Today's Carolinian - Kuris 2018

http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

I

As Today’s Carolinian’s Head Illustrator, it was my goal to enscapsulate this year’s Kuris entries in an image that can manifest passion.

The cover depicts Icarus, a tragic figure in Greek Mythology, in mid-flight. Though his story ended in tragedy, the image of him flying to the sun is iconic. It shows the need to follow one’s ambitions without limits and most of all to be free to follow one’s passion.

Words by Eduard Jude Jamolin Illustration by Eduard Jude Jamolin

Kuris (v.) dinali-ang pagbadlis KU RIS (n.) a literary folio and festival Created and organized by Today’s CAROLINIAN, the official progressive student publication of the University of San Carlos, Kuris showcases the creative prowess of the Carolinian to write short stories, poems and essays -- to create literature that aims to entertain, to provoke and to mobilize.

The literary pieces in this year’s portfolio tackle Passion on various forms, and have been screened, edited and chosen based on their style, organization, mastery of language and relevance to the theme.

FIRST PLACE (Literary)

SHORT STORY

SEPTEM ULTIMA VERBA Ramon Kenneth Tiu

Illustration by Jon Ahmed Durano

2

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

SHORT STORY

Forgive them for their ignorance.

The sheets smell of bleach. The wall is freezing to the touch. In the distance, a series of footsteps can be heard, tapping on cold concrete in unified cadence. I listened to it, my heart matching its pace as each pulse grew louder and louder. Then it stopped.

Two centurions stood before me, their figures brooding against the light. The one on the right threw a duffel bag on the floor, spilling its contents: a lavish purple suit and a fake golden crown.

“Get dressed, my lord. Your throne awaits you,” the one on the left jeered. Ah yes. Today is the day I ascend to the throne to guide all of humanity. Or so I kid myself. Indifferently, I put the suit on and stared at my reflection on the crown. Soon, all of my life’s work will come to completion. For now, I die for the sins of man.

I shall return this world to paradise.

The fluorescent fixtures above dimly lit the hallway I walked in. The air in here was colder and reeked of antiseptic. The smell is almost nostalgic. I remember those many nights I’ve spent in my lab, devising cures for a myriad of diseases. They called me the Miracle Man, the harbinger of God or whatever. But to me, I am merely a doctor who has sworn an oath to save people’s lives. But in order to achieve true salvation, I will have to break this oath.

We arrived in a room – a chair with straps is placed at the center. To the left, a wooden table upon which lies my crucifix, my freedom, my deliverance. Behind it, dressed in a seamlessly white lab coat, stood my father.

I would like to see my mother.

I am well aware that my mother is behind the one-way glass window on the wall. They took the pleasure to assure that all my loved ones will watch as I die. Accompanying her would be my dearest friend. The one that I love. My partner in creating my greatest creation: my child. I resisted the urge to see them for the last time. It will pain me greatly to see them suffer as I die. I seated at the right hand of my father as the centurions begin to strap my legs and wrists.

Humanity has forsaken me.

After months of research, I have found the origin of the disease that plagues mankind for millennia. In a certain strand of DNA in the human genome, lies the biological inscription for human violence and avarice. I have found sin itself. But in order to rid this trait, a person must undergo severe mutations – mutations that are fatal.

http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

3

SHORT STORY

I have realized that man and sin are unfortunately inseparable.

This did not stop me, however. I redirected my research to designing a genome devoid of this trait. I have developed the perfect man; a man free from sin. But people deemed my research immoral. They called me a lunatic, sacrilege in the flesh! They feared that my research would question the very foundation of the natural law and that the repercussions it will bring would be dire. So they imprisoned me and stripped me off of everything in the hopes to shut me down. But despite all of this, my child, my seed, continues to grow at this very moment.

I thirst.

My throat is dry but it hardly matters. My father, my executioner, readies my crucifix. He facesd me, his face sunken from the reality of killing his own son. But he will not falter.

I have accepted my cross, in the form of a syringe filled with potassium chloride. The sour wine of my deliverance starts coursing through my veins. I can feel my body burning as my heart starts to weaken. The pain is unbearable, like my chest is gradually imploding onto itself. My heart beat begins to slow down, my breaths getting heavier, and my vision begins to blur until I lose my consciousness.

It is done.

The agony is over. I may now be dead but in three days’ time, my disciples shall do my bidding. Even without me, my legacy will continue. The fruit of my passion shall bloom and the world will be cleansed from sin. He shall bring back the Eden we once lost. Yes. My son, into your hands I commend my creed.

