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Pampanitikang Diyornal Ng Samahang Lazaro Francisco, Ikatlong Isyu

SARO Isyu 03, Bolyum 01 | Marso 2020 Pampanitikang Diyornal Ng Samahang Lazaro Francisco EDITOR Rene Boy Abiva Rhounee Ron Kevin Frany DISENYO NG PABALAT AT PAHINA Rhounee Ron Kevin D. Frany RETRATO SA PABALAT Jerwyn V. Labagnoy KARAPATANG-ARI ÂŠ2020. Samahang Lazaro Francisco; mga kontributor

Lahat ng akda sa kalipunang ito ay pawang orihinal at hindi maaaring kopyahin o ilathala sa anomang paraan nang walang pahintulot ng mga may-akda at ng Samahang Lazaro Francisco. Nananatili ang karapatang-sipi nito sa mga mayakda at sa pamunuan ng Samahang Lazaro Francisco. Samantala, ang larawang ginamit sa disyenyo ng pabalat ay pinagpaalam mula sa may karapatang ari na siyang nagbigay ng permiso. Ang mga itoâ€™y ginamit na naayon sa limitasyon ng karapatang-suri nito. Ang anomang puna, opinyon, suhestiyon, pahatid, at mga kontribusyong pampanitikan at sining ay maaaring ipadala sa Samahang Lazaro Francisco. Para sa karagdagang detalye, mangyaring sundan ang aming facebook account: facebook.com/SLFNuevaEcija Maaari ring magpadala sa aming email: samahanglazaro@gmail.com

SARO Pampanitikang Diyornal Ng Samahang Lazaro Francisco

RB ABIVA ARKIN FRANY Mga Editor

NILALAMAN 03

INTRODUKSIYON: Ang Napapanahong Pagsibol ng (mga) Bagong Dugo RB Abiva

Luwad

Paso

Palayok

Agwador

Tapayan

Talahib

Manggagamot

Tingkal

Ang Gamit na Banga

Panyong Kayumanggi

Tulay ng Bicos

Siphon

Bionotes

Cristobal Alipio

Arkin Frany

Andyleen Feje

RB Abiva

Renz Benedict Quiros

Chrixxie Jehns De Leon

Jerwyn Villanueva Labagnoy

Arkin Frany

INTRODUKSIYON Ang Napapanahong Pagsibol ng (mga) Bagong Dugo Wala pang isang quarter ay agad nasundan ang Unang Palihan ng Samahang Lazaro Francisco na ginanap lamang sa isang apartment ng isa sa mga kasapi ng samahan. Nakakatuwang ang naging laman ng usapan noong Agosto 21 ay naging isang katotohanan. Isang palihan ang naikasa ng samahan sa tulong na rin ng Lazaro Francisco Foundation, Masonic Lodge 53- Cabanatuan City, at mga kaibigang manunulat at nagmamahal sa wika at panitikang Filipino. At ang bunga ng nasabing dalawang araw na paghahagis ng butil at pataba sa mga obra ng mga kalahok na manunulat ay naririto na sa inyong palad at dulang. Handa na nilang ipatikim ang bunga ng kulang dalawang araw na sagupaan ng ideya at praktika sa malikhaing pagkatha. Isang nahahawakan, nakikita, naaamoy, at nalalasahang diyornal pampanitikan sa ilalim ng SARO isyu 2 at 3. Isang panandang-bato ang ngayo’y muling naitirik sa dibdib ng santinakpan. Nahahati sa dalawang kategorya ang isyung ito ng SARO, at masasabing espesyal sapagkat ang buong edisyon ay nahahati-hinahati ng mga obrang mayroong rektang plot o naratibo sa buhay rural at urban. Kaya naman, masasabing may likas na kahusayan ang walong writing fellow ng Ikalawang Palihang Lazaro Francisco. Sa anong pamamaraan, tiyak kong malinaw itong masisipat ng mga mambabasa sa sing linaw ng tubig sa mga pitas ng Jaen, Rizal, at San Leonardo nilang mga katha. Sa kabilang banda nama’y sing halimuyak ng usok at basura ng Cabanatuan ang pait, hapis, at himagsik ng mga panitik na kung sisipating maigi’y nanunulay sa pagitan ng naturalismo at realismo. Aba! Malalapit-lapit na sa social realism ni Lazaro Francsico! Sa dalawang kalipunang ito’y mababanaag ng mga millennial ang kariktan at matulaing diwa sa mga tula ng mga makatang sina Cristobal Alipio, Neil Cirilo, at Athina Bales. Kaiba itong tatlong makatang ito, tahimik, madulas, mabigat, mapaglimi, at palihim ang kanilang talinghaga at kataga kung umasalto. At dito sila naiiba sa mga spoken word artist. Sa kabilang dako nama’y dadalhin tayo ng mga kuwentistang sina Arthur Allen Baldevarona, Andy Feje, Fatima Cerva, Ron Santos, at Jerwyn Labagnoy mismo sa malupit, mapanlinlang, nakakatakot, at puno ng pagnanasang mundo ng mga homo, ispirito, at engkanto. Baliw ang mga manunulat na ito. Kaya nilang hatakin ang nakaraan sa kasalukuyan at isampal sa ating pagmumukha ang mukha ng isang hinaharap. Dagdag pa, kitang-kita ang kanilang kahusayan sa malikhaing pagtatala. Kaya naman, nagmimistula silang mga historyador ng kani-kanilang lugar at panahon. Sa ganang akin, ang komposisyon ng mga makata at manunulat na ito’y waring ipuipo na may ipon at hindi mapagtimping pagtuligsa at paghamon sa namamayaning ordeng politikal, ekonomikal, at ispiritwal. Iba ang talas ng kanilang mata, puso, at kamay. Marapat ngang igawad sa kanila ang titulo bilang makata at kuwentista ng kanilang panahon! Ang isa sa kahanga-hanga, kasama sa kalipunang ito ang mga malikhaing katha ng mga dumalong observers na mula pa sa elementarya at sekundaryang lebel ng akademya, at ito malamang ang kaibhan ng palihang ito sa ibang palihan. At dahil sa ganitong praktika, nadiskubre ng samahan ang

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mga kabataang may mataas na potensiyal at pagnanais na maging isang manunulat balang araw. Sa mga tulang pambata na kinatha nina Renz Benedict Quiros, John Erickson Delovino, John Joshua Delovino (na mula sa Cabanatuan East Central School), at Chrixxie Jehns De Leon ng Wesleyan High School Department, mababanaag ang kanilang mga musmos na pangarap gayundin ng mga simple ngunit kritikal na obserbasyon at sipat sa kanilang paligid. Siyempre, iba kung tumula ang isang bata, at ang wikang at kaluluwang ating hinahanap sa mga ganitong kathaâ€™y walang ibang makakapagsulat kundi sila. Kung susumahin, isang malaking tagumpay ang kalipunang ito sapagkat manipestasyon ito na nagagampanan ng SLF ang kanyang makasaysayang tungkulin na magbigay ng pagkakataon para sa mga manunulat na nasa gilig-gilid. Dagdag pa, ang pagtatalang itoâ€™y isang anyo na rin ng pamana sa sunod na salinlahi, at pagtatangka ng samahan na igpawan ang nakasanayang oral na tradisyon. Panahon na upang magsulat! Hindi ko na pahahabain pa ang aking pasakalye. Maligayang pagbabasa at paglalakbay sa mundong perehong hitik sa talinghaga at metapora, at nawaâ€™y gaya ng mga manunulat na nasa kalipunang ito, mahanap niyo ang inyong sarili lalu na ang musa ng/sa inyong kaluluwa, at buksan ang inyong pakpak at subukang makiisa sa bagwis ng nagugulumihanang amihan at habagat. R.B. ABIVA Tagapangulong-Tagapagtatag Cabanatuan City, Nueva Ecija

