Veritas Literary & Art Folio

Panid sa Panahon Cover design by Fourth Legara Text layout by Kristoffer James L. Nambatac Circulation 2,500 copies

Time defines you.

They say that there is a man who lives in a cave hidden by trees. Father Time, as people calls him, had wiry, white hair that was as long as he was old and fingers as quick as his craft required him to be.

His job was to make sure that time flowed right in the world of mortals, forever checking the tick, tock of his clocks and boy, was his cave full of clocks. There were big clocks, tiny clocks, broken clocks and clocks that went cuckoo, each of them representing the passage of time of every being.

When your clock starts ticking, you are born. If your clock dies, you die along with it.

It broke his heart to see people live and die and then become forgotten as the hands of other clocks continued spinning. So he decided to have every life written in pages stamped with a sketch of each person’s clock, a sign that this was this clock’s life. He wrote in detail --- for every second is precious to Time --- the lives of every boy and girl before they were even born. He arranged them neatly in his library and cherished them as if they were his own children.

It was through recording lives that Time knew: every single moment led to man’s destiny.

This is what Father Time believed in.

But dear Father Time is getting too old I’m afraid. He now lies asleep in his cave while his precious clocks are ticking faster and faster towards The End. Treasured moments are forgotten every second.

Who can save these moments from fading away?

VERITAS invites you to leaf through our own collection of memories in Panid sa Panahon (Page in Time), an addition to Father Time’s collection while he slumbers. These moments could be something as precious as being carried to bed while you were asleep or as haunting as having your parents scatter broken glass on the floor. String these moments together and you end up with who you are now and who you might be.

This is what Father Time believed in.

So see what we saw, feel what we felt and remember your own little stories of bliss and tears. Let us value the moments that we sometimes take for granted.

Pick a moment. Put it into paper. Have your life scribed on pages in time.

Make Father Time happy when he wakes.

Veritas | Panid sa Panahon

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The Old Man and His Chicharon

By Tyron Keith Maru Varias Sabal Old man, it is late at night, why are you still out?

You should be resting, you look tired, your eyes, buried deep in their sockets, your back, arched, your arms, weak, your hands, calloused, your legs, bent, shaking, and yet, behind your back you are holding a big plastic bag, filled not with gifts, you are not Santa Claus, absent are the ho ,ho ,ho’s, but with packs of Chicharon.

The bag looks heavy, I can see it, I can feel it.

Where are you going?

Are you going to sell those Chicharon?

Are people going to buy those?

Who? The drunks?

The thieves?

The opportunists?

The prostitutes?

The beggars?

The streetkids?

The homeless?

The hungry?

It is late at night, The Balot vendor is your competition.

I want to help you: I am big and my arms are strong, I can carry that plastic bag for you.

My legs are sturdy, I can take the long walks to sell those Chicharon.

I am still young, I can keep myself up, the whole night to dawn.

My eyes are fine, they can saunter through the dark.

And my voice is loud and clear, surely I can bawl better than you do (I think).

Do you need help, my help?

Maybe I can buy all those Chicharon, or maybe‌ Do you need my help?

Ah, but here I am inside the taxi, sitting comfortably, and the green light is on.

The taxi is moving.

I am on my way home, do you have a home?

Literary and Art Folio 2011

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Veritas | Panid sa Panahon

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Thorns*

By Gino Dolorzo They cling to your name, Rose.

They mark your tears and fear of protests, protruding like their desire to have you slipped past my grip. Your image, your scent is unjustly treating me as a martyr who breaks vows worn ’round his finger, who falls, folds his heart and eyes, but not much to keep resentment, who longs to take a dip with you in deeper sea of blankets moistened by sweat of your struggled movements evoking fire and innocence, who has lost his limits. Lie on me, Rose, let me pluck those thorns.

Gently, let me.

Home

By Wa koyngalan I am a 7-legged spider I may be broken but I am not yet giving up.

I am traveling until the orange afternoon, so that I can spin my web up that lonely cloud.

I am climbing this plant I am climbing this wall I am climbing this mountain I am falling again “Fuck those metal birds and those real birds too, I wish I could fly.”

As I wander without direction, the evening came.

Crickets are loud, everything’s the same.

Stupid flies, annoying caterpillars, and a bamboo tree.

This is the place, the same old place where I find solace.

*Published in Dagmay-The Literary Journal of the Davao Writers Guild, a joint project of Davao Writers Guild, Sun Star Davao, and the National Commission for Culture and the Arts, January 31st, 2010 Literary and Art Folio 2011

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Biyahe

By Jacqueline Uy Nakaupo ako sa gilid ng dyip Tahimik, naghihintay Ilang minute nalang at mag-uumpisa Itong teleseryeng totoong buhay Andiyan na si Junior na noo’y hatak-hatak pa ng kanyang nanay pinpilit na pumasok sa eskwela habang siya nanama’y busyng-busy sa paglalakwatsa Ilangtaon na ang nakalipas Si Junior ay mag-isa na lang May dalang yosi at bag na walang laman Saan na kaya ang nanay niya?

Talaga bang totoo ang pag-aalala?

Tumunog ang high-heels ni Kikay Lumingon ang lahat at tumaas ang kilay Kasi naman bago siya umalis patungong Japan Siya’y tila bata na walang alam Pero iba na ang dating niya ngayon May make-up na at lalaking hapon Anon a kaya ang nangyari sa lumang Kikay?

Nagbago na ba lahat sa kanyang buhay?

Dumating si Aling Nena na mag-isa Na noo’y dala-dala ang ampon niyang mga bata Kahit matagal na, naaalala ko pa Kung ganoon niya kamahal ang bawat-isa sa kanila Matanda si Aling Nena ngunit siya’y walang kasama Hindi ba’t panahon na para may mag-alaga sa kanya?

Saan na ang mga batang inaruga?

Bakit nawala na parang bula?

Sa araw-araw na nakaupo ako sa gilid ng dyip Ilan lamang ito sa mga kuwento na aking nasusubaybayan Masaya, malungkot, at kung anu-ano pa Minsa nga napapa-isip ako bigla Ang kuwento ko kaya Sinusubaybayan din nila?

DINHI og KARUN

By C. J. Go Si Dinhi og si Karun Ang pinakalami na magti-ayon Sa tanan lugar og panahon, Sila pinakanindot parisun Di ba patsada?

Kung pirmi naa Kung aha og kanus-a Pirmi kauban ang duha Wai nalakhon na kaugmaon Wai problema na singuna Wai mga utang huna-hunaon Wai binuhat ginakwenta Perpek kombinasyon Kung ako pangutan-on Tanan sulbaron Tanan atimanon Sa mahipayun panaad ni Dinhi O gang katam-is ni Karun Kung unta sila mag dayun Wa nai pangitaon Wai mingawon Unta naa si dinhi Unta naa ka karun…

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Literary and Art Folio 2011

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as I saw them – five haiku

By Tyron Keith Maru Varias Sabal 1. a taxi waiting no passenger to be seen then rain starts to pour.

PERSPECTIVE By yangyang Atong bata pa ko, gusto kog dulaan Atong binate na ko, gusto kog lagan Atong dili na ko bata, gusto kog nai panguyaban Atong idaran na ko, gusto kog sakyanan Atong tigulang na ko, gusto kog higdaanan Atong patay na ko, gusto ko hilakan Kung bata pa ko, unta kalipay lang Kung binata pa ko, unta pangandoy lang Kung dili na ko bata, unta gugma lang Kung idaran pa ko, unta trabaho og pamilya lang Kung tigulang pa ko, unta baskog lang Aron kung patay nako, unta dili ko malimtan

Veritas | Panid sa Panahon

2. a Maya bird rests, in the suha bush it hides the wind blows gently.

3.

Mansanitas tree do you remember those days when we were still young?

4. manong driver rests in his jeepney he sleeps, dreams of driving no more.

5. seesaws are rusting, swings no longer are swinging, playground’s now a ground.

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MIGO

By C. J. Go Salamat na imo kung giubanan Sa desiotiong anyos pagkatao, wa ko nimo sukad gibiyaan Basig sahay magpalakag pa ka, dali dali og dagan, Magpalayo sa oras ako kang gikinahanglan..

Kung nusa pud ko gusto mudali ka, ikay nag langan langan. sahay wa ko kasabot kanimo pagsure friend, wa kai klaro. salamat sa paghunong, kung nusa ta pinakamalipayun sa pag hatag og panahon para pamalandong. sa pag pagatiman sa mga samad na ikaw ray makaayo sa hidumdum na sahay rata mabuhi og pagpakatao. gikalas taka, wa gi pansin.

Pero gipasailo gyapon sa maluy-un mung kasingkasing Sayang dili ta pwede magdayun hinanduraw taka na trato.

Pero saon taman, Ikaw si oras Ako si tao Murag ra gyud langit ka, lupa ako.

Pero kuntento na ko na waka mihawa sa akong kilid, Og sa akong palabay sa pagkabuhi nakamarka og naapil sa mung isa ka panid.

Father Leaving*

By Gino Dolorzo Your steps are heavy like the baggage you carry and drag packed with uncertainties.

A flood of tears drowns this blue hut as you move out.

Your slouch suggests how we will be missed like your breakfast value meals, the crisp of unpaid water and electric bills, the bittersweet song of Totoy wailing for milk, and the spicy blaspheming of mother at your crucified God for putting nothing but salt in our rice.

I wonder how time will fly without you as you fly too towards Saudi where you will scrub toilet bowls and urinals in exchange for our bright future.

I wonder who will cradle my face when my eyes turn misty in times like this – the way I have been meaning to put this poem out of its misery.

