Malate Literary Folio Tomo XXXVI Bilang 3

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO Tomo XXXVI Bilang 3 Karapatang-ari © 2021

A

ng Malate Literary Folio ang opisyal na publikasyon ng sining at panitikan ng Pamantasang De La Salle - Manila, sa ilalim ng awtoridad ng Student Media Office (SMO).

Ang mga komento at mungkahi ay maaaring ipahatid sa:

E-mail address: mlf@dlsu.edu.ph Website: issuu.com/malatelitfolio Facebook: fb.com/malateliteraryfolio Twitter: @malatelitfolio Instagram: @malatelitfolio 503-Media House, Bro. Connon Hall, De La Salle University-Manila, 2401 Taft Avenue, Malate, Manila.

Nananatili sa indibidwal na may-akda o may-dibuho ang karapatangari ng bawat piyesang ipinalimbag dito. Hindi maaaring ipalathala muli o gamitin sa anumang paraan ang alin man sa mga nilalaman nang walang karampatang pahintulot ng may-akda o may-dibuho Ang tomong ito ay hindi ipinagbibili.

Ang pabalat ay likha ni Kyle Noel Ibarra at Cielo Marie Vicencio Ang layout ng folio ay disenyo ni Adia Pauline Lim

MALATE LITERARY LITERARY FOLIO MALATE FOLIO

TOMO XXXVI BILANG 3

AGOSTO 2021

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TOMO XXXVI

BILANG 3

Malate Literary Folio

INTRODUKSIYON

T

here will always be things that are unavoidable. Death, loss, taxes. Time. These are things you can never run away from, though you can try.

There will always be things that will leave you. People, memories, money. Time. These are things you can never hold on to, though you can try.

But there are also things that will always remain. Remnants, signs, ghosts. Time. These are things that will continue to linger. These are things that can’t help but haunt. These serve as reminders, sometimes for things left unfinished. Sometimes for things that refuse to be forgotten, or left behind.

Some things are persistent. It doesn’t always have to be a bad thing. It might even be a sign to look harder. To reach back.

There could be things that you might have missed.

In this issue of Malate Literary Folio, let us take a moment to think about what has been buried. We invite our readers to look twice at what has passed, and uncover the things that remain.

PAULA BIANCA MARAÑA Punong Patnugot i

pa ni mu la

Nilalaman

ni la la ma n

Introduksiyon

Prosa

i

The Cremation at Saint Hartford Daniel Ricardo Evangelista

1

Gulong Margarita Christalyn Cortez

17

Bourginion Lynette Marie Ang

28

The best medicine Aleena Marie Concepcion

27

Tula

Leaping

Arvir Jane Redondo

50

Retrato Metanoia

Sean Xavier Nieva

15

Bisita

Therese Diane Villanueva

26

Sining

Band Aid Zine

Jamie Shekinah Mapa

Pasasalamat

32

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PATNUGUTAN Paula Bianca Maraña Punong Patnugot Querix Keershyne Recalde Tagapamahalang Patnugot

MGA SENYOR NA PATNUGOT Maria Gabrielle Galang Philippe Bernard Cabal Cheyenne Grace Espiritu Ninian Patrick Sayoc

Francis D’Angelo Mina Patnugot ng Prosa Christine Autor Patnugot ng Tula Cielo Marie Vicencio Patnugot ng Sining Kyle Noel Ibarra Patnugot ng Retrato Chaunne-Ira Masongsong Tagapamahala ng Marketing at Events Van Rien Jude Espiritu Tagapamahala ng Pagmamay-ari Adia Pauline Lim Tagapamahala ng Layout

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Beatrice Julia Triñanes Armando Miguel Valdes

MGA TAGAPAYO Dr. Mesandel Arguelles Mr. Vijae Alquisola

STUDENT MEDIA OFFICE Franz Louise Santos Director Jeanne Marie Tan Coordinator Ma. Manuela Agdeppa SECRETARY

Prosa Mary Joy Abalos Lynette Marie Ang Jeremy Dale Coronia Margarita Christalyn Cortez

Tula Ana Angeli Atok Claire Madison Chua Aleena Marie Concepcion Adrian Neil Holgado

Nikki Elisha Elquiero

Moses Isaiah Ojera

Daniel Ricardo Evangelista

Christian Paculanan

Jihan Marie Ferrer

Vince Gerard Victoria

Cathleen Jane Madrid

Christian Jeo Talaguit

Guion Lorenzo Castro

Sining Francesca Therese Baltasar Pablo Mulawin Casanova Marinel Angeline Dizon Elijah Nicolas Ferrera Matthew Rafael Florendo Kathleen Nicole Garay

KA SA PI

Ryann Ting Juliah Faye Dela Vega Lorenzo Manuel Villaluna

Retrato Isabella Alexandra Bernal Alexander Flores Benedict Lim Nigelle Jorgia Lousie Lim

Adair Nevan Holgado

Sean Xavier Nieva

Phoebe Danielle Joco

Brandon Kyle Pecson

Jamie Shekinah Mapa

José Isabel Rea

Thea Enrica Ongchua

Therese Diane Villanueva

Bea Mira So Dana Beatrice Tan

Marketing & Events Elijah Barongan Jan Magcaling Daniela Racaza

k a a s pi

Arvir Jane Redondo Isabella Tuason Dominique Yap v

Tomo XXXVI Bilang 3

TOMO XXXVI

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Malate Literary Folio

B IL A N G 3

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Tomo XXXVI Bilang 3

DANIEL RICARDO EVANGELISTA

The Cremation of Saint Haford

“…So, you’re saying that everyone in Saint Haford was just gone by the time you arrived?