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TULA

Luwad

Cristobal Alipio Katulad ng luwad nang tayo’y nilikha— Kinapal ang anyo’t makinis na bangâ; Walang malay-loob, nilagyan ng suklob, Sa apoy ‘sinalang, sa kulay ‘nilublob. Nilamnan ng buti’t nahawahang samâ, Sa said na luha’t pag-apaw ng tuwa; Lagunlong kung wala, tahimik kung punô, Waring luhang said kapagka natuyo. Luwad palibhasa, kung kaya marupok, Tiyak mababasag kapagka pinukpok; Buoin mang pilit, di maibabalik Sa dating sariling walang lamat-guhit. Kahit luwad táyo— habang dinudurog, Lalong nabubuo ang magandang hubog.

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TULA

Paso

Cristobal Alipio Habang ako’y nakaratay sa banig ng karamdaman, Ang lahat kong mga anak sabay-sabay nagdatingan; Sa malamlam na paningin, isa-isang tinitigan Pagkat yaon na marahil ang mirida at paalam. Ang panganay ko na maestra ang una kong kinausap, Ang sabi ko’y pag-ingatan ang lahat kong mga aklat; Pagkat yaong kahapon ko’y doon pawang nakasulat Na lapida kung tungkabi’t may aral na mabubuklat. Matapos ay binalingan ang anak ko na kantero— ‘’Sa ‘yo aking iiwanan ang pála ko na antigo, Gamitin mo na panghukay sa lote sa sementeryo, Panghalo sa palitada’t asinta ng aking nitso.’’ Sa bunso kong magsasaka’t sawimpalad ko na anak Ay di ko na napigilan ang luha ko ay pumatak, Sa garalgal na tinig ko ay ganito yaring saad: “Ang ibig kong ariin mo’y mga pasô ko na luwad—” “Lagyan mo ng mga tigkal buhat sa ‘yong sákang banâ, Di malao’y iilitin pagkat sagad na ang sangla, Sa ibabaw ng libingan, ilagay mo’t silbing tanda, Na tulad mo ay ako rin, busabos na maglulupa.’’

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TULA

Palayok

Cristobal Alipio Itay, bakit ang palayok, nabibitak? Kasi anak, walang ulang sinasahod, At ang langit ay pagod na sa pag-iyak. Itay, bakit walang laman ang palayok? Kasi anak, ako’y di pa sumasahod, Balo’y said at mahirap makasalok Itay, bakit ang palayok ay may suklob Na malaki sa bibig na nakasahod? Anak, baka merong iba na sumandok. Itay, bakit kalan nati’y tatlong tungko Na sa puwit ng palayok nakasahod? Anak, ganyan nag-iingat sa pagpangko. Itay, bakit kalan nati’y walang gatong, Tuyong kahoy ang ulan ba’y sinasahod? Kasi anak, ang langit ay walang balong. Itay, bakit ang palayok kalong-kalong, At si nanay ang kamay ay nakasahod? Kasi anak, ang tungkod ko’y baling-kahoy. Itay, itay! Bakit ka po umiiyak? Tatlong paa ng upua’y nakasahod. Anak, dahil ang palayok ay nabitak!

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TULA

Agwador Cristobal Alipio

Dalawang alagad ng dating paubari ang humarap sa pinunong bago; dala ang isang tapayang malaki, at sinubok nila ang angking talino nito.

May isang palatpat doon na may nakasulat— “Ibinigay sa iyo ito ng aking mga lingkod na sa akin at sa nasasakupan ay tapat, gawin silang habang-buhay, maging tagasalok.’’

‘’Mahal na apò,’’ wika ng una, ‘’Ang tapayang ito ay ibinigay sa akin ng inyong namayapang dakilang ama, subalit ngayon ay kaniyang inaangkin.’’

Pinakawalan ng apò ang dalawang alagad, at ibinigay sa kanila ang kayamanang tigkakalahati; buhat noon sila ay nagsilbing taga-igib ng tubig sa palasyo ng paubari sa Balangay ng Bingki.

Sagot ng ikalawa—’’apòng mahal, sa akin po iyan ibinigay talaga ng inyong ama; inaangkin po ng aking kapitbahay sapagkat nabasag ang kaniya.’’ Nag-isip kapagkuwan ang batang apò— Ipinakuha sa punong kawal ang panibág; Matapos ay sinabi sa lahat— “upang aking matanto kung sino ang tunay? Nararapat na ito ay mabasag.” Uudayan na ng hampas ng apò ang tapayan nang sumalag ang nauna— “hintay po muna, kung babasagin niyo lang din ang kasangkapan ay mabuting ibigay na ninyo sa kaniya.’’ Sumagot ang ikalawa—”hindi po sa tumatanggi ako, ngunit sa kanya niyo na lang po ibigay; yamang mayroon pa akong ganito na namana ko sa aking tatay.’’ Ang apò ay nagpasya at nag-utos sa mga kawal— “Dakpin at ikulong ang dalawang ito; ang una ang sala: sa aki’y pagsuwang, at ang ikalawa: pagbabalat-kayo.” Nang mailabas na sa bulwagan ang dalawa, ipinataob ng apò sa mga kagawad ang tapayan; tiningnan sa puwitan ang baybaying marka at binasa—’’sa paubari’t sa kaapo-apuhan’’. Ang tapaya’y inundayang malakas ng panibag at nagkadurog-durog— tumambad sa mga naroon nagkalat na piraso ng luwad at mga hiyas na nakabungkos.

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TULA

Tapayan Cristobal Alipio

Ayon sa ingkong ko: Pag ikinakasal ang mga tikbalang, Isahod kaagad sa patak ng ambon ang mga tapayan; Ito ay dalhin mo sa iyong dalaga na napupusuan, At pagdating doon ay ginto umano ang magiging laman. Kaya ang lolo ko ang naging trabaho’y pagiging moldero, Sa daming hinulma na mga tapayang nagmula sa punso; Ngunit wala siyang nakamit na ginto kahit kapiraso, Bagkus iba’t iba ang kanyang asawa’t naging palikero. Kwento ng lolo ko: Kapag nalalaglag ang sapot ni Eba, Abatan kung saan ito ay babagsak— hukayin ng pala, Hanggang sa bumalong at matatagpuan sa putik aniya, Ang isang tapayan na puno ng ginto, rubi’t esmaralda. Kaya ang tatang ko Dito sa ‘ming nayon, naging magpoposo, Sa kahuhukay niya, kung saan lumagpak ang sapot na ito; Kahit man sa bubong, pinagbabalong niya ang silong ng kubo, Ngunit wala siyang tapayang nahukay kahit na anino. Ang wika ni tatang: Kapag nagpakita yaong bahaghari, Hanapin ang dulo sapagkat naroon umano ang gusi; Ang lupa’y patakan ng dugong nagbuhat sa walong daliri, At saka hukayin hanggang sa magbálong, dapat magmadali. Kaya ako noon ang naging trabaho’y tagahukay balon Sa tanimang pakwa’t kalyo sa daliri’y naging patong-patong; Ngunit walang gusi ako na nahukay sa lahat ng balong, Muntik-muntikan pang hindi makaahon sa ilang kumunoy. Sabi ko kay bunso: Abangan mo anak yaong bulalakaw, At ika’y humiling upang ihulog n’ya sa ating tapayan; ‘Yung kakasya lamang, hindi lupa’t bahay, huwag ding kalabaw, Isang kayamanang hindi mawawala’t hindi mananakaw. Kaya ang anak ko’y laging nag-aabang sa aming bintana At katabi niya ang isang tapayang kay lolo nagmula At nang aking tingnan kung ano ang laman, ako ay nabigla— Ang naroo’y aklat ng duplo ni tatang, saka aking tula!

