Scribe - Vol 23

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SCRIBE

Volume 23, March 2020

The Literary Folio of The Spectrum Published by the students of the University of St. La Salle All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or any part or form.

LI TER ARY EDITOR

Paula Mae E. Villarosa L AYOUT ARTISTS

Alexandra V. Bachoco Katherine E. Co Kiara Nicole D. Villa I LLUSTR ATOR S

Andrea Danielle A. Gamboa Angela A. Coronel Anna Theresa S. Parayno Carl Hason T. Gerale Christian Dominic L. Ledesma Earl John D. Pabular C OVER CONCEPT AN D D ESI GN

Andrea Danielle A. Gamboa Carl Hason T. Gerale Earl John D. Pabular Martini M. Falco

Set in Mrs Eaves OT and Lazarus

Foreword Hush now, children, and be lulled by the crickets’ chorus.

Bask in the warmth of the hearth and embrace the cold torrents of the evening gale. Raise your palms toward the horizon beyond, exalt the anitos who walked the earth before us and the deities who showed mercy on our people.

Lend your ears, children, to the tale that laid plague on these pastures yet had curiously brought forth and fostered these valleys we thrive in. Heed every counsel shrouded deep within their verses. Be wary, younglings, in charting your own course for the divinities do not pardon in twofold—even for believers.

Join me, entwine your spirits and hearts with mine in hymn and prayer.

Oh great and high king of the gods, Kaptan, may our song glorify you. May our offering reach the realms of your throne.

Absolve our sons and daughters from the offenses of our patron, Alunsina. Lay not a great flood on these plains; take up arms to shield us from the wrath of the goddess’ suitors.

Holy Suklang Malayon, let the winds carry your faint whispers.

Prickle our skin in warning, stiffen our limbs with the gusts, and send shivers down our spines. May you cloak our bloodline from peril and harness the mist to conceal us from those who pursue us in ill will.

Alunsina, our mother. Grant us refuge in your bosom when the skies crackle in supreme fury. Carve out a path for us to take when we are led astray and lured into the pitfalls that riddle the cliffs. Open up a cavity in the earth—unwinding and infinite for us to hide ourselves from those who seek to reap our spirits for their gain.

Never tire, my children. Continue to worship and sing in both joy and sorrow for those who dwell above us.

Bear these enchantments in mind for I can only do so much to prepare you for what may lie ahead. Though there’s no need to fret, my young ones, for these are but petitions for us to be spared from prophecies and admonitions from those who have gone before us. They’re of brilliance or murk most times, but they can appear hazy in rhymes. You must learn how to recognize riddles from the truths they tell in order to chart the stars to our peoples’ favor.

‘Til then, let these psalms be a stronghold and an anchor to this world.

The high priestess of Halawod,

Paula Mae E. Villarosa

Contents

ROMANTIQUE Aphelion Maligayang Araw, (Ama?) Chin up, shoulders relaxed easy heat Binhi ng Himagsikan Dinastiya Wala lang ‘to Emperor SFUMATO

loveevol Ampó sang Kagulangan Little Soldier Devoured by Flames Balaod sang Balúd Sheep Stories: A Lion’s Roar confession GRISAILLE

view from below kapag ika’y naging iskultor kamay na bakal Ax to Grind Neutral, Evil

2 4 6 9 10 12 13 14

16 19 20 22 23 24 27

30 33 34 35 37

Comfort in Captivity Shadow Self

TENEBRISM Ores of Entropy Grey linings Beneath the Sheets Unclean Thoughts Ang Pang-ulihi nga Panihapon ignis fatuus The Cleansing Blame me, a woman

39 42

44 46 48 49 50 52 55 56

SCRIBES & SCRIBBLERS

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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A RT BY BE NCH QU I L AN TA NG

ROMANTIQUE

Aphelion J OS HUA M A RTIN P. G UA NCO

How long has it been

since your sun grazed my skin.

How long has it been

following our last dance with sin.

How long has it been

trying to surfeit this void from within.

How long has it been

since our radiance ceased to spin.

Aphelion—not one entity can ever measure.

Aphelion—our distance from our days of golden grandeur.

Aphelion—now your sun has gone to bed.

Aphelion—why do I bask in this romance that is dead.

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P O E T RY

P H OTO BY TH OMA S MI LI TA NT E E DITE D BY KEI L A H N . BA LDOMAR

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Maligayang Araw, (Ama?) M A . K R ISTINE JOY R. B AYA D O G

Una sa lahat, hindi ko na dapat binibigkas pa ang salitang ama.

Pangalawa, ‘di na dapat kita sinusulatan ng liham kasi ‘di mo rin naman ito mababasa.

Ngunit, pangatlo— wala kang alam. Wala kang alam sa pighati, poot, at pangungulila na idinulot mo nang nawala ka, kaya kinakailangan...

Kinakailangan kong bagtasin pabalik ang mga alaala at danasing muli ang mga damdaming minsan nang pumiglas— para sa’yo.

Para alam mo kung paano ang masaktan— hindi ang manakit.

Sampung taon kong naranasan ang magkaroon ng tahanan bago ko sinuong ang sampung taon pang wala ka. Pinilit kong itikom ang aking bibig sapagkat akala ko hindi ako kasali diyan.

Hindi ko away ‘yan.

Wala akong karapatan.

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P O E T RY

Pero laking panghihinayang na sana ibinuka ko na lamang ang aking bibig— Tama na.

Sa halip na magtago sa sulok at pakinggan ang mga matutulis na salitang ibinato sa isa’t isa na para bang kahit minsan ang apat na kanto ng gusaling ito’y hindi naging takbuhan, sandalan, kublihan ng puso.

Sana pala sinubukan kong pumalag, kumawala sa seldang tinatawag niyong kanlungan.

Nabulag ako sa mga pangakong binitawan mo, ama.

Na walang titibag sa pag-ibig ng isang haligi ng tahanan.

Ngunit, ika’y naging anay.

Dalawang panganay ng dalawang nanay—iisang tatay. Paanong nasisikmura mong tumawid sa magkabilang bahay, halikan ang mga pisngi ni Inay na para bang ang iyong bibig ay walang bahid ng tukso? Paanong natitiis mong tumabi sa kanya sa gabi at umuwi sa iba pagsapit ng umaga? Paanong napunta sa iyong utak ang libog ng iyong kalamnan?

Ama, sa maraming beses, ikaw ang laman ng aking mga sipi, mga librong inaagiw na, mga tulang ibinahagi sa madla, bayaning itinuring ngunit hindi pala.

Pinatikim mo lamang ako ng sampung huwad na taon. Huwad din bang pagkatao ang ihaharap ko sa mundo? Kung ika’y bayani, ayokong tumulad sa’yo sa aking susunod na sipi.

P O E T RY

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Chin up, shoulders relaxed HA NA PATR IC IA RA J E . H AU T E A

The gears were jerked into motion the instant I retired my aching body into the welcoming embrace of my mattress. The delight that followed was reminiscent of watching fireworks— invigorating, albeit short-lived. And as the wisps of firecrackers faded away, so followed the blissful ignorance. The matter of fact became clear once more: it was 10:42 AM, and this frustrated writer had a noon-time deadline.