The voice from the radio was choppy.

“Yes, sir, cross my heart and hope ‘ta die. By the time the fog cleared, me an’ my boys were too late: the town was empty. Like God himself plucked those poor bastards right where they stood.”

“And what exactly was this fog, Sheriff Hardin?”

“Nobody knows, son. Now, I grew up in Haford, so I know fo’ a fact that I’m correct if I say that I knew that we were goin’ the right way, but we were in that fog fo’ hours. Couldn’t see anything past muh hands.”

“But that’s impossible. There’s no way you wouldn’t reach Haford in time if you were going the right way. Hell, someone at Haford called the State Police” “Son, people have been telling me that back when ‘ya were still a jiggle in ya pop’s sack. I know it was and I damn well didn’t agree to get on this show ‘o yours to hear that again.”

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“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“None taken, son.”

“Now, Sheriff Hardin, if you don’t mind, would you like to weigh in on what you think happened to the people of Saint Haford?”

There was an uncomfortably long period of silence before the old sheriff ’s voice finally cracked from the speakers.

“Do you believe in God, Mistuh Collins?”

“As sure as any blue-blooded Catholic, Sherriff.”

“Then if ‘ya believe in something as divine as Jesus Christ, then surely an opposite exists, yuh? Somethin’ so wicked that God decided to bury so deep into tuh the earth that not even the sun could touch it?”

“In some capacity, yes.”

“Well sometimes man, in all his hubris, tends ‘ta stick their noses in place where the sun don’t touch. And sometimes, we tend to dig up things that God buried for a damn good re-” Ben Myers turned off the radio.

Reaching into the glove compartment, he pulled out another stick of Marlboro as the low roar of the rental sedan’s engine reverberated through the deserted town as if it were the guttural growls of an unseen creature that lurked in the shadows.

Saint Haford was a grave. The buildings, once vibrant and bursting with color to his young, naïve eyes, were like the corpses of giants now, decaying masses of flesh which stared back at him with cold, dead eyes that silently cursed his gift of life. Parking near the town square just across the street, he stopped to admire the old diner, looking right into its unfeeling gaze. From behind its irises, Ben saw fleeting glimpses of the life he once had: a plate of pancakes, a box of pizza whenever he or his friends had their birthday party.

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He remembered spending hours in front of the arcade machine they used to have, a gun game with zombies whose name eluded his grasp, begging his momma for quarters whenever one of the pixelized blobs chomped up his equally pixelated virtual avatar.

If he looked hard enough, he could make out vague shapes that somewhat resembled the people he used to know, like they were trapped in time. He half-considered walking in to reminisce a little more, maybe to join those little wisps and return to a life that was unceremoniously robbed from him but bit his lip in protest. There was something about defiling these graves that made him uneasy.

He was afraid that the giant would suddenly rise from its necrotic slumber and swallow him whole.

Regardless, now that he was back in Saint Haford, he couldn’t help but reminisce about those days. It was a simple life, one that he could only admire from a distance now, but one that was far removed from the mindless corporate slavery he has been subjecting himself to for most of his mid-20s, and perhaps he was able to live in that life a little longer, blissfully unaware of the crushing gears of capitalism, had it not been for the fog that rolled into the town unannounced.

And the house.

The house.

It was smaller than the rest of the bodies that littered this suburban boneyard, but the sheer presence it exuded in Ben’s mind dwarfed everything else imaginable. It was the monster under his bed, the fiendish presence that followed him his entire life like a parasite. He had shoved this monster in a box and threw away the key before burying it under six feet of concrete, but he could still hear it trying to claw its way out of the depths. It was always the same dream: he was little Ben Myers again, the little boy who cowered under his papa’s booming voice and leather-bound belt, the little boy who fled with his mama when the things arrived under the cover of the mists, now back in Haford and at the mercy of the house. He would stand 3

The Cremation of Saint Haford

just outside the porch, wearing the same pajamas he wore the night they left town, surrounded by nothing but the fog. Behind him, on the streets, a crowd would gather, a crowd that he would soon recognize to be the workers from the quarry, a crowd that would soon begin to kneel on the pavement and chant: Ick’Thras. Ick’Thras. Ick’Thras.

From the doorway, a shadowy figure would emerge, one that would approach him with slow and deliberate steps. It was a blurry, mishappen thing that wouldn’t look out of place when put next to a sonogram, nothing more but a mess of static and white noise. The chanting would grow louder as it approached, and Ben swore that there was a semblance of a grin behind the swirling abyss that was the thing’s face. It would place a hand on his shoulder before leaning in close, close enough for him to smell what seemed to be alcohol on its breath, whispering: “Come home.”

Those words would be enough to propel Ben back to his bedroom, panting and teary-eyed. It was just a dream. It was just a dream. It was just a dream.

Dreams can’t hurt me. He clung to that mantra the same way he did when the nightmares began to haunt him, in that rundown motel they stayed in after leaving Haford. He clung to that mantra the same way he did to his momma’s arm whenever the nightmares proved too much and he would ask to sleep next to her. He clung to that mantra the same way he did now, all but convinced that the monsters wouldn’t be able to get him, held at bay by the barrier that divided dreams and reality.

On the night the monsters decided to cross that threshold, almost twenty years after escaping Haford, Ben would wake up to be greeted not by the house, but by the cold, lifeless ceiling of his 4

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apartment and the overwhelming urge to take a leak. He had grown so used to his vivid nightmares that reality seemed more dreamlike, so much so he was half-convinced that this was part of another elaborate dream. Whether that was the case or not, the only certainty was that it would be embarrassing if he wet his bed at his age, and the only remedy for that would be a quick trip to the bathroom before going back to bed.