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TULA

Talahib Arkin Frany

Niyayakap ng agos ang langkay ng talahib sa putol ng pampang. Dito sumibol ang kumpolkumpol na ligaw na damo, malagubat ang lago, laksa-laksa kung tumubo sa kahabaan nitong ilog. Dito humihimpil ang mga nauuhaw, nahahapo, at nagtatagong mayang ilap. Nananahan sa lilim ng nagtatayugang damo, nagkukubli, humuhuni, nagtitipon sa umaga ng bayang balot sa hamog at halimuyak ng halaman, sa hangin kumakapit ang samyo ng lamukos na dahon. Sa ganitong amoy ko naaalala ang yakap mo: sariwa pa sa halik ng umaga, taglay ang aroma ng bagong tabas na talahib. At sa tuwing ang mga braso mo’y nakabalumbon sa akin, tila kinukumutan ako ng ligamgam ng parbangon, nanunuot ang alaala ng lahat ng iyong liwayway, nilagom ang mga lingid na dawagan nitong lungsod. Luntian ang lugod – laluna sa’yong salat sa kakahuyan, sabik makatakas sa ligalig ng siyudad. Umuwi ka sa akin at humimlay sa banig na pang-isahan, nagningas tayong parang luoy na damo sa tag-araw, bumabalik sa pangakong pagsibol ng ating mga pangarap. Mahirap bagtasin ang ating kilo-kilometrong agwat ngunit lagi tayong nagtatagpo sa luntian nating lungkot. Ngunit may ngiti ang hanging kinukumutan pa ng hamog, nakayapos sa mga bulaklak na sumibol sa tayog ng talahib, waring mga balahibo ng tagak na sumasayaw sa hangin, tila dagat ng ulap sa bingit ng umaga, nasasabik sa ating pagniniig. Ligaw na halaman ang pag-ibig: hayaan mo’t kusang tumutubo, hayaan mo’t kusang lumalago.

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MAIKLING KUWENTO

Manggagamot Andy Feje

“Gusto mo patayin na lang natin lolo mo?” Matagal bago sumagot si Ninya. Sa totoo lang matagal na niya itong gustong gawin. Hindi naman niya talaga kadugo ang tinuturing niyang lolo. Ayon sa kwento nito sa kaniya ay napulot daw siya nito sa ilog. Magpapakamatay na raw sana si Ingkong Magno noong araw na iyon nang may marinig siyang palahaw ng sanggol. Nakasakay daw noon si Ninya sa isang kwadradong balsa, walang saplot, hindi pa nagugupit ang pusod. May katabi siyang lumang tapayan na animo’y nagsisilbing pambalanse sa balsa, himalang hindi ito gumugulong. Pinaniwala ni Ingkong Magno ang sarili niyang hulog si Ninya ni bathala, ang sagot sa kaniyang hiling na himala. Pagkatapos kasi ng araw na iyon ay pinatay ang mga doktor ng bayan, mga NPA raw ang mga ito sabi ng militar. Bumalik ang dati niyang mga parukyano sa hilot at tawas. Sinuutan ni Ingkong Magno ng malaking kahoy na rosaryo ang tapayan. Dinayo niya pa ang rosaryong ito sa Maynila—pinabendisyunan sa Quaipo, kung saan din siya nagpahula. “Ikaw ang pinagpalang makatagpo’t mag-alaga sa mesiyas,” sabi ng manghuhulang ‘sing haba at ‘sing kulay ng pilik-mata ang mga kuko. “Kaya naman lahat ng likidong lalabas mula sa katawan nito’y dapat mong ipunin. Isalin mo ito sa tapayang kasama ng batang mesiyas, sapagkat ito’y nakagagaling,” dagdag pa nito habang tumitirik ang mga matang nakahawak sa magagaspang na palad ni Ingkong Magno. Pagkaabot niya ng bayad, na may dagdag pa’y pinaalalahan si Ingkong Magno ng manghuhula na kailangan niyang lagyan ng maliliit na bato mula sa ilog ang tapayan para tumining ang likidong ilalagay n’ya roon. Manghang-maghang si Ingkong Magno dahil nahulaan nitong may malapit na ilog sa kanila.

Noong bata pa si Ninya ay sinasadya itong paiyakin ni Ingkong Magno, isinasahod niya ang luha ng apo sa baso saka isasalin sa tapayan, kaya lang ay kakaunti lang ito—kulang. Mabilis maubos kaya pahirapan kapag marami siyang pasyente. Kaya naman naisipan niyang isali na rin ang ihi ni Ninya. Malinis naman siguro ang ihi ng mesiyas, pangkukumbinsi ni Ingkong Magno sa sarili. Palagi niyang binubusog ng gatas ng baka o kalabaw, depende kung anong meron, si Ninya. Hindi niya lalagyan ng lampin saka isisilid sa planggana. Tumuklas din siya ng iba’t ibang paraan para madaling maihi si Ninya nang hindi nasasabayan ng

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tae. Sinanay siya ni Ingkong Magno na magkaroon ng oras ng pag-ihi. Kapag nahihirapan ang batang umihi ay kinikiliti niya ang tingil nito. Ito ang sikreto nilang maglolo. Ito ang sikretong natuklasan ni Monique isang gabi.

Si Monique ay transferee sa Sitio Ilog Elementary School. Seatmate niya si Ninya. Halos buong elementarya yata ni Monique ay palipat lipat siya ng iskul. Community doctor kasi ang tatay niya, at baby pa siya’y namatay na ang kaniyang nanay, kaya lagi siyang buntot ng ama kung saan man ito madestino. Tulad ngayon, naipadala ito sa isang Geographically Isolated and Disadvantaged Area (GIDA) sa Floridablanca, Pampanga. Sa klase, ilang araw pa lang ay napansin agad ni Monique ang kakaibang pagtrato ng mga kaklase at guro niya sa kaniyang seatmate, na Ninya raw ang pangalan. Hanggang balikat lang niya ito, payat, maikli’t kulot na kulot ang buhok, at morena. Si Ninya ay presidente at muse ng klase nila. Lagi itong maagang pumapasok, ngunit maaga ring umuuwi. Madalas, nakakatulog pa sa gitna ng klase. “Shhh,” bawal ng mga guro nila habang may pasulpot-supot pa sa paghilik si Ninya. Madalas, pumapasok lang si Ninya na tanging notebook, ballpen, at de fold na malaking bayong lang ang dala. Sanay na sanay na siya sa kalakaran. Tuwing uwian kasi halos pumila ang mga kaklase nila para mag-abot ng isang tikles na sitaw, isang tumpok na saging, isang dosenang itlog, ilang taling suman, at kung anu-ano pa. Animo’y hindi sa iskul kundi sa palengke galing si Ninya kapag pauwi siya. “Pinapabigay ni nanay. Maraming Salamat daw, Ninya.” “Sa susunod daw ay dadalaw ulit kami ni Tatay sa inyo.” Tatango-tango lang si Ninya’t sabay na ilalabas ang dimples niya’t sungki-sungki’t naninilaw na mga ngipin. Isang hapon, nang paunang magsabi ang kaniyang tatay na gagabihin ito ay nagpasyahang ni Monique na sundan si Ninya. Wala rin naman s’yang gagawin sa bahay. Nakasawa raw maghintay, sabi ni Monique. Lagi namang ginagabi ang kaniyang ama, kapag tinatanong niya kung saan galing ay sasabihin nito, d’yan lang, sa health center, kahit wala naman talaga ito doon. Lagi itong may baong malaki’t nakalobong bag na impis na pag-uwi nito. Nang silipin ni Monique ang bag ng ama minsan ay tumambad sa kaniya ang mga supot na siksikan ng bulak, betadine, gasa, guting at kutsilyong pang opera. Uuwi itong pagod na pagod, agad makakatulog, ngunit mauuna pa ring gumising para ipagluto

