniangkla upang kalayaa’y maglayag Kayo ang katipunan, tayo ang kakawala sa bitag Kumurap at huwag matakot upang makita nang husto Kaysarap damhin ng malayang isip at puso Kisapmatang pagbabago ay nasa ating mga buslo. Kaya ikaw Kailan ka kukurap?

Sulo

Bernardo Sta. Ana II

Tuloy sa pag-ikot ang mundo, Ngunit isipa’y nasa kawalan. Kahit anong ningas ng sulo, Sa dilim pa rin dumadaan. Kahit anong galaw ng baso, Kung iiling naman sa bawat pagkilos Sa tikwas na kaisipan, pasisiil nang lubos, Baso’y babagsak sa dating pwesto. Huwag ihaing ika’y bulag, Mulat kang nakapiring. Nakahandog nang lahat sa hapag, Huwag matulog nang gising. Hindi pa rin ba nakikita? Panay pa rin ang paglingon? Sampal sa kanan at kaliwa, ‘Oo’ pa rin ba ang tugon? Sino sa atin ang salbahe, Nangaladkad o alalay? Parehas ngang nasa karwahe, ‘Sang tinali, ‘sang sinakay. Simulan mo nang sumulong, Tumigil ka sa paglingon. Tuloy sa pag-ikot ang mundo, Laya ng isip ang sulo.

Takipsilim at Bukang-Liwayway Glaiza Bernadette Cabillon

Bukang-Liwayway Sa pagbangon ng araw mula sa ulap nitong himlayan, tangan nito ang liwanag kalakip ng sariwang pag-asa. Muling magniningas ang malikhain nitong palad at maliliyaban ang silakbo ng puso sa pag-abot ng mga ulap. Sa marahan nitong pagsulyap ay unti-unting masisilayan ang luntiang kapatagan. At sa lubusan nitong pagtirik, mahahagkan ang mundo ng mainit niyang paggiliw. Takipsilim Isang makapigil-hiningang saglit—titigil ang pag-ikot ng mundo’t sisintahin ang marikit na sandali. Hihimlay sa kanlungan ng guhit-tagpuan ang nauupos na liwanag ng araw. Banayad na babagsak angkin nitong talukap, kung saan mga kapwa nito bituin ang huling tanawing kikislap sa langit. At sa sandaling ito’y lubusang pipikit, muling maghahari ang gabing pusikit.

Heaven

Shekynah Angelene Samadan

Sweet Divine, if I go to where Heaven is, on your forest-green Earth Shall I be stripped away from the goods of life? Tell me Father, will a man’s gold prevail in your Great Abode or will it be as immaterial as the dirt beneath the soles of shoes And once the good has seeped in bearing nothing but infinite worship all might and hands up high What will be left of us? In passive haste, Uncertain of what such a place holds for us Heaven is somewhere too tasteless to even be ideal

Editor

Jacinth Banite “2:00 am rips my scars open, and on papers, I bleed hard”

Writers

Glaiza Bernadette Cabillon “To be is to flutter, as in the flight of the sparrow.”

Shekynah Angelene Samadan “Apology letter addressed to the sender.”

Bernardo Sta. Ana II “Pamugaran nawa ng mga malikhaing palaisipan.”

Writers

Elaine Aznar Maria Victoria Busine

Lance Angelo Mejico William Constante

Aprilean Octavo

Jerome Toledo

Artists

Miguel Luis Abenales

Hannah Bercasio

Emmanuel Esmilla

Charles Howard Gaa

Jasper Leyson

Bernice Obias

Juliana Octavio

Alexandrea Rey

Alyanna Nicole Tiaga

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

EDITORIAL BOARD AY 2021 - 2022 Lean Jane Pantorilla, Editor in Chief Lance Angelo Mejico, Associate Editor Aprilean Octavo, Finance Coordinator Emmanuel Esmilla, Creative Director Ahmad Mahusay, Office Supervisor Lance Angelo Mejico, In charge, News Adriel Jerome Toledo, In Charge, Features Jacinth Banite, Literary Coordinator Lance Angelo Mejico, In charge, Sports Alexandrea Rey, Art Director Alyanna Nicole Tiaga, Graphics and Layout Director Miguel Luis Abenales Photo Coordinator William Clarenz Constante, Video Coordinator Elaine Aznar, In charge, Web Dr. May L. Mojica Adviser

The Heraldo Filipino has its editorial office at GMH 120, Gregoria Montoya Hall De La Salle University-Dasmariñas, Cavite, Philippines 4115. Telephone: +63 46 481 1900 local 3063 Email: officialheraldofilipino@gmail.com Website: heraldofilipino.com Contributions, comments, suggestions, and signed letters should be addressed to the Editor in Chief.

palad is the literary digest of The Heraldo Filipino, official student publication of De La Salle University - Dasmariñas. The Literary works published remain as properties of their authors.