Scribbles
DLSU Writers’ Guild’s Official Publication Volume I Issue 1 September 2020
DE LA SALLE UNIVERSITY WRITERS’ GUILD Volume I Issue 1 Copyright © 2020 Writers’ Guild is one of the 46 organizations monitored by the Council of Student Organizations (CSO) of De La Salle University Manila. Scribbles is Writers’ Guild’s official publication. Comments and inquiries may be sent to:
Email: wg@dlsu.edu.ph Facebook: fb.com/wgdlsu Instagram: instagram.com/wgdlsu Twitter: twitter.com/wgdlsu Website: issuu.com/wgdlsu
Council of Student Organizations Email: cso@dlsu.edu.ph Phone Number: Local 744 Address: 4th Floor, Bro. Connon Hall, SPS Building, De La Salle University
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission from the copyright owner. Cover design, illustration, and layout were made by Thea Ongchua.
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About Writers’ Guild
W
riters’ Guild aims to uphold passion for writing among its members. It seeks to provide not only venues for inspiration and discovery, but also ways for its members to broaden their writing experience. It strives to enhance its recognition to the Lasallian community as it attempts to develop the perception of the Lasallians as to the value of writing, through course-related and other literary works. Writers’ Guild shall expose its members to different areas of learning and forms of writing as an expression by means of meaningful and worthwhile activities. Furthermore, it strives to enhance its recognition to other communities by participating in external activities, creating connections with other writing organizations, and being a responsible member of society through its socio-development programs, leading to the members’ growth. Scribbles | 5
Introduction
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ore than stories to lull children to sleep, the beauty of a fairytale lies in its magic to evoke curiosity. It is the same magic that makes one wonder— what lies ahead when one crosses the threshold between the known and the unknown? Before, the doors towards the unknown have always been kept open. The world as we know it was open to us should we choose to explore it, and that the freedom to expect what was about to come was a treasure we couldn’t wait to be opened. Now, the doors are still kept open, but danger lurks even before we could dare ourselves to open it. The same freedom we once enjoyed has turned from friend to foe. What excitement we harbored has turned to fear, and we can only pray for salvation as we hide in our homes, in fear of what awaits us beyond. Despite this fear, we are nothing but fighters. We choose to fight for relief even in the confines of our homes. We do not let the doors towards the unknown paralyze us. Rather, we choose to imagine new worlds, ones rid of fear, through our short stories, personal essays, and poems.
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In this issue of Scribbles, we invite you to explore these worlds with us. In an imagined reality where time does not wait for anyone, we choose to take control of our fears and reflect on the experiences that have only served to make us stronger. We, at Writers’ Guild, hope that these works drive our readers to blur the lines between the known and the unknown. Today, we choose to build our own realities, and we continue to fight for them in the name of our freedom.
Mary Joy Abalos Editor-In-Chief
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Table of Contents 12
When It Falls
19
On this Sleepless Night
Darcy Encarnacion
Mary Joy Abalos
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My Tryst, My War
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Pundido
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Rukmini Guevara
Ian Holgado
In Every Season Trisha Liscano
The Red Blade’s Apprentice Martin S. Flores
Editorial Board Mary Joy P. Abalos Editor-in-Chief Fiction Editor Adrian Neil C. Holgado Associate Editor Poetry Editor Sophia Denisse D. Canapi Poetry Editor Lance Spencer T. Yu Non-Fiction Editor Thea Enrica N. Ongchua Layout Editor
Contributors Fiction Martin Lester S. Flores Darcy Julianna L. Encarnacion Non-Fiction Rukmini Dasi Rosemary F. Guevara Poetry Trisha Joy T. Liscano
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In loving memory of Sir Mario “Em” Mendez, Jr.