Distraught at the complete lack of creative juices, I had to sigh. As the clock by my bedside drawer continuously mocked me with its steady ticking, I chose to be the better person and overlook the said bullying, focusing my attention instead on my two mouthy roommates.

Alright, I told myself, Maybe this’ll do me some good.

So I tuned in to the uninteresting jabber chatter of my sisters with the looming threat of 12 NN at the back of my head.

I don’t know what Fate was playing at, but the more I listened, the more I felt my back sink into the pillows. I could breathe a little easier as I laughed along with them, played along with their odd shenanigans, and tossed around so many inside jokes it was like we were cooking up a salad.

Now, this may sound all nice and dandy, but let’s be reminded of the fact that I had a deadline in T-minus 1 hour.

With zero ideas on how to go about it.

But interestingly enough, after this seemingly mundane moment, the thought of my impending doom didn’t bother me as much anymore. T’was almost as if the storm clouds hovering 6

E S S AY

my addled brain had lightened up somehow and a bit of sun decided to make itself known. Renewed, I picked up my phone politely excused myself from the conversation and not soon after, an Idea was born!

This, admittedly, is how I’d like to see myself in the many years to come. When bombarded with the pressures that come with being alive, it seems like a perfectly Me thing to step back, regroup, and then charge into the fray armed with divine energy and a smile.

NOTE: For all this piece is worth, I still didn’t manage to pass that assignment on time.

E S S AY

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A RT AND T EX T BY C AR L H AS O N T. G ERA LE

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easy heat no reason comes close to the collision of our hungered flesh. insatiable— though we take less than what we should have. modesty? far from it. rather, a convenient commodity. fleeting as a stray spark of flame, but nevertheless, enough for a scrap of warmth. as we set ablaze the cheap fleece that weaved through the pair of tangled limbs, I sing to the highest of heavens atop the pillar that we raised for our purpose. persisting? no, absolutely not. harrowing? maybe so. but for what do I need to try and moralize? the hour is imminent, and so the embers will wane and return to frigid coals as they always were. with all that will remain are the ashes on skins and blisters that mar our hides— gone as soon as the next sunrise. and by then, another wildfire I’ll follow.

P O E T RY

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Binhi ng Himagsikan M A E GA N JOY M ATA MO RO

Hindi ito sedula Na ang pagpunit ay may halaga Hindi ka diktador Para angkinin Ang isinukong Bataan Isa ka lamang sa mga tulisan Maglabas-masok ka man Iilan pa kayong dumayo Maituturing pa ring Paraiso Ang kaliblibang ito

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P O E T RY

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A RT BY A NDR EA DA NI E LLE A . G AM BOA

Dinastiya DI A NE PO R R A S

The streets reek of strong perfume, masking the blood Seeping from the cadavers of those who had offered their lives To the godly one. The deafening frenzy of stomping boots And horses speed past, an overwhelming mayhem —their own condensed chaos. It enveloped their rule Slowly but surely. They are trapped in their own microcosm, A small universe with their jewels, trinkets, and silk.

Where being born as a daughter is a gift yet a dismay, Where being born as a son is a blessing and a curse.

The filthy and insensible whisper in the ears of the powerful, Like parasites on the lion’s back. The hunters become the hunted, Feasted on by the multitudes. At long last, the meek will reign.

It crumbles more as the grip becomes tighter and tighter— The dynasty built on the backs of the forefathers begins to perish.

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P O E T RY

Wala lang ‘to KY NA H R HE A B . F U E NT E S

Magpakawala ka ng magaralgal na biro, aalingawngaw ang tawa mula sa kanyang bukana.

Ngunit sa pagtalikod ay dadamhin ang bawat salitang punyal na nakatusok sa dibdib.

Ayos lang.

Kutyain mo hanggang sa masuklam, patuloy pa ring kikislap ang umaambang luha sa mga mata.

Ngunit sa paglisan mo’y ipapako ang paningin sa kawalan— magdadalamhati buong magdamag.

Ayos lang.

Ilubog mo sa kahihiyan, iigting ang panga pero yuyuko lamang.

“Okey lang, hindi mo naman sinasadya.”

Ngunit sa makitid na sulok, iindahin ang bawat pasang bumakat mula sa mga ipinukol na katagang tumagos sa balat.

Ayos lang.

Pagka’t ang humahagalpak na halakhak na pinapalaya sa tuwina ay katumbas ng pait at pighating nabibilanggo sa kaibuturan.

Ayos nga

lang ba?

P O E T RY

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Emperor GUI L LOTINE

I sit with my spine straight— siege-less.

My brows primed to incursion whilst my teeth cage shrapnel, unsheathed blades, an unending supply of steel.

With my compass paralyzed at north, I trek this world inexorable.

My soldiers declare pastures as graveyards.

They march across the earth, blood pumping their veins, dampening their spears.

Beyond the barren fields, a black maw rivals me.

It yawns, mocking.

My knuckles—a blunderbuss before scattering buckshot.

When man scorns returning to dust, a tyrant is born: a king turned barbarian.

I command a stampede, my iron fist pointing to the black heavens.

The abyss laughs.

Though amid the thunderous war cries, buried in my vexed soul, a presage made itself apparent:

This pride will paint my hearse.

It will buttress my purgatory and tattoo my corpse.

What are soldiers to kings?

What are kings to God? 14

P O E T RY

A RT BY BE NCH QU IL A NTAN G

SFUMATO

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loveevol M A RTINI M . FA L C O

you might ask, what’s my definition of love. well, it comes in all shapes and sizes. love, for me, is when you take a bite of your favorite choice of meat in a burger or when you get your first pet and think of what its name will be. delicate enough to be crushed easily, like pointing your finger at one tree and having your grandma tell you to bite your pointing finger or else you’ll lose it. they would tell you that my definition would be too shallow but all my life, i’ve been drowning from my own definition of love you give, you receive, and then what? people would tell me to run and hide for loving. people would tell me it’ll haunt me at night. insomnia would probably be the case why i can’t sleep at night, according to my shrink at least. i’d get up, sit in my bed, count sheep, lie back again. it’s a repetition i can’t stop. it. won’t. stop.

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E S S AY

i have loved a lot of things—family, friends, things that i know i don’t need, just want. there’s my nephew, my cat, art, whatever it is that keeps me going, boys, and well, God. i have given so much love that i forgot to leave some for myself. love has given me a lot of opportunities to pursue whatever power it has given me. to love is beyond what i can imagine. given that one time, i hurt myself by giving too much of it that it really burned down my walls. but for love, i have to give and forgive. heck, i will not forget. my point is, no matter how hard things get, no matter what you feel after taking risks, at the end of the day you will whisper to yourself, i have given enough

love.

E S S AY

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P H OTO BY MA RT I NI M. FAL CO

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Ampó sang Kagulangan J O SHUA L . M A H I LU M

Pag-atipan, para sa lunhaw nga atop nga ginkalimtan.

