DESIGN FEATURE DESIGN FEATURE
Pagbati kilala nga tinaga nga may inugpahibalo, inugsambit, ipakilala, ukon ihambal. Ini may kabudlay nga katuyuan: ipahibalo nga sa kalibutan nga aton ginaatiniran, ang kadulom wala nagapalayo. Pila man ka tinion kag tuig ang naglilipas, padayon nga indi madag-an ang problema sang pagkadula sang pwersa kag kalayaan mga butang nga ginhimo para ipabatyag ang kasakit, kadulom, kag ang realidad. Ang pagbag-o sang kahimtangan indi lang mahapos; indi ini masulhay nga dalan.
Chained and drowned amongst the forgotten, they strive to grasp as the light peaks through the gaps, a hope shining afar how they wish that despite being enclosed and strangled by hands that bury them, a light will deliver a helping hand. Where one day their yearning for justice, witness, and support will not just be a constant dream, but a reality to live in. As the words try to unthread their sliver of hope, there they cling to a life that was once given but forsaken. The walls whisper in jagged scrawls, pressing down on fragile minds, their inked wounds branding the very space meant to hold them.
Yet even in suffocation, resistance remains. The figure, distorted yet unyielding, is a testament to those who refuse to be erased. Their body may flicker, a ghost between reality and oblivion, but their presence persists. In the thick of shadow, they fight against the pull of nothingness, refusing to surrender to the silence imposed upon them. The walls may scream, the darkness may press forward, but as long as a hand reaches out, hope lingers. For even when buried beneath the weight of erasure, even when forced into corners where their voices fade into mere remnants, they still exist.
LITERARY & FEATURE TEAM LITERARY & FEATURE TEAM
gracelle jayce ojeda
Literary & Feature Director
lara niÑA masamo
caristiona fjord piando
erary associate editor
leigh ayen malayang
Advisers Advisers
remi jean gumban-alfonsa kristine tres reyes
shannah escanillas
julliene villalobos
ashley nicole sadiwa
PUBLISHED IN APRIL 2025 BY THE UNIVERSITY OF SAN AGUSTIN
SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL PUBLICATIONS
THE OFFICIAL PRESS CORPS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF SAN AGUSTIN
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COPYRIGHT © 2024 BY THE USA - SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL PUBLICATIONS FOR THE COLLECTION AND THE INDIVIDUAL AUTHORS, ARTISTS, AND PHOTOGRAPHERS.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
NO PART OF THIS PUBLICATION MAY BE REPRODUCED, STORED IN A RETRIEVAL SYSTEM, OR TRANSMITTED IN ANY FORM WHETHER VIRTUAL, ELECTRONIC, MECHANICAL, PHOTOCOPIED, RECORDED, OR OTHERWISE WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION AND APPROVAL FROM THE OWNERS.
UNLESS STATED OTHERWISE IN THE INDIVIDUAL WORKS, THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, ORGANIZATIONS, AND EVENTS FEATURED HERE ARE EITHER PRODUCTS OF IMAGINATION OR USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL EVENTS, PLACES, OR PEOPLE, LIVING OR DEAD, IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.
COLOPHON
THIS BOOK WAS CRAFTED USING CANVA PRO. MOST TYPEFACES USED IN THIS PUBLICATION WERE SOURCED FROM DAFONT COM THE FOLLOWING FONTS WERE UTILIZED THROUGHOUT THE FOLIO: CATHELO, ASTON SCRIPT, DEATH CROW, SKETCH GOTHIC SCHOOL, ARBATOSH, CAROLINE, DAYDREAM, BLEEDING COWBOYS, EUPHORIGENIC, QUISKA, RUMBLE BRAVE, RUHTLIGOS, SUNDAY, AND VICENZA. THE COVER ILLUSTRATIONS WERE CREATED BY ZYRICH ANDRADE.
SPECIAL APPRECIATION GOES TO THE USA - SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL MULTIMEDIA ARTS CLUB ARTISTS FOR THEIR GENEROUS CONTRIBUTIONS OF TIME AND SKILL, AS WELL AS TO MRS. REMI JEAN D. ALFONSA-GUMBAN AND MS. KRISTINE P. TRES REYES FOR THEIR INVALUABLE GUIDANCE, WHICH ENABLED US TO BRING THIS LITERARY PORTFOLIO TO LIFE. THE OVERALL LAYOUT AND BOOK DESIGN WERE COMPLETED BY THE LITERARY AND FEATURE WRITERS, ALONG WITH THE LAYOUT ARTISTS OF THE USA - SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL PUBLICATIONS AND THE USA - SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL MULTIMEDIA ARTS CLUB
FOREWORD FOREWORD
sophia katrice taculin
editor-in-chief
Too ensconced in darkness to illuminate, too clenched in the throat to utter a cry, and too intoxicated to take action the story has always been constructed for us, rather than by us. We have been instructed to be passive, to assimilate, to memorize, and to reproduce. However, I pose the question: where is the symphony in a solitary note? Where is the masterpiece on an unadorned canvas? Where is the revolution in a hushed environment?
Allow them to hold their opinions, and persevere regardless of their attempts to suppress, for envision a world where each student’s voice is amplified, every idea is esteemed, and every aspiration is cultivated. Envision classrooms where curiosity serves as the guiding principle and passion acts as the driving force. Imagine a future in which we do not merely inherit the world, but actively transform it.
