Minimento VI

MINIMENTO

Minimento Volume VI, January 2022 © All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of Kapawa.

Please note that the contents of this Folio are works of fiction. Characters, locales, and events that resemble actual people, names, places, and incidents are either coincidental, products of the author’s imagination, or used for fiction.

CONTENTS ANOTHERWORLD Somnum..................................................................................6 CREATURES jamais vu................................................................................8 deja vu..................................................................................10 THE RABBIT HOLE Prologue to a Children’s Book .............................................12 Epilogue to a Children’s Book..............................................16 WHISPERS Mirage...................................................................................18 Reify.....................................................................................20 TRANSLUCENT “hello future,”.......................................................................22 “goodbye past.”.....................................................................25 RYAN A. RODRIGUEZ LITERARY EDITOR ANA DOMINIQUE G. MANABAT LAYOUT ARTIST OONA MARIA AQUILINA C. OQUINDO ASST. LITERARY EDITOR CLAIRE DENISE S. CHUA PATRICIA THERESE FLORENCE M. ALONSO COVER AND DESIGN

ANA DOMINIQUE G. MANABAT ANDREA KIRSTIN D. RAMIREZ CLAIRE DENISE S. CHUA DENISE D. LOJARES JASON LEE J. PAMATI-AN JANNA M. REMUS JEWEL IRISH S. BELASCUAIN JOSEPH BRYANT J. DE LOS SANTOS JULIANA MARIE G. CARPINTERO MA. AVRILLE MARQUIELA C. LORAÑA PATRICIA THERESE FLORENCE M. ALONSO STEPHANIE ANNE O. ALOLON TIMOTHEE RAMON S. CONSING XIOMARA ANN B. MONDRAGON VISUAL CREATIVES

Fret wanderer!

FORE

You’ve been hopping around aimlessly for a while, searchi sunny skies; jaws agape for buzzing dragons. And just as th before you—feet, blazing beneath a ground all pale and ho

But still, you push your whole weight against the falling bric bouquet of pitfalls and bridges. The journey opens outwar never see what’s ahead, or what’s beneath.

Yet you persevere.

And walk the wheelscapes of the world. No matter how rick the cracks of your feet. But rest here in my whispers, for I k road and the destination ahead, but what I know are the path and into the clear.

So hush, for the world is alive and raging only because you can freeze the world—and dream, a path of your own.

Take this key, and drift into the pages I hold, as you dive in what you can from its gifts but be careful not to drown in th is something to be had in the tales borne from the cuts of r the road ahead, and not to spill the darkness within the cra Now go and take the journey inward, but let’s meet again, turns conrete, I’m sure the path then is safe for us to hop o

EWORD

ing through needles in furstacks as frogs would frolic under he gremlins hop on water lilies, you tread on the paper roads ollow.

cks, crumbling as the paths before you swirl into a misshapen rd to the endless mist and blank space. As always, you can

kety the wind, you breath through the dust as you stare into know the fog drains your soul. No being can ever unveil the doors to narrow but lit alleys that stray from the blurring

u wake your eyes to its disasters. Always forgetting that you

to the pools within. Whatever the mirror world paints, take he ghosts of its reflections. It is a road of illusions, but there reality. Be careful, look only for the lanterns that will light acks. shall we? Perhaps when the mist clears and the road ahead n.

The starspecks of dusted whiskers,

Ryan A. Rondriguez

Somnum Once in the flowers’ market, a cat talked to me—elegant fur and sapphire eyes.

Her voice was caramel like facets of a diamond, glowing in every direction.

Velvet robes covered her soul— glinting like porcelain.

Her movements lulled my spirit as I felt the ground slowly descend and made me dizzy as I fell into a wardrobe of fireworks and wilting flowers.

Lingering beneath lampposts of a coming winter; its rosebeds tell me to stay on the right path. sleep.

6

And yet whispers lull me into an inescapable

WRITTEN BY KYLE PALPARAN & MILES GUANCIA VISUAL BY MA. AVRILLE MARQUIELA C. LORAÑA

Snowdrift sings into the cracked lips of night, of wolves howling out to the moon beyond the thicket— there is fire in a distance.