*Published in Dagmay-The Literary Journal of the Davao Writers Guild, a joint project of Davao Writers Guild, Sun Star Davao, and the National Commission for Culture and the Arts, August 1st, 2010 Literary and Art Folio 2011

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Three Twenty

By Karen Kaye Jagape

Breathing

By Martina Jugador There’s a sharp intake of breath, then a cry So vulnerable, so delicate Its body rests heavily on waiting hands There is a lingering breath of relief, A silent celebration of new life.

In the other room, it is silent, cold Eyes fixed but unseeing through fading sight Only a small sound escapes his labored breath Only a lingering sigh of defeat There are no songs to be sung

on epitaphs…

Kay wala nama’y lain paingnan sa orange ug pink nalang nga tindahan order ug juice para pampagana ug sugdan na dayon ang isturya nga bala-bala Sa kalsada, wala na kaayo’y tambay mga taxi wala’y sakay e text ang mga amigo sa kalisud ug kalipay lingawon ang kaugalingon ginagmay Atubangan ang lalaki nga naka white ug blue nagsugod siguro ni siya’g bantay ganina udto ‘Nong, wala pa ka gikapoy? Unsa imong gi bati?’

‘Pasagdi nalang ko dai, mao ra tawon ang panapi’ Sa kadugay nga sige’g lingkod Bola nga ga siga akong namatikod pero ang isa ka kauban nga tulog na wala tawun areglaha Naay kalit nag gubot nanagko kalit among mga singot murag walay kahumanan nga pelikula ni-ining lugara nga gipanganlan ug DV Soria mu undang nako’g sulat, kailangan na mu lakaw ayha ra ko ka bantay naa na diay adlaw

Veritas | Panid sa Panahon

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Ketong

By Krizzia Demetilla Lenteng kumakabit Salamin ay sumisilip Kutsilyong lipstik Pinturang hubad Likidong unti-unting kinakalat Kapeng nilikha sa Natuyong dugong dinurug-durog Pinapadaloy sa lalamunang Uhaw sa mga tinik na malalambing At mga nanang nanglalagkit Bakat ang ahas na bumabaon Pagngingitngit ay iniibig Malutong na kinis Tuklap na halili Laylay na mantika Impeksyong nakakahumaling Agnas na kawili-wili

Literary and Art Folio 2011

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Veritas | Panid sa Panahon

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Count Off

By Ma. Rosetti Villamor I shall paint seven blisters in seven fingers A scar for every hour badly spent: At morning six, I sang outside the showers At eight, I played with witches in my tent.

Ten was when I played for silver instead of gold Twelve was when I tried again At one, I listened to boring counsels of old Then three, I laughed along with other men.

But nothing compares to seven o’clock The longest blister from tip to chest For in this hour I squandered a lot Seven miles of blood red zest One, I offered my heart to a wedded man Two, threw broken vases at my mates Three, I swallowed some of Sandman’s sand Four, tossed my puppy and closed the gates Five, I chose grey numbers over color Six, I killed my pure-stained second father Then seven, worst of all things asunder, I rained salt on my little black sweater.

I count off: one, two, three, Three more hours to badly spend And once I cut my ten fingers free I’ll wait for the ones heaven should’ve sent alone Martina Jugador He stood at the edge of the building, completely shrouded in darkness Looking down below, there were only small flickering lights that illuminated the city.

As he gazed upward, the skyline stood erect against the cloud-covered night sky.

He stood with his head flung back, and there was nothing else that engulfed him but the feeling of being so lost without her.

Everything was moving beneath him— the cars, people, time – but standing there, dizzied by the weight of the world spinning on time’s whim, he felt a wave of loneliness; A wave of loss, lapping at the edges.

Literary and Art Folio 2011

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Roots of Fate

By Dannah Villaluz From the depths of my mind I silently speak.

My skin withstands the pain.

My once valiant body has turned weak.

My roots have cringed from the rain.

I was to make sure you’d be safe from danger.

Though the night was terribly cold.

I have seen the storm and the worst of weather.

But my eyes still glitter like gold.

Amused

By Jan Rupert Alfeche I’m frankly amused a few minutes listening to a couple of friends goofing off like children.

It’s something not easily given or taken in a moment in time.

You can say this is how to feel alive.

I have seen people fall in love.

I have seen the damned as they heaved.

I was a friend to children, starks and doves.

And I have witnessed all of them leave.

The sun still shines from day to day, And I feel the warmth of its breeze.

It strums my worn fingers from its heated rays, “I would want to stay forever,” I plea.

Now the men from town have come.

As they draw near with unsightly frowns, I tighten my grip my grip, my mouth as mum, But their mighty hands have taken me down.

The days and weeks and months have passed.

A seed has grown to take my place.

For it may grow in the field so vast, That’s all I can say.

My life is done, But in this world, a new one has begun.

Veritas | Panid sa Panahon

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Literary and Art Folio 2011

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Balik

By Ivana Santiago Sa kangit-ngit sa dalan ang kahayag lang sa bulan ang mamatikdan.

Ako karon galingkod sa bintana imong panagway ang gihuna-huna.

As aka na? Gaunsa ka?

Sa akong utok daghan pangutana.

U gang pinaka‌.

Magbalik pa kaha ta?

Sa kamingaw sa palibot akong kasing-kasing galukot sa mga kasakit nga naangkon kadtung sa gugma mo ako naulipon.

Pila ka adlaw ang giantos ko aron malimtan ang panagway mo.

Apan nakita ko ang litrato ninyo, ang kasakit nasinati ko.

Abi nako nadawat ko na nga kamo na ug wala na ta.

Sa dihang namatikdan ko ang kasing-kasing ug gugma ko alang lang gihapon kanimo.

Pero naa pa koy gapanghawiran.

Gakakita ko sa imong mata nga imo pa akong gihigugma.

Sa tanan natung naagian, akong panigkamutan nga kadto tanan mabalik sa angay kaplastaran.

Busa ako maghuwat, bisan matiguwang kug ahat.

Kanus-a mo man ako balikan?

Naghuwat na kug unum ka bulan.

Veritas | Panid sa Panahon

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The Hard Hours

By Carl Katherine Oliveros Post part of blues for broken vows for the misery that grows those were the hard hours.

The hard hours were, when i pretend no to care, when i fronted a tough cover, and giving anyone a glaring stare.

The hard hours were, when i got swallowed up by pride, got drowned against ebbing tide, while the real sentiments hide.

The hard hours were, to profess for my sake, confessing something fake, it’s just all my pride could take. >i completed this poem just last year..

And that, it was hard on my part revealing how i was doing back then, during those days when i was overly protective of myself.. Now, those memories have become a part of the shadows of my past.. I owe to GOD what i have become now

Literary and Art Folio 2011

Funeral

By Martina Jugador It was raining when they buried you Even as I reached out, I couldn’t touch you

where those raindrops could Somehow they say they are the tears of angels And sitting here now –

Overlooking the window – I don’t believe in such nonsense I hear the quiet rumbling of the skies,

Almost ready to purge out

It’s suffering once more Then I watch each raindrop fall,

and tap on the roof outside Suddenly – as if in wistful anticipation –

my heart races at the sound

of footfalls

on the floor

from behind me Only to meet few droplets that have entered

Through the hole in the ceiling And I break down once more

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Rewinding

By Lyle Justin Egay Now you’re on top of the world And not looking back But before you sneer at me Let me rewind the rolls Of this film you call “Your Life” Don’t you remember…

When I picked you up when you fell, And carried you in my arms while you cried?

When I taught you how to ride a bike, And read and write and play?

And most of all, don’t you remember…

When I potty-trained you And taught you to be independent?

When I said I was proud of you, After your first ribbon in kindergarten?

When I picked you up when you were down, And read you bedtime stories?

Your Breakup Kiss*

By Gino Dolorzo Is between my lips and yours And the rain that bathes us Unprepared like your parting.

This time, the heat And prick of fondness is gone.

Bitter like your lipstick Marking its trace with pain, provoked By the scent of your breath inducing Sting in my chest, while my pulse ticks Weak like my heartbeat. Maybe Because they too sense that Here in the street, Where we first met and kissed, You will soon leave me Alone with the sky weeping Over your footsteps, heavy As the fall of rain creating Ripples on this puddled concrete Like how tears will drop, away from me.

When I told you to be strong, To face whatever tomorrow brings?

When I was a parent to you, And I loved you?

*Published in Dagmay-The Literary Journal of the Davao Writers Guild, a joint project of Davao Writers Guild, Sun Star Davao, and the National Commission for Culture and the Arts, June 27th, 2010 Veritas | Panid sa Panahon

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Literary and Art Folio 2011

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in an afternoon

By Jamel Montaño I’d sit aLone in an afternoon,

chasing the airs and waiting for the moon A time to reflect,

wandering the things that I have never known The sky is deep in an afternoon,

a full body of clouds that are shown Dreaming while I’m awake, wandering all aLone.

I see mountains I see car,

I see men that are really far The silence continues in the room almost getting dark I see the mirror, I see gLass jar,

I see Van Gogh’s paintings full of star I’d sit aLone nothing to play,

I saw a guitar an instrument I wish to play.

As the sky gets dark,

rain falls Off from the window pane I hid from the curtain,

I feel the breeze calling my name In the silence of the room I feel asleep seeing myself being vain An afternoon I wOnder how,

asking things from my heartaches & pains.

Veritas | Panid sa Panahon

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They Tell No Tales

By Abby Cabildo Where ice is thin you shall not tread On faulty bridge don’t cross In lion’s den don’t play, don’t gambol Lest your life be lost.

Adventure, e’er the temptress, she May lure, enchant you with her tales Of magic shores, of treasure-troves, yet She won’t croon what dead men wail.

Worse is that Curiosity, Adventure’s crafty twin Did you know he slays poor cats And stuffs them in a bin?

Aye, those two you cannot trust ‘Tis all we shall unveil We’ll leave you now, for, after all, They say we tell no tales.