We are not merely consumers of knowledge; we are its creators. We are not simply travelers on this journey; we are the navigators.
Let us craft poetry from our passions, create murals through our activism, and compose symphonies with our solutions. Let us construct bridges of understanding across divisions, sow seeds of change in desolate areas, and kindle the flames of hope in the darkest recesses.
ar nger
iar nger
H AYEN MALAYANG
very move and haunts my every in the mornings.
my subconscious. As I look into e some form of barrier between my body and the cracks of my mind wanting to feel it, wanting to change it.
I wash away what resemblance we have in body, face, and soul, rejecting her need to become one with me. But she moves with me.
Her silhouette is drawn across the hallways of this house. Her shadow is etched in the murky corners and her presence condenses against my breath. Her laugh I hear in the creaks, echoing yet turning silent every few minutes. I feel her weight in my chest like an anchor pulling me into depravity an abyss of my own suffering that I have long been ignoring.
She lingers still, never more than a whisper away. Her presence rests in my mind and her voice constantly rang in my thoughts in opposition to my shunned grief.
“You cannot ignore me forever.”
She breathes, exhaling cold air. Her presence, like the weight of a thousand moons, tightens around my ribs and presses onto my lungs. But what hurts is not my body nor my soul, but rather my mind.
I crossed the bridge. Small hesitant steps, yet real. In the middle, I looked back at the place I used to get lost in. It was barely recognizable.
Finally, I took her hand, and for the first time in a long time, I do not feel alone.
A warmth spreads in me as I accept it. The weight in my chest lightens, no longer an anchor but a pulse reminding me that I am still here.
The voices in my head no longer rang and a bridge started to form between us. My side of the river began to grow flowers, and the wind was no longer cold, bearing tranquility as it blew away the fogs of my sufferings.
End of
The talea
The End of atale
BY: GRACELLE JAYCE V, OJEDA
In a world where chaos and darkness prevail, how can someone hear the woes of those unheard buried beneath the never-ending crisis? Where mournful cries die down, suffocated by indifference, until their final, fragile breath. Where blazing hearts, once fierce with hope, are left to flicker and diminish as their pursuit for justice is met with empty apathy.
Despite the piercing silence, their lives and stories persist. Voices echo through the cracks as they persevere fragile yet unyielding hoping to be carried by the whisper of the wind. Waiting, praying for a moment when the shadows retreat and the weight of indifference lifts.
Perhaps if the world paused to listen beyond the clatter of the streets, beyond the deafening hum of apathy, their voices would no longer linger like ghosts lost in the sea Perhaps, then, the unheard would finally find their place in the narrative of the living.
If voices weren't heard from beyond our time, what's the difference when our present falters to uphold and provide relief to those silenced woes? Advancements here, evolution there change paraded like a triumph. Yet, the margin of those enclosed by this systemic neglect only widens, even as the world claims to move forward.
How many cracks shall it break? How brittle are the bars compared to the voices beyond their captivity? For how long will they wait for promises that never came promises made with conviction but hollow in their fulfilment?
One day, the silence will rupture, and the voices, once ignored, will no longer plead. They will reclaim the space that once denied them. It might be labelled as a tale, but we have the power and the voices they were stripped of to turn that tale into reality—to transform a 'what-if' dream into freedom from the slavery of their forced fate.
For this, one must never possess the trait of neglect, as it betrays the only hope they cling to. They have placed their trust in those they believe can lend a hand. A burden, some might say, but it is humanity we must see.
Some may ask: What is the purpose of seeing if we choose to turn a blind eye to such a reality? If we truly crave and foster change, we must never abandon those who seek and deserve to be part of that vision. The question now is not whether we can hear them—but whether we will finally choose to listen.
Because silence, if left unchallenged, does not merely swallow voices. It devours futures. And the power to stop it lies with us. It is a never-ending tale if misery and tragedy continue to persist. But dreams do come true they can, and they will if we choose not to battle against them but to stand with them. We lend our voices to theirs, fuelling their hope as we seek and strive for what is rightfully theirs until the future no longer carries the weight of their silence
The First Name
The first night, the words appeared without explanation. A name: Francisco Lunasco, disappeared in 1947. The second night, more followed. Fragments of events, descriptions of places long erased from town maps, accusations no one had dared write before. He read them with disbelief, then with growing dread. These were not just random tales they were testimonies San Esteban had its ghosts, but they did not haunt with rattling chains or eerie moans.
They lived in the silence of history books, in the graves without names, in the spaces where entire families had once stood before vanishing. Brian followed the first name to an elderly man who still ran a carinderia near the market. The moment he mentioned Francisco Lunasco, the old man, paled, his wrinkled hands tightening around the edge of the counter.
“Where did you hear that name? ”He asked. Brian hesitated. “I I'm researching old cases.”
The old man exhaled sharply, eyes darting to the empty tables, as if afraid someone else might be listening. Then, in hushed voice, he spoke.
“Francisco was taken one night. Right after the war. They said he was helping the guerillas. But no one ever saw him again.”
The man wiped his hands on his apron, his movements slow and deliberate. “There were others. But we don’t talk about them.”
Unburying the Past
Brian spent the following days tracing the names that appeared each night. Every story led to a door that barely cracked open, to voices that quivered with the weight of old fear. Some people turned him away; others gave whispers that told him just enough to continue. The deeper he dug, the clearer the pattern became: disappearances, forced confessions, betrayals in the dead of night. The spirits kept guiding him. Sometimes, they left him single words: riverbank, mango tree, watchtower. Other times, entire conversations would appear on the pages, detailing their final moments and their desperate pleas.