I dip my toe into the perils of twilight, of an echoing ritual that reaches for Baal as I approach the flame.

Fear binds itself around the roots of a heart thrusting behind this bitter breast —there she is.

Lain among the gnome and boar my yellow one stretched before the pyre ablaze the limbs of her burn back into dust her screams make me blear as I collapse back into an endless unconsciousness.

A dream that pulls on the bones.

Wake— the place is well aflamed— her paws have plodded my lap as I find myself imploring of a trance— its memories, still, like spring.

7

empty; a never-ending pitch black— only a small, flickering glow bounded at a single spot. no walls nor windows; no other being than myself. uncanny, I began treading along the abyss luring me in, luminance gradually dissipates. in sightless eyes, unintelligible whispers and sibilant stares pierces within my head. wandering off further from the light, knees quivering from submerging, thick, hazy mist began to infiltrate my lungs; chills running down my spine— intertwined fingers, the kiss of sun rays and citrus— a warmth I’ve long sought for, turned. a subtle gush of arctic, latching onto my skin.

I felt my limbs, one by one bleeding out of strength, appalled. soft hymns and jars of laughter infiltrated my ears—nostalgia —both familiar and foreign.

I awaken, heavy breath blowing— warming up my seemingly pale face; my stomach began to churn. instinctively, my legs fled, adrenaline coursing through despite being aghast. as if my feet knew the terrain, my soles remembering each step— it wasn’t long until I found the same, flickering glow weary. the creature kept up, only being a few breaths away,

8

jamai vu.

is

I caught a glimpse of it. weighing me down, guilt, from a place long gone, had begun to sink me in. jamais vu— I knew what it was, but at the same time didn’t.

I can’t remember. my head began to throb: a memory floods my mind, tugging at my heartstrings; a tormenting pain in my head, distorted voices likened to mine and another’s— a haste flash of falling. but I continued to flee, my legs gravitating toward the scent of ripe citrus and rust. my ears grew familiar with the sound of thuds from the fall, the horrid dripping of guilt down my cheeks. the agonizing sting of my heels, each time I took a step forward. macabre, is my tireless yearning. even so, my eyes set upon something completely foreign; a possible escape. an oaken door dimmed, gently closing the distance to open it—

WRITTEN BY ANGELLE A. VISUAL BY DENISE D. LOJARES

9

deja vu.

–I am pulled out of black space.

A vast field awaits outside the door, splashed in hues of gentle pink and lilac, the scent of citrus flourishing.

It was your favorite color.

Out in the open, the creature follows me, body doused in black ink and skin jagged.

Like a shadow, its footsteps are silent in the rising sun.

It speaks to me with its vacant obsidian eyes, and pushes me to move forward and away.

Where are we supposed to go?

The grass continues to tickle my bare feet, my companion—soundless space.

The wind caresses my warm face, singing a lullaby that cusps raven strands into my ear, “It’s time for you to go home, little one.”

But I have no other home other than the small, dark corner I kept myself in.

When I peek behind the curtains, I almost stumble, as the heat of the orange sun sticks to our bodies.

Liquid drips down and stains the soil, goo melting off of the creature’s blackened skin, as splotches of pastel replace the muddy color.

10

WRITTEN BY HIRAYA VISUAL BY JULIANA MARIE G. CARPINTERO

Are you merely a shadow?

From afar, I can make out a strange shape—

“You’re almost there.”

The dancing daisies tell me in glee, swaying with the flow of the wind.

So I reach out for my companion and push ahead, our fingers intertwined.

At the edge of the field is a pair of swings, old and rusty.

I sit alongside the murky creature, the rough metal on my fingertips easing my soul.

It was our favorite spot.

The longer we stayed in place, the more the heat became unbearable.

Black liquid fully melts away from their body, leaving behind a face with an affectionate smile, from childhood playgrounds long forgotten.