When It Falls Darcy Encarnacion
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I. I must hurry. Today is my sister’s birthday! Carrying baskets after baskets of fruits, I wade from one river to the next, the water’s length reaching up to my ankles. From the distance, I hear children hollering as they frolic along the grass plains. There are also residents living in nipa huts, built from dried stalks and cut bamboo, constructed together by hand within the community. While different in design, they all have similar three-layered structure - the living room area (middle), silong (the space below it) and the roof space (top). They produce proud handicrafts such as clothes, jewelry or furniture, all handmade with love. Tonight, residents will light a bonfire at the town square. Upon smelling roasted goat, vegetables, and herbs, everyone will gather to savor the feast. Since the beginning of the town’s history, the townspeople followed a daily routine; celebrations filled with songs, epics, and bonds— strengthening, growing and flourishing each day. “Amihan! Bring the baskets over here!” her sister, Tala, yelled from a distance. “Okay, I’m on my way!” Amihan shouted back at her sister. If I don’t go over there faster, she might start wailing loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
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Her sister called out for Amihan from their bahay kubo’s open window. Responding back with a smile, Amihan crossed the stream; the water dampening the edges of her long white dress. However, the soggy condition of her favorite garb didn’t bother her. In fact, she loved it; she adored the feeling similar to how she awed the rain, the lake, and her father’s fishing spot. From afar, she watched as Tala ran out to the front door. “Oi, Amihan, hurry up. I’m starving!!” Tala huffed, stomping her bare feet on the ground. “Wait,” Amihan jeered, “I’m almost there!!” The ravenette smiled. Today was her little sister’s birthday, and what better way to commemorate than eating salad brimmed with the freshest of fruits. Following Tala, Amihan felt her heart sore. Luscious short brown hair, almond-shaped eyes, gleaming smiles, there is no one as extravagant as her beloved, Bagwis. “Sorry mahal, I did my best to stop this mosquito,” Bagwis said with a sigh. “Mosquito?!” Tala yelped, “Ew, I hate mosquitos!” As Amihan was preoccupied balancing the fruit baskets, Tala’s voice boomed from a distance. “Bagwis, why do you keep looking at the village entrance? Did you lose your chickens again?” she teased. “Hari and Reyna are still in their coops! But now that you mentioned it… I haven’t seen Prinsipe anywhere lately…” This is beauty at its finest.
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Amihan laughed at the two. As expected, the natal day ended with a lovely bang. Walking closer to them, her vision began to blur. Soon, she found herself on the ground, pain springing between her left ankle and knee. Hearing the thump of the falling fruits, Amihan tried to open her mouth to alert her companions to save some of them. However, as the fresh produce rolled away from her, she was shocked to find her coconuts and mangoes turning into embers. The stabbing sensation of a thousand knives pulled her foot once more, worsening by the minute. Realization dawned on her as she turned her head, her eyes landing on the cause of her pain; the source wasn’t from a branch, rather from a shot arrow. She can feel her consciousness slipping from the pain. Her hands clawed onto the grass, forcing her body to move away from whoever shot her. Little by little, she can feel her senses numbing until only her sight is left; colors turning into blotches of hues. Until they all mixed together in black, leaving everything in silence. II. Wake up. That doesn’t exist anymore. She remembered how at the beginning, opening her eyes was a strenuous activity. It took effort, but it proved to be successful after a few minutes. She touched her face, caressing her wet cheeks with muddied fingertips. The bandage she wrapped around her left leg grew dirty from muck and dried blood. Big roots from aged coconut trees seem to huddle close, granting little protection to her fragile form. How pitiful it appeared without its leaves. Foliage lay on the ground, dry from life; and a few burnt to crisps. When It Falls | 15
“I must have been dreaming again,” Amihan muttered quietly to herself. “Two days had passed since Tala’s birthday.” I have to continue running. Black smoke engulfed the clear skies, turning blue into a blend of orange, violet, and black. Amihan soon found herself running past the trails of fire; the shoeless soles blackened from the heat endured. Tears fell as she struggled to breathe, desperately inhaling what was left of the thick atmosphere. All of what her people worked hard on, from harvests to architecture, even the culture and literature passed on for centuries, all of them have been burned into ashes. Passing by the charred remains of her former neighbors, Amihan had to remind herself again and again: “There is no time for mourning.” No one, not even Apoloki or Mayari, guided her through the pitch-dark fog. Her cries were useless against the flames of hell. Even as she tried to control her tears, they streamed down her light brown cheeks. She turned her head once more to their corpses. Identifying their iconic garments worn sent shivers down her spine: the textile patterned bandanna of the village’s oldest resident grandmother, the identical crocheted bright red hats of a young newlywed, and the stuffed bunny made of second-hand dirty white cloth held tightly by the hand of Tala’s closest friend. Last time I saw them, they were singing around the fire alongside my little sister. Her legs hastened in pace, unable to watch their carcasses mold into the earthen land any longer. Within the heavy mist, she saw a human-shaped silhouette 16 | Scribbles
