The Perpetualite Literary Folio: Words Can Tell

CORNER

Allow me to congratulate the staff of The Perpetualite for putting in their hard work and passion to come out with this literary folio. This publication is a showcase of the many talents of our Perpetualite writers and our humble contribution to the body of Philippine letters.

To be a writer is to be in touch with yourself. To be a writer means: to be a chronicler of a particular era, an observer of human emotions, or an ambassador of love. To be a reader is also to be in touch with yourself. The writer’s pen creates worlds of wonder and knowledge. In short, to be a writer and a reader and a lover of the written word is to attempt to divine what it means to be human and what it means to be alive.

At the same time, writing and reading are never completely passive concepts. When we read or write, we are entertained and informed. But more than that, writing and reading allow us to contemplate essential concepts like identity for the individual and nationhood for the collective.

With the rise of the Internet and social media, it would seem that the popularity of the written word might be in decline. But it is my hope that this literary folio will serve as an inspiration for Perpetualite writers to keep on writing and reading.

Mabuhay ka, Perpertualite!

Editor’s

CEO’s NOTES

DR/BGEN ANTONIO L. TAMAYO, PAF (RES), FPCHA, PhD Chairman of the Board and CEO/Founder

I always think that each one of us is defined by the people we surround ourselves with and by the choices we make. We live in a world where emotions aren’t easily validated; expressing them can be more challenging than ever imagined.

Words can tell every person’s feelings, thoughts, and stories that have been written and said. This literary folio will not only showcase the creativity of the writer and the artists but also show that words can tell stories beyond a person’s perspective on their experiences in this ever-changing world.

It is in my honor to proudly present this literary masterpiece entitled ‘Words Can Tell.’

PAOLA P. RIGOR Literary and Forum Editor

ADVISER

Ms. Rowena G. Morta

EDITORIAL BOARD

Ma. Angel Nicole Rondez | Editor-in-Chief

Erica Mae E. Tamparong | Managing and Features Editor

Juliana Andrea L. Agbulos | Sports Editor

Paola P. Rigor | Literary and Forum Editor

Justin Isaac D. Uy | Chief Photographer

Sean Paolo V. Resente | Chief Artist

ARTIST

Dominic Justin C. De Guzman

Alyssa Daphne D. Galos

Juliane Prayl A. Gayo

Jessaline B. Litong

Luwis Arianne B. Sta. Elena

LAYOUT ARTIST

Joshrel R. Monasterio

A Lovely Dinner

by Paola Rigor

It was a fine evening. A lovely couple is having a private moment in a secluded restaurant that Luke owns.

“Eat your steak, Lesley. That meat can cost thousands of dollars,” he said while pointing to the rare steak on her girlfriend’s plate.

“Luke, how long is this relationship already?” she silently asked as she cut the steak tearfully.

The guy sharply looked at her while chewing with a loud sound. His veins and knuckles are shown as he tightly grips the knife and fork.

“I did not give you permission to ask a question, my dear Lesley,” he gritted.

“It’s been a year. We will get married in 3 days whether you like it or–”

“What!? Luke, you’re insane. There is no love here, I can’t marry a psychopa–,” her eyes went wide as Luke began to slice her chin.

“F*CKKKKK!!!!!” she cried out in pain.

“Shhhh. Hush, my dear. You know how I love the taste of your meat, right?” he moaned as he chewed the fresh chin of Lesley.

“Now, take the glass… and catch all that dripping blood of yours. I’m in the mood for a glass of red wine,” he whispered.

MIRROR MIRROR

by Angelika Estrada

It all started when I was breathed into life.

Turns out I was not planned. My parents’ sorrows reflected on me, and I had to mirror it so I could fit in.

It was my mom’s very first time bearing a child. And my dad’s first ever challenge sustaining a life.

Years passed, and I grew stiff and cold. My parents figured out I was a fragile one, and I could not, by any means, be the perfect image of the life and love they dreamed of. And so my mother bore another mirror.

Tried to make sure its edges and surface were all smooth and clean, but the times were rough. Eventually, the other mirror broke too.

I tried to walk away and find my own reflection. A boy walked by and told me, “Your edges look good. Are they sharp?”

