Veritas Literary and Arts Folio 2017: Transitions

Crusader

The

The official student publication of Xavier University - Ateneo de Cagayan

Art Direction by Jericho Montellano & Keith Obed Ruiz Circulation: 3,000 copies

Foreword C

hange in physics is signified by delta, written as a triangle. This is fitting, because at the heart of every change is a climax or a turning point. The works in this year’s Veritas, however, recognize both the subtle and major transitions which all have an impact on our lives.

We might not be aware that some experiences are actually the onset of something greater, which is why concepts like the Butterfly Effect exist. Something as routine as a taxi ride home can yield a realization that eventually turns into a work of art. Then there are the changes that hit us in the face, and leave aftershocks that will be felt throughout our lives. The death of a mother, traveling to a foreign land, or meeting a new lover—these are the transitions that break us or make us.

One major change to mark this year’s edition was the very first Veritas Writers Workshop in collaboration with the Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro (NAGMAC). This flagship partnership involved selection from over 90 literary submissions, which were then formally critiqued by the senior writers of the established new-wave young writers group. The workshop aimed to introduce a fresh and cultured way of selecting the works in this folio.

The Crusader Publication presents you some of the best works by the XU community to date. We encourage you to join us as we relish in the transitions - wherever they lead - that ultimately become our greatest catalyst towards learning.

Words by Lorenzo A. Botavara 1

Poetr

ry

Walls Renga, 2009

by Miguel Lizada, Gino Dolorzo The walls heard me The time I said Yes. Even their cracks, ancient As their whites, affirmed Through their breathing.

Affirmed what could not be said And done. And yearned Upon your absence Indeed, in deeds.

Now I see the cracks and the whites Observant over their insignificance Like me as I sigh this verse to sleep.

4

Science Center

by Christian Pons Lagat

5

Values of the Past. Cultures that Convey.

by Cobbie Karagdag

The Culling Begins with Your Inquiry

by Cobbie Karagdag

6

Mula sa Dalampasigan ng Moalboal (Mula sa Lakbay, Mga Romantikong Tula)

by John Marc Acut (for Toni)

Andun ka bigla sa kaharap na isla ng Negros kahit na, ang buhay, sa New York ka ginapos.

Ang nipis ng pumapagitnang Tañon, naging Pasipiko na, ni minsan, ‘di ko natalon para pumaroon sa nilulubugan ng araw, para masuklian naman ang nagiisa mong dalaw.

Ang bulubundukin ang nagtataasang mga gusali na ginagalawan ng buhay Kanluranin mong ‘di nagbabasakali.

Sa kinaroroonan, pinagmumunihan kong dalampasigan, tinatanong ko kung nakasalampak ka pa rin sa buhanginan, ‘di ka pa rin ba takot sa walang kasiguraduhan ng lalim o babaw ng dagat na sinusulong para languyan, ikinatutuwa pa ba ng buo mong katawan ng ito’y maghapong maarawan.

Ikaw pa nga ba ang kilala kong kaibigan: Ang kahapon lang ba ang mukha ng magpakailanman?

7

Time

by Jan Rupert Alfeche Time is an ocean; one moment, a tempest, the next, a comforting current of thoughts, dreams, desires, memories, and regrets.

There are pockets of stillness: singular, solitary, simple fills of coffee-cup happiness retraced and anticipated like a child before Christmas.

They are moments, as valuable as stars – blinking, winking, cheeky sparks of bright morning yawns, sweet kisses on the cheek, and reassuring hands on forlorn shoulders.

Is it appropriate to say we don’t act our age every small step forward into growing older?

Teetering through the ripples take away the gravity of condescending passersby.

We rely on time to carry us wherever we need to go, a sailboat on seemingly calm seas.

Though many are loathe to make right use of the lazy sea, we persist on seeing as much of the world as each

sail unfurls, full and jovial.

Smiles are our flying colors; deep-rooted hope, our Jolly Roger.

We laugh, sing, and work our way

through time.

8

Dance

by Vel Marie Santillan I’ve always envied those brave souls who find the courage to dance with anybody, to any song, or any beat.

But I am not like them.

There are certain songs I only dance to.

And not well enough, really.

I look like a marionette flailing my arms in the air and side stepping and hopping fainted due to exhaustion, to the tune of Eraserheads. tripped on someone else’s dress...

I look ridiculous It was chaos.

You told me you felt the same way.

You meant yourself being awkward.

Although, I suspected you also meant my being a klutz.

So, we both sat by the bar, Boracay Rhum on hand, and watched as everybody paired up and waltzed on the dancefloor to Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance.

We witnessed some of them girated like nobody’s watching, got stepped on their toes, sprained their ankles, pranced out of sync, popped and locked their chests,

We sipped on our own glasses.

I caught you tapping your feet, as you saw me bobbing my head.

We stared at each other.

I found the dread in your eyes.

We’ve both been left on the dancefloor far too many times; we’ve lost count.

You have scars on your back as well as I have on my ankles.

I was about to leave when a familiar synth flourish and bassdrop, stopped me on my tracks and knew I just had to ask you.

Shall we dance?

9

Aquarium

by Marces Kayle Dumalag

10

11

Tranquil’s Bane

by Franchesca Fajemolin her soles met the asphalted streets she grew in desolate in familiar routes she was clothed in the night’s crisp whispers she lost all sense of security she took a pace faster and noticed the streetlamps inviting her shadows she didnt want to see any of herself she looked up she stared at the ruins of what was once a bright star gone and past but still twinkling her misfortunes shedding light to what must be forgotten a reminder of her mistakes of her inadequacies of failed promises of being the unliked “when will i ever be enough?” she made that choice to allow the dead star to again boil within letting it consume her lighting the way for her shadows to engulf her in dim silence to destroy her to spill poisons within her mingling selfish fire in her system a substitute for blood thickly roaming her veins and while within she had burned to contrast the coldness of the night surrounding her was a lingering whimper the shiver crawling up spines the sinister breeze in isolated streets howling of her insignificance and failed attempts

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she looked away tearing away the explosions she had caused within letting it rob some of her pieces but letting it become a crystal of its own she knew the stars would continue to haunt her their deaths never ceased them to do so but in reaching her doorstep she also knew the stars had led her home

Confessionally

by Gino Dolorzo

Leave some for me

by Christian Baldomero I. I will welcome you With my bare body, Lay beside me As I fill the curves of your torso With the edges of mine, May you find comfort here II. Kiss me under the moonlight And talk to me With bright eyes About the stars high above, Let us shame the sky Of your beauty, darling III. And when you leave, Remember not to take parts of me I have been so used to Giving pieces of my body I did not know it was possible To leave some for myself

comfort comes not in the form of sweat nor in movement but in the creases of pillows and sheets white as lies where we carve our secret reverie; no dosage of metaphor when it comes to you and the heat of your lips pressing against mine and the brace of your body warm as your skin and your breath and the touch of your fingers on the course of my spine and the need to confess and plead guilty in between our legs entwined.

13

White Island Blues

by Ton Daposala Gikan ining tanan igo lang unya kang mohawa sama sa usa ka turista nga gaapas sa takna, gaagad nga masugdan ang gipaabot sa sunod nga semana ug ang kabug-at ini lakip sa kahago nga gibitbit nimo sa imong pag-abot. Sa imong paglawig walay nahawiran sa mga talan-awon dihang naminaw ka sa giawit sa hangin ug lapyahan daw gahuni sa kataposan sa ting-init. Gahunghong, galaylay sa mga higayon nga gabuy-od ang kalaay sa baybayon. Unta, sa imong pagdamgo mapalgan ko nimo nga namati pod sa kabugnaw daw isla nga gianod sa tumang kamingaw.

14

Morning is Coming

by Timothy Justin Emata

15

Untitled

by Ran Villos

16

Catastrophe On A Beautiful Night

by Kassandra Bustamante She told me a story about a catastrophe on a beautiful night.

She told me how nights would never be the same again as you heedlessly grabbed and choked her from behind and threw her to the ground. The night lost its beauty as it witnessed how you toyed with her body like it was yours; the same evening sky that once witnessed your first kiss.