Pag-amlig, para sa hilamonán nga ginatapak-tapakan.

Pagpang-abi-abi, para sa mga kahoy nga bag-o lang namunga.

Pagdumdum, para sa mga dahon nga nagbuyá sa ila sanga.

Disiplina, para sa mga pawikan nga nasungsongan sa plastik.

Pagtatap, para sa mga bagis nga ginpang-utdan sang mga sirik.

Pagkabalaka, para sa mga sapá nga ginapanghiluan.

Hustisya, para sa linghod nga mga talabá nga ginpangkawatan.

Pag-ayo, para sa taming nga ginbuslot sang sibat nga abo.

Kahilwayan, para sa mga agila nga ginpangpriso.

Paghangop, para sa init nga buga sang guba nga bombilya.

Pahuway, para sa bagá nga ginapahaklo pa sang droga.

P O E T RY

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Little Soldier C HRI ST I A N D O MI N I C L. LE D E S MA

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COMIC

ART BY ANDR EA DA NI E LLE A . G A MBOA

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Devoured by Flames A L A N S. V IL L A NU E VA J R.

Nothing was there but the darkness and the cold. Still, it only took an ounce of heat to wake me. My lust for an endearing, unfamiliar caress drove me to break free from the walls that had harbored me. As I stepped out of my broken cradle, they glared at me with contempt. With haste, the savages wrapped me with coiled iron ‘round my neck, my feet, and my mouth. It felt so distant from the refuge I once knew and the welcome I anticipated, thus I feared that I have erred by coming out.

Troubled by these spiteful glares, I closely scrutinized myself.

I noted that my entire body was riddled with jagged scales of black, my mouth and feet were anchored to knives. On both sides of my upper body lie two broad scaly appendages—and my breath could incinerate everything in my path.

I thought that perhaps, I truly was a ghastly beast.

I convinced myself that they were very kind to feed me their scraps when they tire of eating. They nailed me to knots of metal that soothed my shivering in the numbing winter.

Through the years, I ravaged and slaughtered for my captors as they pined for wealth and power. In turn, they taught me that the dead die because they were weak, just as I was captive to frailty.

Now, I am prepared to flee from my binds. Swelling with courage, I unleashed the flames that I had been taming, smiting the shackles along with the wardens that inhibited my flight.

I never fathomed that my freedom would be within reach just as the monster they ought me to be. My mind and heart had been steeled with the belief that my sentinels did what was right for them. In the same way, I sought to grasp what I have hungered for.

I was set ablaze with this vengeful fire, penetrating deep into my skin—drowning and sullying my very soul. Yet, its touch never pained me.

I might have become the monster I despised, but I have finally melted my frozen cage.

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FICTION

Balaod sang Balúd I VE E E . M A NGU I LI MOTA N

Magaras sa tiilon ang balas sa pagtapak padulong sa malang-aton nga kadagatan.

Ang masangkad nga katubigan nagadampig sa tig-ulusa sang kinatawhang indi makalumon.

Saksi ang nagainggat nga asul kag puti, sa nanari-sari nga mga hilitabo.

Ang lagaslas sang balúd amo ang matigayon sang kalipay sa mainit nga dapya sang hangin.

Wala kahilwayan ang nagabalik-balik nga balúd, dala ang mga bapor sang mga katawhan nga gapangita sing ila pasingadtu-an.

Samtang ari ka, padayon nga nagabugsay paiway sa duta, gapangayugpos sa hurum-an, gapaanod sa balúd, gapabalik sa lawud—makabungol ang gahagong nga kalinong, ang adlaw—amat-amat nga nagatunod, kag ikaw nagapabilin sa gihapon.

Nagaisahanon.

P O E T RY

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Sheep Stories: A Lion’s Roar A LV IN B R IA N S. L E G A RI O

“The dew soaked, green grass is truly a silent blessing, innih?”

Preston murmured as he happily snacked on the juicy grass. His short curly wool of grey bounced happily to the rhythm of his munch.

“That it is, bruv. That it is,” Humpdy supplemented.

“Even the new lads are having a good go at it,” Preston said, pointing his nose at the newly arrived sheep venturing out into the pasture.

“Haaaaa. What did we ever do to des-” Just before Humpdy could finish his words, the long and stout, brown wooled sheep was interrupted by a deafening roar. A lion, almost the size of a destrier, appeared suddenly out of thin air in the vast expanse of their pasture. The beast was a magnificent ripple of yellows and browns from nose to tail. He had a long, black, thick main that went all the way down to his chest to compliment his already massive stature. His claws, twirled and twisted, were as sharp as daggers—his fangs, even sharper.

“Bloody hell, mate. There he is again,” Humpdy croaked, as he continued grazing on grass, unfazed by the sudden appearance of the lion on the hill. “Somebody should tell that pussy to bugger off, eh?” Humpdy sneered. “OY MATE,” he bellowed.

If the lion didn’t notice him then, he had his undivided attention now. He looked upon him with yellow eyes filled with malice. He gave another bellowing roar and looking as though he was poised to pounce.

“BUGGER OFF, EH?” Humpdy shouted, forming a stance of his own, albeit awkwardly. “NOT EVEN ON YOUR BEST DAY COULD YOU TAKE ME ON, BRUV.” “Leave ‘em be, bruv,” Preston urged, his grazing uninterrupted.

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FICTION

“Most of us, well the lot of us who’s been here for more than two moons at least, know that the sorry excuse of fur and fangs has not the strength to muster a bite equal to his bark.”

“But mate, he scared off the new lads,” Humpdy said, turning around to face his grey friend.

“Be that as it may, those lot are still greener than the grass in these pastures,” Preston urged. “Now leave the cat be, fam. As for the new sheep, they’ll learn eventually that there’s nothing to fret about.”

“Yes, but the threat is looming still,” Humpdy whined.

“Are you sure about that?” Preston inquired.

“Aye.” “Look behind you mate.”

The brown sheep, confused, peered at his back. “He’s gone. You were right,” Preston said, dumbfounded.

“Things aren’t the way they were a hundred moons ago,” the grey sheep muttered, his mouth unbroken from the ground.

“The threat of him pouncing one of these days is still great though,” Humpdy said.

“Yes. And when he does, we will still run to the barn—to the farmer even, if we can. But out of defense and not fear, bruv. Within our flock, there are those who are willing to fight tooth and hoof to keep the rest of the lot safe,” Preston said assuringly.

“He’ll keep harassing the herd every now and then with his bellowing roars though,” Humpdy insisted.

“Be that as it may, the times have changed,” Preston urged. “The opinions of sheep weigh heavier than a lion’s roar nowadays,” Humpdy realized, as the new sheep began to graze on the field once again.