Brian did what he knew best he wrote. He put the stories into articles, disguised as historical features, careful not to name the guilty outright. But even then, people noticed. His editor warned him. Strangers watched him longer than they should. And one night, a note slipped under his door:
"Stop digging before you join them." But the ghosts did not let him stop.
The Cost of Truth
The night before his biggest piece was to be published, Brian found his room colder than usual. The candle flickered violently, casting long, shifting shadows. He felt them before he heard them. A crowd. Not of the living, but of those who had been waiting for decades. They did not speak, but their presence pressed against his chest, urging him forward. He turned to his typewriter. There was one last story left to tell.
By sunrise, his article was finished. The moment it was published, San Esteban shook. Some called Brian a liar, a troublemaker resurrecting wounds better left forgotten. Others, especially the families of those lost, wept at finally seeing their loved ones' names in print. And Brian? He knew there was no turning back. The ghosts had given him their stories, but they had also given him something else purpose. He was no longer just a struggling journalist. He was their witness. Their voices And he would write until the town could no longer ignore its own ghosts
Illustrated by:
Swissa Tolentino | Jussa Nicle Dolfo |
Marielle Beatrice Penaso
Behind
the ransition ShadowTof Behindthe Shadow ofTransition
BY: SHANNAH ESCANILLAS
Elara collected the discarded husks of cicada shells, their brittle exoskeletons clinging to the rough bark of the school's ancient oak. She wasn't collecting them for a science project or even for some macabre art piece, though her classmates often assumed the latter. Elara collected them for the whispers. The sound of the shell gives mixed feelings of realization and amusement. The sound of change & transition. Unexplainable yet understandable.
Elara was a "shadow student," a term coined by the school's over-zealous administration to describe students who didn't fit neatly into any category. She wasn't failing, but she wasn't excelling. She wasn't disruptive, but she wasn't particularly engaged. Merely, in-between. She was, in essence, invisible. And she liked it that way.
Her unique hobby, however, was far from invisible. Elara had discovered that the discarded cicada shells, when held close to the ear in a specific way, held faint, residual echoes of the creature's final molt. Not the buzzing song of the cicada, but a quiet, almost imperceptible hum.
This hum, she believed, was the sound of transition, of shedding one skin for another. It was the sound of change, of becoming. And, in Elara's world, where change was both terrifying and desperately desired, this hum was a lifeline.
Her unique topic was not the cicadas themselves, but the liminal space they represented The space between who you are and who you might become The space where no one sees you, and you can be anything.
The other students, obsessed with social media clout and college applications, couldn't understand her fascination. They saw her as odd a quiet girl with a strange obsession. But Elara didn't care. The husks, their fragile bodies whispering secrets, were her confidantes, her companions in the quiet corners of the school.
One day, a new student, Liam, noticed her. He wasn't popular, but he wasn't invisible either He had a quiet intensity, a way of observing the world that resonated with Elara. He saw her collecting the shells, his brow furrowed in curiosity, not judgement.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice soft.
Elara hesitated, then, for the first time, she showed someone her secret. She held a shell to his ear.
"Listen," she said.
Liam listened, his eyes widening slightly. "I... I hear something," he whispered.
"It's the sound of change," Elara explained, her voice barely audible. "The sound of shedding your old skin."
Liam nodded, his gaze fixed on the shell. "Like... like starting over?"
"Exactly," Elara said, a flicker of hope igniting within her. "Like becoming someone new."
Liam began to collect shells with her, not out of fascination but out of a shared understanding. He understood the need to shed the old, the desire to become something more. He understood the liminal space, the quiet corners where transformation happened.
Together, they explored the school's forgotten spaces, listening to the whispers of the cicada shells, finding solace in the sound of transition. They were two shadow students, finding their voice in the hum of change, finding their own unique way to navigate the chaotic world of high school. They learned that being marginalized wasn't about being forgotten; it was about finding your own unique symphony, even if it was just a faint hum only you and a few others could hear
Into the reedomF Light of Into the Light of Freedom
BY: CRISHIA KHAyYRELLE TUVILLA
Melisa
But as she was far fro of a long, antiseptic jasmine on
Her fam at the mis were stand afraid, but her, and h then went
And
She had nothing: a deep silence and darkness. Melisandre felt as though she floated in the void, unmoored by her body or the pain that had tied her to earth for so long. She waited for the chill, waited for the fear to seep inside. But instead she felt this strange kind of peace, this unburdening of everything.
Time lost all meaning. She didn't have a clue as to how long she spent floating in that limbo between, but what of it? There was no urgency. For the first time in years, she wasn't caged by the tick of the clock, by the merciless trickle of time dropping between her fingers. She was free.
There was soft light in the distance. It was inviting, slowly reaching across the waters without blinding and enveloping everything like so many stories of neardeath experiences. Instead, it seemed like it was more so the light of dawn breaking over a foggy morning, beckoning her forward without any wind to move her or ground to push against.
As she stepped toward the light, she could swear that something began to happen—a faint rustling of sound, like when leaves rustle in the wind. It grew louder, clearer, till she could tell what she was being told. And then she knew. Those words and those voices were familiarly comforting.
Melisandre," they called softly, warmly.