The chains of the swings clink into place. deja vu— I once laughed here with you, till the early sun rose.

“Welcome home.” after a thousand years I hear your voice.

The darkness melts into the present, as your words taste like earth in my throat.

And as I surge forwards to hold you in my arms, you fade away from my very eyes, burning ever brighter, in the embers of our memories.

11

Prologue to a Children’s Book B

lack Rabbits, hot tea underneath summer, they hop and skip freshly out of cages, with their bronze clocks prefacing doomsday bombs.

The girl flickers through these candied pages; dreaming of dancing pictures and singsongs, and fancies escape across green stages.

This fellow, all charred and churned, waves the girl, “Come here, my little queen,” whispers Rabbit.

Oh! How strange must this all be in a whirl— something ‘neath this heat must be playing tricks or the tea, stale and bitter, her thoughts twirl.

Then her feet find speed through the garden’s mouth.

The girl’s breath staggered, Rabbit had its fun.

This chase spins her old world by its noses, winds dragging clouds through the pearly skies.

With time melting by the wilting roses, Rabbit sings of his home, a fantasy, opened once, then it forever closes.

“Hurry, little queen, your new tales await!”

This news surely brings delight to the girl, whose days were as empty as her estate.

For now, a land seeks her innocent name, greeting her by a massive, golden gate, to a twilight party beyond the grove.

Alas! Dead end appears by the dead tree, “Little majesty, care to jump with me?”

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WRITTEN BY LOU MARCIAL M. CUESTA VISUAL BY JANNA M. REMUS AND XIOMARA ANN B. MONDRAGON

13

l e a t y fafairy r i tale . f a i·

e ​t al · y r

|

er - ē \ ˈf

ˌ t āl \

noun

ce

fai·ry·​tale | \ ˈfer-ē-ˌtāl \ 1 : :a story for children set in imaginary lands, teeming with teeming with 1a a story for children set in imaginary lands, inexplicable forces and beings (such as unlimited wealth, inexplicable forces andlove, and fairies) beings (such as dwarves, requited requited // I fell into a wardrobe of fireworks, its rosebeds tell me to love, and goblins) stay on the right path. — somnum // enjoyed the fairy tale “The Little Mermaid” b : a story in which everything fits right in place and ends in a 2 : a fabricated telling usually designed to fool happy ending. // and as I surge forwards, you fade, in the embers of our // those balleticmemories. fairy tales invu. which our family danced in glee — deja — Alice | Hello future 2 : a made-up designed to delude 3 : a settingstory whereusually some orbit their beliefs from // Every single one of these good things will happen you, // and as I surge forwards, you fade,toin the embers of our for you and I will live. — “goodbye past.” memories. — deja vu. o:

e i l S

n

S ee a l s

Delusion

nightmare night·​mare | \ ˈnīt-ˌmer \

noun

1 : a malicious phantom thought to haunt people during slumber // 2 : a frightening dream that usually awakens the sleeper // 3 : something (such as an experience, situation, or object) having the monstrous character of a nightmare or producing a feeling of anxiety or terror

//

ARE YOU PREPARED, FOR THE UNRAVELING OF THE END?

14

m r a t h e g ni ​ma ni g ht ·

\ ˈ nī re |

t - ˌ me r \

1 : a malicious phantom thought to haunt and awaken people during slumber // I caught a glimpse of it. — jamais vu

2 : a reality in which everything you have sought to dream is instead filled with horror. // What once were gardens and greeneries, now only a burning wasteland — Epilogue to a Children’s Book 3 : a story that brings fear to life, tangible in all its glory // footfalls travel in hordes, bringing ashes to the land. — Reify

S ee

n o i s u l o: Il als

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ILLSTRATION BY ANA DOMINIQUE G. MANABAT AND JULIANA MARIE G. CARPINTERO

ILLUSTRATION BY ANA DOMINIQUE G. MANABAT AND JULIANA MARIE G. CARPINTERO

And behind her, the crowd roars like thunder.

Behind her trails her whirlwinds of story, worthy to be etched upon tapestry, hung in this golden palace in glory.