Literary and Art Folio 2011

Hell of a week

By Jamel Montaño What a busy week That you feel it is over But still you have more days to bother Over fatigued?

Over used?

I don’t know if it is abuse.

What a busy week That you feel you did it all But then you realize it isn’t over after all.

Is this stress?

Ami i depressed?

I want a deep and long rest..

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What is a moment?

By Martina Jugador An undefined span of time That becomes locked up in our memory Sometimes unwanted, though it may be A fraction of an event that we are unable to comprehend A memory we either want To cherish , renew, or erase How do you measure it?

How do you keep it?

How do you let go?

Gaze of the Past

By Dharyl Jean Indino Lithe like an angel, heard you talking, felt you coming around As I was filled with the sound of you, I lifted my head,

Peeked through the strands of my hair My heart rumbling, my body trembling.

Locked in those eyes, I see you walking with me Clad in sparkling clothing, your presence shone the world.

As we clasped each other’s hands, a melody began playing My heart rumbling, my body trembling.

Singing and dancing as I strummed the guitar Laughing and running as you ran to the sun Telling each other the magical words of love My heart rumbling, my body trembling.

My eyes met yours, making me freeze up to the core.

My fantasy broke, woke me up and crushed my world.

Bringing back our time together makes me wish for ours to stay forever.

But our time halted, our happiness murdered, Leaving my heart rumbling, my body trembling, my soul dying.

Veritas | Panid sa Panahon

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El Cibuc, hueles rico!

By CW I know a place, where beauty lies Thought at first glance, you’d doubt.

The pleasure that spews from its tight walls You might just check it out.

It puts you in, a vulnerable spot, Sometimes it makes you cry, You’ll moan and thrash, and profanely curse But the euphoria, you can’t deny It’s been done standing, and others sit, The shame, there is, at first.

But you’ll always be back, wanting more, Without it, life is worst.

Just close your eyes, take in the moment; Just feel the pleasuring gush.

It’s all just fine; it’s free of sin, For as long as you remember...

...to flush.

To Write

By Jan Rupert Alfeche I do not wish to sell my soul for eloquence – a silver tongue etched on paper with every word whole and near-sensual in its tone.

Rather, I prefer to clumsily tread The beauty-filled world, speechless and needless of words to express what I experience first-hand.

No words will suffice, yet… it hurts little to try.

To at least place on paper the experience that has settled in my life.

With that, I shall continue to write.

Literary and Art Folio 2011

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Veritas | Panid sa Panahon

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Nostalgia

By Samantha Opeña

I woke up one typical morning with the radio on. I was about to fix my bed when suddenly I felt a twinge of sadness.

That very moment I felt so awkwardly emotional and alone. And the next thing I’ve noticed were my eyes swimming in these salty tears of mine. The tears flowed so swiftly like a prisoner breaking free from their jails of emotion. And I was weeping my heart out like a 5-year old kid crying over a lollipop that’s stolen from her. I guess it was because of that sad song playing on the radio, setting up my sentiment. Or perhaps because I was really alone in our place that time. I don’t know either. But I suppose the best answer I can give is, nostalgia.

Ever had that feeling of emptiness? That even though you are surrounded with tons of people and yet there are still certain faces that you wanna see but they are nowhere to be found. And it is really ironic though for a scatterbrained like me to be able to remember such memories at that very instant. Yes, I will confess, I am a certified klutz! I’ve lost this, I’ve lost that. I’ve lost handful of valuable things because of being so reckless and oblivious. But when I settle down and allow myself to reminisce, I can give you almost every detail of my past experiences, whether it be good or bad.

Anyhow, going back to the drama I had, while crying, I was picturing two beautiful persons in my life—my first boyfriend and my first girlfriend. I remember how he cuddled me and how gentle he was to me. How we used to go out together, go biking in the city and eat out together. And our movie dates, which I love the most, wherein he lets me decide what movie to watch without hearing any word from him. Of course, I’d go for what he wouldn’t prefer. I’d choose love stories and fictions, a girl thing. But still, he’d respect that.

And even though he’d just nap inside the theater I’d still appreciate his presence because I know he just wanna be with me.

Literary and Art Folio 2011

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In the other side, there she was, my bossy yet the most caring and sweet girlfriend I had. We used to go home together, went shopping, set off to attend the mass and eat out too. And when we travel, which I love the most, she will let me lie on her lap without hearing any complaints and weariness from her. I remember her sacrificing a lot of things for me.

And how she prioritize me. Indeed her love was unconditional.

I love them both so much without any pinch of favoritism. But then, when I grew older, I have changed my preferences. I was not contented with their love and so I left them and found somebody else. Someone who’s younger and fresh. Someone I can do stuffs together. But to my surprise, amidst all the pain and disappointments I have caused them, they still supported me. They will always consider me as their “baby”. Don’t get me wrong.

The two persons I was talking about are my parents. Papa was my first boyfriend and Mama was my first girlfriend. They were the reason for my tears. I miss them so much. It’s sad to accept that the moments we had before, when I was younger, will remain memories, only memories. If I should have changed my preferences that early, I could have made more moments with them and more memories to linger on. But I guess it’s true what they say, “The end justifies the means.”

But still I should not make room for regrets. I love my life now. I have learned from my mistakes. And the best advice I can give is, be patient. Just be patient. Enjoy what you have now and wait for that something that you want to happen. Because the time I should have spent with my parents, I took it all away and gave it to my boyfriend. Don’t be unfair to them. Just learn how to balance, because the parently love is the best kind of love any person could get.

Veritas | Panid sa Panahon

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A Pessimist’s Migration: The Cloud and The Silver Lining

By Rachel Jean Matela

Nowadays, migration seems to be a trend where I come from. Everybody’s moving out, parents are undertaking jobs outside the country, and families are relocating for the taste of a better life.

Fate must have grinned upon me (or laughed darkly and maniacally) because my parents told me I was moving to New Zealand with them. Lucky me! Sounds exciting, doesn’t it? I know I was. Excited, I mean. Ecstatic. I had goose bumps all over my neck. Because, really, moving to a whole new country is absolutely wonderful. You get to experience new things such as living in a new home, going down unfamiliar but equally pretty roads, seeing new stuff for the first time and witnessing a whole new bunch of interesting people and their culture. Life here seemed promising… And then there’s the biting cold, loneliness, and having to go back to high school.

First of all, there’s the issue I have with weather. When I left the Philippines, it was hot. Oven-hot. Scorching, sweat-and-thirst-inducing hot. And when I touched down here, I practically froze like a Popsicle. My fingers immobilized, my toes went numb, and I have not sweat a single drop ever since I got here. Pretty understandable. It’s winter here, after all.

It’s like having your personal air conditioners following you around 24/7 and blowing biting cold air into your face. The problem is, where I come from, there are only two types of weather: dry and wet. No seasons, no snow-angels, no jumping into dry leaves and all that jazz. I’ve actually never been so cold that I just wanted to stop moving; too cold that I soon developed an annoying fear of baths.

Secondly, I am glad I left all my good friends because I was beginning to get too attached to them anyway. Call it fear of commitment. I mean, nobody wants friends that will still be there for you even if you’ve pissed them off to the point of a tearing-their-hair fit, right? But no matter; I have made lots of friends over the few days I’ve been staying here.

Namely: my “Domo” stuffed toy and my “Angry Birds” hat that I bought for $10. (Scratch the first one, he’s been my friend since forever, but two’s better than one right?) They give me the best conversations I’ve ever had, except they don’t talk and they’re all pretty much onesided. And I’m proud to say that I’ve completely forgotten about my friends back home, too. No, I don’t dream about them or think about how they’re doing at all. Not at all. Nor do I check their Facebook accounts. Oh, and I never cry myself to sleep due to extreme loneliness, either. (At least not anymore.)

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Last and definitely not the least, I have come back to enjoy the wonders of High School yet again. Not that I totally hated my previous High School and actually dread daring to do it all over again. No, no, it’s absolutely nothing like that! Back then, I was the usual girl that everyone liked to gang up on because I wouldn’t fall voluntarily. I enjoyed every moment of psychological torture almost to a point of masochism. And I’ve actually been in Uni for one whole year, and going back to High School is a great opportunity to be able to relive those fantastic (dreadful) days. I loved High School. I loved it so much that I still think about my good HS friends until today… And hope I never see them again.

So you see, I really enjoy living a whole new life right now and I’m pretty happy with my frozen fingers. Nothing could be better than living a lonely life after all, and growing up with forty cats for friends. Sarcasm aside, I’m not the one to regret anything, but I realize that I shouldn’t have let my parents decide on my life for me by making me come here. I miss my old home, my school, and my college friends, but that doesn’t mean I won’t work equally hard. I understand that I have to try harder and smile broader because there’s too many reasons to be happy and too less to be sad, thus the popular saying: “Every cloud has a silver lining.” I am undergoing a revival in a brilliant place with countless opportunities practically shoved in my face. It’s time to reawaken myself to all the blessings in life.

Despite all of that though, it’s still pretty sad. You know what they say (or what a pessimist like me would say): there can’t be a silver lining without a big, fat, dark cloud that promises a shit-load of rain.

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I Am a “Man of Words”

By Katrina Pajo

The formation of sentences confuses me; therefore I should never end up in such an idiotic resource room where the teacher enlists all the students who fail in their midterm exams, such predicament that the whole student body, including the faculty, tries to stop madness from reaching it to other school, private schools, that is. And here I am, feeling insulted for being poor in that field and doesn’t know the difference between the “its” from “it’s”. I, a student, am not going to give up no matter what the circumstances are; it is just that the teacher, who I have mentioned earlier doesn’t realize how smart I am at other subjects. I mean, I have higher grades in Math, Science, Economics, Philosophy, and even Physical Education, the only trouble is this subject that I always fail and the only subject I hate has to do with the teacher: English.