with a familiar handsome smile; beside him were other men— taller and bigger, reeking with power and superiority. “We will give you everything you need. Simply let us take what your people owned, understood?” they said. “Go ahead, burn them away if you want!” he insisted encouragingly. “We conversed with them peacefully on taking this land before. Finally, we can expand our agriculture business!” The smaller male in a checkered suit cheered. “Honestly, we wouldn’t have gone through with this idea if they just complied with our request in moving out of the land.” The taller male donning a simple black suit sighed. There were voices warning her to flee from the three figures. “They’re dangerous,” her collective thoughts told her, but a tiny voice was against the idea of it. “You know one of the voices,” it told her, and that alone was enough to push her. She already saw the corpses of her neighbors, she has yet to discover any of her little sister and… Her beloved. Amihan recognized the handsome smile. It must be him. She started running to him as if she was a fool in love, but before she could come any closer, a loud bang echoed behind her. Once more, she fell to the ground; the dream scenario pulled back from her memories, only this time immobile— a shot hit to the spinal cord. She was numb from any sort of sensation. What was left for her was the increasing pitch of static. Footsteps stopped in front of her.
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Black spots slowly covered her vision. Placing her palms down, she struggled to push herself up, as three human-figured shadows approached, covering the bright glow from the flames behind them. The black spots are growing. “I have to get out of here,” she said to herself. She can smell nothing but the stretch of rusting metal and blood. “I have to get out of here,” she chanted repeatedly to herself. “I have...to...get...out..of...here.” ‘...’
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On This Sleepless Night Mary Joy Abalos
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T
  onight is another sleepless night. It has been this way for weeks. I try to escape its iron tight grip, but it does not let go. It refuses to let go.
As I try to fall asleep, and fail at it, I have decided to watch videos on doing literary analysis by my favorite author, John Green. These days, my life has revolved around literature, and I have him to thank for that. He has given me the key to begin this path. I think I owe him that much; to watch his videos on Youtube, and help him gain some income through ad revenue. Tonight, I am watching a literary analysis on Slaughterhouse Five, an American novel on the Dresden bombing during World War II. It is a particularly depressing one as it centers on the theme of war trauma. I am haunted by the way this novel is written even though I have never read it. I feel bad for the horrors many have faced, and what many have yet to face. Sometimes, I think about the horrors that I will soon discover, and perhaps because of that, I will have more sleepless nights after this one. Every night, I try to close my eyes and think of a fantasy to help me relax and rest but every day, I am reminded that I do not have the luxury of rest. I lie here on my makeshift bed, with my fan cooling my already warm body, in a room that I can barely move in. Every night, I close my eyes and I try to forget I am in a place that suffocates me, to no avail. On these sleepless nights, I am reminded that things are difficult. I am reminded of the things I have and the things I don’t have, the things I want to give up and the things I don’t want to give
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up, the things I wish to see and the things I wish not to see. They come to me in quick slideshow images that I barely have enough time to process. These are images I cannot shake off or come up with remedies to overcome. I always relied on my problem solving ability to make uncomfortable situations better or at the very least, bearable. I tell myself, there is no problem I can’t face and there isn’t a problem that has no solution. However, as I lie in bed, thinking of all the problems in my head, they all seem intangible and out of reach, abstract and invisible. I used to tell myself all problems have solutions, but now that I think about these problems and the frustration that comes with not being able to solve them, perhaps this is my time to admit defeat; to consider that perhaps these problems do not have concrete solutions that can make the situation better. These problems are out of my reach, intangible. It is as if I am driving slowly; the headlights are on, but the road is pitch black. I can’t see a thing. As I stare into the ceiling, praying that no demon or invisible entity is out to get me, it is the same darkness that haunts me. Maybe that’s why I am scared of the dark. Maybe that’s why I am scared of the things I can’t see. Perhaps it is what may hurt me that scares me if I don’t notice them fast enough. It is these things that keep me awake at night and I will be kept awake until then; until I am able to step out of our gate, until I am able to see, touch, and hug the people I love, until I am able to breathe fresh air from the outside, until I am able to tell the difference between work and rest. Maybe until then, I will be able to fall asleep again.