4

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

POEM

SECOND PLACE (Literary)

ZODIAC Erica Dancel

Illustration by Phoemela Delos Santos

http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

5

POEM

With the boldness of a conqueror, Equal generosity and determination, Be far-seeing, always expanding; Let perfection be the ambition.

With the perception of sensitivity Thriving in the depths, Flowing with the currents; Bear the balance of communication.

Trailblazers and pragmatists, Intellects and intuitives; All pieces of the puzzle, united: We are the Mother of our own.

6

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

SHORT STORY

THIRD PLACE (Literary)

VESTIGE Faith Chloe Bendanillo

Illustration by Eduard Jude Jamolin

I was born in an oven. I have a braid for a spine and a smooth and slim body. I’m extremely fragile. I may still be useful even if I’m broken but my purpose is better fulfilled when I’m whole.

My siblings and I laid still in the package we came with until someone chose us.

I remembered the stories my ates and kuyas told us as soon as their shifts are done.

They always mentioned exhilaration when they met their matches, a dash of stardom when they lit up the room, and exhaustion when the day was done. I noticed that they seemed to lose a bit of themselves every time they arrived home. “Is this normal, po?”, I asked my ate one day when her job had taken most of her vigor. “Azela, it’s just overtime. I’ll be okay.” She faced me and continued, “I may not last long though. I’ve been at this for days now. But I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about you not understanding what might happen to me and our older siblings. Our purpose is to be a beacon to the race of our makers. There is something bigger than all of us. Trust me.”

Soon, my ate and many others passed away. We couldn’t be there in their last moments.

I was bitter for a time, for the loss of my loved ones and how our numbers shrank. They used more of us frequently since their source of power was out for more than a week.

They needed to open a new pack to satisfy their need for light and heat. I was furious at our keepers for their overuse. It even came to a point that I wanted to burn myself and scorch them in the process to avenge my siblings.

They placed me back in the dark of the top shelf. I had time to think and reflect on the events that had to unfold and the words my ate shared during her last days. It was my first taste of loss . Looking back on it now, I had wondered what would happen if I went with my rash decisions. Thank goodness I listened to the voice deep in my heart. I knew that it was time to embrace the changes in my life.

http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

7

SHORT STORY

We were slowly called loyal companions by our keepers. Every day they would light my sibling up for their novena and pray. Some days, one would use me as she sewed clothes for her family. All the while, I noticed that they did their tasks with so much fervor, not even the slightest whisper of complaint. I slowly became attached to them.

Years rolled by and so did my new siblings. Our keepers were needing us less and less.

Candles were no longer their companions during dinner. We were replaced by what they called light bulbs and electricity. It would be a consolation to be used for a few minutes in a religious procession or gathering. Being lit during a brownout was now considered a miracle.

One night, I heard footsteps approaching the dark room. I almost leaped for joy. I was wondering what had caused one of the keepers to use us this time. Hands steadily held me, two of my nearest siblings and a box of matches. Seeing the electric post outside giving its light, I sighed. Another expectation, Azela. Then we started to descend the stairs leading to the basement. What is the keepers’ son doing here at this hour? He then placed me in the candleholder and the others on the table. I soon felt the sizzle on my braid, my shadow growing smaller by the minute. The light touched everything in that small room: the clock with both arrows pointing up, his tired face, a rectangle full of squares, the tall pile of books on the table, and bottles of what is labeled “coffee”.

What is this secret deed, Keeper? I couldn’t comprehend what he was reading. What is LAW? What’s TAX? The word ACCOUNTING is such a mouthful. And what is he doing with that rectangle with numbers? Why is he repeatedly beating up each square with his fingers? He did it again and again until the long and short arrows were almost pointing at opposite directions. He returned us to our room. I shed a tear when he winced and brushed the piece of me from his finger. “Don’t worry. We’ll be night owls together for the next three months. See you soon!”, he whispered as he closed the door.

This scenario reoccurred for those months. Every night, I pitied him for staying up that long. Each book he pulled from his pile came with a yawn. He took a long sip of that “coffee” when he reached the middle of a book. But he mutters something when he attempts to nod - I will become a CPA. What’s a CPA? Is it worth the months of being night owls? Of sipping coffee and beating up tiny squares on a rectangle?

I was resting my head on a younger candle when he slammed the door open. “Azela, we’ve made it! I’m now a Certified Public Accountant!” He scooped me up and lighted me once more by the corner of their prayer area. With the last of my being, I remembered a word etched in one of the books of my Keeper CPA. I finally understood, Ate. This is what passion looks like. I gazed at him one last time. And this is what purpose feels like.