The girl—with blades sharper than the papers of her books—slayed the king in his fury.

And the citizens of this world had cheered over the cruel king of magick’s demise.

Even the Quite Quiet Painter promised her tale on canvas, twice the castle’s size.

Yet the girl laughs.

She wouldn’t meet such art; to home, Black Rabbits lead her— and her eyes.

Up the Rabbit Hole, gravity’s defied as the girl and Black Rabbit walk the walls when slivers of sunlight shower the roots from the dead tree’s base like a starlight fall.

The cheers of the countrymen from that place o’ wonder fade, bouncing through the dirt halls.

And as they reach the top, the girl laments: “‘Twas a delight to meet you and your hop!

And the friends I met and places I went, it’s a memory I shan’t ever drop!”

But Black Rabbit just stares with beady eyes colored ink, screeching: “This is your stop!”

He hops in fervor away from the girl, Who, unnerved, peeks past the dirt of the world —red.

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Not like a strawberry. Not like fruit.

But a red like blood. Or human anatomy.

Or a heart.

Skinned for all to witness.

And black—not like velvet or chocolate breaking against white teeth but smoke, finding home and deathbed in your lungs.

The sky before her— shaded like a deck of cards that she’ll never learn how to deal.

A sweet holler o’er her shoulder that would only reach, not wonderland, but oblivion.

The porcelain girl breaks through the crust of this ghastly ground finds the dead tree even deader and the dead end living up to its name.

No books or tea or the blanket they laid upon.

What once were gardens and greeneries, now only a burning wasteland did her once-fresh eyes meet —before settling upon a hunk of concrete hurtling through obsidian clouds like little girls through rabbit holes wishing there was something better at the end.

Epilogue to a Children’s Book WRITTEN BY FRANK AMPIL VISUAL BY JASON LEE J. PAMATI-AN AND STEPHANIE ANNE O. ALOLON

17

Mirage I breathe in the comfort of lush green meadows— a soothing balm to my aching resolve, with the mirth of people around reflected on the lake’s mirror.

A hero on a pedestal set by hailed conquerors, the very subject of both legend and song.

It was all I had stood for— and will continue to honor until my reign’s end.

As I come face to face with the crystalline surface, there did I truly see a mortal with no power— yet serves as a pillar of ageless strength.

Chasing the highs of my youth is my long-kept dream— for in that realm I have the means to surpass all that is known.

Beauty is an empty ornament.

Kindness a mere facade.

I shake these thoughts off— the glaring manifestation of this world’s laws.

The malevolent god who goads me into submission; injecting my spirit with bitter venom.

The harsh light of divine judgment impose a stark reminder of what I once was.

A transient soul flitting about; thrust into uncharted waters— made to fulfill a purpose greater than myself.

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WRITTEN BY KAILAH MAY PACENO VISUAL BY ANDREA KIRSTIN D. RAMIREZ

Courage is a lie they expect you to pin your hopes on.

I am merely a hummingbird in a gilded cage— dreaming too much, dreaming aloud with my stained glass heart and clipped wings.

This room’s ceiling, adorned by pasted stars and a paper moon unveiled the grand curtains of existence.

Thus, did I exhale with yearning— an end to my lakeside reverie.

Be that as it may, I am still the owner of this tale I have spun.

True love shall stem from one’s self.

My own demons and dragons will be conquered— a testament of noble creed.

As a knight to champion the cause, though the armor may not be spotless— it is steel all the same.

Tempered by adversity, hardening my grit.

Up until the sand in this hourglass stops, chivalry is alive— and lives in me.

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Reify As the smell of freshly cut grass wafts through my nose, I lie in the breeze of the wind and the lapping of the current against the rocks making me wistful.

Blades of green grazing my skin reminds me of when I would seek comfort in these pastures.

Away from the blinding flashes of cameras and under the rays of the sun on my face.

Away from pedestals to look down on people and into lakeside reflections.

Away from being the subject of both legend and song and becoming the teller of stories and a player of tunes.

