A Slice of Life: An Anthology

A SliceLife of an anthology

A

SliceLife of

anthology

A Slice of Life

© All rights reserved.

This anthology is a work of fiction. The contents, characters, places, and events that resemble actual people, names, locales, and happenings are either coincidental or the outcome of the writer’s imagination, and is used in a fictitious manner.

LITERARY EDITOR WRITERS

Oona Maria Aquilina C. Oquindo

Pearl Princess F. Carnaje Krisya Jdulya J. Horvidalla Jewelyn L. Liberato Kyle Lenard A. Mangubat Jose Paolo P. Parroco Leo Benedict A. Ramos Therese Mariette P. Rosos

ILLUSTRATORS COVER LAYOUT

Jose Paolo P. Parroco Kyle Lenard A. Mangubat

Kyle Lenard A. Mangubat Jose Paolo P. Parroco

Kyle Lenard A. Mangubat

visualbyKyleMangubat

FOREWORD

Stages of life are turned like pages of a book. Each chapter is a new beginning, a new hope for a difference—for growth. The people who fade in and out are characters whom we get attached to—like thread being sewn together to make a tapestry. These tapestries become memories we treasure and hope to never forget. We hang them as decorations on walls, doors, floors; like memories played on a loop when we need nurturing.

Sometimes, these tapestries get ruined—a hole here and there, fabrics having a loose thread, the fading of colors—all a symbolism of how life we can be devoid of people, of our attachments and detachments, and loss of interest. Whatever emotions these experiences evoke in us—love, lust, anger, fear are all fragments of life necessary for growth.

To love and be loved is the number one thing humans care to look for the most. There is a love that grows in our chest: flowing through our veins to spread to our

fingertips when we hold hands with another, until we let that love foster for them—endless touching, glances, words inspired by them. There is a love that lives inside of you, with nowhere to grow. You pour it for others, but realize in the end it’s you who needs the watering.

With every goodbye, comes a new era of life—new people, but the memory of before remains. The transitioning phase focuses on the facet of life; of what is and could be. To feel all these emotions and experiences getting us out of our comfort zones and feeds us with new energy to begin again and treasure life as it—as it will be.

Oona Maria Aquilina C. Oquindo

POETRY

Stanzas fill the space our memories do not fit into, letters twirling and swirling unto each other as they form words into the personified poetry that you are.

The New City Girl. byAya

With the new wind that touches her skin, she wanders as everything seems new, walking around the town she’s never been, her bewildered bright face becomes blue.

The image of her town still lingering around, the smell of grass and the calm humming of the wind, was different from what she was bound, to the place she never imagined to be in.

To the city where bright lights twinkle, different sounds that awakes the soul, she wanders as she starts anew, to reach upon her goal.

Dawn of love bylesy

petals unfold

from a delicate flower, closer to be picked with each hour, losing the I and acquire an us

Once you were my sunflower

byshimmeringgems

visualbyKyleMangubat

Anencounter

Have you ever seen someone as blunt as me?

That mysterious light that drew the dandelion away Out of its familiar senses

Like you are entangled in my garden

Whispering and blooming in the sunlit rooms

I fall for you when Autumn began

My heart blooms when summer subsist

We babble and giggle as we sit on the sand

Waiting for the sun to set Is this for a lifetime?

Amemory

I recall our high in hues, like how I stare at you as the sun sets Your hands fitting in mine

While having that brightest smile

I remember the agony in your shadows, that loomed that day Yet, I hold on when you told me that you would never wither away Despite knowing that you won’t be here for long We still choose to exist rejoicing our brightest days

Goodbyesandrealizations

Suddenly, you were the desert and I am verdant Becoming a redolent rebel flower

A sweet sunflower

Till I realize

I am feeling the spine and thorns within You are the only one who can be in the barren

And I withhold to water your wilderness

My healthy garden cannot become a wasteland

You were just once who bloomed, then suddenly wilted

I tried, but I cannot tell the disparity

Whether you are still the marigold that shines within Am I just blind?