He was halfway back to his bedroom when he stopped dead in his tracks. Something wasn’t right. The shadows casted by the darkness seemed taller this time, more sinister, so much so that the lone lightbulb hanging from the ceiling wasn’t enough to give him a semblance of comfort.

Click.

He recognized that sound. Someone was trying to turn the door knob. The wind outside the apartment complex was beginning to pick up. Ben tried to run to the safety of his bedroom, but the temperature had long since plummeted to below-zero, freezing his legs on the spot. All he could do was turn around and confront the monster that was about to slither out of his bathroom.

It’s okay. This is just a dream. Dreams can’t hurt me.

The soft gusts turned into bitter howls, and from the door emerged a figure that Ben recognized immediately: the sonogram man. It was here.

The monster that kept pulling him back to Haford had followed him to his own home, making its way towards him with the same misshapen shuffle that he was all too familiar with.

Dreams can’t hurt me.

“You can’t hurt me,” he said as loud as he could. “You’re just a dream.”

The sonogram man, as if offended, stopped for a moment before

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letting out what was supposed to be a guttural laugh that instead sounded like shards of metal being run through a blender.

The shadows that swirled around the figure melted like molten lava, disappearing into the floor as if it were nothing more than a cocoon that housed a pupa, one that had been sustaining itself through little Benjamin’s fears. From the shadow cocoon emerged yet another familiar figure, one that Ben had not seen in over a decade and a half.

“Ya disobedient little shit.” His voice was just as gravely as he’d remembered. “Ya think you’re so tough, huh?”

Jonathan Myers was here. Papa was here.

Suddenly, he was no longer Benjamin Myers, the blue-collar accountant who lived alone in an apartment in Manhattan; he was little Ben Myers again, the little boy who cowered under his papa’s booming voice and leather-bound belt, the little boy who tried to flee with his mama when the things arrived under the cover of the mists, now at the mercy of the thing he had been desperately trying to run from all his life.

“Ya always were a pain in the ass, Benjamin.” He cracked his knuckles. “No amount of ass whooping straightened you out when you were little. Ya act tough, but you’re still the same little boy who did nothing whenever I taught you and your bitch of a mother a lesson.”

“You’re wrong.” (little) Ben staggered backwards.

“You know I’m right, boy.” Papa cackled. “But it’s alright. That’s why I’m here: I’m here to do something I should have done a long fuckin’ time ago.”

Papa advanced. The sound of his heavy boots against the floor were like grenades, each thud triggering alarm bell after alarm bell in (little) Ben’s head. Whatever courage he had left melted along with

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the ice that held him in place, and he did the only thing he could do: he bolted for his bedroom door.

And so did Papa.

The sound of his hurried, angry thudding was like a series of bombs going off in his apartment. (little) Ben, in his adrenaline-fueled dash, threw the door open and slammed it shut, leaning against it as hard as he could just in time to meet what felt like the force of a speeding truck collide with the door, sending a wave of pain down to his shoulder.

“Open this goddamn door, boy!”

Another slam, followed by a series of loud bangs that threatened to tear the door from its hinges. Ben held on as best as he could, closing his eyes and ignoring everything: the pain, the banging, papa’s booming voice, and the tears that streamed down his face, all of which held a long-repressed feeling of familiarity that he didn’t wish to acknowledge.

It’s okay. This is just a dream.

Dreams can’t hurt me.

When he finally opened his eyes, it was daylight and the monster was gone, but it would return, and only then did Ben realize that there was something he should have done a long time ago.

“Hey boss,” he said over the phone. “It’s me, Ben. Is it okay if I take a few days off work? There’s been an emergency, you see. Of the familial kind.”

“Christ, you better have a damn good reason for this, Myers.” The voice on the line was clearly irritated. “What kind of emergency?”

“A funeral, sir.”

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The air grew thinner as he approached the house. His hands almost slipped from the steering wheel from all the sweat that had accumulated from the moment he saw the now-rusted WELCOME TO SAINT HAFORD sign appear on the horizon. More dead giants, picked clean by the vultures of time, followed him with their gaze as he drove past. In the corner of his eye, he swore that he saw something move, a shadow or something else, darting between the windows of the houses. To be safe, he decided to put a little more pressure on the gas pedal.

The house. It was at the end of the cul-de-sac, and the stench of decay that it gave off was far stronger than anything else in this graveyard. He stopped just outside the driveway, feeling his heart pound like a runaway piston and allowing the nicotine to ease the growing pit of anxiety that burrowed into his stomach. It always looked imposing in his nightmares. But now that he was face-to-face with the boogieman, he could hear nothing but the howl of the dry summer wind and the hoarseness of his breath. He was here. The house was here. There was no turning back now. The overwhelming malice that emanated from the thing was palpable.

Ben reached for another stick of Marlboro.

Little Ben pressed his face against the window, watching with morbid curiosity as the thick mist rolled into town unannounced like an unscheduled procession.

“Ben, it’s time for bed!” Samantha Myers said from the kitchen. She washed the dishes with the grace of a trained pianist, taking extra care to not drop one of the plates like she did the last time.

“But I don’t winna go to sleep yet,” little Ben answered in defiance. “I’m not tired!”

Samantha Myers reached for one of the overhead cupboards, ignoring the pain that was beginning to flair from the bruises hidden inside her blouse.

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“Ben, honey, please. Your papa’s going to be home soon and he’s going to be angry if he sees you awake.”

“You don’t want to make papa angry, do you?”