8

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

SHORT STORY

http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

9

POEM

10

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

FOURTH PLACE (Literary)

January 2018

POEM

TONIGHT WE DIE Regie Vocales

Illustration by Charlene Grace Tan

The pernicious sound of that voice in my mind Sent waves of crippling sense down my spine.

This bleak burden resting upon my shoulders Never ceased to guard the distant corners.

Never once in my life have I ever felt happy, Ever felt alive, ever felt worthy.

I’ve done all the things that I’ve always wanted, But tonight, we die, alone and forgotten.

But for some reason, concurrently, One by one, the spirits gathered, The universe spoke to me inherently.

One by one, they subtly whispered.

“Get up. Be strange.”

Says the Spirit of Change.

“Be yourself. Don’t be afraid to clutter.”

“Get up. Be fierce.”

Says the Spirit of Courage.

“Be yourself. Their opinions don’t matter.”

“Get up. Go travel.”

Says the Spirit of Wonder.

“There’s so much more for you to discover.”

“Get up. Don’t judge.”

Says the Spirit of Acceptance.

“Happy are those who never seek fault in another.”

http://todayscarolinian.net

But the most striking spirit of them all, Was the Spirit of Passion, burning and tall.

“Get up. Love yourself.” He ardently whispered.

His blissful hiss in my ear lingered.

“Do not be naïve. Do not be blue.

Learn to love this version of you.

You are not perfect; you’re not bad either, But you are the most wonderful thing ever.

Learn to embrace Change, go and find Courage, Let yourself find Wonder in this beautiful world.

Know Acceptance, that’s when you prosper, And give your life Passion, and you will be better.”

So I got up, flickered out that voice in my head, And started to do the things Passion said.

I travelled and learned to be openminded, Mindset changed, my life has been mended.

And never in my life, had I felt so happy, Never felt more alive, never felt so worthy.

I’ve done so many things, and will do so much more, For tonight, we die, but lived forevermore.

Today’s CAROLINIAN

11

SHORT STORY

FIFTH PLACE (Literary)

THE HANGING STORY Bea Marielle Nuez

Illustration by Eduard Jude Jamolin I ran to the edge of the forest. Before the monster could consume me, I jumped from the cliff.

I screamed, but my feet never touched the ground‌ I can start my story more than a thousand different ways. I can write it again and again and it would still have the same ending to a thousand different beginnings.

A mentor once told me to write stories in the simplest words I can find. He always said to write with passion and dedication. It took me some time before I could let my words speak for themselves. This is why I became a writer. And this is how I will begin — with a story.

The autumn leaves have started to fall as I typed on my vintage typewriter that seemed too old now in this age. As my fellow writers type on their laptops, I am stuck with this. It somehow adds to my creativity as I finish every manuscript. I wrote a story of how dreams were made. The rules were simple and short. The key was just to play it right. After all, we were bound to always follow our hearts.

12

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

SHORT STORY

My heart knew its course. It memorized the story written by my brave mind. It agreed to its plan. It was made out of love and passion. I was already two chapters from the end of the story when the haunting began.

My typewriter was the first to stop. No matter how hard I tried to push out a d, an r, an e, a, m, the letters f, a, i, l seemed to replace it. I burned through thousands of stiff sheets of paper until I decided it was enough.

I threw it out of the house and set it on fire. I threw out the paper along with it, blue sheets burning a red-orange fire. I stared at it and tried so hard not to cry. And then.... Then, one stiff blue paper flew towards me, brandishing the word “FAIL”. It was touched by fire but not burnt. It showed me how this story would end. I knelt. I cried. I had lost hope. I had lost faith.

I lost myself with the burning typewriter in front of me. Adios, mi sueño.

Suddenly, the fire became a fiery monster with dark eyes, huge claws and a pocket full of stolen treasures and dreams. It laughed at me mockingly. It knew that the battle was about to be over. I can never finish the story without the vintage typewriter. Its laughter became unbearable. I covered my ears until its claws touched me.

I stood slowly while the life of the fire inside the monster crackled. I stopped. I stared into its ugly eyes and then I ran as fast as I could until I reached my safe place, scrambling for paper and a pen. Maybe I didn’t have the typewriter with me. But I could still write my story and end it my way.

In a hurry, I accidentally dribbled the paper with ink. I wrote my last paragraph as fast as I can. I heard the heavy crackle of the monster, wreathed in flames. I slipped the paper into my dress and ran again.