Remember the shirt you bought with “Yes” on it? It was her favorite.

That was the same shirt she wore that night.

That same shirt you gave as she said “Yes” when you asked her For her hand and the night became more beautiful than it has ever been.

That same shirt she wore as I saw the excitement from her eyes.

That same shirt you gave her, along with a ring, to seal your love.

Yes, it was the very same shirt that you tore off and smacked inside her mouth so she could not holler.

Because you didn’t want to hear it— that this time she wanted to say “No.” That she wanted for you to wait for the right time.

But the night was deaf to her cries as you pierced that fragile thing she was saving up; the most precious gift she wanted to give you after the final walk at the aisle.

She lost her voice that night— and in the years that followed.

Nights were never the same again as I saw her burn her favorite shirt.

I saw how her eyes lit up as the fire ate up the cloth Which fell to the ground.

How I wish you were there to witness what I saw.

You could have seen how her eyes could light up and burn the sky with beauty— how she made the night beautiful again.

She was hauntingly beautiful and would always be— even after a catastrophe.

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18

The Night I Met You

by Angela Autor

19

This Stolen Moment

by Gino Dolorzo It feels right to lie down on these sheets damped with our own sweat.

It must be like falling in love with them, as I for you, where we hide ourselves, naked like truth, secured enough to let go of our fears tonight that I’m the one whom you fix your eyes on.

Not him. Not even his eyes, dazzling of lovepromises, like the diamond you let him wear ‘round your finger.

Like the pearls he surprised you after your first, I wish your last, anniversary kiss.

Unlike our love alone that can’t afford to objectify itself through those shiny stones.

Tonight I can care less. Or not at all. Since there’s no absence of heat when it comes to your touch like you do to me on these sheets we have rented for a short time.

20

Like each chance your lips warm the chillworn cracks of mine that makes me realize how cold the night like the accusation of the world outside that says we’re wrong.

Sophia

by Ton Daposala Kon lantawon nako balik akong kinabuhi— tingali lahi ra kon dili ako ang anak nga ikalima.

164 (For Cha)

by Christian Baldomero

Tarong tingali ko nga trato kon naa ka mopahinumdom nako kon unsaon pagtahod sa usa ka babaye.

‘Hundred sixty four’ He says as he wrapped his arms around me for the last time.

Tingali dili ko magduhiraw sa akong kabatan-on kon naa ka, motagawtaw apan maghuwat nga mopasaylo sa akong mga sipyat.

You see, We used to count The times we held each other I was sure it was hundred sixty three But I guess he counted the time

Tarong tingali ko nga amahan ug bana kon naa ka, mosugyot nako unsaon pag-alima sa pamilya.

He was with her

Tarong tingali ko pagkaanak kon naa ka moamping nako pananglit wala silang mama ug papa uban sa atong igsuon, andam motubag sa akong mga pangutana.

Ambot kon malahi ba ang kinabuhi kon ikaw pa ang ikalima. Apan, te, kon buhi pa unta ka, basin daghan kang matubag sa akong nabati nga kakuwang.

21

“Rate your pain from 1 - 10”

by Christian Baldomero The nurse asked me I raised two closed hands, There was no pain.

I could feel blood dripping everywhere, Bruises formed like Rorschach tests in every inch of my skin, “I need you to tell me how much pain you are in now” The truth was, there really was no pain.

I raised one finger, but one finger was when I felt something was different.

Two fingers were when you could not look into my eyes properly.

My third finger was when it took you hours to talk to me and you were okay with that.

Fourth was when I woke up and you were facing the other side, When you locked your phone and I was sure something was different, that was the whole hand.

Sixth finger was when I asked you if we were okay and it took you a second to reply yes like you hesitated.

I lied in bed waiting for you to come home, I heard you entering the house, I closed my eyes, feigned sleep.

You lied beside me and I could smell alcohol and perfume.

All I know was I’ve never smelled that before. It wasn’t mine nor yours.

That was the seventh finger.

The eight was when you never came home at all.

Nine fingers were when we sat opposite each other in a restaurant.

And I knew the end was near.

And then you said it. You were not ready.

How can you be not ready. It was years.

We were together for five years.

A week after that I saw you with him.

You were not ready, you said.

That was my two hands.

“Please rate your pain from 1-10” the nurse asked again.

I said “What’s after 10?”

22

Flxwers is the Fury

by Ryan James Pascual 23

Hopes & Dreams 24

by Rizalyka Joanne Waminal

Pagpukaw

by Melrein Viado

Mahinahong nakahimalay Sa gitna ng mga along Iniwan mong mamuo magdamag sa ‘yong kama.

Ng mga mensahe niyang naglayag pa sa kalawakan Para lang ipaalam sa’yo Na ikaw at tanging ikaw lamang Ang s’yang laman ng kanyang isipan Bago pa man nagpalunod sa liwanag ng araw ang buwan.

Ang unan mo: tuyo.

Hindi ka sanay.

Walang kahit anumang bakas na pagkamuhi mo Sa lamig ng gabi, Sa katahimikan ng dilim, O sa hindi pagiging patas ng mundo.

Hindi ka sanay bumangon Nang hindi dahil sa kanya Kundi para naman sa’yo

Isang araw, Magigising ka na lang nang maayos.

Mamamangha ka.

Mas gugustuhin mong ubusin Ang kapeng iniinom mo Kaysa sa mga saloobin niyang Iniwang nakabuklat sa Twitter.

Susubukan mong hanapin ang pait Na dating nakakabit Sa dalawang nabanggit Kaso wala kang makikita.

Bagkus, matatagpuan mo Ang sarili mong abala sa kakahanap Ng ibang bigat na pwedeng dalhin, Ibang patalim Na pwedeng ipangtarak sa dibdib, Ibang sakit ng ulo, Ibang kirot na dulot ng pagsablay Kasi sa totoo lang talaga, Hindi ka pa sanay.

Hindi ka sanay mamulat Nang banayad Na buong pagsukong nakayakap Sa katotohanang hindi na ang cellphone mo Ang napiling pantalan

Hindi para isisi o iasa na naman sa kanya Ang dahilan ng pakiramdam Na kulang ang gabing nagdaan At ang pagkakumpleto Ng araw mo ngayon, o ng kinabukasan.

Hindi ka sanay.

Hindi ka sanay mapahikab O kahit mapabuntonghininga Na walang nararamdamang hapdi Nang hindi nayayanig ang mga bakanteng loteng Nasasakupan ng iyong tiyan Na siyang dating tinitirhan Ng mga paruparong bigla na lang nagsulputan No’ng unang beses ka niyang nginitian.

Kaya naman ngayon, Kahit ayos na ang lahat, Kahit namahinga ka man nang sapat, Tila ‘di ka makahanap ng direksyon.

Matatagpuan mo ang sarili mong Nag-iisa, naliligaw, Giniginaw; Na tila nakaligtaang Hindi sa paglisan natatapos ang pananatili At iba ang paglayo sa pagbitaw.

25 “Pagpukaw” was previously published at Bukambibig Poetry Folio of Spoken Word Philippines.

26

Curious Arrangements

by Cobbie Karagdag 27

Playing ‘Taboo’

by Adeva Esparrago “Feelings. Heart. Longing. Lost. Force.”

I did not know Where it came from.

All I know is that A glint Like that of a mirror Hit by sunlight Brought into consciousness Things that I have known But have been tucked At the back of my mind, Like books in the attic Gathering dust.

I once knew its name.

I don’t know why It is familiar with my anatomy.

It has been here before.

I just know it.

It heads to the deep, The hollow.

The secret.

It spreads From my chest Until the end of my fingers.

Some call it Electricity. Life.

Stirred, disturbed.

Writhing.

Finding its way to the world outside.

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It emerges.

Shaking off the cold.

Its covers peeling, Exposing hidden lines And curves and colors.

Motives.

Inside me, Thoughts of you Are enough To shake things that grow awake and into existence, They give birth to the unexplainable.