She knew them. They were voices from her past her mother's, her father's, the friends she had lost along the way They were all here, waiting for her Melisandre's heart swelled with an emotion she hadn't felt in years: joy.
The light enveloped her, and suddenly she was no longer floating. She was standing in a field surrounded by tall, swaying grass and vibrant wildflowers. The sky above was the bluest she had ever seen, and the air was fresh, filled with the scent of earth and blossoms. She looked down at herself and knew she was whole again, her body no longer frail and weakened by illness. Her skin glowed with health, her legs sturdy beneath her.
"Melisandre."
She turned with the sound of her name, seeing her mother standing there just a few feet from her, so full of glory, smiling, arms opened wide. Tears welled up in Melisandre's eyes and she took off running to throw herself at her mother. It felt real, solid, and for a moment, Melisandre just clung on, taking deep breaths of the scent of lavender and home.
"I've missed you," she said, in a voice like honey, her words heavy with emotion.
"I have waited," her mother said softly. "We've all waited for you." Melisandre pulled back, the eyes scanning her mother's face. "Is that.?"
Her mother smiled knowingly. "This is freedom, Melisandre. You're free now."
The words sent a shiver through her, but it was not a shiver of fear. It was a shiver of relief. Finally free. She didn't realize that she had been imprisoned in life— imprisoned by the expectations of others, by her own fears and doubts, by the limitations of her fragile body. She'd spent so long fighting and swimming against the tide that she forgot what it was like to simply be.
And now here, in a place where all that didn't matter any more. Her father came next, his eyes crinkling over into warmth just the way she recalled as a child. He reached out for her hand, and together they walked across the field, the soft grass kind under their feet. More figures materialised ex-friends, family, people she had encountered and barely remembered They opened their arms for her and smiled in kindness, welcoming her home.
Home.
The word echoed in her mind, and with that came the realization that this is what she was looking for all along, not only in death but also in life. She needed a place where she belonged, lay down her burdens, and would be at peace. And now, she had found it.
As they were walking, Melisandre saw a river ahead of them. And in this river, its waters glistened clear. It ran easily and the water was smooth, reflecting the sky above. Right when she knew, she released her father's hand and moved towards it; an instinct inside her urged her to do so. Reaching the river's edge, she knelt down and inserted her hand into the cool water.
Even before she touched the surface, clarity washed over her as if the river had opened up her mind to see everything perfectly. She lived through everything the good and bad moments, joy and sorrow. She saw all the people she loved, the mistakes she made, and lessons learnt. And she saw that, all pain notwithstanding, her life had been beautiful.
And now, it was time to pass on.
Melisandre took a breath, stood up, and faced her family. Her kin were watching her, their faces gentle and compassionate. Her mother drew closer and took her hand one last time.
"It's time," she said gently.
Melisandre nodded. She understood what her mother said. This was a time when she must let go of the past and let out the lingering elements of the life she used to have. It was a time to step fully into the freedom awaiting her.
illustrated by:
INGRID LUZ MARGARETTE GUATH | JOSHUA AMIEL BABAS
Behindthe BarsBehindthe
Bars
BY: KIAN L. BENSURTO
For what felt like an eternity, a prison cell had been his entire world. Days turned into nights, and the closed walls seemed to compress closer each day. He had already lost track of the years and decades that came by, and hope had long since faded like a burning fire in a candle stolen by the cold breeze of air.
Every day was the same: the guard slid the tray of food through the slot, and the cold metal door stays locked and shut. He felt his existence drift in and out. He had forgotten what freedom tasted and felt like, as if freedom did not mean anything to him.
But today was a totally different day.
He woke up to an unfamiliar sound. The sound of locks clicking and keys jingling, as if trying to open the cold metal door of his cell. For a moment, he thought his mind was playing a trick on him, but he heard it again, louder and clearer, like it was desperate to open the door of his cell. His heart pounded fast, a feeling so foreign it almost hurt his chest. He woke up. There it is a cold metal door that was once heavily locked and shut—swung wide open, calling and whispering his name. Freedom was not far to be obtained. Slowly and hesitantly, he approaches the door, trying to sink in everything that happened in his mind.
After going out of his prison cell, he was met by a dark and silent hallway, so silent that it hurt his ears. His breath caught in his throat. This wasn't possible. He hadn't heard anyone approach him—no footsteps, no keys jiggling, no guards. Yet here it was: the doors of the other prison cells were wide open, including his, as if he were the only one left. He walked into the corridors of cells, and with every movement, he felt like a newborn fawn testing its legs. The hallways were still empty and silent. His eyes adjusted to the dim light as he navigated the winding corridors, each step echoing off the walls. The further he went, the more surreal it felt, as if the walls were watching him, whispering things he could not understand.
Finally, he reached the exit of the building a massively opened gate. He hesitated and stared at the beautiful world in front of him, waiting for him. The sky was bright and cloudy, and the air was thick and fresh. Freedom was just a few steps away.
But something deep inside him stops him He knows that he had dreamt of this moment for years, even decades, yet now that it had arrived, there was no joy, no rush of liberation, no excitement; instead, a cold, emptiness, and sadness settled in his chest. There, he slowly realized that, despite the many years he spent in the prison cell, he somehow found happiness and freedom between those closed walls. He realized that the real world is so vast and too much to handle that he chose to spend his whole life living in a cell, having to eat three meals a day, rather than living in the streets with no family to go back to.