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My Tryst, My War Rukmini Guevara
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O
nce upon a time, life was filled with magical moments that celebrated me, endless possibilities that empowered me. When the morning arrives, I’d feel the warmth of dawn greet me as the sun’s glare invites me to appreciate the beauty and complexity this world has to offer. A jubilant spirit possesses me; I’d get up as my mom came knocking at my door, screaming from the depths of her lungs, “Hurry up. You’re going to be late!” She’s my favorite part of the day. I always thank every existing deity for the wonder that is my mom. She raised me on her own, but she was nothing short of a mother. I love how she gives me the liberty to express myself, whatever shape or form, to learn about the world in my own eyes. On weekdays, she’d ask me to put makeup on her, and as I do so, I’d feel her study every corner of my face, stare at me intently as if a memory flash right before her. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because I remind her of the one who shall not be named. I never try to mention his name. I’m afraid to see my mom’s eyes scream anguish, picturing her trauma. I never met him, but it never really bothered me. It was always just my mom and me, and that was enough. She’d drive off to work, while I’d walk opposite her a few blocks down to school. I remember how terrified I was coming into college, but at the same time, I’ve never been more excited. Ever since pre-school, I’ve attended an all-girls’ school, so it was a big transition for me. A new environment, unfamiliar faces, uncertainties here and there—the fear took over me for quite some time. But college gave me a sense of independence that fueled my drive to face these challenging roads head-on. My mom and I spent hours arguing over this transfer. It wasn’t My Tryst, My War | 23
like our usual arguments where minutes later we’d make up. I pleaded, “This is my chance to discover more outside the confines of what I’m used to. I want to take this opportunity to better myself and prove myself.” But she argued, “You don’t know what it’s like out there. There are some things you can’t handle. Just listen to me on this one.” That was by far the only decision I made that she wasn’t entirely supportive of. It was as if there was a graver reason she wasn’t telling me. I sensed the fear in her as if she were protecting me from something. I couldn’t understand where she was coming from, but eventually, after weeks of arduous convincing, she finally agreed. In college, I was limitless and full of purpose. Nothing and no one could stop me from thriving: as if I was starring in my own movie, living the montage part where everything falls into place, merely enjoying the cheery music in the background. That scene was my reality, until it wasn’t. Suddenly, life became a fairy tale. The kind I was told about, but too naïve to notice its real representation. These tales demonstrate stereotypical female behavior and downplay attributes that threaten the patriarchy of society. Women are portrayed as weak, submissive, and just patiently waiting for the prince to appear and take control of our destiny. A prince did come my way, but he changed the narrative and exploited the very essence of my being. Let’s name him Romeo. Because it sure seemed as if I were Juliet; a part of me died when I loved him. Romeo was not only tall, dark, and handsome, but he was also witty and smart. I know a lot of girls would agree with me. But out of all of them, he noticed me. One day, we just attended the same class, and the next, he asked me out. I quickly grew fond of his charm and wit as I got to know him. When he told me, “My life’s full of uncertainties, but with you, I’ve never been more sure,” and carried a smile only a sun does to its favorite planet, I knew. I knew he was worth the risk. I chose him even if it scared me; I went all in. He made me feel special in every way he could, in every way I never thought 24 | Scribbles
I could ever feel. Romeo’s love was the kind of love that makes you want to get up every morning, the kind that keeps you going. All I wanted was to feel secure, cared for, and valued. Being with Romeo seemed to promise all of that, or so I thought. Growing up in a household where the male presence is nonexistent, I simply accepted the love I felt I deserved without much thinking of what I was getting myself into. Our first date was a night of a lifetime. I used to catch myself wanting to go back that night, just to enjoy it once again. I fell in love with the way his eyes wrinkled when he’d devour his burrito and talk about things he was passionate about. I loved the mere scent of his that reminded me of my happy place. I especially loved the way he would grab my hand every time I’d get scared or nervous. I was the happiest girl that could ever exist. Though like every relationship, we had our fair share of fights, but we managed to overcome those difficult times. But things changed; he became different. The prince I