It can never fall asleep again.

I can never fall asleep again.

It has found me wanting.

“Playing Taboo” was previously published in Meraki, an art book with complementary poems that was independently published by the author.

Facebook Renga, 2009

by Gino Dolorzo, Erika Navaja I have broken a lot of things in life.

I wish I could undo them. Or glue the shards into place in the pattern of breakage.

Like china plates and vases, glasses, Dad’s favorite ashtrays-- Mom shed tears for each--bones of my toes out of clumsiness, some promises, but mostly, hearts.

Or beer bottles back then. Back when I have found myself drunk on bitterness, crumpling returned love letters, cursing moments when my heart ached in beats.

But of course, I cannot undo a Sunday afternoon, the sky turning crimson with a tinge of violet, you coming before me, that wry smile, the eyes glittering with so many things I could not piece together.

Mom now serves menudo with stainless steel bowls, puts flowers in a steel pitcher she uses as a vase.

Dad puts his lit Marlboro Lights in an engine piston.

You have put up an iron wall only you could open.

I have broken a lot of things before. I now limp to unbreak these worn-out verses

29

The Ride Home

by Timothy Justin Emata 30

Before the sun rises

by Christian Baldomero I stare at the empty chair across me, At the empty picture frame, At the broken wall clock that ticks slowly, I think of you.

Most nights, I think of you, You lay beside me As you hold my hand And raise it against the fluorescent lamp You’d squint as the light passes through the crevices of our interlaced fingers.

But I, I will look at you The light shining your face It is perfect, It has always been.

Some nights, When I can’t sleep I stare at the empty picture frame At 3:00 am, I think of you, Of how you used to squint your eyes When you see me from a distance, So I stare at the darkness And maybe, Just maybe, If I squint hard enough I’d see you here.

But tonight, I think of you, Just before the sun rises at 5:00 am When you can only hear

The sound of distant cars passing, The city waking up And the slow ticks of the broken wall clock As I still stare at the empty chair, At the empty picture frame, I think of you And maybe, Just maybe, You are thinking of me too.

31

Adobong Halas

by Jhon Edgar Ipan Adlaw, gabii, akong gipakaon ang binuhi kong halas.

Adlaw, gabii gipalipay ko siya.

Giatiman ko siya.

Inigkadugay, nausab ang iyang kinaiya.

Paspas pas bala ang iyang pagkiit, sa akong luyo.

Nilubong ang iyang mga ngipon nga lala sa akong likod Sa walay pagduhaduha, giibot ko sa akong luyo ang binuhi kong halas.

Gibira, gilata, gilabay-labay.

Gipanitan, giputlan, gipabukalan.

Dihang pagbugha ko sa iyang lawas wa ko nagmahay.

Sama niining ahos ug sibuyas ang kabaho sa iyang taras.

Sama niining toyo ug suka, ang kaparat ug kaaslom sa among pag-uban.

Andam na ang adobong halas.

Inig tulon ko sa iyang mga unod, naakoa ang iyang kusog, Wa nay makapanghilabot kanako samtang ang binuhi kong halas nihilis sa sulod sa akong tiyan.

32

Sunset, Fun Set

by Cobbie Karagdag 33

Walking on Sunshine

by Gene Verona 34

Skin Renga, 2009

by Henrietta Diana de Guzman, Gino Dolorzo Little do our skin know the comfort of heat. Sometimes they stroke to stoke fire darker than night’s privacy Like an itch proclaiming its need dazed from raw skin licked by liqour.

I opened my eyes to feel you: your eyes, your smell, your desire like smoke that ciphers taking away, the restraint of memory cradled by cigar butts. Imagine how our skin respire. Imagine their pores as our lungs-- contracting, expanding-- breathing. Until all they desire is each other’s breath.

You and me, we share the same gasping pain and relief, we drenched ourselves for our own sinful salvation. Breathe in, out, we are one.

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36

Beyond Sunsets

by Louise Coleen Vitor

Renewal

by Junna Mae Pajela

40

Chanel Mademoiselle

by Abigail James Marien could still smell her mother’s perfume when she came in the door.

It was sharp, distinct, expensive. Her mother must have left only a few hours ago and yet here was her scent. Marien rarely ever wore some herself, and if she did, it would be one of her mother’s anyway. She’d go to parties wearing the fruity smell like a costume, the invisible presence of her mother hanging on her collar; as if reminding her to carry herself better, not eat so much.

It had happened so quickly. Marien suspected it was the rain, or perhaps their driver’s tendency to be distracted. Marien had almost made it home when they called. Bring the documents from home, they said. It was instant. There was nothing the hospital could do. Look for the files that said she had insurance, a funeral plan. As Marien turned on the dim sala light, she saw her mother’s house slippers askance near the shoe rack; shrugged off in a hurry to leave. Her mother had a big mouth but small feet.

On the hard narra sitting chair, Marien could see the blanket her mother used as a hapin for when she wanted to watch television and doze. She walked over to sit at the edge, the same place she would sit on the rare whim of wanting to be physically close to her. She recalled the useless tidbit conversations here mother would engage her in, about showbiz, about a person she saw in Divisoria. She was unavailable yet suffocating. But she was Marien’s only ally in the house for a long time. It had been years since her father had died, and yet Marien had still stayed despite saying she would leave the moment his overbearing entity departed. She vowed to never let her mother fend for herself with a man who might drive her crazy, but even when he was gone, Marien stuck around.

Her mother had been there since day one, and yet before the day had ended, she was gone. Marien buried her head in the white blanket, impossibly trying not to think of her mother’s body. Her scent still remained – not her perfume but the smell Marien had known probably since the first time her mother had held her. She started crying like a newborn; bawling, sobbing, screaming.

All this time she had thought her mother could not live without her. She didn’t want to leave her alone else she might be lonely. She had been so concerned about her mother if she left; she had not bothered to think how bad it would be the other way around.

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42

Surging Tides of Emotions

by Shaun Xena Labrador 43

Tao sa Loob ng Balon

by EJ Betita Villena nang humupa ang baha, malaon natagpuan natin itong dalawang nilalang na nakatambay sa lilim ng matandang kahoy, kalbo na’ng mga dahon at nanigas tulad ng bangkay.

“pag namatay ‘ko,” sabi ng taong tigmak sa putik, “maraming dadalo sa ‘king burol. Magsasabi ng mababangong salita tungkol sa ‘kin—mga salitang masahol pa sa tae.

Punyeta, wala naman silang pakialam sa ‘kin.”

“well,” sabi ng androgyne na kasama niya, magara ang kasuotan nito, “hindi ka kumompromiso para lang madilaan ang kanilang puwet at mapaamo sila.”

“oo nga,” sabi niya.

“tara na?” sabi ng kasama niya.

“ayaw kong lumayas.”

“paiwan ka dito.”

“ayaw kong paiwan.”

“lumayas ka.”

Tahimik.

Ilang saglit, sabi ng kasama niya,

“napadpad ka rito sa kailaliman ng balon, at nakalikom ng maraming tae nang pumaroon ka dito.”

“oo nga.”

“so, tanggap mo na ito?”

“pagod na ‘ko sa tae.”

“e di, ibalik mo ang tae kung saan nanggaling ito.”

“pero kakainisan nila ‘ko.”

“so, umahon ka mula sa balon na ito.”

“tapos?”

“pag ahon mo, wag mo na itong talikuran.”

“pero maiiwan ko’ng mga kasama ko dito sa balon—sa taas mag-iisa lang ko…”

“malay mo? merong naghihintay doon sa taas.”

“tapos?” “walang pipilit sa iyo ng tae, siguro—maaari namang ganoon din.”

“wala ding pinagkaiba dito.” “at least may espasyo ka doon.”

“tama, tama.”

“tara na?”

Tiningnan niya ang kanyang kasama. Hinipo niya ito.

Tapos: kinuyom niya ito, minasa ang androgyne hanggang sa bumalik ito sa pagiging putik.

At least putik ito, isip niya.