I told him he could touch and try. That’s when another mirror was born.

I was a reckless, broken mirror. Now, all the anger of the world is on her shoulders.

My poor little mirror...

Green

by Ella Marie Villaceran

As I felt numerous eyes gaze upon me, my mother served our meal for tonight, and my face soured at the sight of vegetables on the food table. This is occurring on my birthday, and I found myself perplexed by the nature of their actions.

I observed the different hues of orange, yellow, and green. I never liked green. It induced an unpleasant sensation, and the associated aroma proved my point.

“You eat or you starve.”

Heat scattered on my skin as I felt the implicit pressure emanating from my mother’s eyes. It’s my birthday. But again, I don’t get the food I want.

The sudden and forceful move executed by my mother made me gasp as she compelled my mouth open and pierced my mouth with a spoonful of leaves.

The leafy texture triggered a nearly reflexive urge to hurl, and my eyes began to well with tears. Why are they doing this to me?

My sister’s laugh filled the dining room. “You always cry on your birthday.”

My brother joined in. “What? Does it taste good?”

But they knew. They knew what they were doing.

Attempts to push the leaves down my throat remained futile; the leaves were stubborn and resisted my endeavors, triggering a sense of suspense. The collective gaze bore down upon me, and tears began to pool in my eyes.

The overwhelming desire to resort to drastic measures, like swallowing bleach or washing my mouth with soap enveloped me. A growing sentiment of sorrow accumulated in my throat, and tears started to fall one by one.

They laughed at the scene which made my stomach twirl with increasing intensity.

Despite multiple attempts to absorb the greens, rejection remained the prevailing outcome. At that moment, I felt like an outsider. Like a lost soul peeking through a window, waiting for what’s going to happen next.

However, for once in my life, I wanted to be in control of the narrative. I want to be the one calling the shots. I won’t let them disrespect me and my birthday again.

I rose to my feet and spit the leaves onto the table before them. I saw a glimmer of amusement spark in their eyes.

“You people disgust me more.”

Toby, the family cat

by Xamantha Khae Villareal

Cassie couldn’t move. Her bedroom, once familiar, now seemed alien in the dim moonlight. Shadows danced menacingly on the walls, and the closet door stood ajar, inviting the unknown. A soft rustle came from beneath her bed. Fear paralyzed her. Then, with a gasp, she realized it was just their family cat, Toby. Fear turned to relief as she whispered, “You scared me, little buddy.”

She carefully picked the cat up and placed him on her lap before gently brushing its matted fur, earning a low, raspy meow— a small noise that sounded more like a pained groan.

“Sorry, Toby. I keep forgetting that you’re back.”

She muttered, continuing to pet the cat cautiously. She wouldn’t want to untangle the messy stitches she had sown on his body after he got run over; after all, you can only get lucky once when using the Dark Arts.

Her Name Was Hope

by Francheska Lorensci Arca

I had a friend once. Her name was Hope. She was beautiful, graceful, and full of mirth. She, among her sisters, stood out among the crowd without even lifting a delicate finger. Everybody adored her and called her “Precious.” Even I called her that. We danced, sang, and played years away until they were distant memories. That was ages ago, and I had to go somewhere far away, leaving my dear friend Hope behind. I had to toil in the mechanized city, where meadows were buried under slabs of concrete and trees were felled to make way for cold, metal construction. Such is the way of humankind. For years I wasted under hard labor until I no longer could and was sent home, booted out when no longer useful.

I headed home. At first, I thought everyone was gone in my hometown. The streets were barren, and the houses were demolished. Everyone left for the cities, I suppose. Or is the city slowly conquering this untouched and neglected green land too?

I went along and became despaired, as there was no living soul to greet me, no familiar faces at all. I collapsed… and all I could do was cry.

Then, a tinkling laughter rang in my ears. Could it be? Light footsteps scurried behind my crumpled form and caught me from behind. Hope! She greeted me in a warm embrace and wiped the tears off my weather-worn face. She held out her palm and lifted my head by the cheek. It felt coarse and rough.