Those nouns and pronouns frighten me, verbs and adverbs disgust me, adjectives and conjunctions hate me, and interjections and prepositions make me feel like a dunce.

English is never in my field and I am not planning to continue schooling because of that shitty English, (Excuse my French) but it’s true. English hates me for no reason, or the other way around.

The consequences of being an English student are that I have to write long essays that doesn’t apply on my daily activities, and to speak in front of people, IN FRONT OF PEOPLE, what the hell?! And there are also rules in English like apostrophe shows possession, the word “piece” is different from “peice” and I know that is not a word, I just don’t know how to spell right. There is Math in English, too. I like math but with English, eww, like the plural form of mouse is mice and what is the singular form of rice? Rouse? And the plural form of sheep is also sheep, what if I add the letter ‘s’ to sheep then it does make sense to it, doesn’t it? No. there is also part of the rules about punctuations, what is the use of semicolon; I only use it so that my essay looks smarter, oh, come on, now. And so many rules to remember, do I even bother to remember them all? Why did I ever do to English that is making me into this right now? Well, then, I feel sorry for myself in participating in that field, I feel sorry for not understanding the difference of apostrophes and commas, I feel sorry for myself for cursing around, I feel sorry for those who fail in English, don’t worry; I feel your pain, and I feel sorry for hating the teacher, I mean, she is a witch, literally.

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So, I rest my case, English hates me and I hate English, I win some, I lose some but then again, I am true to myself that the English language is the most important tool in communicating with other people and most people, including my friends and classmates, love English because it is simple like saying your A,B,C’s. It is also true that English is the universal language in writing and talking, just look at our great leaders: George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Napoleon Bonaparte, King Louie XVI, Martin Luther King Jr., Winston Churchill, Confucius, Mahatma Gandhi, Corazon Aquino, Barack Obama and so much to list them down, and also authors like Stephen King, Anne Rice, Terry Goodkind, Dan Brown, Cervantes, Nora Roberts, and etcetera. (Is that the correct spelling? I suck at spelling!) Even poets deserve to be granted the greatest all time “rhythmic speakers”.

The language I am about to object doesn’t apply to me and therefore, it is proven in my perspective that English is helpful and I should never do malice on it, too. So, I am trying to say that I don’t hate English and I also don’t love it, too; I will remain neutral to the fact that English does have the use in my daily life. If I do love and hate about English then I care about it so much that I label it to be lovable or a threat to my society. For my ideal sense of English, I think I should have respect to it and maybe thank that I am able to know some parts of speech and other things that has to do with English.

By the way, I am a mute person, so I can’t talk that much and so loud and for a quiet person, I truly am a “man of words”.

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The Wait

By Martina Jugador She would always be the wind, and I would always be the grass.

She would always fly freely into the ocean sky, forever ephemeral and changing. Yet I stay rooted to the ground, silently wishing for her to grace me with her soft zephyrs of embraces. I am always stuck waiting for that monsoon, that time she will return back to me.

Often I surprise myself of how tall I’ve grown from the ground. Yet I will still remain reaching for the skies—her abode—in order to get closer to her.

Somewhere today, she is roaming freely like her spirit, always changing… always open. And I cannot blame her because I chose to hold myself here.

And just like the grass, no matter how long the wait has made me anxious and doubtful, when the breezes would come, I am always left with awe and they would compel me to wait a little longer for her…

What is time—hours, weeks, months, years—when it is compared to the softness of her body pressing onto me? And what does it matter that I cannot capture her in my hands to hold onto her a little longer? Such as water, or the sands of time, they would always slip through the cracks of my fingers until none of their traces remain.

It is through this waiting that I am able to feel alive.

I could run—run to feel the pulse of blood fill me up to my fingertips. I could escape, and free myself from this damned place in anticipating her return. I could pretend that I did not hear her voice, pretend that the blood coursing through my veins did not rise up higher, pretend that I would not look back to make sure it was her presence standing somewhere in the crowd.

I could pretend, but it’s easier to succumb.

And this I do…

And my life has faltered down with me like the passing of falling autumn leaves—dead, but somehow, still beautiful in their own way. Just waiting for the rise of spring when they would feel alive again.

Maybe this distance is nothing. Maybe time is nothing. Maybe she’s waiting for me somewhere.

Pretension can be such a healer, but if I did it any other way, dying would be so much easier.

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Moving

By Ruth Anne Suson Now to say goodbye.

My eyes sweep over everything, to remember it forever: There’s the tiled floor, creamcolored walls, the old lavender couch; the table with a creaky leg, the discolored teastained door, the graying curtains.

Upstairs...

My quilted bed, satiny with age; the closet at the low end of the sloping ceiling, too small to stand straight at; the cracked mirror behind the door where I become two persons.

Saying goodbye is hard.

The last night. Mother’s stew broils over the fire, smelling of home, and love, and the old house welcoming.

Yes, saying goodbye is hard.

There’s the engine. Car’s been started.

Time to go.

Houses whisk by the window, barely slow enough to see— swoosh swoosh swoosh The road smooths into highway under the wheels, and then there are fields and trees.

Nary a house or homestead. The expanse seems endless, and sleep claims me, but not for long.

Slower, now, to the toll booths, which Government never took away although the roads seem okay. And then again, smooth smooth highway.

My cheek presses against the window-pane.

And here they come again swoosh swoosh swoosh The car slows, and stops.

My heart nearly follows.

There is the doorstep.

The first night. A riot of boxes, some large and some small, make me my first bedroom.

Nothing is where it should be. The house is made of ink labels and brown cardboard. A new and papery smell fills the air.

The dawn breaks.

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busy busy busy Busy opening boxes...exploring new furniture...putting things away busy busy busy Busy following instructions.

Out of doors...

Let me breathe a while! Twilight smells like twilight all the world round.

Darkness dims my eyes, stars begin to come out; and a familiar aroma wafts up to me.

It is a magnet, and I am metal. follow follow follow I stand in the new doorway.

Well there’s... a different bed a different closet a different table But the same mother, the same stew broiling over the fire, the same love, the same welcome.

A sigh escapes my lips.

This is home.

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White, Brown, Old, Young

By Seneca Pellano

My name is Ling-Ling and I am speaking from inside a jar. My place is no ordinary piece of container. Back in 1993, when my husband won a small-time lottery in Australia, he backpacked to China and spent a fortune on antique porcelains. One of the precious things he shipped to Australia is this huge Chinese porcelain jar from the 16th century, painted with the blue intricate scenes of ancient Chinese life. But I am Filipino inside a Chinese jar in Australia. Is this an instance of globalization? At least I know I have finally ended up in an exquisite and expensive place.

Back where I came from—you cannot imagine—cows are as thin as the people in our town. Do not fret as I tell you: I come from Siquijor, a place where perhaps the rest of the Philippines thinks we only produce potions for sorcery and Barang. But I say Siquijor offers very few mysteries. The mystery comes from the fact that while its neighbouring towns (Tagbilaran, Dumaguete, Cebu) continue to prosper, Siquijor remains a fourth class municipality. Isn’t that mystical?

I grew up in a small Barangay called Pasihagon. In all of Siquijor, I think we have the best view of the sunset. But when you grow up to see mundane sceneries such as the sunset, you tend to become apathetic to beauty. Most of the folks there assume that the play of the red orange lights dominating the sky at around five or six in the afternoon happens all over the country. Perhaps historians got it all wrong. The Spaniards named out place Isla Del Fuego (Island of Fire) not because of swarming fireflies that make the island “glow”, but because of the raging sunset burning in the sky. Believe me, sunsets here look hellish. Are we cursed?

Not necessarily. Our place, though undeveloped, remains livable. You see, my father is a fisherman; he heads our village because, in all of Pasihagon, he’s got the most number of kids and relatives. Originally, there were eleven of us in the family. Two of my youngest siblings died during childbirth. Our youngest brother suffered from an unknown infection and died when he turned three. I have two other younger sisters—Tata and Mai. Tata is semi-retarded while Mai tries to be one. So I grew up mostly with my five elder brothers—Tito, Marlon, Jermaine, Jackie, and Michael. All named after the Jackson 5.

Funny, my father never knew who those guys were. He only happened to pick up a glossy poster of them while he was once out at sea. That was precious.

My mother? I never knew what she was like. She never spoke anything—except to echo my father’s commands. But like any other woman in Siquijor, she works a lot harder than my father who only sets out at sea at late afternoon. She does all the chores by the way—cooking meals, feeding us, feeding the cocks, washing clothes, and selling my father’s catch. Sunset signals us to join her look for tuyom, suwake, and sasing for dinner. At night, she waits for my father to dock and pool his fresh catch near the shore. She’s the one who patiently takes out all basing trapped from my father’s fishing net. She sells them to the night market after and comes home very late.

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As a result, I sleep very late too. Insomniac, is that what it’s called? Mine was a result of suffocation. Inside our nipa hut, you can’t imagine, all eight of us squeeze ourselves on the floor, near the kitchen. Beside me is Tata who does not bathe for weeks. She is unimaginably polluted, but breathing. At night, the air is agonizingly thick and humid. We’re lucky with clear skies; we can force to close our eyes. Otherwise, we’d wrap ourselves with plastic so as not to wake up soaked from the rain. Hell, that’s poverty understated.

I’ll give you a true picture. My brothers and I started working as soon as we knew how to put white sands into sacks. I was about 8 years old. My elder brothers carry these sacks of sands into trucks of a construction company. Imagine five truckloads daily. Fifteen pesos per sack. The entire village at work. My brother Marlon’s classic question was, “What if we’ve reached the bottom of these sands?”