“Giiiiiiiive me youuuurrrrr story,” it screamed. It extended its claws. I wasn’t going to give in.

Death could have it but never the monster.

This is how my story would end. But the real story had already been written. The monster ran after me. I had no choice but to run towards the edge of the forest. As it ran faster, I saw the stony cliff. Before the monster could consume me, I jumped, feeling tiny droplets of water as the rain started to pour. I waited for the end of my fall. But my feet never touched the ground...

I woke up after a while, sighing as I felt for my story tucked safely in my pocket. I looked at my feet and was shocked by how close I was to the ground. I was suspended, hanging in midair. I looked up, searching for whatever held me. But all I saw was the sun, finally risen.

I slowly moved down to the ground. My shoes touched something that crisped. I crouched down to check what it was. Upon recognization, I smiled. I held a stiff blue paper that was never touched by fire. The wind probably took it here before the fire can consume it. As I flipped the paper, I was shocked by the letters written on it. D-R-E-A-M. I looked up and I saw the sun smiling bright at me as if heavens knew something that I don’t. I held the paper tightly. It survived the fall.

So would I. http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

13

POEM

14

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

POEM

PERSON Delos Santos

Illustration by Delos Santos What is a voice in a field of chatter?

What is a pebble in a stalactite mine?

What is a drop in the vast Pacific?

What is a star in the evening line?

A strong voice outweighs a clamor, A single pebble can ripple seas, A drop, with time, can level mountains, A star, though distant, can hold a gaze.

Your voice, at present, may not be heard, Your act of kindness may still not shine Your thoughts may fail to spark a coup, Your talent, though much, may still fall back But keep steady and soldier on, Grow your voice to the size of God, Impart your kindness to even the unworthy Continue to live your idea so everyone will realize.

Be the best you can be so everyone will see you shine.

You are, after all, just a single person in this universe.

Would you rather be just a person, or be The Person?

http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

15

“Painting my existence“

Illustration by Ian Palomares

POEM

PH POLICTICS AND I Eugene Dadol

Illustration by Audrey Jade Tenorio

18

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

POEM

Your head rests upon my shoulder; with cold, longing hands, I caress your ponytailed hair.

I want to kiss you right now, hold your neck, and linger my lips to yours, tease you with proximity, and give you the gift of soft touch; one last to the forehead, and I love you like I used to do.

Instead I watch you, carefully, articulately, beautifully.

Your head rests upon my shoulders.

Your face teases my eyes with proximity.

I want to kiss you right now.

My heart is the slow rise of a nervous siren, I kiss your forehead instead.

You look for a hand to hold – finds mine.

I want to kiss you right now; I don’t know why I can’t.

The siren’s wail reaches my tongue, but I guess this is enough.

Your hands are clasps wrapped around me; Body, soul, we are intertwined.

I want to kiss you right now.

But this is more than just a kiss, This is love and I have never cried because of it.

My favorite song is playing.

The rain drips from my eyes.

This is love.

Your head rests upon my shoulders.

This is love.

I caress your ponytailed hair.

This is love I’ll kiss you when you wake up.

This is love This is love

http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

19

SHORT STORY

20

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

SHORT STORY

PAINT Meryll Kay Avanceña

Illustration by Audrey Jade Tenorio It was one of those days, when the summer solstice whipped our planet like a colt on a golden chariot, dragging our sun to work overtime. I could never forget. It was hotter than usual. Streets were occupied with blaring horns, the air heavy with the mixture of stalls, exhaust and people. The trees were tainted orange as the sun draped its cloak over them.

Shadows were longer, and lights were brighter. The day was tilted a bit towards the peculiar, but its remainder stayed put with normalcy.

I was twelve, and had everything I needed. I had a phone, clean clothes, the respite of an air conditioner, four walls to call home. I had a mattress I could sleep on. I could eat three meals a day. I had everything I needed.

On that day, as I walked home from school, passing the usual mini bridge over the wide canal, kids my age played heavily around me, unmindful of the traffic beside them. Dust filled my nostrils and I had to cover my face with my handkerchief. Half expecting calls from them, I looked up to see what game they were on about, getting myself ready for another episode of ridicule for being, well… me. Instead, I saw them huddled in a circle, their backs facing me. They were laughing and shoving each other. I hurried to see what the commotion was about. That’s when I saw her.