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siya ng almusal at baong pananghalian.

Natuklasan ni Monique na hindi pala dumidiretso ng uwi si Ninya. Tumatambay muna ito sa ilog malapit sa kanila. Parang nangongolekta siya ng maliliit na mga batong agad niyang nilalagay sa bulsa ng kanang bulsa kaniyang palda, pupunta rin ito sa malapit na pumpon ng mga nabubulok na kahoy, pipitas ng isang kabuti’t ilalagay sa kanang bulsa ng kaniyang palda. Maya-maya pa ay naghubad na si Ninya, panty at baby bra lang ang natira sa kaniya. Manilaw-nilaw pa ang mga ito. Tiyak ni Monique na mainit nga naman ang hapong iyon, parang gusto niya ring maglublob sa ilog. Sabayang maligo si Ninya, pero naunahan siya ng takot. Pagkaahon ni Ninya’y uminom ito nang uminom ng tubig mula sa kaniyang palad. Gusto rin sanang uminom noon ni Monique ng tubig. Pagkatapos ng tatlong magkakasunod na mahabang dighay ay agad nang nagbibihis si Ninya. Ilang hapon pang sinundan ni Monique si Ninya. Laging may dagdag na pitong hakbang mula sa kahapon ang ginagawa niyang pagsunod rito. Hanggang sa ika-13 araw ay umabot na rin siya sa kubol nila Ninya. May maliit na sari-sari store sa harap nito—sari-saring ugat na nakababad sa medyo madilaw-dilaw na tubig sa mga bote ang laman nito. May mga nakasulat na gamot “para sa pagtatae”, “para sa sakit ng ulo”, “para sa hika,” hanggang sa “para sa cancer” mayroon. May malaking banner sa labas, pinintahan ng pula, Lunis ampong Domingo 9:00 AM – 4:00 PM ONLY. Sumilip si Monique mula sa siwang ng mga sawaling kubol nila Ninya. Tumambad sa kaniya ang walang panty na si Ninya. Nakatapat ang puki nitong may kaunti nang bulbol pusa sa isang plangga, kinikiliti ng lolo niya ang kaniyang tingil. Sabay na tumutulo ang kaniyang ihi at luha. Katabi niya ang lumang tapayang may nakakwintas na rosaryo. “Lo, tama na po.” “Lo…” Pero, sige pa rin ang pagkiliti ni Ingkong Magno sa tingil ni Ninya. Hindi nakagalaw si Monique, at pakiramdam niya’y naihi rin siya sa panty nang gabing iyon. Nang sumunod na araw ay sinundan niya ulit si Ninya sa ilog. Ngayo’y hindi na siya nagtago.

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Nginitian siya ni Ninya nang mapansing papalapit. Naninilaw ang mga sungki nitong ngipin. “Anong ginagawa mo rito?” bungad ni Ninya kay Monique. Pero parang wala itong narinig. Nagipon muna si Monique ng ilang maliliit na bato saka tumabi sa kaniya. “Sama ka na lang sa amin,” bungad nito, matapos subukang magpatalbog ng bato sa tubig. Ngunit agad ding lumubog ang bato. “Ha?” “Sinundan kita. Nakita ko ang ginagawa sa iyo ng lolo mo,” muling binato ni Monique ang ilog. Agad muling lumubog ang bato. Napayuko si Ninya. “Gusto mo patayin na lang natin ang lolo mo?” Sinubukan muling palundingin ni Monique ang maliit na bato sa ibabaw ng ilog. Tumalon ito, dalawang beses bago tuluyang lumubog. “May ilang mga gamot si Papa sa bahay na delikado raw kapag nasobrahan, lasunin natin o kaya indyeksunan habang natutulog, o, pwede rin nating basagin sa ulo niya ‘yong tapa…” Hindi pa natatapos si Monique sa mga suhestyon niya’y agad na siyang niyakap ni Ninya. Basangbasa ang damit niya nang hapong iyon.

Madaling araw, saktong pagkaalis ng tatay ni Monique ay dumiretso agad siya kila Ninya. Halos lumobo ang dala niyang bag. Naabutan niyang tulog na tulog si Ingkong Magno sa papag. Pinapanood ni Ninya si Monique habang nilalabas ang ilang gunting, iba’t ibang hugis na kutsilyo, mga nakaboteng likido, at pang-ineksyon. Nginitian ni Ninya si Monique, sumilip ang naninilaw nitong mga ngipin. Isinaksak ni Monique ang isang heringgilya sa isa maliit na bote, pinasipsip ang laman ito. Hiniram niya ang mga kamay ni Ninya pagkatapos. Bumilang sila ng tatlo sa pamamagitan ng pagtango. Isa, dalawa, tatlo: sabay tarak ng heringgilya sa dibdib ni Ingkong Magno! Napakislot saglit si Ingkong Magno. Napaurong ang dalawa. Ngunit agad ding bumalik sa mahimbing napagkakatulog ang matandang manggagamot. Inilabas ni Ninya ang isang plangganang punong-puno ng kabuti. Nagtaka si Monique. Ngunit agad

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n’yang naintindihan kung para saan ito nang sinimulan ni Ninyang ibuka ang bibig ni Ingkong Magno at doon isiksik ang mga ito sa bunganga ng manggagamot. Pagkatapos nito’y nilapitan ni Ninya ang nakarosaryo pa ring tapayan.