I don’t know. Then we would all have to be fishermen? No, back then, I really wanted to be like Lady Amy—the Amerikana who once live in our village. Her skin, so smooth, soft, and smelled sweet, like a marshmallow. Together with her husband Johnny, they rented the construction owner’s house near us. At the time, the young couple was building a resort in San Juan. My parents were caretakers of the house. But I doubt they understood what Johnny or Lady Amy says. Communication was done through smiles and comical gestures.

How could I forget Sundays at Lady Amy’s? Big Parties. The couple always invited kids to watch cartoons in their home. Outside, parents enjoy barbecuing with them. Talking.

Eating. Laughter. Drinks. We fondly call Johnny Tito Santa Clause, because of his beer belly and candies for kids. Johnny and my father were best pals with the bottles. Drunkards.

Johnnie Drinker. These are few of their names.

With Lady Amy, one of my friends calls her “Flor” from that blinding light we never had at home—fluorescent, was it called? Yes, and I can only agree. On moonless nights, the glow from Lady’s glass window is the only light that floods the village. What a sight on a dead night. I often see her sitting at her desk, writing pages and pages for hours, as if one has to chronicle life from day one. It seemed so peaceful, whatever it was she did.

From the days of watching Lady Amy write, I started daydreaming about going school. My father, he can read bit by bit. My mother can write, but only her signature. Not surprisingly, their children learned no more than a cat’s instinct for survival. Oh no, no—I was lucky. When my father declared that I go to Cang-alwang Elementary School, my heart bounced out of my chest. That day, my mother looked supportive. Tata flipped from her chair. Mai followed her act. The Jackson 5 brothers were smiling. They were envious of course. The white sands at Pasihagon appeared to be bottomless for them.

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But when did my father start believing in education? He hinted very little interest.

He once implied that education is as vast as the sea. Beyond school halls and classroom walls, we learn more things in the open. Perhaps sea winds changed the direction of his thoughts. Why, I was neither his eldest nor his brightest child. I am female. Nothing special.

I was little Ling-Ling—the dark girl who runs around Pasihagon sniffing snot endlessly up her nose.

I changed a lot when I started going to school. I liked the equality in wearing uniforms. I felt neat and adapted. Thus I handled elementary years well. In those years, they won’t give you room for disappointments. There would be awards waiting around the corner. Best in English, Best in Math, Most Honest, Most Behaved; name it. I remember receiving the Most Punctual award because my father always made me sure we’d both leave the house at 6am.

He goes out fishing; I walk my way to school.

In High School, I was not someone you would call an achiever. For sure, I was diligent. Who wouldn’t be when your family could only provide you one candlestick a day to read your notes and study? Still, I managed High School fairly well. I did not fail a subject.

I was included in a circle called “Fwendz”. I was punctual as always. I finished High School without a future.

My family remained rat poor. Tata died from a fall. A neighbour got Mai pregnant.

Jackson 5 poured every cent of their labor into my school fees. My father became old and demanding. My mother remained a follower. This seemingly stale atmosphere inside our hut changed when Johnny came to visit us one day. The mood inside went festive after eight years.

Johnny still looked like Santa: fat, white, round, small glasses. He brought a case of vodkas for my father. Drunkards. Johnnie Drinker. Then he gave us tons of Australian chocolate bars. I noticed he looked old. He noted how we all have grown while the village sleeps. For instance, he said, houses and resorts in Siquijor are still built from white sands of Pasihagon. He talked about change, or lack of. I was the only person who understood his English.

From Johnny, we learned a Danish man bought his resort at San Juan. He and his wife left the country five years ago. Lady Amy died in a surfing accident in Western Australia. I was saddened by this. Scenes from the glass window rushed back to my mind.

After that night, my father told me to marry Johnny. In his words, that was what I was sent to school for. To learn English. To marry a foreigner. To save my family.

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Johnny, he was lonely, he said. He needed a wife to take care of him. I was seventeen. He brought me to the busy town of Larena. There seemed to be a trend of lovers in that resto: white and old paired with brown and young. I was in. Johnny talked about his cliff house in Australia. He promised I would like it there. He promised more and then finished his beer. He ordered sisig, and adobo for us. That time I tried to erase Tito Santa Claus in my mind.

Australia was too dry for me, from the weather to how Johnny treated me. I got here on a summer though strange, it was December. We got married. Daily, I remained alone at home. Johnny was always out to his antique shop. We rarely talked. We were done talking about the weather. For four years, it was all about his complaints. Clean this, clean that. Filipina. Lazy. Uncivilized. Johnny stabs me with names. He gets home drunk. He beats me. I get locked in the bathroom upstairs. I imagined Lady Amy.

Such a gentle woman, she was. Perhaps this was what she had been writing all along. Pasihagon. Sunset. Village kids. Poverty. White Sands. Pitch black night. My feelings existed in her writings. Loneliness. Despair. Emptiness. I was locked in a lifeless Clift house.

There was no way to reach Pasihagon at that point. I was twenty-one. I knew I was already dead before I jumped out the glass window.

Johnny heard the noise. He ran outside. His face was blank. I was lying on the cliff. Calm, I was carried inside the house. Past the kitchen, he opened the basement. Full of antique jars plastered with name. Dulce. Lillian. Setiawan. Pina. I passed by Amy. Alinah. Michelle.

Ling-Ling. Yes, that’s me. I was placed inside an exquisite piece. Johnny carefully sealed and tightened the jar with his pale white hands. Three more jars, he smiled and left.

I am Ling-Ling and I am speaking from inside a jar. My place at Pasihagon still has the best sunset. Back in out village, I imagine Mai having four kids. The Jackson 5 brothers continue shovelling white sands. I picture my old father fishing and my mother waiting for him. There seems to be few places left where thins remain unchanged.

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The House That Babies Built (An adaptation from Babycakes by Neil Gaiman)

By Francis Borja

One day, the trees went away.

They didn’t really tell us they would. We just woke up and they weren’t there. No trace as to why they left or where they went or how they even uprooted themselves. They did not leave seeds for other trees to grow or stick a note on our doors to say goodbye.

They left their spots holed and broken.

People were crying and calling the police and the community church. Classes were cut off for a week and no one went to work. We were horrified at the idea of trees leaving.

But we were more worried because the world might get too hot and we’d run out of paper and there’d be nothing to shade us from the ultraviolet. Eventually, the color green was transferred from the dictionary to history books because it no longer existed. Brown was attributed to soil and human flesh.

Someone pointed out that just because they left us, it wouldn’t have to mean that we should change the way we live. The trees just weren’t there anymore. But the world was still here. So it all went perfectly fine. Eventually, we got used to their inexistence. We returned to our usual lives and did what we always have done. Nobody cared about trees anyway. After all, we could still plant babies. Babies are irrational, do not think, and only react to biological impulses. So we planted them.

In quire a very short time, the babies grew into the most beautiful and greenest flora anyone had ever seen. They sprouted leaves in place of hair and they became firm, yet still soft on the outside. They grew tall fast. But we weren’t satisfied. So we did what we always have done.

The babies bore the most luscious baby fruit. They were as supple as the babies and we ate them. Their red, thick juice flowed in sweetness on our mouths.

When the babies were tall and old enough, we cut them. We used chainsaws that bit into the babies’ skin, gnawing into their bones, cracking and eventually breaking them.

The impact was strong and the bones shattered inside. The babies squealed and squirmed and screamed and wailed and crunched in anguish and did everything to voice out their pain.

But the chainsaw muffled their cries for help.

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The Better View

By Maria Therese Agcopra

Flashing lights. Static lights. Billboards for viewing. Billboards for roofs. People in line. People out of line. Construction sites. Demolition sites.

Life.

Her hind sits comfortably on the leather covered seat as she takes note of these things in haste, so as to not miss a beat. She pushes the tire, speeding at no less than what is required, to get to where she’s supposed to be. Not fast. Not furious. Just enough to keep the car in motion. I am the driver; I am in command, and the car responds with a screech.

She glances at the side mirror. She sees the young one sit at the back in ease, her big brown eyes sparking with interest at every object they pass by. They pass by a billboard exploding with colors and life. It caught their attention, the young one’s specifically, for like a robot that’s been plugged and recharged, she comes to life. She stares at the billboard, even when they’re already a few meters away from where it stood, and then she lifts her hand to reach what she could not. She pulls her eyebrows together, causing a crease in her delicate forehead. She takes one more look at the billboard before they take another turn.

She smiles. She’s committed it to memory.

The one behind the wheel, on the other hand, only has mere seconds to digest the view. She only has that one chance and never can she marvel at it again. Maybe she could, but it wouldn’t be the same feeling anymore. She tries to take things in altogether, as if trying to swallow the entire cake instead of taking one slice at a time because she didn’t have a lot of it—of time. She could choke, yes, but she thinks it’s better than not having the cake at all.

The girl in the passenger seat was her daughter, and she remembers how she used to be so much like her then. She remembers her youth; she remembers how she still had so much to see and so much to learn. She remembers the view from the backseat where she was given the entitlement to grasp the view, to think about it, and have enough time to store it inside the pensieve that is her brain. Years later she’s in this position where blinking is not an option because everything passes by as fast as the roadrunner on high pursuit, and with the little time she has left she could not afford to miss a thing. She could only see so much because life is a temporary constant. Before she had the uncertain future to look forward to, now she has this overflowing bucket of memories to look back at.

As they were about to take the next turn they could not help but be filled with thrill and excitement. Just like her daughter, the driver wonders about what’s waiting for her beyond the curb because even when she thinks she’s seen it all, life has never failed to take her by surprise.

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STARE

By Louie Leister Rosales

The Brothers

The waiting room was silent except for the strange consonance of a fat man’s snore, an old man’s agonized coughs, and the faint sound of saliva dripping on linoleum.