In the trunk, Ben brought all that he needed for the cremation: two tanks of fuel and a cross that was recently blessed by one of the priests in a church he passed by down the interstate. The house was made of wood. Under the dry heat of the summer sun, it would burn fast and easy. The cross was to make sure that it wouldn’t interrupt the funeral rites.

“I’m not tired!”

“Benjamin Myers,” her voice was already raising, just like papa’s whenever she was too slow to give him a can of the nasty stuff. “Get down there this instant.

It’s past your bedtime and I will no-” The sound of glass shattering, followed by a shriek, stopped her mid-sentence.

Then another, and another, and another.

The deafening blast of a shotgun going off was what made Samantha Myers run into the living room to collect his son. In her haste, she had dropped one of the plates again, but the safety of her little boy took priority over her own. The blast was loud enough to make Ben cover his ears. More screaming began to tear through Saint Haford. Little Ben could hear glass shattering from the house next door.

With the cross in his pocket, he splashed gasoline all over the cedar walls, making sure that every inch was covered in amber like he was an artist filling a canvas with deft, precise strokes. When he was satisfied with his masterpiece, he turned his attention to the porch.

Samantha arrived just in time to see a figure outside the window come into view: Layla Palmer, the woman with three kids who lived across the street, ran towards their house, the fear in her face as clear as day. Just as she was about to scream for help, another shotgun blast tore through Saint Haford like a crack of thunder, and her left knee burst open like a pinata. She hit the road with a grisly

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thud, clutching the stump that used to be her leg in a fit of horror-induced panic.

“Holy shit!” Samantha uttered, throwing her arms over Ben’s eyes to shield him from the grisly sight. Ben had heard papa say that before. Papa always said the s-word when he was angry at momma.

The house, or the thing that lurked in the house, was furious. With every drop of gasoline that seeped into the wood, the graveyard stirred. It did not like this defiling, this act of barbarity. Ben was beginning to feel eyes pierce the back of his jacket like tiny needles.

The cross would protect him, that much he knew, but he drenched the house in gasoline at a much faster pace now, lest the giants rise from their sleep.

Samantha grabbed Ben by the waist and ran away from the windows. Another shot was heard, silencing Layla Palmer’s agony-laced wailing. More glass shattering. More screaming. More gunshots. She raced to the kitchen with her son, intent on grabbing at least a kitchen knife for security, until she stopped dead in her tracks.

Between her and the kitchen was her husband, Jonathan Myers. The bitter scent of Marlboro, his favorite brand of cigarettes, still clung to his dirty overalls in the same way that the dirt from the quarry did, only it wasn’t really him; just a thing that wore his face. The kitchen door was hanging from its hinges. Her oncehusband held the same sledgehammer it used in the quarry firmly in its hands, now slick with blood and covered in splinters. It said nothing as it advanced towards the wife and child., forcing Samantha to slowly back away from her oncehusband. Ben had seen this look on momma’s face before; this was the same look she always had whenever papa yelled at her.

“John?” She called out. The thing that wore Jonathan Myers’ face said nothing.

“Papa?” Ben joined in. The thing that wore Jonathan Myers’ face said nothing Just as the thing raised the hammer high above its head, Samantha bolted.

The wind was picking up, as did Ben’s dousing of the house. He was beginning to hear voices in the wind: Ick’Thras. Ick’Thras. Ick’Thras.

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The hammer went down, barely missing Samantha’s head but instead struck her ankle with a sickening crack. She fell to the ground with a thud, her son tumbling on the floor like a ragdoll. The thing raised the hammer again, but this time Samantha was ready for it. Ignoring the burning sensation in her ankle, she was able to roll out of the way just as the object smashed into the wooden floors, sending an explosion of splinters flying outwards. It tried to lift the hammer once more but found that it was stuck on the floor, refusing to budge no matter how hard he tried to pull.

“Ben, get the door!” His momma screamed.

Ben reached into his pocket and fished out his lighter. The wind picked up even more furiously as he held the brass object in his hands, brandishing it like a silver sword. He gazed upon the house one last time, facing down the monster that has haunted him and his mother’s dreams since God knows when.

Ick’Thras. Ick’Thras. Ick’Thras.

Ben complied and quickly opened the front door. He didn’t need his momma to tell him where they were going to go: the car. Momma always kept the keys inside the car. The car would take them away from the thing inside the house.

Samantha pushed her son out the door, limping after him as fast as she could.

Ben couldn’t see anything past his own over the fog, but he knew better than to stay inside with that thing. He immediately went for the front seat, ignoring the cacophony of chaos that assaulted his senses. The fog obscured it, but even a child like him knew that unspeakable things were happening inside, just like how the thing hurt his momma. Samantha quickly joined him in the driver’s seat, reaching into the glove compartment and feeling the familiar jingle of the keys.

The thing that wore Jonathan Myer’s face emerged from the doorway; a manic grin was plastered on its face.

With a sharp click, the lighter came to life. The small flame burned bright, but the wind, in response, was now as furious as ever, kicking up small dust storms that shook the leaves out of their branches, 11

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forcing him to shield the small flame with his jacket. It carried with it the faint whiffs of nicotine and days-old whiskey.

Just as the vehicle roared to life, the thing in the doorway bolted towards them with inhuman speed. Samantha screamed and pressed the brakes harder than she ever did in her life despite the agony that permeated through her ankle. The thing’s hammer barely missed the hood, connecting with the pavement instead, but it quickly recovered and went after its prize. She ran over something on the ground that was most likely a person, but the adrenaline that pulsed in her system urged her to continue. She slammed the accelerator and rode off into the misty evening, the thing that was once her husband in pursuit.