This realization hit him hard. He looked back to the corridors, at the distant door of his cell where he was once imprisoned now just a speck. That cell had been his prison that limits him the ability to see the real world, yes, but it had also been his world for decades. Outside these gates, the world was vast, chaotic, unknowable, and filled with dangers he no longer knew how to face.
Despite the realizations, he stepped closer to the gate, the wind brushing against his face as if it were telling him that one more step and freedom would be achieved. Freedom was right there, calling his name, but so were fear, uncertainty, and the weight of the life he had left behind.
He stopped again at the threshold, his hands shaking in the cold bars of the gate. One more step, and he would have the freedom he had long dreamed of and wanted to achieve for so many years. But what did freedom mean to him after so many years of captivity?
illustrated by: YNAH ALEXANDRIA ALVAREZ
the
Br the betweenBr between
BY: KIRSTEN DALE NUNEZ
Amabelle stood at the edge of the bridge, the cold wind biting at her face as she stared down at the river below. The water was dark, churning with a relentless current that mirrored the turmoil inside her. She had always been the dependable one, the girl who never faltered, never complained, and always excelled. The perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect friend. But the weight of these expectations had become too much for her fragile heart to bear.
She thought about her mother, whose sharp words sliced through her like a blade whenever she failed to meet her impossibly high standards. "You're not doing it right, Amabelle! How many times do I have to tell you?" Her mother's voice echoed in her mind, as vivid as if she were standing beside her now. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back. Crying felt pointless, a waste of energy that she no longer possessed.
For months, the thought of ending it all had been a quiet whisper in the back of her mind. A seductive voice that promised peace, an escape from the constant pressure. The idea of slipping away into nothingness seemed like a mercy. But tonight, the whisper had grown into a deafening roar, urging her to jump, to let go, to finally be free.
Her hands trembled as she gripped the cold metal railing. Just one step forward, and it would all be over.
"Hey!" A voice, strong and clear, cut through the darkness. Amabelle flinched and looked around, startled. She hadn't heard anyone approaching.
A woman in her late twenties with short, tousled hair and warm, brown eyes was standing a few feet away, her hands raised in a gesture of peace. She was dressed casually, in jeans and a soft, oversized sweater, but there was an air of confidence about her that made Amabelle pause.
"Please," the woman said gently, her voice steady and calm. "Come down from there Let's talk "
Amabelle stared at her, her mind racing. "Why?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Why should I?"
"Because there's more to life than this moment, even if it doesn't feel that way right now," the woman replied, taking a cautious step closer. "My name is Maya. I'm a psychiatrist. I can help you if you'll let me."
Amabelle hesitated, the weight of her despair battling with the flicker of hope that Maya's words ignited in her. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind howling through the bridge's iron framework.
"Why do you care?" Amabelle asked, her voice cracking.
Maya smiled, a kind and understanding expression. "Because I've seen too many people lose their battles with the darkness. And because I believe that you deserve a chance to find your way out."
A tear slipped down Amabelle's cheek, and she quickly wiped it away. She felt raw, exposed, as if Maya could see right through her. But there was something in Maya's gaze that made her believe, if only for a second, that maybe she wasn't as alone as she felt.
Maya extended her hand, palm up. "Please, Amabelle. Take my hand. Come down, and let's talk. I'm here for you."
With her heart pounding in her chest, Amabelle slowly unclenched her fingers from the railing and took a hesitant step back. Maya's hand was warm and steady as she grasped it, grounding Amabelle in the present moment. As soon as her feet were safely on the ground, Maya wrapped her arms around her in a gentle, comforting hug. Amabelle's breath hitched, and the dam that had held back her tears for so long finally broke. She sobbed into Maya's shoulder, letting out all the pain, fear, and frustration that had been suffocating her for years.
And, with Maya's support, Amabelle decided to try medication to help balance her moods. It wasn't an instant fix, but over time, the fog in her mind began to lift, and she started to feel more like herself again.
One day, as they sat in Maya's cozy office, Amabelle reflected on how far she had come. The once-overwhelming darkness had receded, replaced by a sense of hope and possibility that she had never imagined feeling again.
"I never thought I'd get to this place," Amabelle said quietly, her eyes misting with emotion.
"Thank you, Maya. I don't know where I'd be if you hadn't been there that night."
Maya smiled, her eyes warm with pride. "You did the hard work, Amabelle. I was just there to support you along the way. I'm so proud of you for not giving up, for choosing to fight for your life You've come so far, and I know there's so much more ahead of you."
Amabelle nodded, her heart swelling with gratitude. For the first time in a long time, she felt at peace with herself, her life, and her future. The bridge she had once stood on, ready to end it all, had become a symbol of her journey, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there is always a way forward.
As she left Maya's office that day, Amabelle felt the sun on her face, warm and bright, and she smiled. She knew there would still be challenges ahead, but for the first time in her life, she was ready to face them not alone, but with the knowledge that she was strong enough to overcome whatever came her way. And that made all the difference.
illustrated by: ELISE ABRYLLE AMAR
Lastthe Wish Lastthe Wish
BY: JAZMIN KYLE T. BALGO
In the kingdom of Eldor jealously by King Malric. The rule, lived their days in endl hung over their land. The k rarely pierced the thick cloud
Amelia, a young peasant rough from labor, and her fa her exhaustion, her eyes hel p , g p y things might change. She dreamed of freedom not just for herself but for her entire village, where families lived in fear and children grew up knowing only the harshness of their existence.