The odd symphony was caused by three unfortunate men; two sound asleep and one wide awake. The two sleepers had their arms folded across their chests, heads stooped, eyes shut, and mouths open; one drooling while the other snoring. The snoring fellow was a balding middle-aged guy whose belly resembled that of the common bibber. The slobbering fellow was much younger, had a finer head of hair and a much more decent tummy than the loud potbellied engine to his left. The one awake among the three, an old man on a wheelchair facing the sleepers, was deterred by the silent sleeper’s drool, which was streaming down the young man’s Jose Rizal T-shirt, trickling off his elbow, and was forming a puddle at his heel. The fat man’s snore seemed to have disturbed the small creature perched on the old man’s shoulder, since by the time they’d entered the room the creature had awaked and began turning its head restlessly—one hundred eighty degrees to either side.

Presently a good feeling rose in the old man. He whispered something to the creature on his shoulder. The creature stopped turning its head, seemed to have finally identified the source of the horrible noise.

“Yes, Tarry,” the old man said, “it is them.”

He took out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, then went over and began wiping off the drool that had spread in the young man’s forearm. Thus Drool (for want of a fitting name) woke up.

“Son?” the old man croaked.

Frightened as he was by the elderly stranger now wiping off the drool from the corner of his mouth, Drool was able to beam, relieved to see that the wetness in his forearm wasn’t blood but saliva. In his sleep he’d dreamed he was bloody, trapped on a bus, taken hostage by a frustrated man.

“Oh, thank God,” he sighed, concerning the bloodless reality.

“Hallelujah!” shouted the old man, convinced he was recognized by the thin fellow.

Pig (for want of a fitting name) awaked before his eyes were open, pretending still asleep as he listened to the voices near him.

“My son!” exclaimed the old man as he hugged the puzzled young man.

“Sorry, sir,” Drool said, “but I’m afraid—“

“I’m your father—“

Drool wanted to shove the old stranger away and break the long hug, but decided it was rude. “My father lives in Bicol,” he said.

“Bicol—that’s exactly where I came from,” the old man said, voice quavering in thrill. “Thank God I’ve finally found you guys.”

“But I’m not your—“

“Father!” Pig burst.

“You recognize me, son!”

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Pig lurched to his feet, groped his arms around the old man’s bulk, and began to mouth something to Drool.

“So he’s your father?” Drool asked.

“Our father,” Pig hissed as he withdrew from the hug.

Drool stared at him dumbly. He had no trouble grasping the idea that the sly scam in progress—the deception that they were the old stranger’s sons—was for the benefit of their growling tummies; what troubled him was that the old geezer didn’t look like he had any dough and that he could be a harmful lunatic. His anxiety shrank as soon as his eyes got to the old stranger’s fingers and saw that each had its own diamond ring; but he remained hesitant about tricking the old man.

“Pardon my brother’s poor memory, father,” said Pig to his elderly prey. “He’s just hungry. We haven’t eaten since last night.”

Pig’s last statement was true. He and Drool had been idling in the hospital since they’d been evicted from their apartment yesterday. They were in the waiting room not on account of waiting for a cured relative, but on account of their need for a safe place to pass the night.

Drool gave Pig a look that seemed to say: Are you nuts? That guy’s nuts!

Pig shot back with a look that seemed to say: Nuts—that’s exactly what we’ll have for lunch if we don’t capitalize!

Drool finally gave in to hunger. “Forgive me, father.”

“Listen, Father,” said Pig. “My brother and I are starving . . . and we’re broke. Could you please treat us to lunch?”

“Oh, you poor boys!” the old man said. “Come with me. We’re going to have some good old Filipino food.”

“And after the chow, father,” Pig said, “Perhaps we could get some plane tickets to the Philippines?”

The realization struck home: It was only then that Drool realized that Pig’s intention for the fraud went beyond mere satisfaction of their stomach: Pig saw the old man as their ultimate redeemer. Drool knew getting home was their ultimate concern, but he didn’t expect his pal to be this desperate. Well, he considered, they were broke and homesick . . . and Christmas was but two days away. The plan was clever, he accepted; and for a hopeless dyad like them, perhaps it was the only way out of hell—the big ticket back to their homeland.

“Plane tickets?” the old man said. “No problem.”

As they walked down the hall (the old man had left the wheelchair behind, because it wasn’t his) Drool observed Siso’s pet. The animal was about five inches in height; it had incredibly huge eyes that seemed about to pop out of their sockets. It had a rough, dark brown fur and a long tail that was naked except for a tuft of hair at the end. The animal’s name was at the tip of his tongue.

“Your mother is hungry, too,” Siso said, gesturing to the animal on his shoulder.

Crispy and Basil stared dumbly at each other.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” the old man added. “Your mother has been reincarnated into this cute animal.”

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The Broth

Presently the old man and the false brothers were in a restaurant. Outside, the huge neon sign read THE BROTH. But both ravenous brothers—now joyfully ravaging a tableful of Filipino delicacies—couldn’t have cared less about the restaurant’s name. As long as it cured their hunger the name of the place was irrelevant.

The Broth was a five-star Filipino restaurant located at the bustling district of a First World Asian country. From the hospital, the trio had reached the restaurant through cab. On the ride the false brothers had found out, from the blinding city lights and the shimmering skyline, that the free food they were about to get wasn’t for lunch but for dinner; apparently they’d stayed at the hospital for more than a day and a half without noticing.

They’d also learned that the creature’s name was Tarry and their false father’s name was Siso. At the taxi’s front seat, when he was feeding insects to the animal, he’d said repeatedly: Open up Tarry, Siso’s got another cricket . . . As odd as his name, the old man was using the name Crispi for Pig . . . and Basil for Drool. The names had a certain ring, but the two tricksters could not nail down from which book their new names had been derived; although, ironically, imprinted on Basil’s T-shirt was the author of the book in question.

“Tell me, sons,” Siso said, “what are your fondest recollections of your mother?”

For a moment Crispi and Basil stared at each other.

“When she was still human,” the old man added.

“I loved her adobo,” said Basil.

It was supposed to be a safe statement; all Filipina mother knew how to cook adobo.

“Your mother didn’t know how to cook adobo,” said the old man, frowning.

“Oh, stupid me—I meant her tinola.”

“Your mother didn’t know how to cook,” said the old man, frowning.

“But . . . she—”

“He’s kidding, Father,” Crispi butted in for good. “His hunger must’ve screwed up his head a bit,” he added, with a phony laugh.

The old man laughed along, wasn’t the least bit suspicious of the two wolves in front of him.

Suddenly Crispi choked—and hurled. Siso and Basil stared at the middle of the table, where the spat object had landed. They saw what appeared to be a small, translucent, pink piece of rubber. Basil knew what it was, and unlike the tiny animal’s name, he could say right away what the nasty little thing was. What Crispi had just coughed out was a condom.

Crispi was silent, flabbergasted. He stirred his soup and found two more little pink sacks floating. Then he exploded:

“There are condoms in my soup!”

“What exactly is a condom?” Siso asked a passing waiter.

“What’s a condom, daddy?” a kid blurted out from nearby.

There was a commotion among the few other customers.

“Relax, people,” one waiter said, rather confidently. “Surely those aren’t used ones.”

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“Where’s the manager of this lousy restaurant?” Crispi roared. “I need to talk to the manager!”

Basil was the least reactive person in the building. When he saw a condom, or heard the word condom, it wasn’t safe sex or bland sex that first entered his mind. In fact, it didn’t remind him of anything related to coitus: it reminded him of cocaine. Three years ago he had to swallow one prophylactic filled with capsules that contained the drug; the capsules were secured inside by tying a knot in the condom, the way you’d knot a balloon. If it weren’t for the small rubber sack it would’ve been impossible for him to smuggle cocaine to a First World country.

A mustached man in a black suit rushed out from the kitchen and went over the trio’s table.

“Are you the manager?” Crispi shouted.

“I, sir, am the owner.”

“Well, Mr. Owner, I demand a refund!”

“Don’t scream, sir. Your deceitful mouth deserved it, anyway.”

“I beg your par—“

“It wasn’t me, Eddie! I swear it wasn’t me!” a fat guy in white chef attire, whose belly rivaled that of Crispy, popped into the scene. “It must be the whore who put the condoms in the sauce pot.”

“Haven’t I told you a thousand times not to bring prostitutes in the kitchen?” the mustached guy yelled. The cook shuddered.

Siso shuddered, too. Although he had not the slightest idea what a condom was, the old man supposed it was something harmful, something that was not supposed to be mixed with food. Now that he knew who’s responsible for ruining his son’s meal, he was certain of what he had to do: find the crazy prankster prostitute and whip her. He was also sure he could find the prostitute in question at the very building beside the Broth. Thus he left, unnoticed by the bickering men.

“I never expected a prank like that,” said the fat cook, bowing his head in shame.

“You going to fire me, Ed?”

“Fire you? You know damn well I can’t, Gary; you’re the best darned cook in the world. Sadly, you’re also the horniest son of a b—”

“I need a refund,” Crispi cut in.

“A con man doesn’t deserve a refund,” Eddie countered, sneer emphasized by the lift in his mustache. “I have no idea how you tricksters fooled Narcisso, but I’m sure neither of you is his son.”

“We are his sons,” Crispi protested. “You can ask old Siso here—“

Siso of course was no longer in the restaurant. He was now at the entrance of a first rate building with a red neon sign that read: LIGHT-O’-LOVE. A super brothel in the guise of a four-star inn.

“Where did he go?”

“He went out, sir,” the guard said.

Crispi’s anxiety rose. He couldn’t afford to lose the old man, not just because he couldn’t afford the restaurant bill: he couldn’t afford to let his only chance of homeward flight slip away. He rushed out of the building with the speed of a frightened pig, looking to chase his ticket.