Hindi ito tae.

(paumanhin kina Samuel Beckett at Khavn de la Cruz) 44

In Between

by Freshelle May Tilanduca

45

Blocks and Whites

by Gene Verona 46

UberX

by Gari Jamero I have been waiting for this for quite some time, but I can’t quite figure out the reason why.

I used to be wary of going home; a particular disagreeable portion of the time spent there was getting bombarded with questions like, “When are going to get married?”, or “When are you going to settle down and start your practice here in town?” Every damn time.

But, somehow, I am not extremely bothered despite the inevitability of that happening.

47

I even booked an UberX despite the triple-price surge. Michelle, in a black Ford EcoSport.

She was still four minutes away so I smoked a stick, my final one before home.

Two minutes away, I puffed just a bit harder; most Michelles I knew did not like the smell of tobacco so early in the day.

Arriving now. She opened the front passenger seat window.

“Alexander, right?”

The melody her words swim in shook up any sleep-seeking cells I had. The minute nicotine I’ve managed to shore up was dispelled and my neurons too flooded with nostalgia, I failed to notice the ajar door hit my right knee.

“Good morning! Do you have a preferred route to the airport?”

How could she ask me that?! She should know all my preferences! Playing dumb, eh? Let’s see how far you’ll take this Michelle.

“Excuse me, Michelle? Did you, by any chance, study Accountancy?”

She looked at me, then laughed. She asked me how I figured it out. I knew because she used to bitch about her professors to me. I knew because I used to console her when she failed a quiz or f***ed up a presentation. I knew because I memorized her schedule just so I can be there to pick her up, on time. I knew, but she clearly did not; she has no inkling of an idea as to who I am, who she was to me.

Drudging along EDSA, she offered me to play music from my device. With every fiber of my being, I mustered up my stubborness and chose to play CeeLo Green’s classic, F*** You/Forget You. Though not the most apropos insult, given that she’s the one with the car, I stuck with my song choice and iced her out until we exited EDSA. I’m mature like that.

Friction is a bitch. My buttocks could pass for a panini press and my fragile ego was slowly broken down by my backfiring contempt, sliding off her impermeable ignorance. Holding a grudge against a person feigning amnesia is idiotic, apparently.

48

Lines

by Lynette Tuvilla 49

“Are you flying off to vacation? Hong Kong or South Korea?”

I shook my head. I told her, “I’m flying domestic, off to see family. It’ll suck but it has been a while so I’m overdue.” She cackled and placed her gear-shifting hand on my left shoulder. The traces of sweat on her clammy hand lingers on my sleeve.

It smelt of the back rubs I used to guilt her into giving me.

So, I guess she’s not breaking character.

We were nearing the toll gate when her phone rang. She asked me if she could pull over to take the call. I was early for my flight anyway. I never eavesdropped on her phone calls in the past, but since things are in seeming disarray for today, why not add to the chaos, right?

Turns out, I’m lousy at eavesdropping. The most I could make out was that she’ll let whoever she was talking to when she would arrive.

We arrived at Terminal 3. I was about to get out of the car but she asked me to wait.

“For what?”, I asked.

“Just let this song finish. I don’t have Spotify so please let this finish before you go.”

She sang along, wrapped every note with the velvet of her voice. I guess this will do as a goodbye.

I went around the back of the car to retrieve my luggage. She followed suit and even offered to help me carry my bags. I refused but she insisted.

“Just to make sure, you know? You might forget something.”

She folded the back seat to reveal a concealed suitcase. On top of which was a black pouch. She picked the pouch up and opened it. She removed what was inside but kept it hidden inside her fist. She took my hand and gave me the object.

“I will do anything to make sure you won’t get on any flight before you answer my question, and that includes planting a bullet in your luggage?”

F*** you, Michelle. Of course, I’d say “I do”.

50

Cyborg

by Rizalyka Joanne Waminal

51

52

On the Other Fence

by Cobbie Karagdag

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Remembering Adobo

by Karlene Cabaraban In Kapung-awan City, the children did not believe in the sun. Some say it had gone home to Kalayo Island, where the sea was the color of a smiling sky and people walked on smooth, white sands. But one day, the sea swallowed its light. And for forty-nine years the sun had not shone on Kapung-awan City.

The children did not play in Kapung-awan City. The streets were too wet and slippery for chalk-drawn hopscotch boxes. Torrents of rain fell too heavily on their eyelids to play outdoor ball games. (For forty-nine years basketball had been dead). They could not play tumba-lata, throwing their rubber slippers at small cans in the middle of the street, while gusts of wind competed with them. People simply could not be bothered to come out, not while there was nothing outside but unwelcome.

On my way to the PUJ terminal at Gaisano Mall, the rain poured without mercy on my umbrella. The winds pushed hard at pedestrians crossing Recto Avenue. In the late afternoon, the city was a vast expanse of vehicles meticulously queued on the roads.

My Nanay, however, had known a different Kapung-awan City. In her youth she had walked the same route as I did. Although when she went inside the now abandoned Church of the Black Nazareno beside the mall, and knelt at the pews, both hands clasped in prayer, hollowness had not echoed against the stained glass windows. Once, it had been bright with the candles people lit for their prayers. Rather than the endless cacophony of engines, the music of a choir and a piano filled the hustle and bustle of Recto Avenue. But now water had formed a puddle at the threshold, and all that remained of the faithful were dust and cobwebs.

“On my way home, there was that old man begging outside the church. He was blind and a cripple, but while people passed by he sang—quite well—to a makeshift electric guitar. My favorite was always “Best of My Love” because it reminded me so much of your Tatay... Sometimes, people stopped to listen. And when they heard the music, they remembered something that made them smile. Or sad. Before the rain was a beautiful time... when people did not bow down to the heavens—but looked up and found beauty in life.”

When I got home, my Nanay was in the library. She lay wrapped around an old malong, in the corner she often occupied by the window, eyes intent on the spectacle of rain sliding down the glass. While she immersed herself in thoughts deeper than the waters between Kalayo Island and Kapung-awan City, the thundering of rain on the roof sunk under the music playing from the radio.

Beautiful faces and loud, empty spaces Look at the way that we live, Wasting our time on cheap talk and wine Left us so little to give Gently, I took her thin, slender hands. “Amen ko, Nay,” I said, to which she responded with silence.

“Your coffee’s gone cold.” She made no reply. Patiently, wrapping the blanket more tightly around her frail, bony shoulders, I went on, “What are you doing here, Nay?” My mother had put up this library in our house, though she never really had the time to

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browse through the novels. It was Nanay who had established her barrack in the library, the hours in her day spent around the old, dusty books she had collected when she was young.

My grandmother continued to ignore me.

“Nanay gyud oh. This is me, Giana. I’m your apo.” Tired and sleepy from the trip home, I slumped on a chair in front of her. “By the way. Did you know they’re demolishing the church?

There’s a huge wrecking ball parked outside. What did you call that church, Nay—the Nazareno?” Her face remained stoic and unchanging. I began to feel annoyed. “What do you keep doing here, anyway? It’s warmer in the sala.”

She made a soft noise, which sounded like, “Waiting.” “Waiting? For what?”

“The sun.”

I sighed. Here we go again. “Nay, the sun is gone.”

“It will come,” she insisted.

Nanay had been waiting for the sun for forty-nine years. If the sun were a person, it would be Odysseus and she would be Penelope. She sulked in this corner in the house she and Tatay had built. Oftentimes I caught her silently praying the rosary. For forty-nine years prayer had become the source of warmth while she lay wrapped in the cold. And whenever anyone told her there was no point putting your faith on pieces of beads tied together with a string, she would always tell them, “The sun will come.”

“How do you know?” I asked. “It will come,” was all she said.

“Bahala gud ka uy.” I left her alone and looked for something to eat instead.

My mother could not cook to save her life. When she was young, Tatay had taught her how to make adobo. But, like all children in Kapung-awan City, the rain had washed away what few happy memories her childhood had. Instead she stocked our refrigerator with ready-toheat food from the supermarket.