One day, as Amelia toiled alone in a particularly desolate corner of the field, her shovel struck something hard beneath the soil. Curiosity piqued; she scraped away the dirt to reveal a small, ornate box. It was covered in ancient runes that glowed faintly in the dim light. Amelia's heart raced. She carefully pried open the box and found a scroll inside, wrapped in a layer of velvet. The scroll was old, its edges frayed and yellowed with age. As she unrolled it, a faint, ethereal glow emanated from the parchment. The script was ancient, and though Amelia struggled to decipher it, she could make out the essence of the words: "One wish shall be granted to the bearer of this scroll. Use it wisely, for the cost may be great."
A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd. "Joe's right," said Lila, a young mother with a child in her arms. "We've been waiting for a chance like this. It's our chance to be free." Amelia nodded, tears welling in her eyes. "I've made my decision. I will use the wish to free us all."
As the villagers dispersed, Amelia felt a sense of both relief and gravity. The weight of her decision was immense, but it was also liberating She knew the path she had chosen was right. That evening, as the sky darkened, Amelia prepared for her task. The scroll, with its ancient runes, felt warm in her hands, pulsating with the power of the wish she was about to make. She chose a hill overlooking the castle, a place where she could see the oppressive structure silhouetted against the backdrop of a starless sky.
Her heart pounded as she began to recite the incantation. The words felt ancient and powerful as they left her lips, each syllable resonating with a sense of gravitas. "By the power of this scroll," she intoned, "I wish for the freedom of my village and all those who suffer under King Malric's tyranny."
The air crackled with energy, and a brilliant light erupted from the scroll. The l light grew brighter and more intense until it seemed to swallow the entire kingdom. Amelia felt the energy surging through her, a sensation both exhilarating and overwhelming. Her strength began to drain, and she collapsed onto the ground, her body spent by the immense force of her selfless act.
As the light began to fade, the oppressive gloom that had hung over Eldoria lifted, revealing a sky of unprecedented clarity. The villagers awoke to a transformed world. The castle, once a bastion of fear, now stood silent and abandoned. The magic that had shackled Eldoria's people was broken, and a new era of freedom began.
In the village, the mood was one of awe and disbelief. Lila, clutching her child, looked around in wonder. "It's a miracle," she said, tears streaming down her face. "We're free.
Joe, who had been the voice of support for Amelia, stood with his hands on his hips, gazing at the newly bright sky. "She did it," he murmured, almost to himself. "Amelia made it happen."
The villagers began to gather around the small, humble home where Amelia had lived. As they found her body still and peaceful, they were filled with a deep sadness mixed with profound gratitude. "She gave everything for us," Joe said, his voice choked with emotion. "We owe her our freedom."
The village fell into a period of mourning but also of celebration. They began the arduous task of rebuilding their lives The fields, once barren and grim, flourished with new growth. The village buzzed with a newfound energy as hope and freedom took root. The transformation of Eldoria was swift and sweeping. The people, once cowed and fearful, began to take charge of their destinies. New leaders emerged, ones who understood the sacrifices that had been made. They worked tirelessly to ensure that the kingdom was rebuilt on the principles of justice and equality.
Weeks passed, and the story of Amelia's bravery spread throughout Eldoria. She became a symbol of hope and selflessness, her legacy etched into the hearts of those she had freed. Her sacrifice had ignited a spirit of rebellion and renewal across the kingdom. The once oppressive skies were now bright with the promise of a new beginning.
At a gathering in the village square, Joe spoke to the crowd. "We are here today because of Amelia's courage. She saw the suffering of others and chose to act. We must honor her memory by building a kingdom where such courage is no longer needed, where freedom is not a distant dream but a living reality.
The villagers cheered, their voices a chorus of approval and determination. They were ready to build a new future, one where every person had the chance to live freely and with dignity. The fields were now vibrant and filled with life, a testament to the change that had come
Elara's story became a legend, her name synonymous with sacrifice and hope. Eldoria thrived in the wake of her wish, not just because of the magic that had been wielded but because of the spirit of unity and resilience she had inspired. Her sacrifice had not only transformed her village but had kindled a flame of freedom across the entire kingdom.
In the end, Elara's wish had been granted, not just in the liberation of her village but in the enduring spirit of freedom that continued to thrive in the heart of Eldoria. Her story was a reminder that true freedom comes not from personal gain but from the courage to sacrifice for the greater good. And though she was gone, her spirit lingered in the vibrant, hopeful future she had helped create. Her legacy was a beacon, guiding Eldoria toward a future where freedom was the birthright of every soul.
Shush Shush
by: SHANNAL ESCANILLAS
wave of hums, a million opened eyes, Yet whispers die, and truth in disguised. The facts, like stones, lie cold and deep. While slumbering minds, their vigil keep.
The screen's bright glow, a gentle snare, Where comfort lies, like silk, they wear.
No jarring note, no sudden sting, Just echoes softly of what they sing.
The fear of scorn, a heavy chain, That binds the tongue and clouds the brain.
To stand alone, a chilling dread, So silence reigns, where words have fled.
The weight of knowing, sharp and keen, A burden felt, though rarely seen. Denial's veil, a soft embrace, To hide the pain and find their place.
But shadows grow, and darkness creeps. Where silent mouths their secrets keep. The muted string, it cannot sound, Where truth lies buried, underground.