Things didn’t slow down. Angels didn’t come down and grace her with a song. Lights, like miniature LED’s, failed to flash around her. It was just a lady, wearing a dilapidated pair of shirt and jeans. Her face was painted in hues between brown and green and her arms were coloured vividly. She seemed to have bathed in a canvas’ left overs. The other boys climbed on top of her and, while making animated roars, tried to scratch her way out of their grasp.

“And the monster grabbed the prince,” she yelled as she motioned to grab me. I let out an unmanly scream as she brought me up into her arms and stood in full height. “And they vanished into the wilderness.” She placed me on her shoulders and ran down the bridge, the kids following shortly. We stopped at the base and she turned to face the children, panting and laughing at the same time. “Well, that’s it for today. See you tomorrow! Go home safe!”

I pouted. “You didn’t have to grab me like that. I’m not the prince.”

“Oh, but you look like one,” she answered as she placed me on the pavement. I hid my flushed face. “Sorry if I startled you.”

It was just a regular day.

The next day was the same. And the day after that. I would see her surrounded by children, props and costumes in hand. Sometimes she’d use me as her backup. The prince. The http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

21

SHORT STORY

dragon. The gatekeeper. The talking tree that bore fruit. Every time, her face and body welcomed its brown-green hue. Her shirt faded on the layers of color that covered it; her jeans, half a color wheel.

One day, classes got suspended and I decided to follow her around. I wasn’t particularly gifted with stealth but I did know how to tiptoe. I followed her two blocks down from where I lived. She was wearing new clothes, with different colors but the same designs. She stood by the road; a long broomstick in hand. She began dusting off dried leaves, garbage, and a multitude of debris. After a few hours of sweeping, and both sides of the avenue proved ready for pedestrians to flick new sets of garbage, she approached a man who gave her a few bills the color of sewage. Later, she entered an old building, signed on some papery thing and proceeded to a small room resembling a nipa hut. Kids would run towards her, drawing books in hand. The door where I stood had a sign that read “Homebased School for Special Education”. I watched as the kids put paint on her, gave her a headband of misshapen cardboards and tugged on her arms to take turns climbing. I watched as she laughed and played along, not minding whatever they were doing. I watched as she let the kids sit when she told them a story. I watched as she told the story with me in it. I was always a character.

I was always the hero.

And that’s all I have been doing. I just watched.

On nights when her back’s demand to ache got unbearable, I watched her curl, crumple, shrivel like a dying leaf. I watched her look over the bills and loans she was still unable to pay.

I watched her look frantically at the mini fridge’s lack of food. I watched as she would cook out on the dirty kitchen and have none of the food since there wasn’t enough for both of us.

I watched as she asked neighbour after neighbour if they had leftovers. I watched as she counted what was left for her to spend. I watched as she sent me to school with it. I watched as she went to every store sale and got me a phone from a raffle draw. She never had one. I watched as she smiled and hugged me tightly after seeing my diploma, a graduate of grade school at eight years old.

She was a mother at the age of twenty. I had no father. I had no siblings. But she gave me enough to say I have lived. She did it all for me. She knew I was gifted and wanted me to have a brighter future. She loved kids. She was an education student in the special education department and she loved stories. She loved to act. She loved writing. She loved me. And I realized it too late.

How she did all that was a wonder. It didn’t matter how painful things were. It didn’t matter how small our rented house was. It didn’t matter how people ridiculed her on the street for being “uneducated”. None of those mattered to her. She loved what she did and for her, that meant everything.

As I laid the flowers on her tombstone, I choked out a small “happy birthday”. A sadness the size of God held my body for a few moments, but “Dad, hurry! I can’t be late for class!” loosened its grip for me. Smiling, I turned to my son and said goodbye to the person who loved me most, whose name is the only prayer I still know.

It was just another day, tilting towards normalcy, but the flowers were blooming like half a color wheel on a pair of jeans and, somehow, everything felt alright.

22

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

POEM

REAL LIES Erica Dancel too slow for those who wait too fast for those who hurry a never-ending chase a maze of constant worry trapped and confused you’re left with a choice to go back or go farther then you hear a voice you listen, you believe the maze is a competition you live by that noise yet there is no destination time is an illusion and you’re all alone to make your own decisions until all hope is gone in that path, you will find what will always be and what always has been the truth about reality life is but a game of who is weaker of who has it worse and who can hide it better

http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

23

ESSAY

DEATH OF HUMANITY Cristjan Dave Bael

Illustration by Mar Eway

24

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

ESSAY

“Unsa man ang imong makuha sa pagtabang sa uban taw? Di man ka ma dato ana.” (What can helping others yield you? You can’t get rich with that.)