once thought was my greatest defender against all cruelty, without warning, became an agent conducive to my life’s adversity. On our twentieth date, I wore this sultry little red dress made of satin, which my mom bought me for my 19th birthday. It’s been more than a year, but I never had the chance to wear it; no occasion just felt right. I was so excited for that night, and so was my mom. She likes it when I’m out of my sweats and dress up and look pretty. After all the glamming up, Romeo arrived half an hour later. When I got into his car, I was ready for a “Wow. You’re so beautiful.” But instead, I got a “Are you sure that’s what you’re wearing? You’re showing too much skin. You don’t want to attract unwanted attention, do you now?” I disagreed with him, but I said, “Oh, really? I’m sorry I didn’t think of that.” The smile faded off from my face as I ignored the thoughts running on my mind and rushed back inside. My mom asked me, “What’s wrong?” I said, “I feel cold all of a sudden; I’ll just My Tryt, My War | 25
change.” Dashing up the stairway, hoping I convinced her the 34 degrees Celsius encompassing the atmosphere was cold. As I was changing, questions came flooding in. Why did he say that? What’s wrong with this dress? Why do I have to adjust? And for who? Myself? But I chose to dismiss those thoughts and said, I guess he’s just trying to protect me. Maybe, this is one of the ways he expresses his love. I accepted that love of his on blind faith. I used “love” as a justification to his apparent faults I was oblivious to, which might’ve been my biggest mistake. But I’ve learned not just to accept, but also to embrace who he was. I grew an understanding that we’re both different, and I shouldn’t enforce standards on how he should or should not be. For a time, everything was smooth sailing; we barely had any arguments. But on our sixth month together, probably about a hundred dates in, we had a lengthy squabble about this controversial issue–war on drugs. That night felt like it wouldn’t last. For some reason, he was so furious and keen on proving me wrong. He goes on to say, “These people committed a crime punishable by law. It is only just for them to be penalized, even if it means having to face death. They’re getting what they deserve.” And while I do understand him, I said something along the lines, “Those people could be someone’s daughter, son, mother or father. As citizens of this country, or just as human beings, they have the right to due process, presumption of innocence. The government can’t just disregard and violate their basic human rights.” I was taken aback as it provoked his temper, and he said, “You know, honestly, it’s best to just keep your opinion to yourself because it doesn’t matter. Wake up from this nonsense, open your eyes and see the bigger picture.” As those words came out from his mouth, I felt a sting within, lost all my energy to argue, and just said, “Okay. I’m sorry. I never meant to offend you.” The mark of satisfaction and pride was visible on his face. I went home feeling hurt and muzzled. I couldn’t get myself to 26 | Scribbles
tell my mom because I knew it would just upset her more. So I went to bed and convinced myself, Perhaps, I’m just sensitive. Maybe at some point in that conversation, I didn’t listen to him, just straight-up invalidated his opinions. I guess talking about that issue just hits too close to home for him. I shouldn’t have said anything. But to this day, I still ask myself, Why did I let him undermine me like that? In each scenario, almost every bicker, there was something constant; I’d always end up apologizing. Romeo made me feel like I owed him an apology, regardless of whether I was at fault or not. Somewhere between his tone, his words, his stance demanded me to concede defeat, and I’d submit without question. But on our second anniversary, I made a pivotal choice that changed the course of my life. That night, Romeo and I decided to turn our celebration up a notch and went to a local bar somewhere down south. As we entered, the beat was vibrating off the walls; the lights were dim, barely lit the room. The drinks kept flowing across the table just as fast as the bartenders made them. After less than ten shots in, the alcohol consumes Romeo, and he starts to act cheeky and aggressive. He wanted to stay longer, claiming he wasn’t at all drunk, but I contended it was time to call it a night. I had to drag him like a little boy all the way to the parking lot. But I felt the intense heft, fathomless suffocation, not with the weight of his body, but the minute just around the corner, underneath the vehicle’s headliner. We went in the car, and I placed him steady as I also got ready. But before I even started the engine, Romeo slipped his hands on the far horizon of his own authority, where it wasn’t supposed to be, where it wasn’t welcomed. I was startled, and I immediately shoved his hand away. And he said, “Why? Isn’t this the reason you wore that tonight? You’re mine anyway.” I gazed at him dumbfounded, and the word that’s been stuck at the tip of my tongue free itself; one thought away, one moment away, one breath away, “No.” Only My Tryst, My War | 27