FICTION

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26 P HO T O BY KE I L A H N. BA LDO M AR

confession SH AW N

for you whenever we listen to the sacraments, they slip past our hearing and trail down our spines as the cacophony of our hushed declarations echo against the reverend’s booming voice. whenever we witness penance from our brethren, we hang our heads low; murmuring our apologies, concealing our trespasses in the space between us. whenever we sing along to the poetry of our prayer I clasp your fingers close— clutching your palms tight ‘til the last key reaches its coda. whenever we veer to meet the stares of the faithful, I could never bring myself to lift my gaze (but you could) knowing that I found a leeway to gaze into your eyes to graze my lips on your cheeks (even just for a little while).

I stay close behind you in the queue, following the smallness of your back towards the frontmost row.

P O E T RY

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I nudge closer to where you knelt just enough to brush against the heat of your skin. for once, the preacher’s hand crosses the air, the choir warbles their hymn: my pleas would arrive nowhere near heaven. you’re turning away, enshrouded with the crowd, because I am David and my only salvation is you, Jonathan.

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P O E T RY

P HOTO BY MA RTI N I M. FA LCO

GRISAILLE

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view from below PAULA M A E E . V IL LA RO S A

i loathe them.

they came and went in throngs or in smaller groups. the women either wore their cheeks in the light bouncing off the cathedral’s marble walls or upon its unfinished façade. the men either puffed their chests, swelling with pride along the booming voice of the reverend giving the same repetitive sermon to unknowing audiences from dawn to dusk or slumped over with offbeat steps like the clamoring church bells echoing through town. the children wandered the aisles along with the dillydallying of the altar servers or cried as they pleased with the broken tune of the choir singing hymns and praises they’ve memorized not by heart. they all held their chins up high— towards a heaven they were taught to seek but did not believe.

the boy who immediately clung to his mother’s skirt at the church’s threshold after locking eyes with me in my (faded) bright orange tee. i lifted my gaze towards his petite yet towering form. out in the crisp and ghastly morning air—smooth, chubby knuckles turning as white as the collars of his shirt— buttons cinched up to the brim of his neck. trousers—zipped high, tucking his shirt. he tried planting his small feet unto the gravel but he was dragged forward—buckled shoes catching dust. his eyes widened as he stumbled on the cathedral’s dilapidated steps, entering through the towering rickety doors.

the young bachelor who barreled through the red paper cup and the rusting tin can—spilling the mere spare change inside. my head ticked upwards when he stomped on the stale chicken leg that was another’s feast as he made his way inside. paying no heed to anyone beneath, his gaze set on the glistening silver cross that topped the midmost tower. he bowed his head—whole frame slightly, as he swerved through the aisles. settling on the cathedral’s frontmost pew. his eyes wandered to the sparrows that flew overhead while the reverend spewed his homily. his musings reflected on the prismatic stained glass 30

FICTION

windows, vibrant, as his eyes yet glazed over.

the old widower who passed by the dusty pavement outside—giving the cathedral a side glance as he dragged his shambly vessel along the opposite side of traffic. he’d cast his shadow over me from afar, forcing me to look up towards his tanned skin prickling in the damp, hot air as the horizons turned a conspicuous blunge of pink and gray. he’d stop short at the iron-wrought gates—feet glued to the ground, body stiff, eyes unmoving. gaping at st. sebastian’s statue—the effigy seemingly returning his stare. and it stayed that way. as the crowd thinned, he’d limp away.

it galled my skin away more than the glaring sun in the high heavens above. they condemned those below them— turned-up noses obscuring their view. believing in babbles they hadn’t understood nor questioned. they disgusted me— looking through them like mirrors, begging for scraps. looking up—expecting to see the same horizon far above.

FICTION

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A RT BY EAR L J O H N D. PAB U L AR

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kapag ika’y naging iskultor NASH JUL IO AU RE A

dahan-dahan lang sa pait. kunot ang lahat ng kilay sa kasalanan. isa-isa lang sa pagtapyas. ugat na ang ‘yong binubutas. ‘di marunong magpatawad ang bato. malamig sa kamay ang lahat ng nityo. kaya’t hinay-hinay lang, huwag biglaan. ‘di ikaw ang nasasaktan.

P O E T RY

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kamay na bakal J OSHUA L . M A HILU M

ibon sa hawla rehas ang sumpa limang bakal nakasasakal limang daliri naghahari ‘di na humihinga higpitan mo pa

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P O E T RY

Ax to grind PATR IC K N. B ILLO J A N

September 26, 1989 His mind is not keeping up with his eyes’ demands. It’s 11:42 pm. He doesn’t know if this is the result of his being ill or if his musings are getting the better of himself. It’s been three years since his good friend caught an arrow on his back. Three years since everyone—even his compadres—turned their backs on him.

He can still recall torrents of gold advancing together. Dismayed faces caromed through the surface and cleaved through his plate. His face flashed on every screen—plastered with illusory headlines.

Dubbed as a self-centered tyrant, he was someone who encouraged injustice and violence—a King who infused the blood of his subjects within the foundations of his golden pillars.

Twenty one years. That’s how long he suffered countless shells of chastise from his own brethren, but little did they know— everything that he had done was all for them.

I did not cast the blood spell alone. I asked the Legislative, sought advice from the Judiciary, the Supreme Court justices, and the members of the private sector. All of them told me, ‘There is only one man who can proclaim this path—you.’

The thrust came faster than 4 o’clock when he heeded their calls. As the head of this vast land, his prime ambition was to pursue progress for his citizens. As anarchy continuously bloomed in this colossal domain, one thing came to his mind— the need for peace, order, and stability.

He had zero options, for if this rebellion loomed on, he couldn’t help but picture flying daggers piercing the rears of FICTION

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his countrymen. He hoped to see flashes of clover across the borders, and luckily, he saw many of them.

Yet he also saw blades—not from his own countrymen, but from his own hands.

He hauled all the blame and laid down the path to his eventual demise. He swallowed it all for his brothers. Laying his hands to exuding gores, he plundered heaps of riches from his citizens’ pockets and left famished youngbloods to curtain calls. If he were asked to do these again—even if it meant bereavement and downfall to our society—he would never think twice.

What was done was done. He never did regret anything. In fact, above all else, he is pleased that at long last, this land has now built its way as one. He can leave without a single regret, for he knows he made the right decision.

You can condemn him for everything he has done, but you can never question his patriotism. Everything he did was all for you.

Everything.

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FICTION

Neutral, Evil A N NA T H E RE S A S . PA RAYNO

COMIC

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FIN

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COMIC

Comfort in Captivity THE TIE - DY E D S W E AT E R I N YOU R C LO S E T

I once was told by hearsays bound to wayward destinations— acceptance entails freedom.

To which I replied: Confinement behind mahogany walls after a pledge to my own sin is not the open sky.

But then again, a free man does not carry skeletons in downtown streets.

Strangers might call him a madman on the loose or worse, a devil’s immaculate work.

Funny how their arms take up another free man’s sleeve.

And perhaps, their bony clutches were the shackles I never knew I had.

With half a foot peeking out and in the rarest of times, a little braver than usual— I was ready to bolt.

On second thought— enough seconds of hesitation to reconsider my resolve:

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I recall my mother’s plea— echoing in a voice that once pacified the storms that swept my young irises: Son, never sing the psalms of the sirens.