Oh, break the spell and find your voice. Let reason's light be your own choice For in the hush, the darkness thrives, And only truth, the soul revives.
Air I am Air I am
BY: JHOANA SUSAIN TUPAS
h, the number of times I just needed a reaction just a few little words to help my brain move on. But they refused to provide me even that.
I feel like I'm forever gone. They turn their heads; I am not there.
I'm just some dust, suspended like air. Refuse my name, refuse my needs. I'm slowly sinking, and they can't see.
Like frosted air on an eerie day, but I refuse to vanish.
Departing?
Oh, how foolish!
Because when the warm air comes, it will take me with it— I will rise again.
In the atmosphere, I'll sit. Then the sun will shine and show my pulsing waves, and they will notice me from many miles away...
Shackled D oves the Shackled D oves the
BY: JASMINE THERESE B. ALTURA
They say doves are meant to fly, They expect doves to soar high.
Yet they attach shackles to the ground, And mufflers to elicit sound.
With all uncertainties and restraint, It is sorrow that these doves paint. With the world weighing on their shoulders,
Is it still true that God gives His hardest battles to His strongest soldiers?
These doves have so much story to tell. These doves have so much anger to yell.
But the world is cruel, And their muffled cries often dwell
In the silence that echoes, where kindness fell.
If only their wings weren't clipped, They'd soar above the stars and slip, For freedom is more than just what meets the eye.
For these doves, freedom means soaring the skies.
May these doves have courage. May they learn how to let things be. May they learn to embrace their own journey.
Dove, soar high.
Free yourself from the shackles; do not cry. Don't let your feathers get stuck in the way. Embrace the wind and let your spirit sway.
Despair of the Silenced Despair of the Silenced
BY: ERIN MARGARET P. NONES
n dark times, the silenced find their voice, Raising their cries for justice and rights. Though fear and doubt make it look like they have no choice, They continue on, fueled by their hopes and sights.
Each tale of pain and struggle inflames them on, As they dream of a world where all are free. But the fight feels endless, like the dawn, And despair is inevitable; they can only plea. Yet they stand firm, refusing to fall apart, For freedom's light still glows darkness can't fight
Though the journey is tough, they won't lost heart; In their fight, a brighter dawn will ignite. The battles may rage, but their spirits will not break, For in the fight for rights, their stand will always be awake.
Though our path isn't always clear, With him, I feel no fear.
He guides me through my darkest nights, With nature’s calm and soothing sights.
He cares for my brother just like his own; In him, I've found my true home. I'm blessed so blessed to have him near, My love, my partner, my source of cheer.
Two years passed not perfect, but real. He showed me love; he helped me heal. In nature, on roads, by the sea’s embrace, I find solace; I find my place.
But still, the chains around me bind, My mother's control it clouds my mind.
Yet in nature's arms, I breathe anew Road trips and beaches, skies of blue.
With friends so dear who lift my soul, They make me whole; they make me whole. For in their company, I can escape, But freedom real freedom still takes shape.
For now, I find solace where I can In the love of friends, in nature's span. But one day, I know, I'll break away, And find my freedom in the light of day.
BY: Mary Dominic Berdali-an
SoarHigh SoarHigh
As the weather patterns changed, The eagle flew, Not knowing where to go, just seeking something new.
As the rain started to pour, The eagles soared once more. In search of eyries and prey, The eagle endured pain along the way.
Seeking for more, the eagle lost its beak.
As the rain grew stronger, its strength grew weak. Its wings weighed down, its body sore, Yet it held on, longing for the shore.
Almost reaching its goal, Barely holding on, its spirit was bold.
As the eagle docked in the tree, Its allies hurriedly went to see. The eagle's strength began to fade, But its brethren huddled to lend a helping wing United as one, together they soared, Lifting their kin until the sky turned blue once more
BY: NIEL ANGELO L. VERDE
Ican see in front of me the eyes of a snake. Watching its prey, Putting my dignity at stake. I wonder, what more can they take? And what more can I fake?
bBound y theGazebBound y theGaze
My whole being? My heart?
Fragile thing already on the brink of seething? Yet, despite the storm within. I cannot move. I cannot speak. I cannot choose the rain that soaks my skin.
One Heart, One Soul,One MInd One Heart, One Soul,One MInd
By: Lara Sofia Moreno
In our home, where truth shines bright, We learn to stand for what is right. Through Caritas, our hearts embrace, A love that binds in endless grace.
Together strong, we walk as one, Unitas shines like the morning sun. No one is left to stand alone In faith and hope, we have a home.
With Veritas to light our way, We seek the truth each passing day. Through love and unity, we see This Augustinian family.
BY: trishia mae d. oquendo
DayILearned the HumilityDayILearned the Humility
The grocery store was a symphony of beeping scanners, chattering shoppers, and the constant hum of the refrigerators. I was in the produce section picking out the fresh and juiciest apples, but then I saw this guy, older than my Papa, struggling to reach a bundle of apples on the top shelf. But as I'm scanning the apples, I notice an older man, maybe older than my dad, struggling to reach a bag on the top shelf. He's kinda hunched over, and his hands are shaking a little as he stretches to grab the bag.
For a moment, it looks like he might tip over. It's a little sad to see. It's clear that he's trying to be independent, but his body is saying, "Hey, I need a hand!" I watch for a moment, feeling a bit unsure of what to do. A few people walk by, but no one stops to help. I feel bad seeing him struggle, but there's also this awkward hesitation. I wonder if he'd even want my help. What if he thinks I'm trying to act like I know it all? Maybe he just wants to do it himself, and who am I to step in?