half-aware of what I was about to do next, I raised my hand and threw a punch as hard and heavy as what he made me feel. That was it; I walked away. I felt the twinge from my knuckles, but I also felt at ease. That temporary pang was nothing compared to the feeling of tranquillity as I freed myself from Romeo. I managed to pick up my phone, dialed-in the number I knew from memory, “Hey, ma. Can you pick me up?” I sensed worry from the sound of her voice and the thump of her footsteps, coming in for my rescue. And I finally had the courage to tell her. When I did, I just lost it; I met her eyes with tears on mine. And I said, “So was this it, ma? Our reality?” She hugged me as tight as she could, imparting she was sorry that indeed it was. Her embrace reminded me, here she was all along—the true hero of this story. The whiff of his breath, the touch of his palm lingered on me as I walked along the busy hallways, as I probed through my closet, as I lay myself to bed. It stayed longer than I wanted it to. My mom didn’t warn me about people like Romeo. Instead, she tried protecting me from them. But one way or another, I was bound to encounter his kind. I didn’t blame my mom nor Romeo. It was my responsibility for staying, for enabling and tolerating him. At first, I felt like it was all my fault. I blamed myself for wearing that dress, for expressing my opinion. I thought maybe I was too suggestive. Perhaps he was right. The willpower and independence I had was forgotten and lost in the yearning for affection and security. But taking responsibility for my choices justifies none of his behavior. Nevertheless, he was the epitome of toxic masculinity. The word mistake originates from the fourteenth-century Old Norse mistaka, meaning “to misunderstand, misinterpret,” as in “an error in opinion or judgment.” In this case, the word mistake has also come to mean, “the man I loved.” And the noun “Romeo” also happens to mean “male lover,” yet Romeo was 28 | Scribbles
my life’s misfortune. I learned it the hard way that he was an entitled, sexist ignoramus who felt threatened by merely a dainty girl like me. Romeo was an elaborate ploy, an exhibition, a code of conduct dictating the proper way to be, dressed as a prince, concealed with lustrous eyes and luscious lips. But I don’t regret my two-year subscription to Romeo. Now, I’m no longer a Juliet; I’m the heroine of my own story. Unlike what fairy tales taught me, I realized I didn’t need a male figure in my life to survive; neither does it make me less of a woman. Since then, men who would tell me how to run my life were dead to me. Experiencing what it’s like to be with him enlightened me how much Romeos there are in the world. Toxic masculinity is not only found in social media, television, magazines, but also in our own homes, in the bedroom, the workplace, and the streets. Man-made rules that infringe on our freedom of choice, violate us into silence, implying that this is not our world. Unreasonable burdens we are so often forced to bear. Brainwashing the world that our behavior, character, and dignity are attached to our choice of body expression, clothing. Uninvited comments justified by saying, “It’s for your own good. I’m only looking after you.” But when men wear tight shirts or short shorts, no one tells them these things. Sexual harassment exists regardless of what we wear. It exists because of men who have no self-control and respect for women’s boundaries. So if you’re a Romeo, you’re a disease on the face of humanity and a hindrance to civilization. Feel the shame. Being patronized is not an experience we choose to or could choose not to have. When we exercise our rights, we’re labeled as subjective, delusional, deceitful – in a nutshell, a female. Every day, women are fighting wars solely for the right to speak, to have ideas, to be valued, to be a human being. This is about the end of endless apologies; it’s about the end of excuses. It’s about having autonomy over our body, the freedom to express ourselves. Because it doesn’t matter whether one wears a tie or My Tryst, My War | 29
a dress, it’s what one accomplishes while wearing it. We have come so far as women over the last decades, but no doubt, this war is far from over. But here’s to the woman who has something to say, to bring to the table, but also to the voiceless woman who still hides behind her understanding smile.
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Pundido Ian Holgado
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Ito ang pinakamadaling paraan para makahuli ng bituin: Maghanap ng alitaptap na nakikisabay sa hangin. Ikulong mo ito gamit ng dalawang kamay samantalang paminsan-minsa’y sumilip at maghanap ng namumukod-tanging kutitap na matagal mo nang inaasam. Ngunit kapag walang nagparamdam sa kinahahawakang kalawakan, ito’y iyo nang pakawalan, dahil minsa’y mas maganda pang tumingala sa mga tala’t manalig kaysa umasang matutupad pa ng mga alitaptap ang ating mga pangarap.