Or I did not see and loved the light

So, why should I continue to water the wilted sunflower?

When you finally find found another

it ends, it starts bySiopao

Goodbyes, they ache me, but every end comes to bloom. Bittersweet they are.

Memories bleeding in ink, next time I'll bid you goodbye, and never let go.

visualbyPaoloParroco

Pens or Health

bytheCollective

C - onstant deadlines plaguing the screen, he stumbles towards the kitchen for a late night snack in his 11th break.

R - elishing a cup of coffee, seated at the countertop— a kick of caffeine over a heavy and drowsy system.

E - nervation creeps along his skin and bones— its surge bursting into his crippling carcass.

A - nd the sudden gasp for air whelms him as he observes the void's emptiness.

T - ruth be told as the quotidian hues flicker from dusk till dawn.

I - magine a life of a student in fatigue and progress; V - ersatile and persistent— yet above all, E - xceptionally endless.

Lonely Bones byLeo

Oh lonely bone, nothing more but a fragile soul, whose happiness is torn by a sharp thorn

disco: diversion bykhaiatus

right in that alley where this tale commenced— where each eve is engulfed by swelter and chill where moments melt into searing sensations where euphoria kindled in star sparks blast.

in soul stirs we relish every single twilight— with boisterous chatters rising to a crescendo with reeks of firewater wafting to and fro with the fleeting fete besotting the depths of my being.

i was incarcerated in the whiff of moonshine— while a hasty smooch brushed against my lips while flashes of light starts to pierce my vision while my core is sunken in daze of delirium.

yet aurora comes with a frigid knock against my door— when nocturnal sultriness turn blank and cold when mind’s oblivion of what was, blows in when—out of allisnothing … but only a bliss’ fleeting.

The Dichotomy of Right and Wrong

byAquilina

The waves lapping at the shore lull me to sleep.

When I wake, I am met with hair that shines in the moonlight and radiates warmth in the briskness of the evening. Her voice doesn’t stop at my ears but reverberates through my chest.

“Welcome, Clementine,” She sirens behind me.

Images followed her motion as my head did, different scenarios of the same person I couldn’t put my finger on.

One is of a girl by a door, watching a man run after a woman to the edge of the stairs. Her fear surges through me, making my stomach churn and my chest constrict.

Yet that doesn’t stop me from taking a closer step.

She had eyes that smiled when her lips did, but where a tide of calm should recede—ebbs a sadness.

As if they bore the weight of Atlas and would rather collapse beneath it than carry any more.

My head turns to the voice.

“Do you remember her?”

I didn’t trust my voice to speak, so I nodded.

The reel of memories continues.

The girl grows up, plagued by ghosts of her childhood. The chase by the end of the stairs. The roars of the man and the wails of the woman. The mess of flour on the floor and their faces. Their laughter echoed the walls of the house when baking in the kitchen. I think what she finds the most unsettling is she’s given a glimpse of what a normal life looks like. She wishes she didn’t because maybe she could hate them both without regret.

She’s eighteen now.

Eyes that once contained sadness, flashed with anger with every wrong thing she nitpicks her colleagues on.

A r i p p l e cuts across the scene. It’s of the same girl in the same setting. Instead of feelinga rage inside of me, I feel a kindness. This version of the girl treats the world more gently. In a scene of her advising colleagues towards a better work condition. Simple and mundane, but she looks at it longingly.

The deity ends the storyline.

“How does it feel to let kindness manifest in you instead of anger?”

50 Shades of Pain

byKasumi

She saw the calm hue of her existence destroyed, quiet as she mourned the raging seas. The ocean remains at peace, unruffled in its own ways, mirrored in his eyes of tears and dread.

She felt the wind biting her skin, thoughts drowning her in the silence. Blase frost nips the robins of December, and wintertime has the bucolic streep.