Raised to take after my kin made immortal by power.

Whose footfalls cause tremors and have countries on their knees.

Whose voices can melt steel.

Whose heat are felt through the clay of statues erected for them.

Beauty is an all-encompassing adornment.

Kindness is a wholesome rarity.

As I bend over the pool, these are the thoughts I have traveled realms to search for

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WRITTEN BY AQUILINA VISUAL BY TIMOTHEE RAMON S. CONSING

with strength that surpassed the unknown.

Memories flowing through me and into the water.

With my every entrance, crowds erupt in cheers and no longer fear for the blood of their kin I can taint my hands with.

The stories I told handed over to generations and the tunes I played healed their sick.

Courage is the truth I can pin my hopes on.

I once was a hummingbird in a gilded cage.

Now I am an eagle who spread my wings.

No longer dreaming too much or aloud, instead living the fantasies.

Enjoying the tales I tell and the music I make.

True love may stem from loving others when I can’t love myself.

Both my demons and dragons have been conquered— by the conqueror in me whose footfalls travel in hordes, bringing ashes to the land.

Whose voice molds steel.

Whose presence not made into clay, but knitted into tapestries spreading blazes for all.

21

“hello future,”

22

WRITTEN BY AURORA VISUALS BY JOSEPH BRYANT J. DE LOS SANTOS

She walked through the stony path as a man’s jarring voice became muffled with every step. Murky clouds replaced the once golden yellow sky. The man’s voice rose with the harsh winds that tugged the wooden bucket towards the direction of her home. She winces before tightening her grip and continuing to tread towards their backyard until she reaches her destination—the water well.

Leaning into the rough walls of the well, she hurriedly ties the container to the rope and warily lowers it. Her eyes followed as it sank into gloomy waters—a black hole that swallowed anything to come near it—until the only trace left of the bucket was the sturdy rope in her hands.

As the piece of wood sinks to the bottom, she was soon going to be devoured, too.

The water was ruthless. It wasn’t her companion.

Refusing to let her mind wander any further, the girl hastily pulls the back up for her thoughts to be quickly replaced by the sight of a bag. How did that get there? She tucks the wet, unknown item into her skirt before lowering the container once again to fill it to the brim. She had to worry about the contents of it later.

With both hands hugging the bucket against her chest, she takes the longest strides her frail legs would allow. By the time she reached the door of their cottage, the sky had turned completely dark, allowing the moon to cast shadows upon the isolated town.

ce

She takes a deep breath, and finally, opens the door.

.

n

e i l S

23

“Dad went to buy fish at the town market and Mom is inside the bathroom. She said you could leave the bucket by the door.” her brother whispers softly. She pats his head in gratitude and heads in the direction of the bathroom.

The girl knocks gently before speaking, “M-mom, the water is here.”

“Finally! What took you so long?! I only asked you to fetch water and you can’t even do that without taking so much time!”

“I’m sorry...”

A loud click of a tongue was heard through the door and the girl took that as a sign to leave. Her breathing chases itself as she scurries to their shared room, immediately grabbing the brown paper bag on her bed and breathing into it. It’s fine, you’re fine.

Her pocket seemed bottomless as she tried to reach for the pouch, hoping that it would distract her.

An envelope was placed in the bag and inside it was a slightly damp parchment paper with someone’s handwriting. The ink was smudged by the water, some letters fading and turning a lighter color.

To little Alice, I won’t ask how you are doing, for I know how you are.

There were some nights when you cried yourself to sleep, hoping the blanket would mask the whimpers and sobs. Other times when you ran out of tears to cry and so you lie awake—forced to listen to thoughts that become louder in the somber silence.

Then came that day when you suddenly started gasping for air, breathing rapidly through the painful throbbing in your chest. Oddly enough, the exact opposite would happen the next morning—too much air entering your lungs and you try to convince yourself, “Just one more day.”

I know everything.

All the deafening voices, the dark colors staining your skin, and you flinching at the smallest noise. They tell you it’s for your own good, that the outside world is far too cruel for them to leave you innocent and untainted.