First of all, I don’t expect my service to be monetized.

In a highly globalized and commercialized world, it seems that the only thing that matters is how to earn money. Everything that we do and every decision that we make is driven by this singular thought: “Would this give me enough monetary compensation? Madato ba ka ha ko ani (Would I get rich with this)?” This mentality is evident in the youth whenever they plan on pursuing career options. They prefer those professions or careers that earn more while considering those that doesn’t earn as much inferior or useless. Guilty as charged, we have all thought of it that way at some point in our lives.

Being an advocate or an activist, you are not safe from insults and bigotry from other people.

Sometimes you’re even branded obscenely: traffic nuisance, binayran (bribed) or simply an annoyance. Your actions and principles aren’t also safe from those intolerant prying eyes.

Society will always think otherwise that those issues that you are advocating and lobbying merely doesn’t matter. It seems that the only thing that actually matters and is considered significant are those that yield money. Like they say, money makes the world go ‘round.

Until now, it still seems ironic to ponder the values “demonstrated” in our universities and schools. We are always taught to extend our hands to others and to fight for what is just and right, but in practice those lessons are mere facades of our institution, an excuse to the bigotry of society. Nowadays, helping others out seems to be a fad rather than an organic feeling of altruism. On most days, advocating for a minority’s rights is viewed as inferior and a lesser pressing problem.

Whenever people meet an advocate or activist, they say, “we are not smart. We are not rich.

Therefore, we can’t do what you are doing.” Society doesn’t need more geniuses. There’s no need for another Zuckerberg or Einstein or Edison — their times have come and gone. The only thing it needs is a heart for the people, even just a small portion of it. There is no material prerequisite in aiding others, only willingness.

Helping others, advocating for a cause, and becoming an activist isn’t worth a million dollars, if any at all. There is no recognition from the masses, but the impact on the few lives one touches is immeaurable. There is still a fight for what is right and just. Intent comes before impact. At least a difference is made, no matter how small.

A lot of people do nothing but complain, and in the end, it all evens out to the same thing: nothing.

http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

25

ESSAY

FINDING INCOMPLETE COMPLETENESS

Khea Rose Montibon

Illustration by Charlene Grace Tan

26

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

ESSAY

I woke up at 5:00 a.m. The breeze lingered against my skin, the kind that felt like rain when there was none. I glanced at the trees, a sway with the wind, as I made my way back inside our house. The phone rang. My heart was a wailing siren.

I watched my grandmother pick up the receiver, rosary held tightly in my hand, praying for anything other than what came. I looked at her, buckling with the weight of my mother’s death. Perhaps the sky, with its quiet dampness, was as sorrowful as my heart.

Receiving “pasalubong” from her as she arrived home never failed to complete my day. I didn’t want her to come home. Anything was better than her coming home.

A group of men carried her from hearse to house. Why her? Why now? But the answers were nowhere to be found; not above, nor around, nor below.

It’s been sever years since then. Seven years of hollow joy. I want to face the future without the baggage she left. Seven years, it has already been seven years but Mama, until now, Im still hunched over with the weight of your absence. I want to press this grief into pieces small enough to swallow. I want… I want to be whole, Mama. I want to be whole.

http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

27

SHORT STORY

DIRTY DISHES Jimbo Pantas

Illustration by Charlene Grace Tan

Jenn Gumban

Illustration by Eduard Jude Jamolin

28

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

SHORT STORY

“So, how’s school? Great. Fine. Boring.

“So”—at this, the children looked up and stared at their father. It was unusual of him to say the word twice. Did anyone wish to tell them something? Did he and the mother need to know anything of interest? He wanted to use the word importance, but figured the children were relatively alarmed enough. The platter of rice, having covered 180 degrees of the table, stopped its travel in front of the answer: “I flunked a test today.” At this both parents were upset but understanding: “Oh, son!

Which was it? Algebra? Algebra again?”

“Trig,” the son said. The parents launched into a speech about virtues, of acceptance, of perseverance, of faith; the mother and the father in a parental-hearted race of counsel.

The son, his appetite lost, passed the platter to his sister, the next to speak. She had known by then she was the cause of their father’s second so. Nervously, she admitted she was dating now. Was it okay? She was not neglecting her studies. She was doing just fine.

The discussion occupied the dinner table. At the end the parents calmly said it was okay so long as she kept her education at the top of her priorities. She promised to do so and went on to clear the table, aided by her older sister who had offered only silence the entire night.