Pay attention to the rustling sounds, the echoes of words left unsaid. Needless to say the least, entered the stream of guilt.

At last, arrived the pinnacle of an end. There and now, he bid farewell. All and sundry reconciled, But never will they coalesce again.

She saw the calm hue of her existence destroyed, quiet as she mourned the raging seas. The ocean remains at peace, unruffled in its own ways, alone, her eyes filled with tears and dread.

SHORT STORIES

visualbyPaoloParroco

As the paragraphs travel l o n g e r than you and I could have been, it extends to another and fades into space.

Clementine (i.)

byKasumi

(2001)

I hate it.

The smell of pumpkin spice dashing through the oxygenated specter in my room. I hate it.

It reminds me of a time when I had to cover myself in the solace of a lover, friend, stranger—drenched in droplets of water coming from a shed downtown. No matter the affliction, I grew fond of that feeling . . .

Anon to reality, silk sheets beneath my body gradually wraps me in delight and grief. Closeyoureyesshut,Clementine.

Attempting to kill my conscience was one thing, but this—the atrocity of living in an umbrella, glorifying the bygones I long to escape from my memory—is too much.

There it was again. I sense a vermilion hue of reminisce rushing back to my memoir. Please, let me consign them to oblivion. Ibegyou.

The depiction of fallen leaves in an eerie setting visits my esse. Riding cadillacs in the warmth of October, buzzcut season you could not fathom to miss, and the smell of a notable fragrance diluted in my nostrils. How could I possibly forget when they don’t even understand. Theyneverunderstand.

(1997)

“Clementine.”

It reminds me of fall all over again. God knows being sixteen is like swimming in shallowwater.If—andonlyif—they’dunderstand.

Whilst the screeching beam of light serenades my vision, I can’t help but be under the impression of what happened.

Silly. It was just a phase. An indelible one, in fact.

It’s not like the world is caving in.

Winter. bykhaiatus

Wintersingsofamelody…

Of ice-freckled clouds melting into snowflakes—her regal voice indulges me with the aroma of chilly breeze while her fingers dance upon the strings of the harp.

Sheisthefrigidhue.

The melancholy that runs through the fabric of my skin and reminds me of the arctic seas—with its waves fidgeting by the motion of the gusting wind as it stretches into the toes of heaven.

She tells me of nostalgic literature as we waltzed along words dripping like inksofmemories.

The poetry of cloudy skies and the trickling teardrops of May—to the pattering sound of raindrops tapping on my window whilst my eyes are glued onto a book of searing catharsis.

Sheistheproseofsorrow.

A familiar feeling every time my heart is shot with burning arrows and would end up like the sun’s remains and cinders as it succumbs to the murks of twilight. The torn fabric of my flesh needing to be stitched whole again. This color of Winter—one that alone can perfectly paint every version of me, one that I’ll always run a thousand miles for, one that fascinates these eyes as she gleams like the disco ball braving dimensions no one dares to explore.

Sheisstar-sheathednightsky.

With her cold touch that weakens the heat under my skin. And the delicate caress of mint upon my lips as she caught it. Whilst her eyes are that of a sunless horizon, trudging upon her layers brings about the dawn breaking in her soul—the side of Winter whose brims of her lips curves like the crescent—with zephyr drifting into her ice-banded strands.

Who? byLeo

You keep on looking at passionate geese who are writing at ease—humbled I peer the night sky—pitch-black, star-sprawled. The passion he holds and a heavy heart. Beauty will I be fully pleased.

Drops heavily pour down wood-made, the dark print leaks—translucent

He breathes, the tiger slows. Bushes of poppies and roses, and thorns prickly–a double edged sword. The shallow night brims through the surface colder, “will this be mine?” It settled down hastily, tranquil—now it went by so fast.

Glamorous birds chirping with glittering souls. Sounds which irk, the blistering wind blows, wonder fills the world. How lucky the notes have flushed a hurricane. The calamity that birth stars of their dozen hearts,

a song.