Pasado alas nyebe na’t napaka haba na ng pila ng mga tao sa tapat ng kubol ni Ingkong Magno. Mainit na ang ulo ng ilan na hindi pa nag-uumagahan mauna lang sa pila. Pero, hindi pa rin nagbubukas ang manggagamot. “Tang-ina hindi pa ba magbubukas, bilasa na ang mga tao!” “Oo nga, hayop na ‘yan, kanina pa ‘yong malansa na ‘yon ah!” “Ingkong Magno, aba’y mamatay na sa hika ang anak ko!” Maya-maya’y may dumating na binatang lalaking may hila-hilang aso, pinaihi niya ito sa punong mangga malapit kila Ingkong Magno. Halos humilahod ang binata nang tumakbo ang kaniyang alaga—hindi mapigilan. Dumiretso sa tapat ng pinto nila Ingkong Magno saka nagkakahol, na animo’y nauulol! Ayaw nitong tumigil sa pagkahol. Nang piliting buksan ng mga parokyano ni Ingkong Magno ang kaniyang kubol ay tumambad sa kanila ang naliligo sa sariling dugo, puno ng saksak ang katawan at halos lumaylay ang mga daliring hiniwa ng matanda. Puno rin ng kabute ang bunganga at basag-basag ang mukha—tulad ng tapayan, ni Ingkong Magno. Dinilaan ng aso ang dugo sa sahig. Ginaya ito ng isang batang binaba ng kaniyang ama saglit habang nagpupuslit ng mga boteng may ugat na nakakababad sa maputlang dilaw na likido, na may nakasulat na “gamot sa kanser.” Binitawan ng mga sana ay bubuhat kay Ingkong Magno ang bangkay ng matanda nang mapansin nilang ng kaniya-kaniyang hablot, bulsa, at inom ang ibang parokyano. May ibang nag-agawan pa sa bote. Habang ang aso’y abala na sa pagdila sa kamay ng bangkay na nakalaylay ang mga hiniwang daliri. Sa ‘di kalayuan ay nanunood sila Ninya at Monique, mahigpit ang pagkakahawak nila sa kamay ng isa’t isa.

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DAGLI

Tingkal RB Abiva

Mula magkamalay si Ingkong Waldo ay lupa, karit, at kalabaw na ang kanyang mga naging kalaro. Ang malawak na banos nga ng Baryo Liwayway ang unti-unting humubog sa kanyang iika-ika at hungkag na mundo, magdadalawang taon kasi siya nang mamatay ang kanyang Amang Pedro. Likas ngang tila isinumpa ng kapalaran si Ingkong, maglilimang taon naman siya nang sumunod naman ang kanyang Inang Telma sa Daigdig ng mga Patay. At mula nga noo’y wala nang ibang pinaglalagian at pinaglalaanan ng panahon si Ingkong kundi ang banos. Paglao’y nagkapamilya si Ingkong at tila totoo ang kasabihang “Kung anong puno’y siya rin ang bunga.” Sa mga hunos sa banos pa rin siya at niya iniaasa at iaasa ang maya’t mayang pagpiglas ng gutom sa kanilang sikmura. At dahil madalas puntiryahin ng unos ang mga banos, tubig at putik ang unang lumalamon sa mga hunos na sana’y maaaring ipambuhay sa hindi mabilang na musmos na umaasa sa banos. Na lagi’y tila ito ang paalala ng mga timpapalis sa araw at susuhong kung gabi na ang banos na kanyang minana sa yumaong magulang ay malapit sa ilog. Panahon nga noon ng anihan. Buong araw si Ingkong sa banos kasama ang si Kolobong. Puno ang puso niya ng pagbabakasakali na makauwi ng kahit kaunting hunos. Magtatakipsilim na nang makauwi siya sa dampang nakatindig sa ilalim ng santol. Itinali niya rito si Kolobong at kanyang kinuha ang naipong hunos na maingat-masinop niyang ikinamada sa kariton. Halos mangangalahati na ang ibinababang tiklis ng mga suhay nang bigla siyang makadama ng paninikip sa kaniyang dibdib. Naupo siya sa bangkito at isinandal ang sarili sa poste ng dampa na yari sa kawayan. Napansin niyang sa bawat pagbuga niya ng hangin ay siya namang pagpapakawala ng kanyang puso ng isang malakas na susundan ng lalong mahinang pintig-pitik. Unti-unting nilagom ng lamig ang kanyang yayat na katawan hanggang sa ang init nitong tangan ay pinakawalan ng mga buto at laman na siyang nagsilbing tapayan. Lumubog ang araw sa Silangan nang dapithapon ngang yaon na kasama si Ingkong. At kung makapagsasalita lamang ang mga nakasabit na piyuka, punyos, palimanaw, at ang uunga-ungang si Kolobong ay tatalastasin nila kung hanggang kailan magiging libingan ang pinaunlad-nilinang nilang linang. Mag-uumaga na nang ginising ng malakas na atungal-palahaw ang buong Baryo Liwayway. Dinakot ng mga anakpawis ang labi ni Ingkong. Pinaglamayan ng tatlong araw, at sa ikaapat na araw ay pinabendisyunan sa simbahan ng San Isidro at siya’y inilibing na wala man lamang panandang-bato, maliban sa sanga ng kahoy na kinorteha’t tinalian nang pa-kurus. Lumipas ang tag-init at dumating ang tag-ulan, bumisita ang kanyang bunsong anak. Naroroon pa rin ang payak na kurus. Hinalinhan na rin ng mga namumulaklak noong makahiya at kamot-pusa ang madamong ibabaw ng libingan ng kanyang Ingkong. Lumalawiswis ang hangin at pilit nitong tinatangay ang kanyang mahabang buhok. At habang kanyang binabalikan ang mahahalagang mga sandali, dinig ng kaniyang tainga at kaluluwa ang lumalagitik na hagkisan ng mga talahib sa tiwangwang nang banos. Pumukol bigla sa kanyang dalumat na tama ang kanyang pasyang umanib sa lihim na samahan ng mga nais maging timawa.

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TULANG PAMBATA

Ang Gamit ng Banga

Renz Benedict Quiros, Grade 4 Observer, Ikalawang Palihang Lazaro Francisco Isang araw nagising ang aking ama, inisip kung anong gawaing-bahay ang kanyang gagawin at biglang pumasok sa kanyang isipan, “Aha! Alam ko na ang aking gagawin!” dali-dali niyang kinuha ang aming banga, nilinis niya ito gamit ang basa’t tuyong tela at nang malinis niya’y kanya itong pinuno ng agua at masaya niyang nilinis ang aming sasakyan, paglao’y siya’y namangha dahil animo’y bituin na kumikinang sa kalinisan ang kanyang pinaghirapan, “Ayos! Marami akong nagawa!” muli niyang wika.

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TULA

Panyong Kayumanggi

Chrixxie Jehns De Leon, Grade 12 Observer, Ikalawang Palihang Lazaro Francisco Mula pagkabata, pinandidirihan, inaayawan, at iniiwasan. ko ang lupa.

Ako’y napalinga at aking natanaw ang isang armadong lalaki, at nakatungo sa akin ang dulo ng kaniyang baril.

Sa akin, ito’y walang kasing dumi kaya’t ayaw kong tumapak dito nang walang saplot ang aking mga paa.

Paglao’y aking naramdaman ang nanunuot na sakit na dumaloy sa aking buong kaibuturan, ako’y napaluhod at nang bumagsak ang aking katawan padapa sa lupang sinasaka, ang lupang aking isinumpa, ang lupang aking iniwasan, ang lupang sumalo sa aking pagbagsak mula sa kamatayan, oh lupang sumipsip sa aking dumanak na inosenteng dugo, oh lupang kukupkop sa aking buto’t katawan, oh lupang sumalo’t nagmistulang panyong kayumanggi sa huling pagpatak ng butil ng luha bago ko isara ang talukap ng aking mga mata.

Ngunit kinain ko lahat ng mga katagang ibinulalas ng aking bibig. Ako ngayo’y isang magsasaka may malaking utang na loob sa lupa, kung wala ito, wala akong ipangbubuhay sa aking sarili’t pamilya. Sa ilalim ng tirik na araw ‘di ko alintana ang init nito, tuloy pa rin ang aking pagtatrabaho upang kumita ng pera. Kayod-kalabaw! Malapit na rin kasi ang pagsilang ng aming pangalawang supling! Tuloy ako sa pagsasaka nang bigla kong nakarinig ng nakabibinging alingawngaw sa luntiang bukirin.