“So,” the dating girl said, “what do you think?” Her sister asked of what. “You know,” the girl said. A nod. Yes, her sister knew. A shrug. She thought it was about time. They broke the task in half. The girl would do the tableware, the sister, the pots and pans.

The girl reluctantly asked her sister if she was okay, a question which her sister answered with a smile and thanks. “Are you sure? You seem particularly silent tonight. Is it Albert?”

“God,” the sister said in exasperation, “No! We’re fine. What made you think that?” The girl stacked them up on the rack. Next went the glasses, then the spoons and forks. She organized her thoughts well; offending her older sister was the last thing she wanted.

She had to be cautious.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t seen you two together in a while. He hasn’t visited us in, like, three weeks? And that’s not all. I haven’t seen you guys texting or talking over the phone all night. That used to be my constant problem, remember? Because I couldn’t sleep with you tossing and turning in bed.”

http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

29

SHORT STORY

The sister laughed. She wasn’t up all those nights texting or talking to him. She was working. She was a writer, remember? The girl took the last of the forks, placed them for the time being in a soapy glass, and faced her sister.

“What are you talking about? You mean you don’t stay up all night talking to him?”

The sister shook her head no. “Not even the first few months?” Another no. She gave her sister a funny look. Her sister told her he could not stay up late because his work required him to rise early and be at work first thing in the morning, a glaring antithesis to her own work style.

“But, but…” the girl protested. “Don’t you miss him?” Of course she did, the sister said with a faraway glint in her eyes. “You don’t seem to act like it. No offense.”

“We love the same love but we love in different ways. A homeless man hungry for days but one afternoon finds something to eat does not make him a person who needs food any more than we do.”

“So listen,” she continued. “A homeless man needs food to survive. And what about us? We need it, too, to survive, don’t we? His hunger may be greater than ours, but does that mean we don’t need food? In the moment we’re full—sure, we don’t. But generally? No. We all have a need for food because we’re all similar, our bodies need sustenance. Does that make any sense to you?” Her gaze is patient, understanding, but firm nonetheless. “Albert and I—we don’t communicate that much, but when we see each other our conversations range from petty things to those that concern both our futures. We love each other and we have plans on settling down someday, but right now we lead different lives: he’s an accountant, I’m a writer. He lives by day, I by night. But does that make our love less? “ The question dampened the air between them. There was a momentary stillness, then they resumed work. The girl went on and rinsed the plates, glasses, spoons and forks; the older sister did the same with her share of the cleaning. That night in their split bedroom the girl lay sleeplessly. Her unconvinced mind passed judgment on her sister: they were not going to last long, she thought. Relationships need constant communication. I need to know where he is and what he’s doing. If I can I want to count each breath he takes, each blink his eyes make. I need to know every single thought that crosses his mind; I need his pure, entire mental nudity. Bare the smallest patch of his everything. I want

30

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

SHORT STORY

to wolf him down whole and raw, carry him around for some time, and birth him. Then love. And how does one accomplish that without everyday correspondence. They were not going to last long.

A few months later they had dinner. The news had been pronounced even before the parents noticed the girl’s uncommon silence. Before the platter of rice reached her she sat staring at her empty plate and suddenly said they had broken up three days ago, bringing the conversation to a halt. Why—she refused to tell them. They looked at one another and their eyes spoke what their lips failed to speak: don’t talk, stupid. Not right now. They carried on the dinner in dreary silence, but not without appetite—good or bad news.

They all gave the girl a hug and a few comforting words as they tried, in guilt, to suppress the satisfied belches that threatened to push their way out of their mouths, then they retired to their rooms. Except for the girl and her older sister; they both stayed. It was their turn to clean up that night. For some time they remained in their seats, not talking, not doing anything in particular. They had no knowledge of how long they sat there, but when the older sister finally rose it seemed like the right time.

“Help me with the dishes?”

The girl looked up and she, too, got to her feet.

http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

31

SHORT STORY

THE THING Jenn Gumban

Illustration by Eduard Jude Jamolin

32

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

SHORT STORY

It was a sunny, summer day. I see people talking, and laughing at one another as they walk; I see some sitting as they do their own business. Walking around the streets and wonder what they were carrying. They were shiny, as I remember. In my memory, I remember my mother having one, but it has a lot of scratches. I tried to look for one as a gift for her - wherever I looked, I haven’t seen one.

I see two teenagers singing in harmony, I approached them and asked. “Excuse me, where did you buy that thing? The ones both of you are bringing?” They were confused.

“We didn’t buy these.” Can’t I buy them? Where am I supposed to look for some?