He sings, a chimpanzee with hands at behind. You don’t flow like the waves. It makes the world unknown and will blossom—the brownish figure bereft from burst of colors.

Old Mcdonald had a farm limpingly, an arm grasped. Muddy boots and shackles of hope “Isingforyouall”E,I,E,I,O

His eyes, full of life–the swan dives, under he goes and gone for a night. Came back with a gritty face all puffed up. I’ll admire you forever in a Night’s day, my love.

There the farmer sang his swan song. Swans flew in dazzling grace. Animals were all over the place. You do not bear bears but peer the pears.

“K, what are you doing here?” It’s him the voice that calls. My K that doesn’t hold back at all. All living things are his. I am his, maybe, yes, and yes.

The smoke covers the sky. But the light will always fall. The stars of million—billion of sheep flow through the desert of blue. The Hundred of hundreds until the end—red.

Safe Haven

byJewelynLiberato

Birds chirping, butterflies fluttering, and people falling head over heels in love are all clichés of springtime. Individuals distinguish seasons and count days—they keep defining what it means to be in love. Just like the buzzing leaves drifting into my lush green surroundings, the threshold was set in place long before spring.

Him

Sweet sorrow, you've had so many aficionados that you start to lose old memories of the things that make being in love so special.

This notion that you should hold onto and think you need to recover it in order to be saved is foolish. Then, yet another evening, something appeared out of the moon's quiescent rays. You come across her.

A woman who is bright and adventurous.

A charismatic, passionate, and life-hungry individual.

To start from within, you take her—or rather, she takes you—into her and your upbringing.

And this time, as you do, your old existence is crushed and you are brought back to life.

Her

You.

You smiled while wearing agony and howled misery in silence.

But, you have always reminded me that someone near me is as beautiful as the flowers blossoming into summertime.

A first love—people either fall in love when they are too young or when they are too old. That peculiar being allows somebody to experience love for the first time in a dramatic and unique way. The feelings for that person are wild and unrestrained. It reaches throughout the planet's surface, just like the atmosphere surrounding you, and it doesn't leave anything unexplored. One carries that love around with them like a dazzling and scorching beam of light, a direct line running parallel to one’s heart and his.

Him

You cut her some slack and cherish her. This exceptional woman almost rescued you. You give praise to her for shaping you. You extend your gratefulness to her for keeping your toes. It's funny how quickly you'll quit paying attention to her. You went back after you took refuge in her. Along with the rest of them—in your memory.

Her

I realize it now, but I wish I had known that back then. Perhaps, my love was too huge a painting to fit into the frame of your existence. Perhaps, my moonlight was too dazzling for your evenings.

And it always goes like this: first love is not certainly unconditional love.

Our fall ushered in the start of a rewarding relationship with myself—I guarantee it.

It could just be that humans are mostly at the periphery of their own little galaxies, and when they collide with other people's, a fraction of it is altered—the encounters have the potential to destroy, enhance, and mold people. Maybe most people are all yearning for another cosmos to collide with theirs and change things that they can't just change on their own. It's fascinating how we realize the storm has passed us by while pleading to Divinity to stop us from confronting any conundrums, but we now see the constellations in a better perspective, and folks may not know, and can't choose for whom the blaze would do this for anyone.

Dearly Beloved

bySiopao

To you my favorite treasure—one who wears the songs of blooming spring within the garden, what can I do to make you happy?

Will you hold my hand as I sing a melody for you? Or write a letter spelling the words of my enchantment with you? Have you ever wondered how beautiful you are? Look, in these eyes of mine, there is a brilliant light—guiding you safely in and out of the harbor.

A lighthouse that shines over the quiet sea. Yet, in the midst of the roaring waves, how I wish that I knew—what makes you see this dirty little boat so special?