I did not feel like eating dinner alone, so I microwave-heated a Tupperware of chicken adobo and a platter of leftover rice, and brought them with me to the library. Nanay was the last vestiges of Kapung-awan City that the rain had been unable to carry away. Since my mother and father were too occupied with adult matters to be bothered, I took it upon myself to take care of her.

“Mangaon ta, Nay.” Suddenly, to my surprise, my grandmother’s quiet voice spoke, “Adobo.” “Nay?” “Adobo,” she said again, and the wistfulness in her voice was apparent. I interpreted her one- word reply as a request, so I went to the kitchen and fetched her another plate. As I began to put helpings of adobo on the plate, Nanay laid her hand on top of mine. The touch of her hands, clothed in the fabric of age, was cold but soft.

“Santiago loved adobo.”

Old people like my Nanay found children with their incessant, persistent questions rude.

But I could not resist asking her, “Who’s Santiago?”

When again I was met with silence, I added, “Is he my grandfather?”

In her youth my grandmother must have been a radiant woman. She must have laughed and smiled a lot. The rainless sky must have danced in her eyes. But the years of waiting for the return of the past she knew had robbed them of light—and now only rain, painted in the colors of absence, reflected in the window of her eyes.

The supermarket adobo was not tasteful in my mouth. My father had cooked adobo once, 55

for my eighth birthday: He made it as his father did. On that morning I woke to the smell of tanglad, and followed the scent all the way to the kitchen. Eagerly I stood by his side as he mixed toyo and vinegar with onions, garlic, pepper, and bay leaves. “Tilawi daw, ‘nak,” uncertain, he had made me taste the soup, to which I had suggested to put in more onions.

It was the warmest memory I had of my father, until he was offered the position of operations manager in a large manufacturing factory. And then he no longer had the time to make it again.

The years came and went, and I learned the truth: Children in Kapung-awan City did not play. They did not spend time cooking adobo with their fathers. There was only microwave-heated meals and an old woman silenced into bitterness.

The rain had worsened into a storm. I could hear the trees swaying against the harsh gusts of wind, and the music of the radio once again sank under the deluge.

After what must have been several minutes that came and went, Nanay finally spoke again.

Her breathing was labored and her voice was quiet. But while she talked, suddenly, a speck of light began to peep through the eyelids of the frail, old woman huddled in an old malong.

“It is my sweetest memory of Santiago. I remember... It was the hottest summer in Kapung- awan City. The sun was so hot we couldn’t get out of the house without our shirts sticking with sweat. But that day he made chicken adobo. He did not cook often, and he put in a lot of onions and toyo, which I didn’t like. But it was the best I’ve ever had.” She tore her gaze from the window and turned to smile at me. “You would have loved him, Giana. You are a lot like him.”

Giana. She so rarely called me by my name. “But how come I’ve never met him, Nay?” I did not expect a reply. Both my mother and Nanay did not talk about what had happened to my Tatay. But when I asked my father, who had never met him, he said Tatay had been dead for a long time. His name was not mentioned in the house. No picture of him hung on the walls.

If there was one thing in Kapung-awan City which the rain could not wash away, it was the bitter, immutable ghost of a memory.

Suddenly, my grandmother reached out for my hand and held it to her face. In a quiet voice, one stained with sadness, she said, “A long time ago, langga, before the Deluge, the sun lit up the vast, blue skies and the clouds were soft and white. Children like you have never known a rainless day. When the sun comes—soon—and you will spread your arms wide and feel the sun kissing your skin, Giana, you will see what you are capable of loving... and how incapable you are of letting it go.”

For several seconds, only the sound of rain pounding on our house filled the space we occupied with reminiscence. When Nanay spoke again, she did not seem to be with me in the present anymore.

“When I met your grandfather, I was young and selfish-minded, believing I could have the world in my hands. Meanwhile, Santiago was a seminarian... Since they were not allowed to have girlfriends, we kept our relationship in handwritten letters and text messages (and the occasional Instagram post). Still, in spite of our circumstances, we were able to make each other happy.”

A series of coughs interrupted her speech suddenly. Abruptly I rose from my seat, but she waved me away. When she recovered, however, she was able to joke with a small smile. “Now-

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adays, men and women marry because of mutual cultural and economic capital, but back then all you really needed was a heart... and a little recklessness.”

“What was he like?” I asked her. It was the first time I had seen my grandmother smile.

On the rare occasions when we spoke to each other, it was always about how the rains had washed away everything good about Kapung-awan City, that mothers and fathers so rarely spent time with their children that they might as well be pushing androids out of their vaginas.

But now when Nanay smiled, she was suddenly forty-nine years younger. “He was born in Kalayo Island. And like the rocks on the shores, he was hard and stubborn. Whenever we argued, I always wanted to hit him.” I imagined my small, frail grandmother trying to hit a rock, and tried not to laugh. “But then... big, stubborn Santiago could be the sweetest, too, and the most gentle. He would write little notes on my notebook like ‘Don’t be sad. Pretty kaayo ka,’ or ‘I’m here, langga. Smile always.’ Unlike the other boys, he didn’t have a lot of money to buy me gifts...but the years we had together were the happiest of my life. Although he is in Kalayo Island now”—I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes—“a part of me knows he is still with me.”

Suddenly, I noticed the rosary she often had with her on the table. The blue had started to fade with age. Beside it was a photograph she held between her weak, shaking fingers: It was a wedding picture. A tall, big man with dark eyes had his arm around a woman who had my grandmother’s hair and face, although she did not have her staring, absent eyes and her thin, unsmiling mouth. He was not looking at the camera. Instead his eyes were fixed on the happy, laughing woman he held in his arms, and they were looking at her the way the sun must have once looked at Kapung-awan City— you will see what you are capable of loving... and how incapable you are of letting it go.

Remembering and talking about the past seemed to have taken a toll on my grandmother.

“Hungit pa, Nay, oh,” I coaxed. The spoonful of adobo, small droplets of toyo dripping from the spoon, made its way to the entrance of her mouth. The gates, however, were barred with exhaustion.

But Nanay went on, her labored breathing apparent as she struggled to continue, “The sky was blue and the waters were clear that day... How could I have known... that the moment I kissed Santiago goodbye... the moment he turned his back to make his way to the ferry... how your mother ran to hug him before he left... those would be the last I would ever have?”

She exhaled an exhausted sigh.

“Sometimes I can still smell it...the toyo and the vinegar... I can hear Santiago singing his favorite Bisaya songs. I should have gone with him. Every time I close my eyes like this, I can still feel his arms, big and warm and the scent of home...”

“Did... did the rain take him away?”

My grandmother’s eyes were closed. Her chest heaved while hard coughs attacked her breathing. “When...when the ferry Santiago was in sunk at sea,” cough, “I didn’t believe it when they said he was gone,” cough, “There is no end without a body, I told them,” cough, cough, “They said it would be easier that way... How could it be? Santiago could not return, not when the rain kept him away. He was home in Kalayo Island...” cough, “and when he returns he will bring the sun with him. Kapung-awan can wait, and they will,” cough, cough, cough, “they will come.”

I’m going back in time And it’s a sweet dream It was a quiet night

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And I would be all right If I could go on sleeping I did not know how long we sat together, my grandmother and me, not talking. How long we allowed the minutes to slip past our hands. I listened to the fall of rain on the glass and watched as it cascaded down the windows—what harm have we ever done for heaven to slump on the sheets, hug its knees, while Kapung-awan City buckled under its tears?

“Kadyot lang,” suddenly I scrambled to my feet, “Nay, the rain’s stopped!”

With excitement too frenzied to describe, my feet almost sprinted out of the library, into the kitchen, and through the doorway, pushing the screen door so hard the hinges protested.

My breath got caught in my throat. For the first time in my life, I was not hearing the sound of rain crashing against the pavement. There was an almost reverential silence encompassing Kapung-awan City. I looked up to the sky and saw the dark, gray clouds slowly dispersing, and a tiny hint of yellow peeking from the cracks— All around me people were coming out of their houses, wearing the same awed, dumbstruck expression I had on my face. The rain had stopped. The rain had stopped! they were shouting. Children burst through their doors. Dogs waggled their tails and their mouths opened as if to taste, for the first time in forty-nine years, the warmth pouring in from the sky.