As the wind started to die down, Ben didn’t hesitate: he offered his lighter to the gasoline.

Samantha couldn’t see in the mist, but she knew enough to know where the town limits were. She drove past the fog-obscured chaos, trying her best to ignore both the throbbing in her ankle and the sounds of fog-obscured bedlam that occurred all around her.

The gasoline accepted his humble offering. The small spark exploded into a cascading wave of hellfire that enveloped the whole house, spreading like a swarm of termites devouring the cedar wood with ravenous hunger.

“Where are we going, momma?” Little Ben asked. His voice was low and shaky. The look he gave his momma was as blank as the thing’s expression was, but Samantha could see the shock behind them. All she could do now was flee and hope that the thing wouldn’t follow them out of town…or that they wouldn’t crash into something in this blasted fog.

“We’re going away from here, sweetie.” She reached over to ruffle her son’s hair.

“We’re going away now.”

The house began to collapse under the fury of the flames. The catharsis that coursed through Ben burned just as bright as he watched charred planks of wood crash down onto the lawn. Thick 12

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puffs of ashen smoke began to escape from the burning effigy he had created. The wind was picking up again, but it wouldn’t be enough to extinguish the blaze. If anything, it would only feed it and carry its flames further along the dried grass.

Ben didn’t stay long in the graveyard that was Saint Haford. He felt the giants stir. He heard the name whispered in the winds. He felt the eyes that drilled into his back match the intensity of the blaze, of the cremation that he performed in this suburban boneyard. He felt Ick’Thras stir. He left without ever looking back, resolving that for the rest of his life, he would never be able to go home whether he wanted to or not. As he drove away from the dead town, away from the life that he once lived, the wind was beginning to pick up again, carrying with it the ash and smell of cedarwood from his act of defilement. It was faint, but he could hear it, he could hear them: Ick’Thras. Ick’Thras. Ick’Thras.

Just to be safe, Ben decided to put a little more pressure on the gas pedal.

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SEAN 15 XAVIER NIEVA

Metanoia

Insert Title Here

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MARGARITA CHRISTALYN CORTEZ

Gulong

P

itong piso lamang ang nakuha ni Mikael sa halos tatlong oras niya nang pamamalimos sa overpass. Tirik na tirik ang araw at masakit na rin ang kaniyang puwetan sa pagkakaupo, ngunit pitong piso lang?

Para siyang sasabog sa inis. Ano ang mabibili ko rito sa baryang ito, ika niya. Isang tinapay siguro, pero para sa sikmura kong ilang araw nang kumakalam, hindi makatarungan ang basta’y tinapay lang. Tumayo siya at pinagpag ang kaniyang marungis na damit, walang naging pagbabago at sa halip ay nanatili pa rin itong marumi, pero masarap sa kaniyang pakiramdam ang sumubok— sumubok mag-alis ng dumi at maglinis ng sarili, sumubok magbago, sumubok mabuhay kada araw kahit walang kain at walang disenteng damit. Sinuot niya ang pudpod niyang tsinelas na siya niyang ginawang sapin laban sa napakainit na semento. Kulay pula talaga ito, ngunit sa tagal na niya sa kalye, iba na ang bumabalot ngayon sa paa ni Mikael: tsinelas na kulay abo.

Mula pa sa kaniyang ina ang nasabing tsinelas; regalo na kaniyang natanggap noong kaniyang ika-sampung kaarawan, apat

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na taon na ang nakalilipas. Suot niya ito noong mga araw na siya ang nagbubukas ng kanilang tindahan sa palengke, suot niya ito noong mga panahong nakapaglalaro pa siya ng tumbang-preso sa tapat lamang ng kanilang bahay na inuupahan, at suot niya rin ang tsinelas na ito noong isang gabing umuwi siyang pagod, pagkatapos ang matagal-tagal na paglalaro sa computer shop sa kabilang kalye, bagsak ang katawan sa sofa at hindi na nagawang hintayin pa ang paguwi ng kaniyang ina. Liban sa suot niya rin ito noong nagising siya kinabukasan at nabalitaang pinagkaitan ng karagdagang panahong mabuhay ang taong nagbigay sa kaniya ng pagkakataong makaranas ng kaarawan, makapaglaro, makapagbukas ng kanilang tindahan, at magkaroon ng isang bagong tsinelas. Na-holdup daw at nasaksak noong nanlaban, sambit ng social worker na kumausap kay Mikael bago siya inihatid nito tungo sa kagawaran ng DSWD, na siya niya ring tinakasan matapos ang tatlong linggong pamamalagi.

Kaya naman, kahit pa kulay abo at pudpod na ang tsinelas, ay hindi ito alintana ni Mikael.

Nagsimula siyang maglakad tungo sa bakery, ilang kilometro ang layo sa overpass na kaniyang panggagalingan. Minsa’y trenta minutos ang itinatagal ng lakad niya, minsa’y dalawampu’t lima, ngunit sa mga pagkakataong mahirap ang lahat para sa kaniya, maski na ang simpleng paglalakad, ay inaabot siya ng dalawang oras; mukhang pasok sa huli ang araw na iyon. Mabagal ang kaniyang lakad at rinig ang pagbabanggaan ng pitong pirasong barya sa loob ng bulsa ng kaniyang maluwang na shorts. Maingay at nakaiirita. Pansamantala siyang tumigil sa paglalakad at tinanaw ang highway sa ilalim ng overpass, salubong ng makapal na usok. Napaubo siya’t napamura. Tanginang dyip ‘yan!