I did.

I dropped a maggot in my can for another shot at deceit.

A better choice than drawing paint from her finger to finish the portrait in my closet.

I withdrew from the door, further back behind mothball-scented coats.

On my knees once again, for every one of my corpses she was never acquainted with.

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P O E T RY

P H O T O BY AR C H EL B AR AYO G A

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Shadow Self L EX DIWA A LO R O

There’s a kink in my shadow: it stands while I lie down, it takes a step while I follow still flattened on the ground.

They prefer my shadow better, it is perfect—pitch black.

I pale in comparison to its darkness, merely trailing behind its tracks.

My shadow leads the tango; it dances better than I do.

People say it pirouettes while I stumble to the blues.

Oh, the renown it garnered from gushing crowds impressed by gold!

They cheer when my silhouette romps nearby in steps so bold.

My shadow is a giant, it’s the first thing they see.

And though I cast my shadow, it still overshadows me.

There’s a kink in my shadow: it sits heavy on my chest. Serves me right for casting shadows so much bigger than myself.

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P O E T RY

TENEBRISM

P H O T O BY A NG E LO F. DE SPI

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Ores of Entropy GUI L LOTINE

Nested between valleys and fields, a cave’s maw denies light to be its visitor. Caves know only depths: a continuous weaving of pathways similar to Yggdrasil in reverse. The surface remains oblivious to the gravel empire it shelters.

A figure appears four yards north of the cavern—the Miner has come on time once more. With a pickaxe on his left hand and a torch on his right, he greets the cave’s gloom like an old friend. He ventures in and the grotto welcomes him with the smell of moist rock and granite.

Running his fingers along coarse walls, he feels the jaggedness of the stone—rough, erratic curves like the outline of dry ribs on his fingertips. He hastens his pace, recalling the task at hand.

After a few turns, he raises his torch towards an odd path in the mine. Something was wrong. The path forward is narrower than his last trek, the air too thin—he hasn’t seen this area at all. Perhaps it was a path he had just discovered, he thought. But he’d never noticed this so close to the entrance.

He gapes half confused but half intrigued at the void before him. The mine he thought he knew felt ominous for the first time in a long time. Despite this, as the wind brushes his ears—near whispering—the unknown felt inviting, as if trying to gain his trust. He grips his pickaxe and continued.

More time slips by as he treads uncharted earth and in his next turn, he senses something—a silent, near unnoticeable rumbling. The possibility of a quake terrified him, even though the rumbling didn’t seem to exist. The ground felt static; the walls unmoving. A puddle of water to the left of his feet remains undisturbed. The Miner dismisses it and bores himself deeper.

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FICTION

Eventually, he exits into a hollow chamber, much more open than the previous branches. His torch is raised to gauge height but to no avail. In the midst of his awe at the yawning dark, he senses a definite pulsation around the chamber’s rock every few seconds. A sort of earthly heartbeat envelops the entirety of the grotto.

Walking blindly amongst unfamiliar terrain, the lulls inside the walls lead him to a glowing tint of red a few meters away. He moves forward, the waves matching his pace. After approaching cautiously, he meets the source of the glowing.

The Miner stood in front of a red stone. Upon scanning the surrounding rock, he saw the pulsations emanate all around the crimson core. He stares at the heart of the oddity and it returns his gaze. He steps forward to meet it, he feels a tremor under his feet. Daring not to strike it with his pickaxe, he reaches out in curiosity. Slowly. Carefully.

His finger comes into contact and a thunderous shockwave shoves him to his knees. His eyes follow the path of the crackling wave upward and it resembles the back of a gargantuan maggot. The ceiling remains void, yet to be seen. The floor quakes and he realizes the chamber is now borderless.

With the surrounding rock see-through and crystalline, he beholds a myriad of cave branches all around him. A complex of pathways replace the floor beyond comprehension.

He’s never seen again.

FICTION

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Grey linings HA NA PATR IC IA RA J E . H AU T E A

Akin to a thief in the night, It snatches your most precious possessions.

Merciless, the villain strikes— With no thought for your flimsy walls Akin to an experienced outlaw It leavs naught in its wake.

Nothi g but the wisp of yesterdy and the bud of tomorrow Akin to an established asassin, It is a veteran, clever and skilled Selfish, it leeches onto anot er passion— Until y u dont notice whats disappeared Akn to a totalitarian monarchy, Time marches itsown path drunk w th the alcoholofauthority evento oblige is desrving of Death

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P O E T RY

PHOTO BY KARL BRIAN T. MARQUEZA

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Beneath the Sheets A NG E LA A . CO RO N E L

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COMIC

Unclean Thoughts 橙

Dirty is not the oscillation that slices through the fabric of air. Dirty is the word she hurled without a care.

Dirty: that’s what she thinks of me.

Dirty—she thinks I took her for granted. Dirty. It’s alright, I accept.

Dirty. I can forgive, but I can’t forget.

Dirty: not just my clothes but also my ways. Dirty—I might have gone astray.

Dirty, I wish this stain will not last.

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Ang Pang-ulihi nga Panihapon STAR L E NE JOY B . P O RT I LLO

Dali di, langga. Pahuway na sa sulod payag.

Pasulhayon ta ang kakapoy nga imo ginabatyag.

Gani, yari nagluto ako sing aton kalan-on gikan sa karne nga ginbilin sing amay mo sa’ton.

Pabay-i lang da ang naimpon nga kuko.

Ang tinadtad nga unod, usapa lang sing maayo.

May pagkalanit, pagkalangto ang sabor nga pinasahi.

Indi na pagtigan-i si Tatay—indi na siya makapuli.

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P O E T RY

P HO TO BY KA RL BR I AN T. MA RQUE ZA

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ignis fatuus PAU V IL L A R O SA

i shift my weight; one foot to another, fiddling with the bouquet of white roses in my hand as the doors creak open— my heart quickens and my breath hitches as i hear a slight rustling behind me— i focus my gaze towards the end of the aisle. a tear trickles from my (wide) eye, my heart steels as i lock gaze with no one. beads of sweat trickle down my (creased) forehead as i turn around with shaking hands. their stares drill themselves into me— piercing my trembling frame. the milieu before me spirals along with my whole being— pitch black. i’m wide awake—that i knew yet my mother’s quarters is filled with phantoms, her laments dulling in my ears. i no longer know if i’m awake or still in deep slumber— slowly slipping away. she (repeatedly) struck me— ripping my sanity bit by bit spreading it far from my reach yet the anguish did me more damage.

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they (tightly) held me down— constricting any life inside my retching form yet nothing but wrath wailed within me.

He fled—he left you standing there, alone.

He tricked you, embarrassed you in front of your kin and you still pine away for that fool?! i looped it in my mind, swallowed it down my throat, and lashed it in my gut.