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ESSAY

Tulay ng Bicos

Jerwyn Villanueva Labagnoy Fact: Bicos is one of the barangays South-west of Rizal. It bears in its roots some varying but connected tales of ghost sightings from white ladies to black ladies, from the enormous kapre to the terrifying ulong pugot, from mysterious birds to giant warthogs, and a tale of unknown lovers frequently seen holding hands on the act of committing suicide, all attached to one small edifice beside the old cemetery. It is by far the single, most perplexing structure in the whole town’s long, forgotten history. About a quarter before twelve on a chilling October night, the owner-type, Willy’s engine was howling in protest to my handling of its steering wheel. It was late into the night and my vehicle’s acceleration was mediocre mainly because of its age. My whole body was obviously fatigued trying to focus perhaps due to the booze and enduring a long drive from Gapan after attending a party. While on the road, the cold wind hitting my face was still fragrant as the post-harvest season permeated the air with freshly cut rice straws liberally scattered in bunches along the side-road. Add the fruity whiff of alcohol that was still lingering on my tongue. Oh, that liquor was extraordinary. I couldn’t forget the aroma and distinct taste of that Lambanog from Talavera. It was 100-proof-strong and sweet particularly when fermented in earthen jars. We finished-off a large-sized tapayan of that flavored alcohol offered by a slim, voluptuous nubile in scanty clothing before I decided to call it a day. She was gorgeous. I recalled clearly her exposed, perfect skin, too much of it, as it glowed in the soft light, under her little, tight dress that squeezed her partially covered breast. Her naturally alluring scent matched the sweet-smelling aroma of freshly pounded pinipig. Her quick but obvious touches to my lap were penetrating my entire consciousness like the build-up of a looming storm –quiet and powerful. She was fiery. Her wink when she bit the side of her lower lip sealed the deal. Approaching the old barrio of Bicos, I felt the vehicle slightly recoiled. The jeep inexplicably felt heavier to drive like I was carrying cavans of newly harvested rice at the back. The speed quickly lugged that I needed to step on the accelerator more to maintain the speed. Still, the jeep started to further drag down. I decided to release the gas. The engine, relieved of pressure, coughs in and into idle that slowed me down to a stop. Armed with a tiny flashlight with weakened batteries, I dizzily went out to check the wheels and shone the dimming light under the chassis. To my surprise, the tires were all intact and the underside showed no signs of damage either. My father, when he was still alive, used to experience bogging down driving this same World War II military vehicle in the wee hours of the night. I remembered him practice throwing one-peso coin on the road he claimed had thwarted some bad lucks, wondering how many hundreds of pesos did he offer all through the years. And maybe it was time for me to follow suit. I reached for my pockets and probed deeper inside. To my disappointment, only the cigarette box

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and the cheap Cricket lighter were there. I remembered consuming almost all of the coins to run the coin-hungry Karaoke machine earlier at the party but I know there must still be any coin left within. Nothing. I unsteadily jumped to the driver seat, started the engine and put, as I had been doing when driving alone, the stick into 2nd gear to quickly achieve higher RPM. Passing along the curved highway at the heart of Bicos was a bit unnerving due to the many road mishaps it had witnessed: One time there was a father and his young son walking at the side of the road when a speeding truck suddenly lose control and crushed the two. They were declared dead on arrival at the hospital. Another story was that of a young woman who crossed the road from the church. She stopped at the middle of the lane to retrieve her purse when a speeding car violently hit her. Bystanders believed she was dead even before hitting the ground. The night was pitch dark except for the occasional flicker of far-away houses and my jeep’s headlights. As I dragged traversing the front of the signage reflecting ACCIDENT PRONE AREA, an eerie sensation suddenly crept along my spine. Below the green, rectangular marker, between its steel posts, was a faceless man in worn-out barong waving me to stop. Beside him was another faceless human, somewhat like a child, with its two hands clinging at the taller man’s left arm. It could be the alcohol, too much of it was now saturating my blood and my rationale was getting clouded, but I felt the hairs of my arms and back stirred when I saw the two levitating a good three to five inches from the ground. Suddenly tensed, I never thought of slowing down, let alone to stop. My heartbeats were now audible, nearly quadrupling its rate. My mind was jumbled trying to look for an explanation of the levitating humans. Or, were they really humans? I floored the accelerator in an instant to speed up the vehicle, it wailed but it didn’t respond. My brain was disoriented trying to make sense of everything that was happening. I was about to heave a small sigh of relief when, fast approaching, the sight of the cemetery at the right side of the road seized my attention. At the far end was the notorious tulay ng Bicos. My worry grew even bigger. Feeling grim and uneasy, I unconsciously peeked at the rear-view mirror and promptly realized, to my horror, I was no longer alone inside my old Willy’s jeep. Inexplicable terror groped my whole being seeing a lady in tattered, black gown lodged on the seat at the back, with her long, black hair covering her face. I didn’t know if I wanted to scream. The engine shrieked suddenly speeding down the slope as the vehicle wobbled from side to side.

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My mind went blank. The jeep spun around, tottered, as it veered toward the edge of a concrete pavement. I shoved my foot hard on the breaks but it was too late. The deafening screech of wheels didn’t stop the vehicle as it slammed at the concrete balustrades. I saw the world turned upside down when the jeep was sent tumbling toward the 20-foot drop of the creek below. Shards of glass from the windshield hit my face and chest. The explosion of the engine drowned my screams as I was falling to my imminent death— My eyelids flew open. I was panting, gasping for air. It was a dream. It was a nightmarish dream but almost too real and vivid, and grossly disturbing. My breathing was short and deep. I could hear wild heartbeats banged the walls of my chest. Dull headache stemmed from the center my skull. “I’m alive!” I collected a cigarette from the small table beside the bed, placed it between my lips and lit it. The voluminous smoke and nicotine entered my lungs, transporting me back to reality. Wicked dreams occurred to me mostly when drunk and when I dozed in unfamiliar beds. Trickles of sweat formed at the lines of my forehead despite the cold, quiet hum of the air-conditioning inside the small, dimly lit motel room. I checked the time on the phone. It was a couple of minutes to five in the morning. Office was at eight. I stood up. Unsteadily, I rummage for my denim jeans over the messy, chaotic bed as if a strong typhoon raged over it. And there she was. Her smooth arms rested above her head, sleeping soundly under the blanket that covered only her lower extremes. She was gorgeous. Her naturally alluring scent matched the sweetsmelling aroma of freshly pounded pinipig. My gaze lingered at her milky-white torso. Her firm, supple breasts lay majestic as if inviting, once more, my hungry mouth to taste. Her flat stomach and curvaceous “love handles” gently moved with her unhurried breathing. God, she was more beautiful without clothes! I couldn’t imagine the edges of her life –this very young woman. I honestly couldn’t even fathom that she was dirt. It was a quarter before six and I was already negotiating the curve at the heart of Bicos. My headache slightly subsided but I was feeling a little dizzy –a case of liquor hangover. Gladly, the speed of my

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Willy’s jeep was acceptable despite the age. Students were impatiently waiting at the side-road, bound to Cabanatuan waving for any PUJ to stop. They were standing in front of the rectangular warning signage, ACCIDENT PRONE AREA. A curt smile broke my lips remembering my nightmare a few hours ago. Then there was the old cemetery. My vehicle overtook some aged farmers and carabaos pulling some empty carts heading for farms. I deliberately glanced at the rear-view mirror and nearly had a heart attack when I saw a black fabric reflected in it. “Shit!” I collected my courage and stared longer. Gladly, it was just my dark, ragged jacket hanging at the back. Light compression applied on the breaks slowed the vehicle down while passing along the infamous bridge. It was a deaf spectator to the numerous ghostly apparitions and baffling tales, real or unreal, mingled since the early beginnings of our town. Below was an uninviting creek with murky waters slithering along its winding riverbed. Two honks echoed as I punched the horn twice with my palm – an indication of reverence to the unknown spirits telling them that I was just passing by, never wanted to invade their territory or disturb their realm. The wind hitting my face was still fragrant as the welcoming sunshine dispersed the remaining traces of dawn; its naturally alluring scent matched the sweet-smelling aroma of freshly pounded pinipig.