She tells me that everyone is gone. So, after all this time, only Hope remained. Did everybody forget our wonderful place? I look at her in the eyes, golden and unchanged, sparkling with tears. She is unchanged save for her scars.

Her arms were wrapped with fresh, bloody bandages. Her feet were unshod and callused, while her long hair was dry and disheveled. Her lovely skin was bruised black and blue, and some of her pink lips cracked. Yet even then, she had the sweetest smile.

Seeing my distressed look, she explains that she fought rascals and many corporate predators from taking her childhood home. She had to patch herself up constantly after confrontations and for some time, had to live among wild animals to escape armed apprehension.

I see. During my time separated from here, I held onto my image of precious, gentle Hope. She was my muse and often inspired me to trudge through the muddied parts of life. Well, she’s dead now. The woman by my side remained and lived as a survivor. Her name was Hope, and Hope was bloody, broken, yet unbowed.

Betty

by Luwis Arianne Sta. Elena

Read this as a whisper, ‘cause it’s a secret I’d like to keep. Something about my fantasies before I go to sleep Now, I don’t want to come up as some kind of creep. But spilling this could get me into trouble so deep.

The story revolves around a girl named Betty. We started out so great ‘til we began to drift apart.

But to this day, we’re still together, fortunately.

So I don’t miss her body, just her warmth and her heart.

It’s a shame, but I can’t complain that our relationship led to pure lust.

I’m down with her on the sheets, but she makes me feel high.

Bad memories are forgotten, drawn, and enticed with every thrust.

She brings me with her to heaven without even having to try.

The last time she was this soaking on this very bed, She was dripping wet on such crimson-red, My hand on her throat, her nails digging deeper.

She’s such a keeper, so I decided to keep her.

The secret isn’t that she’s this naughty, It’s just that she has to hide just to be with me. So, I hope you don’t go telling the parents of Betty. They have no idea her coffin’s empty.

Clementines by Kristine Clare Landicho

One night, you brought me a box of clementines.

I wasn’t expecting you at my door, but there you stood, telling me how the tree branches in your garden started to bend from their ripeness. “They had to go somewhere,” you said.

I told you I didn’t think I deserved them, but I took them anyway.

“Thank you for the clementines.”

One night, you asked about the clementines. I said I hadn’t eaten any. You shot me a confused look. “They’re going to rot soon, y’know?”

I shrugged, ignoring the way you eyed the fruits with a predator’s hunger.

One night, you grabbed one of the clementines.

I watched it fit snugly in your palm, your thumb grazing over the little bumps and dimples in its skin.

“Stop that,” I said. You did, though I wasn’t sure you heard me.

One night, you ate a clementine. You peeled it, separating it into perfect halves, before swallowing it greedily, section by section, as you walked out the door.

I lay there alone in the dark. In my hands sat one clementine.

With the fruit in my palm, my dress on the floor, and the remnants of my dignity haunting the air, I whispered.

“Thank you for the clementines…”

What we could’ve been

by Dorothy Dela Cruz

The night I confessed to you how I truly felt was the night that my world came crashing down.

You asked me to be honest, and so I was.

Only God knows how much more I wanted to say to you that night.

You were speechless. I was breaking down.

You muttered, “Why would you do this to yourself?”

“I would do anything for you,” I whispered.

The silence was deafening.

The minute you broke it, you broke me as well.

The way you said my name, you never called me by my name...

If I kept it to myself, maybe we would still be okay.

I was perfectly fine with being just friends and admiring you from afar.

Maybe I would still have your eyes in my life.

You warned me.

“Don't fall for me.”

I knew I shouldn't.

You weren't mine.

You will never be mine.

I watched as you radiated this joyous glow as he grabbed you by the waist and danced under the moonlight until your hearts were filled with love and contentment.

You looked at me with those ever-so-beautiful eyes.

It reflected the sadness that continues to grow in my heart each and every passing day that I am now forced to refer to you as a stranger.

The space you once occupied in my heart is now being filled with loneliness and grief.

I can't help but reminisce and wonder what we could've been. If only I was a guy.

Oh, how much I wish I hadn't said anything at all that night.

“Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings, always darker, emptier and simpler.”

-Friedrich Nietzsche