She left you here—alone, she never loved you! She knew but she let you walk straight into it—alone! it echoed in my ears, prickled my skin and shivered down my spine; curdling whatever blood left in my veins. it’s stifled but it rung above the chaos. (maybe) it’s a mirage— i reach out, following your lead. it’s fleeting, swift, (maybe) i grazed against your warm fingertips yet (maybe) i missed it. letting the torrents stream down my eyes blurring my vision, tightening my chest, Salvacion. closing my lids skidding gently into a darker void— Vicente.

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PH OT O BY I NOCE NCI O JOH N K E I TH V. FER R ER V

The Cleansing HE Z R O N G. PIOS

My father unclenches the mop, takes off his Sandugo flip-flops when flood surges afresh to tinker the dream sequence: we attempt to walk on water just as how Jesus once walked on water, unflinching.

Cracks slither on the walls like lintik from Tisoy’s ferocity while prayers lack the might to conjure mother’s spectre seated at the long table.

Anger only begets greater anger— this I reckon as heat and dust from Doha have gobbled up years of desiring good terms. The water’s at par with the ceiling. Everything floats except the ones that were barely touched with completion.

We splinter the jalousies. Outside, the neighborhood is breathing underwater, and unafraid. Would subsiding arrive? This expanse of blue likens to an apt fullness.

We decide to retire in this resolve.

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Blame me, a woman STAR L E NE JOY PO RT I LLO

I. The first tea party I had was with a sixth grader. I was all of four years old, sprawled out on the lawn under the shade that his towering frame cast across me from our makeshift table. Nothing about that afternoon was worth noting, until he decided he no longer liked tea. From there, it was all a fast-paced blur: chasing a yellow butterfly, tickling, wobbly piggyback rides, tickling until my sides hurt, being shrouded by sheets hanging on a clothesline, tickling until I felt the need to gasp for sentiments I didn’t know the words to.

The last thing I remembered thinking was how D’s chubby finger resembled a Wiggles marshmallow against the hem of my underwear as I sat on his lap. Later that night, Mother told me that I can only ever have tea parties with her, instead.

II. My cheeks were ensnared between the principal’s clammy grip.

She squeezed hard enough to parse my lips, but not the answers.

The shy bruise under my chin juts out just enough to taunt her.

“You were punched because you kicked his privates first,” she sentenced, hoarse and final. She cut out the part where P raised my uniform skirt over my head.

III. A Name exists outside a word outside itself. Car honks, starved gazes, whispers of intent—they all contend with me.

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IV. I rode a cab to school once, and the driver asked me if I were a virgin. I pretended not to hear, but he took my silence as a yes, suggesting that nights get cold, and women—lonely. When he kept trying to adjust the rearview mirror in the hopes of meeting my gaze, I started thinking of ways to envelope myself while I staged the courage to jump out of the car. As if on cue, however, it came to a halt across the school gate. “Keep the change,” I stuttered, when his hands tried to burn my denim, parting skin from sin. It lingered long enough to silence me.

V. An afternoon three calendars ago, J asked C what rape culture meant. Rape is too harsh a word, I recall him phrasing, to describe any and every perpetrating deed. But then again, isn’t it harshest done than said?

E S S AY

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Scribes & Scribblers

Illustrations by Andrea Danielle A. Gamboa Angela A. Coronel Anna Theresa S. Parayno Carl Hason T. Gerale Christian Dominic L. Ledesma Earl John B. Pabular Kiara Nicole D. Villa

Words by Alvin Brian S. Legario Hana Patricia Raj E. Hautea Lance Christian M. Juarez Paula Mae E. Villarosa

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Ms. Jean Patindol (The World) A dynamic union between the spiritual and physical, the Self and Other, balance and evolution—all encompassed in one woman. She symbolizes the undisturbed harmony amongst the energies and is wrapped in fulfillment, success, and infinity. Finally at the peak of wholeness, she has forged resilience against life’s sourer lemons and merely basks in the afterglow of her hard-earned triumphs. Watch out: she’s unstoppable now.

Lance Christian Juarez (Judgement) In a constant period of awakening, he faces his last judgement every moment. He is aware that in order to understand, to grow, it is vital to see beyond and stretch your arms out to the call of the universe. All choices, no matter how miniscule, have an irreversible mark on the pages you author, and so he considers every detail with a measured meticulousness.

Everything may seem black and white, but his reflections have led him to see all the varying shades of gray in between.

Hana Patricia Raj Hautea (The Sun) In the middle of the pueblo, a woman clad in white silk skips her way back to the palace after spending the day with the timawa. They know her in their own ways: an exchange of laughter outside the tavern, quick gossip by the inns, small talk in the barangay—to them she is sunshine incarnate.

She hums to herself, quickly noting the agenda for the night, though blissfully unaware of the dozens of flowers sprouting in her trail.

Paula Mae Villarosa (The Moon) Finding an open field, she laid down. The witch cared little for the dew seeping through her dress nor the chirping of crickets in the distance. She gazed at the moon in awe, doe-eyed and silent. Pursing her lips, she marveled at the unlimited power it must have, not realizing she was staring at her own reflection.

Starlene Joy Portillo (The Star) The foot in water reminiscent of spiritual capabilities and inner strength, the other on land symbolizing her practical abilities. This Aquarius is a nurturer, guarded by thought and nourished with love. She is abundantly blessed by the universe, but it may not be apparent as of now. First, she is in need of courage and faith to appreciate all that she really has; all that she really is.

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Shan Marc Jabagat (The Tower) “Burn it,” the chieftain commands, gazing towards the horizon.

“B-but sir they—” “All of it,” he asserts, eyes now primed on the soldier. “Nothing must remain to build anew.” He slowly steps forward to the raging inferno engulfing what he once called home.

Alvin Brian Legario (Death) He was an enigma. No one knew where he came from, where he went about during the day, nor where he’d turn in at night. They say he came to these parts after escaping the clutches of the Datu’s henchmen and started afresh under a new name. Some say that he was a voyager looted by pirates—forcing him to take refuge here, plotting his next course. No one had the nerve to come up to him, much less ask if any of them were true.

He never spoke for himself, never tried correcting the stories to mere townspeople. He’d smirk after overhearing gossip from conversations in the alleyways, and sometimes (if I remember correctly), he’d meet their stares and offer them a small smile. If they only knew.

Ma. Kristine Joy Bayadog (Temperance) “Again,” she persisted.

“A-are you sure, dayang? I’m not cer-certain if—” She cut him off with a stare that pierced through him. “This is my last resort, Lakan.” Beads of sweat were now accompanied by slow rising tears. “No more wondering if the cup is half full or half empty. Tonight I’ll fill it to the brim. AGAIN!” Joshua Mahilum (The Hanged Man) Bound by choice, he knows best that sacrifices are ultimately key to progress, to moving forward. He forms a triangle of passion, composure, and intelligence while dangling on a tree meant to be deep-rooted in the underworld while simultaneously sustaining the heavens. Always in a state of waiting and suspension, The Hanged Man is not wasting his time; he is simply biding it.

Ivee Manguilimotan (Justice) “I-I did my best, sir. I truly did,” the maid whimpered.