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ESSAY

Siphon Arkin Frany

The riverine current pulled me under, deeper into the depths. I felt the flow like some kind of heavy wind passing over my skin with a certain fatality. On my face, it felt like fear. Everywhere was water, swallowed me in its immutable path. I was unable to move, and there was no solid ground to hold onto. So this is it. This is how I die. All I could do was watch the undulating glass ceiling as light came through the water surface as I went deeper. It was getting darker. *** “Blue green siya,” I told Jonard firmly as I pointed into the brackish water that came out of the siphon. “It’s gray,” he sneered as he looked intently into the irrigation. “Ok, turquoise ngarud.” “Ay apo irigasyon lang dayta. Tourist attraction kitdi?” We were in Capirpirwan, where Jonard lived. It was a large barangay in Cordon, the northernmost municipality of Isabela province. Like the rest of the town, Capirpirwan relied on agriculture. Luckily, a large irrigation canal cut through the length of the barangay and several others in the north. Jonard’s father was the barangay chairman back in 2007 and his family held status. Their house was situated atop a hill and around it, his mother grew a garden that flourished with plants with ornatelycolored leaves. I’ve come to their house multiple weekends before so they know me almost intimately. After all, Jonard was more than just a classmate, he was my best friend. We met in high school and found that we have a mutual liking in the sciences. And he was a bit of a nerd. Like me, of course. Beyond that curly hair was a mind filled with factoids. We have a third member, Catherine, a fellow nerd and Potterhead. Together we formed a brown version of J.K. Rowling’s pubescent magicians. I’d like to think I’m Hermione of course. On that December Sunday, I ran the concrete steps to their gate and called him over. I’m not exactly sure if we stayed for a bit in their house. I left my bag there which contained clothes to change into and then we were off to our destination. We climbed down the small hill and walked the dirt road. Next to it, the irrigation. But it wasn’t the irrigation that we were after. We were going to the river.

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Going to the river meant walking the length of the canal until we reached the siphon where the water burst out of an enormous tube that went under the river just below a nearby ravine that seemingly separated the irrigation in a segment. I recall myself wondering how much of a genius in engineering design is a siphon that crossed under a a body of water that was at least a hundred meters lower than the irrigation itself! How did engineers do that? They’d have to dig up the river first right? I was looking for the most logical answer to this puzzle in my thirteen-year old mind. Of course, engineers had to bury the concrete foundations that held the beams of the bridge that went across the ravine. Perhaps, it was a hit-two-birds-with-onestone kind of infrastructure project. Then again, despite my fascination, this siphon held and still holds a danger that locals know all too well. All that water must come from somewhere of course and that place is the other end of the siphon. There, the water roared ominously as all the water vanished into its concrete mouth with so much force. Things that float on the water surface, like vegetable matter, plastic bags, diapers, and other trash, collected in that opening. Things that didn’t, like animals, go through the siphon only to emerge on the other side lifeless. Nothing could survive the two-hundred meter gap that separated both ends. Pigs, poultry, and sometimes, even people. Jonard told me one time that a water buffalo strayed too far into the irrigation and was carried away by the currents. But water buffalos are aquatic and are surprisingly adept swimmers. However, pitted against the strong currents made by the sucking power of the siphon, all it could do was float. “Kakaasi a nuang,” he said as he recalled that time when the buffalo cried and bellowed as it tried its best to swim away from the siphon’s mouth. But eventually, the buffalo surrendered to the siphon’s insurmountable hunger. There is another tragic story. When I was in grade school I had this schoolmate, J, who was the cousin of my classmate. J was of the same age as I am, and on the same grade level on another section in a barangay public school. She was a cheerful girl who always invited me to play Chinese garter or luksong tinik during recess. And she had this guttural voice that punctuated her laughter. Halfway through grade school, I transferred. I think I was in Grade 5 when the news reached me: J drowned in the siphon. I am not quite sure why a girl as small as her would decide to swim in an enormous and equally dangerous river-like body of water. But I remember kids in our town even younger than me braved the irrigation system like it was some kind of water world playground. Boys and girls alike would dive naked in the water and emerge for air somewhere else, safe and strong, still swimming in the water.

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And J was perhaps as good as them, too. But when she leapt for joy and dove into the irrigation’s brackish waters, she never came back. J’s body was found miles from the siphon, washed ashore in another town. She was ten. In a rural town like Cordon, news did not spread out like wildfire. The tragedy spread out like water in a river supplying its tributaries and streams in an immutable, unstoppable pace. J became the rural (so to speak) legend, the cautionary small town tale. But time flows just as fast and unchanging, and before we knew it, J’s story was forgotten in the strong, roiling currents of the irrigation. *** When Jonard and I came to the siphon, the water swelled close to the banks. It was December back then and the planting season had just begun. Like most irrigation systems, portions of the canal were lined with concrete, especially in openings and exits. There were stairs on the left flank of the siphon. Jonard and I went there to wash our feet. “ Anya kulay ti danum ti irigasyon?” I asked him as I dipped my feet in the warm water. “Gray!” Jonard exclaims with such certainty. “Kasla blue green met ne.” “Paano naging blue green yan ay?” “Blue green siya,” I kept on with my observation. “It’s gray.” We went down the river after that. We trekked upstream, just like the way we did a week before. We found this portion in the river where rocks emerged out of the water and created rivulets and cascades. On either bank, trees and shrubs grew wildly in groves. The largest tree had a branch that reached across the river, arboreal vines hung on its length like a leafy curtain that sieved the rays of the afternoon sun. There were birdsongs that accentuated the melodious susurration of the river. We didn’t care for snakes or other venomous animals, and we would never get lost (we could have just followed the river’s course). All that mattered was that perfect piece of paradise. But there was a problem that day: the water was brown. It wasn’t brown when we came here before. Rain further upstream would have caused this and would explain why the water was extra cold that time. And when there is rain, the currents are stronger. Jonard and I looked for calmer pools of water among the