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That left Basil as the last man munching; his Rizal T-shirt that had been wet with drool was now smeared with soup and sauce. The busy customer who seemed oblivious to the recent developments amused Eddie so much that he chose to communicate to the bilker kindly. Their conversation started simply, with Eddie observing that Basil seemed to be indifferent to the condom misfortune and Basil responding with a confession of his past practice with the prophylactic, a truthful narration of his misery as Crispi’s former sidekick in drug dealing: The potbellied bastard won’t swallow condoms himself, and Basil had made a living by doing the nasty procedure until he got hired as a mascot at an amusement park and finally turned away from the ugly deed.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like that one famous Filipino painter?”

Basil asked.

“Juan Luna.”

“Bingo.”

“I paint, too.”

Eddie offered Basil to see his masterworks and led the uninterested fellow to the third floor where the paintings were. There Eddie blabbered about his artworks, which bored Basil to hell. Not one of the twenty paintings was even half as good as Luna’s Spoliarium.

Then their conversation shifted back to Siso and even got as deep as the old man’s horrible past as a maltreated servant at a tycoon’s mansion: He’d been locked up in the mansion’s basement while his wife, a maid at the same residence, had been physically abused by her boss, locked up in the mansion’s attic till she became insane (wouldn’t talk, just stared blankly like a lobotomized freak) and died of starvation. All the disclosed history was preserved in Eddie’s paintings.

The conversation progressed through We came from Bicol and Why, I came from Bicol, too, Ed to We shouldn’t have left Bicol ,my friend and At least you now have this great restaurant to A result of years of hard work, only to be ruined by condoms!

Wanting to swerve from condoms, Basil asked Eddie why he knew the old man’s past.

“I was the chef of the mansion,” Eddie answered. “I was the one who helped Siso escape. I swear I would’ve gone insane, too, if I hadn’t.”

“Where did he get the animal?”

“It was the tycoon’s pet. Siso stole it, assumed the tarsier is a reincarnation of his wife. Probably because of the way it stares.”

“The rings—are they stolen too?”

“Yes. I believe he took it from the basement.”

“I need to tell you something, Ed: My friend’s not solely interested in food. I think he’s more interested in the old man’s rings. He’s desperate to go home . . . and I don’t think he wants to leave empty-handed.”

“I knew it. I can tell when I smell a rat.”

“He’s a violent one.”

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The Brothel

As he entered Light-o’-love and declared he was looking for a certain prostitute Siso was quickly led by a male attendant to a large room where more than twenty prostitutes sat in an array. Siso explained he was not there to sleep with a whore:

“I’m here to talk to the one who spoiled my son’s meal.”

“Surely it wasn’t one of our girls,” said the attendant.

“One of your whores put condoms in my son’s soup.”

“Must be Marge,” one prostitute said. “She never knew how to dispose condoms properly.”

The usher suggested that the offense was unintentional. But Siso insisted he had to talk to the prostitute.

“You can find her in room five o nine, grandpa” one prostitute said.

Siso took the elevator. A minute later, Crispi entered the brothel.

“Where did the old man go?” he asked the receptionist.

“Are you his son?”

“Yes. I’m here to fetch my father. Mother’s looking for the old bastard.”

The receptionist laughed. “He’s in room five o nine.”

Meanwhile, at the restaurant, Basil and Eddie agreed they had to find Crispi and Siso. They went outside and found out it was drizzling. In front of them, beside an old street light, a young mother sat on a bench. She was making bird noises and hoisting her infant over her head.

One moment it was a charming sight: an urban Madonna-and-child. The next, the mother was screaming at the sky, grabbing the baby, and running for her life.

A passerby pointed upward and Basil noticed that the hand had a tremor: not the shaking of excitement, but the jerk of a nerve breakdown.

Basil and Eddie turned and looked up. Five stories, Eddie counted.

At first Basil thought a large, black plastic bag had gotten blown out of a high-floor window. As it fell, he could make out the flailing arms and legs and the flash of white. He knew it was Siso before the body hit the sidewalk.

The horrible, moist whapp of the impact stunned everybody on the street. For a few heartbeats, the city was far quieter than it ever was on a festive December night.

A kid pedaled over on a shiny BMX bicycle, stared at the crumpled old stranger and the red stain flowering beneath him, and raced away. There were nasty bruises on the old man’s face. “I’m sorry,” Basil whispered. A minute later he was only one face in a ring of morbid curiosity. Eddie had slipped out of the crowd once he’d noticed Siso’s rings were gone.

He sprinted toward the entrance of Light-o’-love. He believed that the evil pig that did it to Siso was still at the fifth floor. He refused to imagine what he might do to the bastard if he caught him.

He hit the glass doors and went through the lobby like he was on a motorcycle.

Two bellmen huddled at the reception desk with a couple of clerks, and one of the bellmen saw him and just had time to turn and shout Hey when Eddie was past him. The elevators were straight ahead, and a brass plaque with an arrow pointing to the right said Stairs.

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He took the stairs. Ran up one flight, two, then a man shouting again, from the bottom, Hey! Third floor, he was not even breathing hard. He got off at the fourth: There’d be security on the fifth floor, and the desk people might have called them. He ran into the hall on the fourth floor, looked right and left, decided that the right end would be the far end of the building. There should be another flight of stairs that way.

He ran down the hall, now aware of his heart pounding in his chest, turned a corner past a niche with Sprite, ice and candy machines, to another stairway. He pulled open the door, looked up and down, heard nothing and ran up to Five. He took four seconds, two long breaths, and sauntered into the hallway. Halfway down, five older men—probably security—stood outside an open doorway. A bunch of men and prostitutes were scattered up and down the hall, a few of them talking (about horrible screams a while ago), most just looking down at the open door. The men were in their robes, the slatterns in their lingerie, all with bleak white look of fear on their faces.

One of the security men looked toward Eddie, and even leaned his way—but as he did, a prostitute—the one named Marge—shrieked, and the security men turned and ran through the open door. Some of the prostitutes were looking at the door; the men in robes were looking at each other. All were frozen.

My God, Eddie thought, he jumped, too.

“He’s killing the animal!” Marge shouted.

Now Eddie was certain what he would do to the bastard: He’d throw him off.

From the ground, the scene was confusing: At the balcony of the hotel someone was poking what looked like a brown purse. Among the crowd only Basil realized that it was Pig assaulting Siso’s falsely believed wife.

Then the wife was heaved out.

Basil, estimating the animal would land on the street, swiftly knifed through the crowd, his eyes fixed at the sky, not leaving the airborne creature. He believed he could— should—catch the falling animal, because in his troubled heart he knew it was the least he could do for the deceased old man.

On the run, he dove for the tarsier, which hit his chest with an impact that sent him stumbling, rolled him over on his back, where he felt the wind whacked out of him and he lay gasping. The tiny primate was hugged in Basil’s arms; its furry head touched his chin.

At the balcony, seconds after Pig had thrown out the tarsier Eddie grabbed him in a hammerlock and held his neck so he couldn’t move.

“You think you can get away with it,” Eddie said through clenched teeth. “Well, you’re wrong. You’re going home dead.”

“You’re making a huge mistake,” Pig said, grimacing. “The prostitute’s the murderer.”

Eddie squeezed the neck tighter. “You lying pig.”

“He was just an old loon,” Pig taunted.

“He’s my father!”

Pig began to struggle harder, but Eddie held him firmly. Then he felt a quick stab in his side. Pig’s jackknife.

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Pig broke free, took a second to catch his breath, and then turned to face his bleeding foe. But he noted that the look on his face wasn’t one of pain or fear, as he would’ve expected; it was unadulterated rage.

Eddie gave his best punch and caught Pig in the mouth. He followed it with a vicious kick that caught Pig on the wrist, almost crushing the bone. The jackknife flew out of his hand.

But Pig countered with a wicked straight that almost erased Eddie’s mustache and spun him like a top. Then Pig pounced and applied the hammerlock on him.

Maybe I’ll just drop him over the edge, he thought. He forced the thrashing man over to the retaining wall. But just when he thought he could force him over, the punk-ass Juan Luna put his feet on the ledge and shoved him back.

That was Eddie’s last exertion. Blood was flowing from the side of his stomach and his vision turned to black. Pig retrieved the knife and gave his dying prey a dozen more stabs in the abdomen.

The security men were basically useless. All they did was contact the police and stare in horror.

Basil was still on the ground and did not see Eddie fell. But he heard the ghastly whapp for the second time in the evening.

When he got up, the tarsier’s blood poured down his forearm and he realized the creature had been stabbed in the belly. He was reminded of his nightmare: Pig’s desperation resembled exactly that of the hostage taker.

He put the animal on the pavement and began to wipe his hands on his shirt. As he stooped, Rizal’s dirty, blood-stained face stared at him. The tarsier in front of him stared; the Filipinos behind him stared. From the ground, Juan Luna stared as well.

Inside the Tarsier’s open wound something glistened and caught Basil’s attention.

He shook it out and caught it in his palm. It was one of Siso’s diamond rings. When he heard the howl of approaching police sirens, he picked up the dead tarsier and left the place.

Bicol stared from his palm.

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In One Sitting

By Anna Althea Vergara

staring at a windowsill , a mother carrying her baby gently rocks the chair. cars pass by and so has time. she closed her eyes w0ndering how she could have enjoyed the beauty of life having no baby to grow and no responsibility to bear...woken up by a soft whisper , she realized, her beautiful baby has become a beautiful girl.

staring at a windowsill, the mother gently rocks her chair waiting for her baby to come back. cars pass by and so has time. she closed her eyes w0ndering how her baby girl could have been. wondering if she could turn back the time she lost in having a baby to care for and responsibility to enjoy. ... woken up by a beautiful voice , she realized, her beautiful girl now belongs to another man.

staring at a windowsill, the mother gently rocks her chair, weeping. cars pass by and so has time. she closed her eyes w0ndering if her baby would c0me back home. she wept herself to sleep, hearing no familiar voice, she never woke up again.