Before the rain was a beautiful time... when people did not bow down to the heavens—but looked up and found beauty in life.

Something wild was roaring in my chest. My knees felt weak. Suddenly, it was difficult to stand. My stomach ached from the torrent of words I was swallowing. I closed my eyes. Slowly, almost fearfully, the arms attached to the sides of my body loosened, and then spreading so widely and so carelessly until I could feel the universe in my arms. A laugh broke free from my mouth—the sound, so alien and so unfamiliar, was the scent of abodo on my eighth birthday.

“Nay! Nay, come out! The rain’s stopped! It’s—it’s warm out here, it’s amazing—” When I opened my eyes, the door was still shut. Several minutes passed, and still Nanay had not followed me into the garden. Perhaps she had fallen back asleep. But this is the day that she had been waiting for, for forty-nine years. Surely she would not let this moment pass by her.

I found her still on the same spot I had left her. Her eyes were closed and her hands, the faded blue rosary weaved around her slender fingers, were on her lap. The malong had slipped from her shoulders.

The wedding photograph of her and Tatay lay face-down on the table, and I saw the little note scribbled at the back: May 16, 2024. Moabot ang adlaw na magpuyo ako sa imong dughan...karon, ugma og hangtod sa kahangturan.

“Nay?” I whispered.

And, of course, silence was her only response.

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Descendants

by Sheldane May Mahinay

The Man

by Patricia Mae Mabalos

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Essay

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Chicken Buses: a love story in progress

by Louise Dumas We were squeezed against each other, my hands gripping the backrest of grimy bus seats – one in front of me and another across the aisle. I never thought I had the talent of a contortionist but there I was.

‘Packed like a can of sardines’ – whoever invented this phrase had never been to El Salvador, Central America. The description simply faces shame in front of rush-hour traffic in the country’s capital. My bag was somewhere among the passengers lucky enough to be seated, a trust practice which was surprising to me with the Salvadoreños’ renowned wariness of strangers.

“It is more for caution than for simple snobbery,” he explained. Before I finalized my plans, we had a quite extensive discussion on gang activities and drug trafficking in Central America. “What you read in the news is most of the time exaggerated. Sure there is violence but it has gone down quite considerably in the last few years.” So sure we could be passing drug mules, as long as I keep my nose to myself, I’d be safe. Besides, he’s with me almost 24/7. The latter part convinced me.

How we got started on our adventures was in a bus ride too – in another continent, foreign to both of us. It would have been a boring ride except that I was seated next to him. I didn’t speak Spanish then and, well, he still refuses to speak English. And now, almost two years later, I was halfway across the globe to visit him in his country.

He did warn me that he didn’t have a car.

No one complains as the bus stops to accommodate more passengers. Despite the heavy load it was obviously carrying, the bus was quite adept in zipping through traffic, oblivious to passengers unused to rush-hour speed driving who could die of heart attack from the hair-raising corner bends. The chickens crammed with the passengers looked more relaxed than I felt. From the window with what seemed like a bullet hole in it, everything was just a blur, only defined when the bus would screech to a halt and by then I’d be busy regaining my balance to look out the window. “It’s a good daily dose of adrenaline rush,” he laughed at me. “As if you do not get enough excitement in your country,” I retorted. I felt immensely relieved as we approached the rotunda near his house.

“So I guess you wouldn’t be planning soon of visiting me again,” he said as we fought our way to the rear of the bus. “Are you for real? Go look for a lot where I can start building my house,” I answered, allowing him to put his arm around my back.

Author’s Note: The problem of gang violence related to international drug syndicates in El Salvador, Central America became one of the main problems the country faced during its reconstruction after its civil war. The author believes that the knittight bond of youth gangs makes them perfect groups for change because of their influence on each other. If their main reason for joining the gang is for the lack of economic opportunities, the government can make a scheme that would introduce them into the legal work force of their country.

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Paddling Silot Bay

by Denver Ejem Torres As Ping and I were paddling away from the canoe station I could hear our fellow managers making fun of my paddling skills. That I paddle like a princess. To which I agree. In fact, I think, I suck at it big time. What, of course, I believe, they did not know was why I paddled the way I paddled.

I could not keep my focus. I am always anxious about being in or near a body of water. And when I am, my mind wanders. Maybe it is its coping mechanism. My mind more often than not goes back to the past. Memory assaults me in torrents. How else to deal with this kind of assault but to be still. And so I would stop rowing.

And then my mind rowed into Camaman-an of the 90s where when it rained, my neighborhood was flooded. The teenage boys would cut down some banana tree and build a raft. We, the little boys, would join them on board and play-pretend that we were pirates on a great adventure. During the monsoon afternoons, whether the rain lets up or not, we would be at home lounging in the sala and enjoying a hot bowl of tsamporado.

The traveling mind of course wouldn’t tell you its next destination. I was suddenly underwater. There were hands on my head, back, hands, legs, pulling me down. I went with friends one time to the forests and bathed in the river of Kahulogan. I almost drowned there.

I never learned how to swim. My parents didn’t pass on this skill to me. I am not afraid of the river or the sea per se but I am afraid of drowning in it. I had a taste of how it feels like. By this time Ping’s annoyance was surfacing out. She started to comment on my lousy paddling.

She was of course unaware that I was gone and that she was speaking to a boy who had to settle on a riverrock traumatized by a near-death experience. I fell quiet.

My mind snapped back to Silot Bay when Ping’s voice became insistent. Propelled by shame that I was being a cheat, I paddled as hard as could.

I proposed that we circle that sprawling mangrove tree under the zipline cables of Papa Kits. As we rowed to that spot, my mind slowly slid back to the past. This time, I was in the sala of my Auntie Angga. My cousins and I were watching Waterworld. I remember how I felt after watching that movie. My 1996 and 2016 minds met. As I looked into the distance, scanning the bay, my 2016 mind entertained again the very same fear Hollywood had. I thought that if it ever happened, in that very moment, or anytime soon, I wouldn’t survive for even a good two minutes. I am no Kevin Costner.

Tessa and Otep, JM and Thor caught up with us. And the mind returned when our twoseater open canoe ran aground a sandbar. I had to get off the canoe and push it off to a rowable part of the bay. Then we started rowing back.

And then my first memory of the sea took over. I was on the shore of Macajalar Bay. I watched my father turn into a dot as he swam farther away from me while the sea was tentatively licking my feet. And just like in other times, this memory revealed nothing more of that scene.

When we docked at the canoe station, I did not have the chance to defend my paddling and tell Ping and the rest of our colleagues that my muscles were sore because I was canoeing in two bays.

Published in Sun Star Weekend, September 25, 2016

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64

Pondering the Cliche

by Cobbie Karagdag

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from ‘The Cartographies of Our Skin’

by Alton Melvar M. Dapanas March 2012 & December 2016, Siargao Islands, Surigao del Norte I. We begin again with the inhabiting of my palm on your lap, the confines of your please falling off my mind. Not this, you say, not here, not now. And minutes later, inside this dim room, I question your devotion. What do you want then? What if, after this, another forged attempt at setting free? What if ours ends up like bad fiction, a void in memory?

II. I throb my fingers on the ease of your lap, sketching coy circles on it, parting stresses on casual points. Now we’ve only repeated the story that paved the way for this: eastern sunlight on our unkempt sheets, Odesza on play, antidepressants I handed you over, us.

III. So what now? I whisper. Allow these plans of my mouth on yours. Accept the trail that your hands trek towards my core. Isn’t this enough for you to say yes?

Suppose these disorders we’ve made out of our lives—every love, every lost. Think of the hasty ways we put our clothes on for every little noise outside your door.