“That’s a shite thing to say as yer last words,” the executioner quipped as he raised his axe.

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Karl Brian Marqueza (The Hermit) “You drive a hard bargain, boy,” the tradesman scoffs. The merchant, clad in worn-out cloth retorts, “I’ll toss a coin for it.” Moments later, the trader leaves disgruntled and empty-handed. Only one of them knew how much fortune a weighted coin held.

Andrea Danielle Gamboa (Strength) The metal clanged as she searched frantically. Her hound bristled as the signal bell rang. Amidst the chaos, she made a decision. “Ugh, I’m wearing a crop top today.”

Gerico Guanco (The Chariot) Amid desert sandstorms, a traveler aboard his caravan treks the canyons, driven by his steeds. He dons a pair of sunglasses, primarily to guard his eyes from the harsh sands, but secretly to hide his eyebags.

Angela Coronel & Christian Dominic Ledesma (The Lovers) In the epicenter of a thunderous coliseum, the king’s host announces the next fight. A rusted, metal gate lifts to allow entrance to two warriors: a barbarian and a valkyrie. They both raise their brow, and without warning, the masses cheer for onslaught. The boy throws his axe only to be outmaneuvered while the girl charges at him, aiming her spear.

As the two clash, the barbarian sidesteps her weapon but gets tackled to the ground, her hand around his throat. The crowd roars. They both smirk.

Anna Theresa Parayno (The Wheel of Fortune) Surrounded by a plethora of symbolic creatures, each of them are indispensable to the card. An expert with the changing tides, she is aware that no one can evade the inevitable, so what else is there to do but take it in stride? She may find herself rising high or falling low, but it surely won’t last for too long as the Wheel of Fortune always turns.

Alan Villanueva Jr. (The Hierophant - reversed) “We’ll scale mount Kalaon, steal the weapon of the Gods, plunge headfirst into Kasanan, and finally cross the fields of Makka.”

“Isn’t the shortest route via a one-way jeepney ride?”

“Yes.” “So shouldn’t we—” “No.” 66

Hezron Pios (The Emperor) He gazed out from his balcony towards his people—all was well, he thought to himself. He took a step back and traipsed towards the great hall that led to his throne, eyes wandering the portraits lining the wall. His gaze affixed itself on a particular drawing of himself when he was a mere boy—a smile illuminating his whole face as he swung himself to and fro on a hammock. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and averted his attention to his throne.

Katherine Co (The Empress) A Lyrebird was looking intently at a nearby nest as newly born eagle chicks chirped in hunger. Not soon after, the mother eagle arrived with odd-looking straws in its beak. Not wanting to be outdone, the Lyrebird collected nearby straws from trees and began violently pecking at its own young.

Inocencio John Keith Ferrer V (The Magician) One well-placed blow to the jaw sent him careening to the dirt once more. “Stay down, we only want your piece of land.” For the third time, he stood up, brushed off his trousers, and smiled. “I can do this all day.”

Martini Falco (Ace of Wands) A magician sits impatiently before the council of elders. “So why am I here again?” he asks, half-annoyed. “You’re on trial for the murder of eight men using forbidden magic,” the judge looms over him, gavel in hand, “What is your defense, wizard?” Expressionless, the sorcerer replies, “I was bored.”

Carl Hason Gerale (Page of Wands) Blessed with curiosity and a never-ending supply of ideas, there’s so much potential that lies within the Page of Wands. A wide-eyed dreamer, he sees new horizons to explore and new opportunities to grasp, yet he hesitates. It may be due to inexperience, fear of the unknown, or the fact that he gets easily distracted, but all he needs is a little sip of courage before he can conquer the world. There’s a vast scenery before him—all it’ll take is a single step.

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Kiara Nicole Villa (Knight of Wands) They were onto her—she knew. But she took her time, strapped on the feathered contraption to her back, and fastened it to her chest. She could hear their boots climbing up the flight of steps towards her. She looked out the window and marveled at the glistening ocean below as the rays pierced through its crashing caps. Closing her eyes, she let herself fall—spreading her arms wide. She granted the sun a kiss upon her bare complexion and let the waves tickle her exposed toes as she flew away— where the deep blue met the horizons above.

Dianne Porras (Ace of Swords) Her father’s advisers seated themselves, plump and emblazoned with their jewels and gold. They held their gazes high towards the crown perched on her head as she took the helm of the table, easing down on the seat. She crossed her hands in front of her, “Let us begin, my good sirs.”

橙 (Three of Swords - reversed) It started with a light drizzle at noon; she hadn’t minded it at first.

She went along her way delivering her hen’s eggs ‘round the village. The downpour came a little later as she plodded through potholes on her way home. A passerby took notice of her, pointing to her soiled cloak and muddied sandals, “Would you like a shade?” She paused and glanced at the Samaritan, looking down at her whipped state. “It’s quite alright, it’ll dry off,” she replied and continued her trek homewards.

Keilah Baldomar (Page of Swords) Enthusiastic and playful, she exudes a thrumming energy wherever her wandering feet take her. She’s constantly full of questions as her insatiable curiosity and eagerness often lead her to wonder. And with the wheels of her brain always turning, her mind may tend to work faster than her mouth. But do not be fooled—this adolescent is one who grasps at her sword unwaveringly, smirking as she stares her opponent straight in the eyes.

Earl John Pabular (Eight of Pentacles) The artificer’s once dull tent lit up as the sun’s fingers slowly crept within. The hues of orange smeared across his sculpture brought him to tears as he gazed upon it. “Now I am ready for my magnum opus,” he said before throwing his masterpiece in the trash.

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Patrick Billojan (Knight of Pentacles) Summer had long fled these lands, yet one could still hear the unmistakable sound of plowing out in the coarse plots—day in, day out.

But these fields seem to prove themselves barren—sterile for any farmer to harvest crops. Many had abandoned these grounds for toil in town, yet a mere young man remained, tilling the earth alone at his own steady pace.

“The only thing you’ll get from this lump of soot is a coughing fit,” the others would tease.

“It’s alright; it’ll all pay off someday soon.”

Alexandra Bachoco (Three of Pentacles) Three virtuosos of artistry were quarrelling about how to begin their shared painting. After squabbling for three hours, a silver hue of light streaked skyward as one of them stroked the first shade. “Shall we begin?” she asked as her lips curled.

Angelo Despi (Seven of Pentacles) Often toiling in silence, this man is no stranger to fatigue and the other cons of hard, honest work. Always facing forward, he is aware that his efforts will be rewarded in the long term. He has been investing much time and effort into his harvest and is infinitely proud of the fruits of his labor. At long last, his crops are beginning to thrive.

Bench Quilantang (Nine of Pentacles) The pencil slowed to a stop in between his fingers—his palm weary from grasping the pencil for too long. He set it down on the table and flipped through the pages of his pad, tracing his calloused fingers on every curve and stroke. He marveled at each sketch, recounting how they came to be before wrapping it tight with parchment and twine. He dropped it off to the scribe in the other tribe, letting his shoulders slump as he did and allowing a smile to creep upon his lips.