Once you did realize, you couldn’t build the courage and bring yourself to ask for help, fear clawing at your stomach from the thought of losing the only people you ever cared for. Nor did you have the friends to confide in, being taught that, besides your family, all the other people you love will eventually betray and leave you.

So you will continue to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders like Atlas, thinking about your younger siblings who barely understood how the world worked.

You were once like them and you didn’t want them to end up like you—left on your knees as you spend the rest of your days bearing everything on frail knees.

You resented yourself for doing so, of how cowardly your decision was.

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“hello, future” part i of ii

“goodbye past.”

by Aurora

WRITTEN BY SHELIAN VISUAL BY JEWEL IRISH S. BELASCUAIN

25

But when I look back at you, I see a strong young girl who endured and persevered.

The past bore memories of static shouts, words uttered in thunderous frequencies while your very arms comforted your body painted in blues and violets. Back then, those memories lived in a home built out of hurt and you endured what you weren’t supposed to—for none of that was deserved by anyone. Sometimes your thoughts narrate that maybe you were the reason for the words that pierced your skin like a knife, and the hands that stained your skin with hurtful colors.

But you didn’t hold the knife, and those hands weren’t yours.

The wrongdoings of your parents aren’t yours to carry. They are not excused for carrying their own bucket of hurt and pouring it onto their children. They were and still are: wrong.

What they did deserve consequences.

I want you to know that the blame isn’t yours when they screamed in handcuffs, and that your choice was right when you asked for help and unlocked your heart. You helped yourself and your siblings be freed from a life of terror. Remember that a life of happiness can be chosen, and there is always a path outside darker things.

If I were to share something about myself, it would be that I am healing. You take your time to heal, so do not treat it as a race. I began to unwrap my heart and soul to those who truly cared for me, for they are like a fresh spring devoid of any toxicity. I also learned to love my own being, down to the very core of my soul. I feel: happiness, freedom, love—and I always sense the faint hint of joy in every passing day. I’m not lonely, not alone. I have people who care, truly. My siblings—they’re happy as well. We’re healing together, supporting each other. They grew up so fast, you know? I found a passion, an everyday I look forward to. I fit with the people I am with, as if we were all made in a set.

Maybe I’ll even have romantic endeavors someday, who knows?

I know it all seems like some alternate reality, a too-good-to-be-true fairy tale, but believe it. You’ll see soon enough. You’ll be able to live it. Every single one of these good things will happen to you, for you and I will.

Sincerely, Alice, from a happier time

26

With the last stroke of ink, her letter was finished. Delicately, she folded and secured it inside the spaces of the envelope, next to the zip-lock she prepared for good measure. She stared at it for a while, unable to perceive her thoughts which fluttered and settled through the once blank paper. The woman found herself smiling. It was as if her heart had been emptied of all its excess baggage, and her shoulders were no longer affected by double the gravity even when she arrived at the setting.

The well looks as if it took camouflage amongst the earth. Vines and moss slithered around it. Still—to the woman, in spite of the withered scenery, it looked the same as it did all those years ago. Carefully, she found herself walking, each step heavier than all those buckets she carried from the abyssal body of water. She approached with a peek, but it was enough for the memories at the back of her mind to take the lead.

The water still reflected what the sky presents, and this time it was the color of pastel blue and messy cotton white. The woman had never found something more beautiful, even after all these long years. She felt the splitting of her heart—present’s excitement and past’s dread—when she thought back to those years, of how people masked and covered encompassing the yard of their cottage—it’s as if the small space was rained upon by the heavens and was the only known place of peace when she was younger.

The water is tender. It’s good. A companion.

Though the beauty of the well entranced her, it was not the reason she came here today. For years she did not step a foot near this place, but it was now the time.

The woman exhaled a breath, “It was not easy coming back here, but here I am. I will no longer be afraid of you. I’m healing—slowly and taking time—but still healing.”