IV. What about the first kiss on your cottage’s bamboo floor one dusk, each moan and mumble locking on our ears? Believe in the grip of my palm on your lap, but allow it to wait elsewhere, elsewhen. Every touch a fondness, each fondness a duress. Never mind saving the world for now, dear activist. What’s the point of the self amidst this, after all?

V. I have to go, you insist. But stay, or else… I urged. Please do not dread the now. Are there alternative endings to this?

‘The Cartographies of Our Skin’ (2018, Hermeneutic Chaos Press) is a forthcoming chapbook which is the author’s first collection of lyric essays, prose poems, and other attempts at blurring the generic boundaries between poetry and nonfiction prose.

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Flowers for the Wound

by Mary Yvonne Alamban

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Tagum Fairy Tales

by Seneca Pellano I will be the first to admit that as a kid, I never grew up reading fairy tales. The lives of Cinderella, Little Mermaid, Snow White, and Little Red Riding Hood were never stored in my personal memory box. I have often wondered what my outlook would have been had I been initiated into these fairy stories early on.

I surely would have formed mental images of faraway kingdoms, talking creatures, and majestic castles. I would have wished to a fairy, befriended a giant, or believed I was a princess for a time. These marvelous creations might have fed my creativity as I explored endless possibilities of imaginative thought. Perhaps I would have also been more hopeful and optimistic about the world, looking at it with more shades and color.

I think of these, and wonder if my character would have become the opposite of what it is now, the product of my own fairytale life in the slums of Tagum City. In our own little shanty at Third Avenue, children’s books were out of reach. Instead, I battled the giants of poverty and goblins of injustice with my family. My young eyes took in in the all-too-familiar sight of hard realities. Too early in life I heard the moans and snarls of destitute fate.

If other kids grew up listening to fairy tales for bedtime stories, I grew up listening to war stories of my aunts and uncles who were former communist rebels. Instead of warriors fighting dragons, I thrilled to their tales of guerilla tactics and shrewd ambuscades. In place of princes marrying princesses, I became familiar with stories of marital infidelity and unpaid debts from our neighbors. I drank in the conspiracy tales of the shanties – for instance, the great fire across the street was said to have been purposely set by the land owner to drive us iskwaters away. Back then, it was not hard to believe what my chatty neighbors and communist storytellers said. I was living in their stories.

For me, the slum was my Neverland. It was the place where I used my next door neighbors’ early morning spats as my alarm clock. It was where they asked for my pet dog’s meat when he was hit and killed by a tricycle one afternoon. It was where Christmas and New Year were welcomed literally with a bang from pistols of my uncles.

It was the place where I grew up.

Was I being deprived of childhood innocence? In a conventional sense, yes. As a child, I did not have room for imaginative thinking. I was pushed into growing up, seeing reality the moment I became conscious of my existence. But then, should it be otherwise? Should children be molded first into innocence by wonder tales, only to have that innocence dashed because they can never be true, just figments of imagination by grown-up authors?

This essay previously appeared at Dagmay Literary Journal. Originally written as a film criticism of the movie “Into the Woods,” the panel at the Davao Writers Workshop—where the author was a fellow—lauded this piece as an example of a memoir.

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Long Live

by Jericho Montellano

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Sailing Between Weathers

by Jo Marie Claire Balase 70

The Pilot’s Vantage Point

by Charmaine Carrillo “I know a planet where there is a certain red-faced gentleman. He has never smelled a flower. He has never looked at a star. He has never loved any one. He has never done anything in his life but add up figures. And all day, he says over and over, just like you: ‘I am busy with matters of consequence!’ And that makes him swell up with pride. But he is not a man – he is a mushroom!” ~ The Little Prince

When temperatures went down during that ber-month, I was in the living room scrolling through my FB while the TV showed some teleserye I was not interested in. A lot of posts were on fright nights. There were people posting Halloween costumes, make up tutorials for Halloween.

Team Kramer was in all black. That was cute.

Scroll down more.

There was a photo of Canada’s Prime Minister Trudeau dressed as the Pilot and his son, the Little Prince. Fallen leaves were on the ground. Behind them, the leaves of the trees were yellow with hints of orange.

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How fitting. The foliage almost imitating the sunset.

That was all it took for a distant memory replayed.

Hands were passing around glues and scissors. Scented papers of various colors and cut out pictures were scattered on the floor where eleven students were sitting and chatting. The troublesome flower accessories and yarns were lost in the mess.

I handpicked a picture of an orange sky as the sun hid behind red and black clouds.

Picturesque, I thought while glancing from the corner of my eyes.

Beautiful, you whispered while holding the picture a bit longer before gluing it on a black paper.

I looked at you and smiled.

That was how it all began.

While majority of the population would scurry out the building for lunch, I would often find myself taking the familiar steps to the library. But this time, with you humming along.

You really liked that, a different tune every now and then.

A group of seniors passed by talking about their college application. It seemed that UP and ADMU were the popular choices.

Sometimes, noon breaks were not filled with procrastination for a short quiz or long test by afternoon or some group report or paperwork. But this would usually end up with students talking loudly among themselves, asking who had read this part or understood the other.

Taking a break, I took the largest and most colored book I saw on one of the shelves before sitting down on the circular table at the back corner of the library.

The book I got discussed the iconic paintings of well-known artists. I read something about the painting, A Dance to the Music of Time, by Poussin. At the lower part was Father Time holding a lyre and two putti, one holding an hourglass and one blowing bubbles. It said something about the brevity of life.

I wondered if you already knew about this.

What would you be? You asked.

There’s a lot of time to discern as of now, I answered while flipping through the book. Perhaps, I would get the most demanded careers. It makes job applications easier like how demand and supply works. More opportunities when there is demand which comes with handsome employment benefits packages.

But what do you really want to do? You persisted, leaning on your one hand, the other softly drumming against the table.

I avoided that question. But maybe, it was how your brown eyes regarded me with ease.

Maybe it was how your lips upturned to a faint smile.

I love visual arts, I replied.

Hmmm. You continued humming so I supposed I should go back reading.

What can you do with visual arts? You asked again.

Let’s see, I started. I want to have my own stories in comics or in mangas. I also want to have an exhibit. It will be something to have a solo exhibit of my own paintings. It would be a good start to join artist groups. There are a few here in CDO. There is also the choice of being an animator.

Photography also interests me.

Would you pursue that for college? You asked.

I wanted to laugh at how persistent you can get. But I knew that dreams are special to you.

Sometimes, I thought that you find them sacred. Like when every time you hear someone think about giving up or think about not being good enough, you would start your story72

telling about Walt Disney, Michael Jordan or Bill Gates. So I opted for a more honest reply to your question.

That would be hard, I said. In a country like the Philippines, it is a better investment to pursue careers that are in-demand or careers that adults would find respectable. Pursuing the arts is not practical. It is hard to go far. Not only that, but you have to be very talented to be noticed. There are also other concerns like retirement, job security, future investments to support a family, and other things that concern money.

What about you? I asked in return.

I really love music. I think it’s obvious, I really love playing my guitar. When I grow old, I can imagine myself playing that instrument for pastime.

At the back of my mind, I laughed about how the guitar gets your undivided attention.

Like that one time when we had an outing with classmates, as people were very busy having fun and playing around, you sat for hours practicing a song that caught your interest. Or like when your mother once said that she wanted to smack the guitar to you because all you did at home was play with it.

Everyone can see that, I said. But what do you plan to do about it?

It is hard like you said, you admitted. But it is not impossible. It just takes time. I thought about doing something to support myself as I am on my way to become a musician. But there is more to life than security. Think about it. I really think that passions have to be pursued so that when you grow old, you would be proud of what you have become whatever the outcome of your pursuit is.

You really are persistent, I said and you just smiled.

By the way, since you are the one into arts, would you judge this? Fishing your phone from your pocket, you showed me pictures you took the day before as you went to the grocery with your family. You took photos from different angles. I knew the place. It was behind SM. I wonder what the person nearby thought about you, I said.

You simply grinned while smacking my arm.

You showed me your favorite. A white moon hovered over a field of grass. The sky was just getting dark but there was still enough light to see that the grass were green. Worm’s eye view.