Ari mo kalsada?! Saglit niyang iwinagayway ang kamay sa harap ng kaniyang mukha, nagbabakasakaling mawawala kahit papaano ang matapang na amoy ng gasolinang kumapit sa kaniyang ilong, bago muling tinanaw ang ibaba. May kataasan ang kaniyang kinatatayuan,

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ngunit malinaw na malinaw pa rin kay Mikael ang mga sasakyang nahahagip ng kaniyang paningin. Ang isa ay Mercedes, ang isa ay ang pangarap niyang sasakyan na Toyota Camry, ang isa ay Montero Sport, samantalang ang mga natitirang sasakyang kaniyang tanaw ay hindi rin nalalayo sa mga nauna na niyang napansin. Tanaw rin sa ikatlong linya ang isang ambulansya. Pare-pareho lang silang malabo kong masasakyan, aniya.

At sa pagdaan ng ikalawang Camry ay napailing si Mikael bago tumalikod at nagsimula na muling maglakad. Hawak-hawak niya ang maliit na latang napulot niya sa may kanal sa Brgy. Rosario ilang buwan na ang nakalilipas— maya’t maya’y idinidikit sa mga taong kaniyang nakasasalubong, kaakibat ang mga salitang “kahit piso lang po.”

Sanay na si Mikael sa paglalakad nang dire-diretso. ‘Yun bang walang alintanang kahit ano at walang iniisip na makababanggaang kahit sino, dahil ang mga tao sa paligid niya ang siya na mismong umiiwas sa kaniya. Ang pag-iwas ay kadalasan pang may bonus na katagang wala akong piso, lumayo ka sa akin.

Lalayo naman, lalayo na nga.

Kaniya pang binaybay ang kahabaan ng Distrito Bartolome at hindi kailanmang tumigil sa pag-aabot ng lata sa kaniyang mga nakasasalubong, bago narating ang Julie’s Bakeshop sa bandang dulo ng distrito. Tumingala si Mikael at tiningnan ang guhit ng babaeng nagsisilbing simbolo ng bakeshop, nakaukit sa sementong pader ng establisyimentong sampung talampakan ang taas. Kumikislap ang mga mata ng babae, malawak ang ngiti, at maayos din ang pagkakaipit nito sa kaniyang buhok. Inilipat ni Mikael ang tingin sa latang hawak ng kaniyang kanang kamay—mayroon itong laman na piso, mula sa estrangherong kaniyang nakasalubong kani-kanina lamang—at pagkatapos ay dinukot ang pitong piso sa loob ng kaniyang bulsa

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at inihulog sa lata ang mga ito. Saglit niyang pinagmasdan ang kulay pilak at kumikintab na mga barya. Sa dalawang oras niyang paglalakad, sa lahat ng taong umiwas sa kaniya, sa lahat ng mga katagang kahit kailanma’y hindi niya makasasanayang marinig, sa pagod niyang katawang kulang na lamang ay gumapang, at sa isa na namang lakbay na tiniis ng kaniyang pudpod at kulay abong tsinelas, ay walong piso lamang ang laman ng kaniyang lata.

Buntong-hininga. Sa unang pagkakataon, pwedeng pangalawa na nga o pangatlo ngunit limot lang niya, ay pinangarap ni Mikael na maging isa na lamang babae; ‘yung kumikislap ang mga mata, malawak ang ngiti, at nakaipit nang maayos ang buhok. Muling dinukot ni Mikael ang walong piso mula sa lata. Sapagkat hawak niya sa kaliwang kamay ang mga barya at hahawakan naman sa kanang kamay ang tinapay, ay inilapag muna ni Mikael sa semento sa tabi lamang ng aquarium sa labas ng bakeshop ang nasabing lata. Pagkatapos ay pumasok siya sa loob at bumungad sa kaniya ang halos sampung klase ng tinapay.

Ngunit sa sampung ito ay tatlong klase lang ang pupwedeng maging laman ng kaniyang tiyan. Lumapit siya sa tindera.

Magkano po ang Spanish bread? Pitong piso.

Ah, eh ang pan de coco? Walong piso.

Ang cheese bread? Walong piso.

‘Yan na lang. Isa nga po, ‘wag niyo na pong ilagay sa plastik at kakainin ko naman na

rin ho agad. Oh ito.

Salamat ho. Sige lang.

Parang pansamantala niyang natikman ang langit, pati na rin ang lahat ng magagandang bagay sa mundo, sa unang kagat ni Mikael sa cheese bread. Napangiti siya saglit bago unti-unting nagsimulang lumukot muli ang mukha at magtagpo ng dalawang kilay; ito ang unang kain niya sa loob ng tatlong araw, at ang huling kain din niya

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sa kasalukuyang araw. Buntong-hininga muli. Bago pa man tuluyang makalabas ay naubos na agad ni Mikael ang tinapay. Pinagpagan niya ang kaniyang kamay, binalik muli ang tingin sa tindera, bago sa mga tinapay, at ipinangako sa sariling limang oras na siyang mamamalimos sa susunod.

At sa muling pagtapak ng kaniyang mga paa sa mainit na semento sa labas ng bakeshop ay naalala ni Mikael ang latang kaniyang inilapag. Tinungo niya ito at saka pinulot. Pumukaw ng kaniyang atensyon ang Sampu.

Sampu?

Sampung piso?