She rummaged through her purse, and in her hand was an envelope safely tucked inside a zip-lock bag. She held it, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. With care, she reached out to the wooden bucket that hung by the well, and put the envelope inside it. She gave the rope connected to it a slight tug, afraid that even the wispy weight of the paper might break it. Finally at ease, she guided the bucket deeper into the well.

The bucket and liquid met each other with a splash. Water seeped through; soaking the waterproof bag, but not a single drop touched the parchment that lay inside. Instead, it was as if the words knew that the water would be unable to reach them, so they escaped through the tiniest cracks. They rode the pattern; ink mixing with fresh water until it was corrupted, streaming through the almost endless pit of earth the well marked above.

“I hope the message follows the water’s flow, and arrives in your hands.”

Hazily—unclear from being muddled because of the water’s roughness—the ink began to form words.

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ARE YOU PREPARED, FOR THE END’S UNRAVELING?

KAPAWA A.Y. 2021-2022 THE OFFICIAL ENGLISH STUDENT PUBLICATION OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ST. LA SALLE - SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL LOU MARCIAL M. CUESTA | EDITOR-IN-CHIEF JEWEL IRISH S. BELASCUAIN | ASSOCIATE EDITOR NICOLE FRANCES H. SAZON | MANAGING EDITOR ANGELI M. GEROSO | NEWS EDITOR FRANCIS EXEQUIEL P. AMPIL | FEATURE EDITOR GIOLLAN HENRY P. DEMAULO | SPORTS EDITOR RYAN A. RODRIGUEZ | LITERARY EDITOR JOSEPH BRYANT J. DE LOS SANTOS | LAYOUT, GRAPHICS, AND PHOTOS EDITOR ANA DOMINIQUE G. MANABAT | CREATIVE LAYOUT EDITOR LEON EMANUEL E. ADVINCULA | ASST. EDITOR-IN-CHIEF KYLE LENARD A. MANGUBAT | ASST. ASSOCIATE EDITOR THERESE MARIETTE P. ROSOS | ASST. MANAGING EDITOR SOPHIA NICOLE C. DAYAO | ASST. NEWS EDITOR PRIMA YSABELA S. ARCIAGA | ASST. FEATURE EDITOR JULLIANA RENEE S. OGAPONG | ASST. SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY EDITOR SEAN CARLO O. SAMONTE | ASST. SPORTS EDITOR OONA MARIA AQUILINA C. OQUINDO | ASST. LITERARY EDITOR MA. AVRILLE MARQUIELA C. LORAÑA | ASST. LAYOUT, GRAPHICS, AND PHOTOS EDITOR CLAIRE DENISE S. CHUA | ASST. CREATIVE LAYOUT EDITOR VINZ ANDREW S. CORESIS ANNA SOPHIA C. GALZOTE MELISSA E. GEQUILLANA SAM HERVEY T. SABORDO NEWS WRITERS ASHGAN AL RAYEH MOH’D IDREES B. BKHEET RYBA ANGELA N. MODERACION SPORTS WRITERS PAUL GABRIELLE T. CORRAL ZAMANTHA ZAYNN J. CHIEFE MILES U. GUANCIA KIRSTEN ANN G. LIMOSNERO MARIA MIKAELA H. TORMON FEATURE WRITERS ANGELA MARIE N. AMODIA AIKKA HEART L. DAVID GEORGE MARGAUX M. GITANO ALTHEA D. MARIJANA KAILAH MAY T. PACENO KYLE BRYAN T. PALPARAN MARIE SHELLA ANN G. PATIGAS LITERARY WRITERS

JEWELYN L. LIBERATO SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY WRITER ANDREA KIRSTIN D. RAMIREZ LAY-OUT ARTIST PATRICIA THERESE FLORENCE M. ALONSO JULIANA MARIE G. CARPINTERO DENISE D. LOJARES JASON LEE J. PAMATI-AN JANNA M. REMUS ILLUSTRATORS STEPHANIE ANNE O. ALOLON TIMOTHEE RAMON S. CONSING XIOMARA ANN B. MONDRAGON PHOTOJOURNALISTS

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MINIMENTO