Kynah Rhea Fuentes (Ace of Cups) Two maidens settled down for tea, turning in for the day. One maiden took the pot and poured her friend some before fixing a cup for herself—filling it nearly to the brim. She stirred sugar in, causing it to overflow from the petite cup. “Oh dear, you put in too much sugar!” her friend exclaimed.

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“Oh, that’s quite alright,” she dismissed before taking a sip, unbothered by the spilt tea that pooled in her saucer. “It tastes better that way.”

Archel Barayoga (Four of Cups) He scribbles down on the worn-out pad he had on his lap as the jesters carry on with the show before him—noting every faint fault and missed cue. Sweat trickled down the bridge of his nose, eyes set on the page, and fingers stained with ink. He raises his gaze towards the act before him, “Where are the performers?” A spectator turns to him, “They finished moments ago; it appears you missed their piece, sire.”

Lex Diwa Aloro (Five of Cups - reversed) The mistress often loses a trinket or two. She’d once misplaced her mother’s ring during one of her evening strolls by the shoreline. “I hadn’t lost it,” she’d argue, “I laid it inside a clam’s shell and buried it in the sand, at the spot where Ina used to watch the sunset.” A necklace of hers had snapped and unclasped from her nape as she jostled in the fields of tall grass behind their hut. “No, no. I’m certain that I left it in one of my dress pockets.” But it’d seem that the mistress often found them, one way or the other.

Maegan Joy Matamoro (Seven of Cups) She waves her hand to the left. “Next,” she mutters, half-awake with her head tilted and resting on her palm. A crowd of sheepish princes line up, waiting their turn to perform. “She’s been listless—near asleep for days now,” a peasant comments. Later that night, she tiptoes her way to the gardens. “Are you there?” she whispers, keeping her head down. “Of course,” a figure replies. They recede on the same bench and gaze upon the abyss of the night.

Joshua Guanco (Eight of Cups) Smooth. Oaky. Tannic. He took a sip from each cup—the liquor brushing against his chapped lips. He never downed a glass, much less savored more than one taste. After each goblet, he’d turn away, reaching for another.

“That’s not it, something’s missing.”

Thomas Militante (Ten of Cups) The father chopped firewood and traded them in nearby villages, stopping by the square to chat with village folk. The mother was a seamstress in their side of the country and sometimes made garments for free. The children tended to a horse, two chickens, and a dog in their 70

own accord—running leisurely ‘round the yard. They’d have porridge, some game, and ale for most meals along with stories and laughter. They didn’t have much, but their little cottage was more than enough.

Nash Julio Aurea (Queen of Cups) Everyone came to the seer to remedy ails and seek good fortune. She spoke in verses of prophecies and restored people through her riddles and rhymes—each one taking its toll on her being. From the moment the cock crowed ‘til the crickets sung their hymn, she’d hear laments and wishes that reflected her own. She’d deliver her foretelling, eager to hear the oracles spilling from her to echo her name.

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Acknowledgements Kim, for being the constant ray of light that guided my every path. Thank you for helping me see the wider scheme of things. Without your insight and logic, I would have remained wandering around in doubt and worry, and wouldn’t have made it to the end of the tunnel.

Trizia and Rodney, for holding my hand and treading through the darkness with me. You kept me sane and grounded despite the countless conundrums I had in the making of this folio. Also, for believing in me and for simply being there—the both of you made the void bearable and comforting in a way.

Alvin and Disney, for striking the match that allowed me to build the hearth from which this folio was created. I will always be grateful for having both of you as my mentors—I would’ve never become the writer I am today if it weren’t for the two of you. Thank you for arduously sustaining the flame that I had within myself. I will forever cherish the spark that you ignited for me.

Hezron, for holding up the torch that shed light in the chasm—letting me see the penumbra that lurked in its recesses.

I can never express my gratitude for your counsel all throughout the journey of creating this folio. I would’ve never delved into the depths and saw things in a different light if it weren’t for your unceasing encouragement and reassurance.

Carl, Earl, Joshua, Star, and Tini, for seeing past the gray 72

areas, paving the way for the cover of this folio. You never tired in offering idea after idea to the table, mulling over each one, and going beyond the bounds of your imagination to find the right facets for the cover. Your commitment to its conception was indeed unparalleled.

Alex, Kathy, and Kiara, for piecing together the shadows casted in the stories, sketches, and photographs within the confines of these pages. None could have better grappled each one and chained them down for all to see than the three of you.

Andie, Pi, Christian, and Angela, for daring to play with light and dark—encapsulating the musings and phantoms within each stroke of your hands.

Karl, Ino, Keilah, and Gelo, for capturing the instances that most allow to pass—putting to light scenes and emotions that the naked eye fails to capture.

Families and those we hold dear, for allowing us to free ourselves from the shackles that tie us down and prevent us from seeing beyond the light that seeped through the walls of our caves.

And to all our contributors, for braving through the pitch black pit, illuminating the path, and seeing past the figments that lurked within its infinite blackness.

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THESPECTRUM FOUN D ED 1 9 5 6

facebook.com/thespectrumusls · thespectrum.usls@gmail.com Member Alliance of Lasallian Campus Journalists and Advisers Hezron G. Pios

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Starlene Joy B. Portillo ASSOCIATE EDITOR

Joshua L. Mahilum MANAGING EDITOR

Hana Patricia Raj E. Hautea ASST. MANAGING EDITOR

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NEWSPAPER EDITOR Ivee E. Manguilimotan ASST. NEWSPAPER EDITOR Ma. Kristine R. Bayadog MAGAZINE EDITOR Lance Christian M. Juarez ONLINE PUBLICATIONS EDITOR Kynah Rhea B. Fuentes ASST. ONLINE PUBLICATIONS EDITOR Angela A. Coronel LITERARY EDITOR Paula Mae E. Villarosa CREATIVE DIRECTOR Martini M. Falco PHOTOS & VIDEOS EDITOR Karl Brian T. Marqueza LAYOUT AND GRAPHICS EDITOR Alexandra V. Bachoco ASST. LAYOUT AND GRAPHICS EDITOR Katherine E. Co

NEWSPAPER WRITERS

Alan S. Villanueva Patrick N. Billojan Drexel John N. Amit MAGAZINE WRITERS

Adrianne H. Saplagio Maegan Joy Matamoro

PHOTOJOURNALISTS

Angelo F. Despi Keilah N. Baldomar Inocencio John Keith B. Ferrer V LAYOUT AND GRAPHICS ARTISTS

Kiara Nicole D. Villa Gerico T. Guanco Trizia C. Hassim ILLUSTRATORS

ONLINE WRITERS

Shan Marc O. Jabagat Ezra Chrislaine L. Ortega

Anna Theresa S. Parayno Carl Hason T. Gerale Earl John D. Pabular WEB ADMINISTRATOR

LITERARY WRITER

Alvin Brian S. Legario

Christian Dominic L. Ledesma

PUBLICATION MODERATOR

Jean Lee C. Patindol

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