May sampung piso sa lata, may laman, may naghulog, may naawa at nagbigay, wala man siya roon na namamalimos. Diyos Ama sa Langit, Santa Mariang Birhen, San Pedro Calungsod, Espiritu Santo, lahat ng anghel sa itaas, maski na ang mga magiging anghel pa lamang sa malayong hinaharap, nagtatalon si Mikael. Makabibili naman siya ngayon ng Spanish bread. Ang magkabilang dulo ng kaniyang mga labi ay nakipagtagpo sa kaniyang mga tenga at ang kaniyang pudpod na tsinelas ay nagmistulang basketball shoes na siyang umalalay sa kaniya upang hindi siya mahirapang abutin ang kisame. Ngunit sa ika-dalawampung pagkakataon ng paglapat ng kaniyang kanang paa sa semento, pagkatapos nitong makipagsalitan ng angat sa kaniyang kaliwang paa, ay ang pagtalon naman ng sampung piso mula sa kaniyang lata. Bumagsak ito sa sahig at nagpagulong-gulong, papalayo kay Mikael at patungo sa daan-daang mga sasakyang mistulang nakikipagkarera sa isa’t isa. Napatigil siya at napatulala pansamantala, nagdadalawang-isip hinggil sa kung ano ba ang nararapat niyang gawin.

Pero mapaglaro ang tadhana at ang sampung piso lamang para sa iba, ay sampung piso. Sampung piso, walang lamang, walang 21

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ngunit subalit datapwat. Ito’y sampung piso para kay Mikael. Buongbuo, mahalaga. Kaya’t bago pa pumutok ang lahat ng ugat sa kaniyang ulo sa diin at lalim ng kaniyang pag-iisip, ay binitawan ni Mikael ang latang pinanggalingan ng sampung pisong una’y dulot ng kasiyahan niya, ngunit ngayo’y isa nang adbersaryo, at tumakbo. Sanay sa pakikipagpatintero sa mga sasakyan si Mikael, kung kaya nama’y isang tingin sa kaliwa.

Walang sasakyan. Isang tingin sa kanan.

Wala ring sasakyan. Mayroong iilan, pero malayo-layo pa.

Kaya’t madali niyang naituon ang kaniyang atensyon sa sampung pisong tila nakikipagkarera rin sa kaniya. Pilit niyang sinasabayan ang bilis ng maliit na baryang ito, ang kaniyang mahahaba’t payat na mga braso ay nasa kaniyang harapan, bukas ang mga palad at handang ikulong ang sampung piso sa oras na maabutan niya ito.

At naabutan niya nga ito, isang hakbang na lamang ang kulang—

Isang hugot na lamang ng hininga, isang abot ng braso, isang sara ng kamao, isang silip sa mga sasakyan bago ang isang huling takbo pabalik sa gilid ng kalsada, hawak ang isang baryang hindi man lamang naging kasinglaki ng kaniyang palad.

Ngunit hanggang sa ikatlong Isa na lamang ang napunan ni Mikael, sapagkat kasabay ng pagsara ng kaniyang kamao ay ang isang malakas na hampas sa kaniyang kanang tagiliran na nagdulot ng kakaiba at hindi maipaliwanag na kirot, pagkatapos ay ang pagtulo ng isang pulang likido mula rito, at ang pagbagsak ng kaniyang katawan sa semento. Narinig pa nga ata niya ang pagsara ng pinto ng sasakyan at ang pagharurot nito bago ang samu’t saring mura ng kung sino-sino man: Tarantadong drayber! Walang bayag! Gago! Tumawag kayo ng pulis, ngayon na!

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Nagsimulang lumabo ang kaniyang paningin at tumigil ang lahat ng tanaw ng kaniyang mga mata. Literal. Ang mga sasakyan ay nakahinto at ang mga tao ay nakapalibot sa kaniya, mayroon lamang iisang posisyon ang mga ulo: nakatungo at nakatangaw sa kaniya.

May ekspresyon sa kanilang mukha na hindi niya maipaliwanag; hindi mawari kung sila ba’y nag-aalala o nalulungkot, naiinis sa drayber, naiinis sa kaniya at sa katangahan niya, o nakiki-usyoso lamang. At sa pagitan ng lahat ng mga bagay na hindi niya inakalang mangyayari, sa kabila ng tatlong oras niyang pamamalimos sa overpass at dalawang oras niyang paglalakad para lamang sa isang cheese bread at dapat sana’y isa na ring Spanish bread, ay naramdaman ni Mikael ang isang malamig at hugis bilog na bagay sa kaniyang palad. Inilapit niya ito sa kaniyang dibdib, at pinakiramdaman ang paghina ng tibok ng kaniyang puso.

Sa gitna ng kalsada ay nakahandusay ang kaniyang katawan.

Buto’t balat ito, marumi ang damit, at nakabaluktot, dikit sa dibdib ang sampung piso. At sa malapit na distansya ay rinig ang wang wang ng ambulansya.

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THERESE DIANE VILLANUEVA

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Malate Literary Folio

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ALEENA MARIE CONCEPCION

The Best Medicine When we say jokes are half meant, We mean: half provoked by its true intent, and half in hopes it did not offend.

The emperor is now exposed for having no clothes So we laugh, because it’s true We crack up jokes with a spoonful of sugar so we don’t choke on the bitterness of our words, but on our laughter diffusing the tension of a serious and no-nonsense set-up of a strongman. Throwing a punchline when least expected.

“For as long as there are many beautiful women, there are plenty of rape cases as well” “The mayor should go first” “Get hold of a picture of mine and put it on the altar” “Shoot them dead” Perhaps some laughed because for them, it’s true.

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Everybody is entitled to a joke. Even the President is entitled to a joke

Malate Literary Folio

LYNETTE MARIE ANG

Bourguignon

T

he days and nights blended together, a gestalt of monotony and ennui. Days spent in front of the laptop a haze of electronic madness, fingers dancing over the keyboard. Clickity-clickity-clack.