I thanked them and left. I still wandered around to look for it. I passed by a group of dancers tiring their hearts out but still managed to do their own thing. I see the thing with them. I minded my business, so I moved on. I see a photographer capturing moments of enjoyment and love. He was smiling sweetly as he took a photo of a man reading and looked at it, I assume it was his lover when they looked at each other and smiled - and both their thing shimmered.

Everywhere I look, the people I pass by has their own thing. I envy them now, a lot. I feel heavy. Why can’t I find one? Why don’t I have one? My phone vibrated, it was a message from my mother. “Don’t forget to buy the pearl cotton threads and needles.

Take care, love.” I sighed. I went to a sewing supplies shop and bought what my mother needs. I stopped looking for the thing.

I closed the door and I saw her sitting on the couch. She was busy embroidering. I made her hot chocolate and baked some cookies for her to energize. She took a sip of the drink and smiled at me. When she was finished, she stretched it out and I noticed something. It was her thing - shining and glowing. She looked at me and said, “You’ll have yours someday.” She understood.

We drove our way to the hospital and I held her hand while driving. My mother knocked the door twice and opened. He was there, sleeping. She held his hand and kissed his forehead, “We’ve missed you.” We did, I did. I placed the cookies I made on the table.

We enfolded the scarf she made to my father’s shoulders in his deep slumber. The dextrose liquid drop from time to time. The nurse came and did her job. Then, I realize that something has sparked in me. I have loved my family and I want to take good care of them. My mother sat beside me and held my hand, “I noticed that your first passion glowed.” Passion. I knew what she meant and I smiled. The thing I refer to is called passion. To others, it would be photography, artistry, embroidery, and mine is to aid those in need. My passion glistened when I think on my own. The thing hangs in my heart and I know for sure that I will keep it’s shine glowing.

http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

33

POEM

LILIA Regie Vocales

One humming night in an old decrepit hut in the middle of a field, an old toymaker sat upon his work chair with his palms against his temple and elbows on the table.

He stared with much desperation at the wooden mannequin laying lifeless before him.

Illuminated only by the flickering light of an almost burnt out candle, water started to cling to his lower lashes as he slacked off with the fear of knowing he and his wife, who for decades he had loved dearly, would soon face the deadly toll of starvation.

The toymaker wearily turned his head and looked outside his wooden window at the new toy factory just ahead, emitting fire and smoke from its towering steel pipes into the starless night sky. He slowly closed the window, looking away with terror from the machines that had cost them their living.

“Still worried about your work?” His wife smiled as he rubbed his nape and sighed. “I guess it’s time for me to stop,” said the toymaker as he walked back towards his table.

“I guess we should move—” he halted as he saw his angry wife’s face almost touching his nose.

“So you’re saying this is over? You’re saying that you are not capable anymore? Where is the person who loves making toys more than his own life? What happened to the town’s most celebrated toymaker? What happened to my husband, the most hardworking and most persevering person I have ever met?”

“Lilia…”

“You can’t just give up what you’ve accomplished over all these years. You can’t just turn your back on what made you happy, and you can’t just deny everything that made you who you are.”

The old man looked at the doll. “It’s hopeless, Lilia. How can a rusty old man like me compete with a looming machine that could make thousands per week? I couldn’t even finish one in a day!”

34

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018

SHORT STORY

“That’s because you value each one of them with your precious time!” Lilia cupped his cheeks and looked at his eyes, searching for something deep within. “I know that factory produces thousands, but each product is just a replica of the other. Your toys are different. Each one of them is different because you craft each and every one of them with your own hands, and an artist with great passion knows that they could not do the very same thing all over again because it was a different piece of their heart that they bound to it, and it could never ever be replaced nor replicated.”

The toymaker looked at his wife’s olive eyes, held her hands warm on his cheeks, and closed his eyes. He sighed deeply. “I don’t know what to do without you, sweetheart.

You know you’re the only person who never gave up on me.”

“You have not given up on me. It’s time to return the favor.” Lilia rubbed his cheek with the back of her hand. They both smiled. “Now go back to work, old man, so I could prepare supper for you.”

“I’m not that old!”

“Neither am I.” His wife winked at him and hopped off the pedestal. He smiled back as he watched the vintage Victorian doll disappear through the door.

http://todayscarolinian.net

Today’s CAROLINIAN

35

SPONSORS

The Progressive Student Publication of the University of San Carlos

OUR COMMITMENT. YOUR PAPER.

38

KURIS 2017 (Literary and Art Folio)

January 2018