What do you think of it? You asked.

I like it, I honestly replied. The moon looks bigger and closer to the earth that way.

Thanks. But I would have loved to take a picture of the sunset, when the sun colors the sky in orange and pink. But it was getting dark by the time we went home.

I see. But the photo is really good.

Thanks, you repeated. You’re a good and supportive friend.

You would often say that. Telling me that I am a good friend. Sometimes calling me a special friend, a good company, or a good influence. You once told me that you feel productive when you were with me, that time is spent well.

Thank you. That was an automatic response from me that time, and on any other occasion when you would comment about our friendship.

Let us have a bet, you said. Don’t let go of your dreams. So, this is a challenge for you.

You prick. You knew how to stroke my competitive spirit to make me agree with you.

You should be an artist in fifteen years. By that time, you can already paint well. Give me a painting of a sunset.

Describe how you want the painting to be, I responded underlining the painting part of the bet without making clarifications. Should being an artist and the painting be achieved within 73

fifteen years, or were they separate matters?

Paint me, sitting on a bench by a cliff and facing the sunset. I am giving you your artistic freedom on how to go about it. But I want it to be a really big painting.

That’s achievable, came my defiant reply. My mind started coming up with images.

Make sure it is because if you could not do it, you are going to pay me twenty five thousand. We can make it fifteen if it is too much.

What’s in it for me? I giggled. How come I am the only one on the struggling end?

Hhhmmm… if you could do it, I would be the one paying you the money. Like a price for the painting of a renowned artist.

I remembered the librarian looking sternly at us while an amused smile escaped our lips.

I could not recall exactly what made us laugh. The money? The time? The challenge itself? I could not remember.

After a word from the librarian, we pretended to resume reading, holding in our breath as she sternly stared at us. In the middle of our giggles and effort to not burst into a laugh, you uttered something.

C---, I love you.

I froze. Because God knew I had never loved a friend as dearly as I have loved you. But I had never really desired to keep you. Like the sight brought by a flock of migrating birds – one of the most beautiful to behold but bound to go where it must be. I always thought that you would just come in my life, stay awhile then take off to somewhere, leaving me forever looking up the stars, wondering in which star you could be laughing.

Thank you. That was all I could whisper, too embarrassed to look at you lest you notice something on my face.

But I could never hold those words against you. After all, I could not ask what it was that you loved. Was it the kindred spirit you find in me? Was it the company? The friendship?

Did it have something to do with the noon light that streamed from the window? Or the conversation? The teenage hormone?

I did not know. I did not ask and had no intention to.

What was clear to me was there was a challenge. What my memory could not forget was your high regard for dreams. What transpired that noon break made me want to work for something more than money, more than security. Should life be as brief as a bubble that could burst anytime, then I wanted mine to be meaningful, spent with fervor and passion.

The rest of the story felt like light years ago.

I could only vaguely recall as much as I could not really remember the FB posts that I had passed while aimlessly scrolling through my newsfeed.

Standing up from the living room, I thought it was time to get some fresh air. How I miss the fresh air of the bukid.

The front porch was facing west. I moved to the rocking chair which suddenly felt inviting.

The rain-washed road in front was sandy with lime being washed down from the hills.

Across the road, mountains stretched until the farthest that can be seen only formed a faint silhouette. The grass seemed to stretch endless as well, with some trees here and there.

This afternoon, it seemed that my memory was picking on you. It replayed a conversation we had weeks ago.

It was the first in a long time that we sat in one table facing each other. College was pretty demanding. Add a graduating student in the picture and it became a familiar estudyante serye. We barely came across each other in the campus. If we did, a quick hello, and that was it. It was a surprise we managed to sit down and chat.

74

Monter, Marie

by Erah Balindong

Let’s Be Still

by Nico Aquino

75

I saw your brother in our building, I said.

He took up the same course as you, you answered.

I figured.

When we were in high school, I had a hard time with that subject, you started. I thought about pursuing it for college. But seeing how my brother is doing, it is giving him a hard time.

I simply nodded to let you continue.

When I decided which course to take, I thought that I can just waltz through college if I would just memorize. But I was in for so much more.

I laughed a little. You smiled.

So how are you doing? I asked.

Struggling. But my girlfriend is doing well. She helps me out.

Good for you. Try to keep up to survive this college jungle.

I am tired.

When you said that, I could not help but look more closely. You were leaning on your one hand, the other softly drumming against the table. Your eyes looking at the people bustling through. You still had that laidback attitude. But your hairline seemed to have retreated a little bit higher. Amidst the soft murmurs of students early morning at the Magis Canteen and the wafting of the aroma of food as the concessionaires started preparing for breakfast meals, I tried to listen more closely to what tune you were humming. There was none. That moment, you looked to me like any other adult, tired of how the day went, thinking about matters of consequence.

Do you still remember our deal? I asked.

A bit.

When you walked me to my building after that small talk, I wanted to ask you if the bet was still on. But I did not. I still wondered though. I did not join the visual arts club in college to focus on my academics but I would still paint when I had the time as a break from the monotony of school life caught up in figures. Some of the works I could be proud of, I made during my college days. I still dreamt of having my works exhibited. Though I wondered how it was for you.

I don’t know how my painting will reach you but it will. When that happens, I hope you remember our deal. And I wish for that persistent, child-like character to once again demand the world to acknowledge the value of his dreams.

From the porch, I saw the street lamp lighting up. I imagined a lamplighter faithful to orders, lighting up the street lamp the same hour in the afternoon and putting it out the same hour at dawn.

The semester break was messing up my body clock. I wanted to grab a nap just before dinner. Heading towards my room, the last thought I had was about the movie where the Little Prince turned Mr. Prince.

Catastrophe, I thought.

As I lay, the sun made its way behind the distant mountains.

Weeks later, I would know that you were bound to a place where the leaves would turn to the color of sunset.

76

High

by Keith Obed Ruiz

77

Panelists:

Mark Anthony Daposala Alton Melvar Dapanas Vel Marie Santillan Eric John Villena Abigail James

Crusader

The

PUBLICATION

Publishers Subscribing Students of Xavier University Editorial Board Kevin Paul P. Mabul Editor in Chief Lorenzo A. Botavara Associate Editor Keith Obed J. Ruiz Design Editor Jericho B. Montellano Managing Editor Samantha Isabelle H. Bagayas News Editor Harmony Kristel D. Balino Local Features Editor Nikki Gay Louise P. Amores Sports Editor Marc Anthony B. Reyes Graphic Design and Layout Editor Evan B. Aranas Photography Editor Lynette L. Tuvilla Freehand Editor Finance Officers Jigo L. Racaza Auditor Anna Jamela S. Balindong Senior Finance Manager Tisha C. Abejo Junior Finance Manager Managers Merryane Rose S. Bacud Human Resource Manager Jinky M. Mejica Office Manager Mary Therese P. Mole Circulation Manager Jigo L. Racaza Video Productions Manager Jo Marie Claire B. Balase Online Accounts Manager Senior Computer Systems Manager

Staff Writers Maria Franchesca Louise P. Fajemolin Jett Joseph C. Gumaling (Trainee) Nur Mohammad G. Lucman (Trainee) Ar-Raffi C. Macaumbos (Trainee) Tatiana L. Maligro Justin John Nagac (Trainee) Winona Roselle Serra (Trainee) Staff Artists Jean E. Abarquez (Trainee) Shaira E. Abshire (Trainee) John Niccolo A. Aquino Jamerah Marie M. Balindong Aleina C. Buenavista (Trainee) Kurt Anthony B. Chan (Trainee) Rigel Kent T. Flores Jayvee C. Lequigan (Trainee) Nicolo Nathan O. Macoy (Trainee) Jinky M. Mejica Ryan James P. Pascual Khristine Marjorie L. Quiblat Gene Gerard G. Verona Louise Coleen T. Vitor (Trainee) Rizalyka Joanne M. Waminal Moderator Mrs. Ann Catherine Ticao-Acenas

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