Beautiful, I want you to know, that this author loves you so. Let me be your shelter like how you’ve been for me. Wherever you go and whatever you do—I’ll always be there, giving you a shoulder to lean on and hands to wipe the tears that fall.

Did you know?

When you appear in the places that I grew bitter, I learn to adore once more. You break down walls and replace them with fences, protecting me from the simplest things, and opens with a warm greeting.

In no time when we see each other, I pray to see the smile on your face. I beg the Lord to bring aid for the angel I love, so that even if I’m not by your side, at least someone will watch over you to be safe and sound.

As I run out of ink, I hope these loving words will find their way into your heart.

And as I promised my dearly beloved, with all my heart and all my soul.

An everlasting, mahal na mahal kita.

Contrasting Lives

thepleasantsmellofgrass,thechirpingofbirdsthatplaymusicinmyears,andthe peaceful blow of wind reminiscing about how the countryside would comfort me every time. In contrast to the loud atmosphere of city life. The air filled with noise and the smell of smoke coming from vehicles of people driving during the rush hour could never compare to the fresh smell of the farmlands.

it’soppositetothestreetsfilledwithcomplexpeople,andIcan'tsomehowfit in the choking feeling of seeing all the people go left and right in the city. The unnerving feeling of not knowing where to go. The simple and easy life of the countryside is one of the things I miss.

IthasbeenawhilesinceIfeltthislongingfeeling,however,ImusttrytoresistI always wonder what life would turn out to be if I did not come here. The feeling of longing is strong but I must remember why I came here, for my aspirations and dreams.

IcannotdenythatIindeedmiss,thisfeelingfilledwithreminiscedAs much I miss my old life, I have grown to adapt to the city life. I have become a different person may it be for the better or not, I have changed.

Although life is completely different, I have learned how to adjust It's been a while since I arrived in the city, opportunities aren’t scarce although competitions are many. Doing everything I could to never let my parents down, at the same time, new experiences welcomed me and made me who I am today.

Whenyoureachadulthood,it'slikearollercoasterride,itsfunbutwillallthefuss seatbelt on and head leaning back during the smooth parts, but bracing myself for the bumpy parts to come

The Earth Wrote Poetry in the Form of You

byAquilina

Poetryhasalwayscomeeasytome.

The way my words can slot into each other like the embrace of my grandmother.

How easily ideas flow from me like waves on sand.

As if I am meant to be a poet to bleed poetry from ink on paper.

Poetryhascomeeasytome.

It’s letters scribbled into each other–spaces filled with emotions only ink can express.

When I met you, I was taken aback with how your eyes could tell of many stories I thought can only be found between pages.

The sound of your laughter engraved in my brain like the sound of a pen on paper.

And I take pleasure in how your scent brings me comfort the same way the smell of a new book does.

Poetrycametome.

Your words can tame the wild way my heart beats, radiating a warmth in the briskness of the evening I thought I could feel only in scenes in the books I have read.

Your arms a solace when I feel like retreating into a different world With the lightest touch, your skin velvet against mine,

I have found poetry that no poet is capable of writing.

byKasumi

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Behind this literary magnum opus is a constellation of brilliant creatives who poured a cathartic ounce of effort, artistry, and tangible vision that collectively weaved the tapestry of this anthology—for the universe to behold. And we acknowledge them, for they are truly the essential ingredients in the sliceoflife.

To Krisya. For a piece that ventures beyond the comfort zone to seek new experiences.

To Leo. For a piece that expressed a love that transcends distance.

To Jewelyn. For a piece about a light to expose the unhealed layers to stay true to yourself.

To Kyle and Paolo. For pieces of exploration of what is and could be and memories that will linger for a lifetime. For illustrations that captured the words of the writers.

To Pearl. For a piece that went from yourself to another.

To Therese. For bringing Clementine to life—relating her experiences to all of ours and letting it foster into this beautiful anthology.

To Miss Van. For the unending support and encouragement that your students can do whatever their hearts desire and more.