A fog of homework and deadlines and the sounds of her parents yelling at each other every other day, replete with the smashing of expensive porcelain and china.

“Blair, it’s dinnertime!” she hears her mom call out from outside.

The sound of typing stops as she gets up. She straightens out the wrinkles in her dinner dress as she makes her way to the dining table. Her mother is waiting at the head of the long dinner table. She looked around. Her father, who was usually the one sitting there, was missing, which was probably why her mother seemed a bit more buoyant than usual.

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loftily in a tone that tells Blair that she did not want any further questions on the matter. Not that Blair cared much. Her father wasn’t a great guy so to speak, if the bruises on her mother’s wrist are anything to go by. There have been times when Blair herself bore the brunt of her father’s cruelty. He was an angry man who hated his family. Blair doesn’t really know why but if she had to guess, she would probably say it had something to do with him having her at a point in his life when he wasn’t ready to have children. Either that or he was really just an asshole. Blair tends to lean towards the latter answer.

“It couldn’t be helped despite the quarantine,” she adds, a little selfconsciously Blair thinks.

Her mother scoops up some dinner rolls onto her plate and a serving of the stew. She dipped her bread in the sauce and took a small, leisurely bite. Tomato-based. Ruby port. Her mother has gotten into the habit of mixing wine into their food lately. She tells them it intensifies the flavors, adds a little splash.

Blair thinks it’s to mask her terrible cooking skills since she’s had to cook for them when all the help was let go a month ago, in light of the whole pandemic. She sliced off a portion of the meat, probably beef or lamb, and tasted it. Prime cut. She chewed gingerly.

Surprisingly, the meat was good. Tender and just a tad bit fatty but juicy and savory.

“Well, how is it?”

“It’s good,” she says and it’s actually honest on her part.

“I’m glad to hear that,” her mother smiles, teeth as white as the pearls around her neck. Blair watches as her mother knifes off a portion of the meat, hand tight around the knife, knuckles white and protruding, veins jutting out. As she slices off the meat, the cuff of her sleeve slips slightly and Blair catches a glimpse of what seems like scratch marks down her wrist.

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Her mother notices and looks at her, eyes icy and Blair can’t help but look away.

She eats some more, scooping chunks of beef (or was it lamb) into her mouth and chewing, savoring, dipping her dinner roll in the sauce and helping herself to some more.

“Don’t eat too fast darling or else you might get indigestion,” her mother reminds her gently.

“What’s in it?” she asks her mother, as she’s tearing off a chunk of bread.

“Oh…beef,” she says, beaming at her daughter. Blair isn’t sure but that was probably the most genuine smile she’s seen her mother give her.

The stew was almost finished now, the sauce just barely reaching a quarter of the medium-sized soup tureen it was put in. Blair reached over and got a scoopful.

Something clattered against her plate, a high tinny sound that seemed to echo in the vast room. Something circular in shape sat at the edge of her plate, drenched in ruby port wine sauce. Blair felt her mom visibly stiffen across her as she used her fork to drag the thing to the center of her plate, where she could see it more clearly. The sheen of the white gold band was unmistakable.

A jolt of realization travelled up her spine and her mouth suddenly went dry. Suddenly, everything on the dinner table from the perfectly-arranged bowl of diced fruit to the plate of golden dinner rolls seemed sinister.

Blair’s eyes widened as she looked up to see her mom standing beside her.

“You won’t tell anyone won’t you honey?”

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Malate Literary Folio

JAMIE SHEKINAH MAPA

Band Aid ink on paper

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Malate Literary Folio

ARVIR JANE REDONDO

Leaping How nerve-racking it is to ride a rollercoaster, To have your body belligerently hurled to the air.

Strong wind, heart leaving the body, horrible thoughts of what might be, I only chase the sweet ending that signifies that I carried off.

One day, I found myself on a very long rollercoaster ride, Full of fear and agony, I said, I will never ride this again!

But It will be worth it in the end,

A marvelous ending, I will get.

I aspired to finish what I started.

When the end is near it still feels so long The suffering seems interminable Is a sweet ending still worth it, If the journey is just a relentless streak of regret?

I jumped out and took the fall — A ferocious pain to halt misery.

Because I got worn out by this affliction I couldn’t hold any longer for the end of the journey I realized I want to breathe, now.

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PASASALAMAT Nais pasasalamatan ng Malate Literary Folio ang mga sumusunodmga kaibigan, kapwa manunulat, at mga mangingibig ng sining.

Dr. Mesandel Arguelles, at Mr. Vijae Alquisola; Ms. Franz Santos, Ms. Jeanne Tan, Mrs. Ma. Manuela S. Agdeppa, at ang Student Media Office; Ms. Dinah Roma at ang Department of Literature; Dr. Ernesto Carandang II at ang Departamento ng Filipino; ang Bienvenido Santos Creative Writing Center; College Editors Guild of the Philippines; Ms. Nelca Leila Villarin at ang Office of Student Affairs; Dr. Lily Ann Cabuling at ang Health Services Office (Taft); DLSU Bookstore; DLSU Student Co-Operative (SCOOP); Council of Student Organizations (CSO); Office of the Legal Counsel; Finance and Accounting Office; Security Office; Mr. Michael Millanes at ang Student Discipline Formation Office; Ang Pahayagang Plaridel, Archers Network, Green Giant FM, Green & White, The LaSallian, at ang Student Media Council; Magicus Junctra Corporation Printing; At higit sa lahat, sa mga kasapi’t kaibigan na patuloy na umaalalay sa paglalago ng Malate Literary Folio.

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AGOSTO 2021