Then, I think about my grandpa He's always been super independent, but as he's gotten older, sometimes he needs a little help. I know he doesn't always like to ask for it, but I also know how much he appreciates it when someone steps in at the right moment. Thinking about my grandpa makes me realize that this old man might need someone to step up for him, even if it feels a little awkward.
I take a deep breath and walk over to the old guy. “Need a hand with those apples?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual and not too cheesy. I don’t want to make him feel too uncomfortable or like he can’t handle things himself. He looks up, a bit surprised, like he wasn't expecting anyone to offer help. "Oh, thank you," he says, his voice a little shaky but sincere. "I can't seem to reach them.”
I’m Scared not to die oramI? I’m Scared not to die oramI?
BY: ANTHEA BLESSELLE ALARCON
Every day is humbling. God finds a way to remind us that we are only human, urging us to stay grounded in life and not to think too far beyond our reach. In my life, God has humbled me several times, but one particular moment has stuck with me when I was faced with danger.
I had always concluded that I am not afraid of death, in fact, I'm ready for it. I've always viewed life as a journey where we are placed on this earth to exist and eventually pass on. Dying is inevitable we will die one way or another, some just earlier than others. But this changed, and here's how.
It was nighttime around seven pm. The jeepneys were crowded due to rush hour, so I had no choice but to take a jeep that would circle around or that goes in the opposite direction before turning around to take me back to where I stay. This situation, commonly called a double ride Unlucky for me I boarded an empty jeep The last passenger had already exited, leaving just me alone. At that moment, I felt calm until the driver spoke something I couldn't quite understand I asked him to clarify, but the noise from the engine made it hard to hear. After pondering for a moment, I decided not to ask again; I just nodded.
A few seconds later, he spoke again, this time more clearly. He asked if I was in a rush to get home. I replied that I wasn't, but I couldn't deny my eagerness to lie down in my bed. After our brief interaction, I noticed the road was darker than usual. The street felt eerie it was dim and empty. It was as if someone would jump out of nowhere and attack me. My senses heightened, and I became acutely aware of my surroundings.
Suddenly, the driver parked and exited the jeepney, heading toward a convenience store. I watched his every move, ready to run for my life if he acted even slightly suspicious. While waiting, I noticed an old lady standing in front of the jeepney. Her presence unnerved me further; she stood there motionless, staring directly at me. Fortunately, the driver returned and began driving.
At that moment, I realized that I was somehow scared to die. There are people I donb’t want to lose, things I still want to experience, and feelings I want to feel. There are adventures I yearn to embark on, and I couldn't do any of those if I were to die at that moment. The fear of missing out on life's experiences hit me hard as I sat in the jeepney, paralyzed by the old lady's gaze, it made me recognize how much I still have to live for. After all, what I was truly scared of was facing what the future holds.
Her as my DreamHer as my Dream
BY: jan bea marie v. amiscua
The sun streamed through the window, casting a warm glow over the cozy bedroom. Emma and her best friend, Lily, sat cross-legged on the bed, giggling uncontrollably.
"And then he just tripped and fell face-first into the cake!" Lily exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with mirth.
Emma doubled over, clutching her stomach as laughter bubbled up from deep within. Her shoulders shook with each peal of laughter, and tears of joy threatened to spill from the corners of her eyes
As the laughter subsided, Emma wiped at her cheeks, a wide smile still plastered across her face. She turned to Lily, ready to share another hilarious anecdote, but the words caught in her throat.
In that moment, as Emma gazed at her best friend, something shifted within her. The way Lily's eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, the way her smile lit up the entire room it all seemed to take on a new significance.
Emma's heart skipped a beat, and a realization dawned on her. The way she felt about Lily was different, deeper than just friendship. The warmth that blossomed in her chest whenever they were together, the way her stomach fluttered with butterflies it all made sense now.
Emma was in love with her best friend.
AFTERWORD AFTERWORD
gracelle jayce v. ojeda
literary and feature director
As the rays of the sun reach their zenith, let these scattered words embedded across the pages form to grant space for the shunned and unheard to flourish, to break free from the bleak. This folio strives to encapsulate the quiet wars of those whose lives are overlooked, disregarded, or swallowed by silence.
This journey was not without regressions and stumbles moments where the onceflickering light dimmed, failing to pierce the cage of shadow that surrounded us But one truth remains: there are still stories that demand to be preserved, lives that must be remembered and relived. Amid the cacophony of uncertainty, this folio nearly faded but sonder dawned. And with it, the realization: if left unchallenged, these cast-aside lives risk burial. One may ask, what change could a single composition bring? The answer lies in the flicker however faint sparked by presence, by acknowledgment. It is for them, the crushed and cast aside, that every page was built To give voice, to ignite even a whisper of recognition, is reason enough
The months in which this was woven when I was entrusted with the torch to lead brought their own share of hindrances. But aided by many hands, this piece found its ending, its form. My gratitude extends to those who did not falter as we moved toward its completion. For those who stood as pillars to uphold this folio, your presence is etched in every inch of it. This has been one of the greatest opportunities and challenges I’ve ever had, and in all its weight, it brought its own quiet kind of light.
May we continue to shed light on those still unable to reach its glow, and create a space where no one is treated as less than the wind where worth is not swept away, but seen, held, and remembered.