Behind the Wayfarers

By Joule Artemson Visabella

Through his Wayfarer eyes he stares at every picture with profound happiness. Every image seems to move him, to make him travel.

He presses the next button with a little hesitation but that feeling withers in an instant because the next one is where he could see himself, in joie de vivre.

Memories, captured in its every detail on a still screen, frozen.

But they move, oh yes the do, in his head. Like it was yesterday, then he’s arrested by the thought, imprisoned in its unbelievable quality. Like it just happened, no. Like it’s happening. He moves on.

The next one wakes the pain in his heart, like a volcano dormant for years of forget. Ignorance is a friend, later on, it becomes an enemy.

Tragedies seem to happen before his eyes. Tears fall. Then he realizes, it’s just a picture. He moves on.

The camera dies. But no, it’s not a camera. He throws it away.

Because he realizes, it’s a time machine.

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A Blissful Jaunt

By Jacqueline Uy

She stares at the empty table. A few years back, she was not alone.

Her dear husband sat across her; at the right side, her precious little daughter, and at the left, her funny, loving son. She remembers their dinner meals at this very table, sharing random stories and whatnot happenings during the day.

Her daughter would say, “Mommy, I met this guy…” and her teasing son would cut off her sister mid-sentence, “She’s in looooove!!” An exchange of unending teasing starts and the banter goes on and on, while she laughs at the silliness of her kids. Her husband, a man of few words, would laugh and join the chatter, deep-inside worrying about her daughter’s sudden interest in boys. He would nod his head, smile, and look at her lovely wife, remembering the days when both of them were teenagers in love, like her daughter probably was right at that moment.

If she had her way, she would have wanted time to walk as slow as it can, taking baby steps each day. Time, though, refused to cooperate. It went by abruptly, and soon enough, in the blink of an eye, she saw her daughter grow to become the beautiful woman that she is today. Her body so slender, her hair so long and silky, and her eyes so tantalizing that any guy would find it hard to not look her way. Same can be said to her son, who grew up to be a dashing young man. He had broad shoulders, a lean body, and a wit so charming. Sure enough, any lady would easily fall for his allure. Gone were the days when these two would run around the house chasing each other, gone were the funny stories during mealtime, and gone were the days when these two longed for and needed the attention of their mother.

Just then, she felt a hand touch her hair. It felt so good and familiar.

She turned around a saw her husband, who now had gray hair and was having a bald spot. He had crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, and wrinkles on his face.

But to her, he still looked as handsome as ever. He smiled as he placed their cooked meal on the table and said, “Come on, let’s have dinner.” She smiled at the thought of their first few years together as a married couple. They sort of lost their attention and affection when the kids came. But now that both of them had started families of their own, it was all back to them – the perfect two, the team who started it all. Time may have gone swiftly, but at least, she thought, they will always have each other no matter what happens. Pages may end and leaves may wither, but those, nor death, will tear them apart.

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Short Story: The Wait Name: Martina Aurea Malferrari Jugador Graduate of: B.S. Nursing Age: 20 Inspiration for the entry: “The underrated, overlooked simple things in life.”

A moment that defines me: “That moment where you just find yourself, unguarded and vulnerable because when you find yourself, everything else falls into place.”

If I had a time machine…

“A friend once said, ‘There comes a time in one’s life when one wonders whether an alternate universe exists where events spring forth from a decision that one made with the choice which one did not.’ So yeah, I’d probably go to the past and see where those unchosen decisions would lead to..”

Favorite childhood memory: “Growing up in Bukidnon with all the farm animals and having my first pet: a kid (baby goat).”

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Poem: The Old Man and His Chicharon Name: Tyron Keith Maru Varias Sabal Department: Philosophy (Faculty) Age: 22 Inspiration for the entry:

“The world in all its negativity.”

A moment that defines me:

“Teaching philosophy to my students, questioning them, opening them to the possibilities of thinking…”

If I have a time machine...:

“I will not use it. Both temporal poles are too fragile. To go back to the past is to tamper with the coordinates that structure its reality. [In doing so] I therefore risk my present, my future -- my whole history -- the most minute action that I am to introduce into the past will re-structure the very conditions that allow the present to be, thus cancelling most, if not all, of the acts being done in the present, and replacing them by other acts. The act of time travel negates itself; it is an experience of the impossible.

“As for the future, it is too unpredictable. I do not want to waste my time visiting only an aspect of the unknown whole; that is, visiting a possible future. I say possible because [if I go back to the present] I am never sure if the future that I have seen will be realized or not, for it can be altered depending on the most minute alteration of the coordinates of the present. I think it would be better to just let the future come, to wait for the unpredictable, to allow myself to be surprised by it.”

Favorite childhood memory:

“The guilt-free play moments playing under an afternoon rain, not bothered by the thought of study or work, but by the question: When will be the next afternoon rain?”

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Essay: Nostalgia Name: Samantha Rabanes Opeña Course/Year: BSBA-3 Age: 19

Inspiration for the entry: “My mother [for she was once the moderator of our high school publication and she was my English teacher] and the rest of the family… [and] my experiences.”

A moment that defines me:

“My defining moment in life was when my mother went abroad for good. It was so painful and impairing as well. But instead of taking her absence as a disadvantage, I look at it as a challenge, a challenge to grow up into a better person. For amidst the distance my mother never failed to show us her unconditional and overflowing love. As my brother told me: Distance is not a burden, Sam. Love can fly.”

If I have a time machine…

“I’d prefer going to the future. In that way, I would be able to see what I’d become years from now. And so that I would be able to know the result of my hard works in the present and see if my attitude in the present will bring me to success. It will also be an advantage for me if I’d see my future because I’d be able to warn myself and my fellow people of what might happen, for if I’d choose to go back in my past and change it, I know that things will not be the same again. If I change one aspect in my life in the past, I know that the other aspects will be affected as well.”

Favorite childhood memory:

“My favorite childhood memory was when my siblings and I were still dependent of our parents and when we were still afraid of them. We obeyed everything they’ve said before. And also that [time when we were still happy going out together. We went to church in the first mass and ate breakfast in delicious food outlets afterwards. I also miss riding the bus with my whole family and [watching] movies with them in cinemas. Life was so easy back then because we’re still innocent from the temptations of the real world.”

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Traditional Art: Off the Wall Name: Marie Gil Barretto Migullas Graduate of: BSDC Educational Communication Age: 23 (when I submitted that) Inspiration for the entry:

“I am big on freedom, liberty, expression, etc...so I think this piece is more like a collage of self-evident realities that one would like to be free from. Sometimes there are instances when the society itself becomes suffocating…and we just want to be free from all of it... So I guess this is one of those moments.”

A moment that defines me:

“I guess a defining moment is when you reach a point where you have to make a decision which involves a compromise between your self-evident realities and the society’s demands. Because for me, at those moments, the essence of your character is tested and defined by the decisions that you make for yourself...”

If I had a time machine…

“[I’d go back to] the future I guess... cause life is too short to dwell in the past, and I’m not really good at history, so I probably can’t relate that much if I go back to it. I also think it would be rude if I accidentally change history. The prospect of knowing the next day’s news before it happens seems interesting as well... especially the lottery results.”

Favorite childhood memory:

“One time when I was 5 or so, I woke up in my mom’s arms. [She was carrying me under a guava tree.] And the first thing I saw was her face, and the rays of sunlight between the gaps of the leaves above us. She wrapped me in her arms tightly. It was majestic. Warm.

Sweet.”

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The

Publishers Students of Xavier University Editors Ryan Louie G. Madrid Editor-in-Chief Bianca Nathalie Y. Llamis Associate Editor Jose Alfonso P. Sendaydiego Design Editor Glenn Paolo A. Goopio Managing Editor John Kenneth E. Ching News Editor Ma. Therese D. Agcopra Campus Features Editor Hannah Mae S. Salugsugan Local Features Editor Ma. Rosetti G. Villamor National Features Editor Nadine Hendrikka E. Legaspi Global Features Editor Lyle Justin A. Egay Sports Editor Kristoffer James L. Nambatac Layout Editor Haiko B. Magtrayo Photography Editor Alexes June E. Baslot Freehand Editor Finance Officers Shola Mae Rose G. Zamayla Sr. Finance Officer Frances Joy G. Tan Jr. Finance Officer (Trainee) Managers Caroline Joy R. Go Human Resource Manager Ruth Anne B. Suson Office Manager Kristoffer James L. Nambatac Sr. Computer Systems Manager Janrick T. Romales Jr. Computer Systems Manager (Trainee)

Staff Writers Ressan Nash N. Alonto (Trainee) Saharah Iman M. Alonto Angelo Bernice C. Cabildo (Trainee) Sam D. Garcia (On-leave) Caroline Joy R. Go Dharyl Jean A. Indino (Trainee) Marc Stephen S. Manuel (Trainee) Kamya G. Mordeno Ruth Anne B. Suson Princess E. Tolentino (Trainee) Leasusana C. Ty (Trainee) Jacqueline P. Uy Anna Althea W. Vergara (Trainee) Robert A. Villaluz Jr. (Trainee) Joule Artemson D. Visabella Staff Artists Francis Ryan O. Avellana (Trainee) Rochelle D. Barros (Trainee) Richard Mars Caberte Jenamae G. Espineli (Trainee) Carlo John M. Gaid Christian Louie S. Gamolo (Trainee) Feliciano T. Legara IV (Trainee) Rico M. Magallona (Trainee) Arsenio F. Meneses III (Trainee) Breisa V. Moralde Carmi Yvette C. Salcedo Venice Marie P. Villo (Trainee) Moderator Ann Catherine Ticao-Acenas