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rocks but we didn’t stay long. I was disappointed with the experience. I didn’t really enjoy it. On the way back to his house, we arrived at the siphon again. Cold from the river water, Jonard decided to take a dip. He walked down the stairs until the water was up to his chest. And in one graceful maneuver, he let himself be carried away by the water, floated then swam back towards the concrete bank. I followed his lead. I consider myself a good swimmer. But the current carried me right in the middle of the irrigation where it was stronger. Before I knew it, I couldn’t reach for either bank, I was too far to be grabbed to the side. I moved around so that I was “standing” in the water. But this was not some pool or rocky river. My feet felt nothing but water. My body started to freeze. I didn’t know what to do: I was in the middle of a raging river-like body of water and my body was betraying me. I knew I had to position myself parallel to the water to float, I knew that the logical solution, but in that time of crisis I found myself unable move. Pure fear washed over me. I was screaming Jonard’s name. Somehow, Jonard’s name became synonymous with help. I screamed for help for as long as I can. My face was the only thing that was above the water surface, as if looking at the sky waiting for it to send help. I knew it wouldn’t last long. The water was already taking over. And it was carrying me further away from the siphon, until the banks were no longer concrete. I took one last breath before the irrigation engulfed me in its watery embrace. I swallowed some water but fought the urge to cough. I was still looking skyward, despite being underwater. The current me pulled down, down until all I could see was light dancing in the undulating glass ceiling of the water. I was unable to move, and there was nothing to hold. Help was never coming. “This is how I die.” I thought to myself, I remember, as I surrendered to the currents. For a moment, I thought the water seemed green under the sun. But I don’t know. As I went further, deeper, it had gotten darker. I closed my eyes. The pebbly texture of the riverbed jolted my senses, finally my feet touched solid ground. I jumped from the riverbed. The water carried my body and I began to float. The moment I reemerged, I gasped so hard I inhaled some water. But that wasn’t the end. I saw a glimpse of Jonard floating towards me. And by some kind of miracle, or physics perhaps, I began to get closer to the bank. But that just temporary reprieve. I was still going under the water, though. I felt it. But this time I reached for the plants on the nearest bank. Some twigs snapped off. I went under. I reached out again, my hand stuck out of the water and found leaves, no good. When I resurfaced, I was very close to the mudbank that I literally embraced it. I just stayed there, held onto the grass and

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plants that grew there and waited until my friend arrived. I was safe now. The climb up the steep mudbank was a difficult task but we tried our best not to fall into the water again. Thankfully, we reached the dirt road atop that bank. My legs were weak, and I was still shivering. Perhaps it was the exhaustion. Perhaps it was the fear. I stayed there, immovable, stooped down, holding my knees, coughing out what was left of the water that entered my lungs. When I finally felt like I recovered, I looked at Jonard and found him stifling laughter. “Ukininam ganggani nak nga natay agkakatawa ka pay!” I wanted to be mad at him. But I was only grateful at that moment, for that second chance at life, and for a friend and saved me halfway from death. I was catching my breath through my open mouth, a small but conceded smile. *** I now live in Cabanatuan, a city in Nueva Ecija that wants to be something else all at once but couldn’t quite live up to its highly urbanized ambitions. Most of the city, especially the outskirts, are still rural and agricultural areas. But not the same as Cordon’s forest groves and hidden streams. Cabanatuan isn’t Cordon, of course, and if I were to describe this city I would still call it home. In college, I got in UP Baguio’s Fine Arts program and Catherine was there too under the Economics program. Jonard enrolled in UP Los Baños where he specialized in botany. Had he been accepted in the Baguio campus we could have completed J.K. Rowling’s triumvirate again. However, my fine arts schooling was cut short just after a week, I was sent home to Cabanatuan to study here. Jonard is studying in the US pursuing a postgraduate program in Biology. He’s now engaged to his Canadian classmate. They came back to the Philippines one time. I saw pictures of that trip on my facebook feed. They went back to that quaint house atop a hill overlooking the irrigation. I would have loved to set a meetup in the capital but the demands of adulthood easily overwhelmed that desire. We don’t talk that much anymore. In fact, we don’t talk anymore. Even online. The last time we talked was over facebook chat. He asked me “bakit lumayo ka sa science?” and honestly, I didn’t have an answer. Maybe, in another time, we could sit down and talk about high school again. About Cordon. About what was once home.

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BIONOTES Cristobal Alipio

A.K.A. Ambrocio Escalante Pascua at KT(Kumander Tagay). Isinilang at nakatira sa Talavera, Nueva Ecija. Nagtapos ng BSIE sa NEUST (CLPC) at kasalukuyang guro sa pampublikong paaralan. Isa ring magbubukid na walang lupa, elektrisyan, manginginom at mangingibig. Fellow siya ng LIRA 2018 ng UST at nakatakdang lumabas ang una niyang libro, ang Hunos Sa Banos.

Andyleen Feje

Siya mas kilala bilang Andy, ay tubong Quezon, Nueva Ecija. Siya ay kasalukuyang kumukuha ng Sertipiko sa Panitikan at Malikhaing Pagsulat sa Filipino, sa Polytechnic University of the Philippines (PUP). Siya ay nagtapos ng Bachelor of Arts in Language and Literature sa Central Luzon State University (CLSU). Siya ay fellow ng: Ikalawang Pambansang Palihang Multi-Genre ng PUP at Ateneo National Writers Workshop (ANWW17). Kasalukuyan din siyang bahagi ng Atsara Collective, Silay Mata Peopleâ€™s Theatre Organization, at Bahaghari - Metro Manila.

RB Abiva

Si RB Abiva o RBA ay awtor ng tatlong libro ng mga tula at isang libro ng mga piling maikling kuwento at dagli. Fellow siya ng 58th University of the Philippines National Writers Workshop (Tula) ng Institute of Creative Writing (ICW) ng UP- Diliman, at ngayong taoâ€™y nasungkit niya ang Ikalawang Gantimpala sa SANIATA PRIZE. Maaring makita ang kanyang mga malikhaing katha sa National Library of Australia, National Bookstore, Popular Bookstore, UP Bookshop, UP LIKHAAN Library, UP Baguio Library, at Mt. Cloud Bookshop. Siya ang tagapagtatag ng Samahang Lazaro Francisco.

Jerwyn Villanueva Labagnoy

J.V. Labagnoy, 38, has been teaching in public elementary school for 15 years now. He is not a morning person as he loves to stay late. He fancies a small, mirrorless camera he uses to take pictures of different subjects from landscapes to people and the streets. He is a bicycle enthusiast, he utilize it as a form of exercise. Writing is not really his thing. He only uses it for creative expression when he feels it. J.V.Labagnoy is from Rizal, Nueva Ecija.

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Arkin Frany

Arkin Frany works as a corporate information officer and specializes in public relations for a private energy utility provider based in Cabanatuan City, Nueva Ecija. He also does freelance work online for graphic and page design, content creation and management, and basic journalism and creative writing tutorials. He also gives a wide range of journalism skills training to high school students in Nueva Ecija. This year he started the Summer Editorial and Feature Writing Workshop, a free workshop for campus journalists and emerging writers in the province. He spends his weekends in his leaky apartment with his four cats: Rilke, Ryokan, Rumi, and Rimbaud.

Renz Benedict Quiros

Si Renz Benedict Quiros ay kasalukuyang nasa ikaapat na baitang sa Cabanatuan East Central School at pangarap niya balang araw na maging isang inhinyero.

Chrixxie Jehns De Leon

Si Chrixxie Jehns D. De Leon ay kasalukuyang nag-aaral na nasa ika-labingdalawang baitang (STEM) sa Wesleyan University - Philippines. Kabilang rin siya sa student publication (The Wesleyanian) bilang isang patnugot sa lathalain. Ang paggawa ng mga malilikhaing akda mula sa kaniyang imahinasyon at mga problema na lipunan ang kaniyang kadalasang tinatalakay at nagsilbi na rin niyang libangan. Mahilig din siyang magbasa ng mga tula, maikling kwento, dagli at nobela ng kaniyang mga paboritong manunulat tulad nila J.K Rowling, Rick Riordan, John Green, Mitch Albom, at Juan Miguel Severo.