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In Every Season Trisha Liscano There is a lilac that blooms, creating a misty fragrance emanating from its petals. We hover the Earth in our pieces and wholeness as we waltz along with the humming of the birds— Our bond blooms right here. The sun reveals itself as its rays reach the deepest trenches of the ocean. The skyline of topaz colors kisses our hair as we build our romance right there— We are drawn to one another right here. Leaves fall to the ground, breaking as it meets the soles of our feet. The afternoon rests on our shoulders, slowly meeting the dusk, leaving the twilight— My soul is interlaced with yours right here. Amidst the darkness where the old pines lay right outside the blue cold of the winter, all kinds of snowflakes chase one another as the coldness curls within the tips of our fingers— You become my safe place right here.
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Time may pass and the world may be too vast, but you are the rest amid the fast-paced and the ever-changing seasons. You are the comfort on my skin that leaves a familiar lingering heat to it. We draw near in this lifetime and I give even in the next, all of me in every season leads to you— I love you right here.
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The Red Blade’s Apprentice Martin S. Flores
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oung Drake had been scrubbing as hard as he could. Dirt was in between his nails and dust clothed his skin. No matter how shiny Sir Zane’s armor was from all the scrubbing, he still couldn’t stop himself. He thought it best to earn his mentor’s respect, so that he could somehow ease his way into his apprenticeship. He, who was merely wearing ragged clothing, couldn’t even buy himself a new piece of cloth. A boy who worked as hard as him could easily earn a coin, if he focused his energy elsewhere. However, no one would accept a boy like him. Being a shield-bearer to a knight was the first step to becoming one, and it was the only choice he had if he wanted to live a favorable life. The townspeople called him a young squire, an honorable assistant to Sir Zane, but for him, he was still a poor boy begging for respect. Young Drake came from The Gray, and there came an insurmountable struggle in living at the supposed sanctuary for the poor turned landfill for humans. Only he and his late mother would know what would become of it. The time when scavengers would actually go there for shelter had long passed. The two of them were the last woman and child who took refuge there, until she suffered from illness and he decided to move on the only way he knew how— travelling six miles from the landfill by foot just to reach King Walter’s castle. It was the only castle in the West that accepted squires from all backgrounds, as long as they were at least fourteen years of age. Drake was fifteen when he tried for apprenticeship, and everything about him screamed of failure. However, Zane of The Red Blade, youngest of the cavalry, had to prove that he was capable of becoming a mentor. All Drake is to him, was a test The Red Blade’s Apprentice | 37
that he had to overcome. He scrubbed the entire chest plate of Sir Zane’s armor, rekindling his purpose for doing so. There was no other way for him, no other escape but to become a knight; free from the burden of possession, but basking in the privilege of benefits. He proceeded to the basement of the castle to get a bucket of water. While carrying the heavy bucket, the sound of splashes soothed his ears. As much as he wanted to put his entire head inside of it, and slurp it all down his throat, he needed to use it for mopping floors. The other squires, who were in the same room, yelled at him. “Move faster, Drake!” They said. “No wonder The Red Blade won’t train you.” It shook his spine hearing their voice particularly louder than an average lad would. “You’re not fit to be here!” One of the squires chuckled. “I’m sorry.” Drake said, even while he crumpled his fist. Was it because he was poor that they still could not respect him the same way, he did not know. He knew the place to be welcoming towards everyone, but they still treated him differently. He was the most deviant that a lad could be, he thought to himself, for him to receive that kind of treatment. He went back up to the Armory and started mopping the place after gathering enough water. It was nothing, or so he thought. With every stroke, he could feel the floor getting shinier. He did not have to look at it to know its difference from The Gray’s rugged pavement that he considered his bed. Out of exhaustion, he couldn’t tell if he was mopping with clean water or with his own sweat. He paused to catch his breath, and 38 | Scribbles
rested his head against the hard wall of the Armory, oblivious of what was across him: the blade of the honorable Sir Zane. It wasn’t until he bumped into the compartment that held it that he was reminded of his next task. He needed to shine it. He was never asked to sharpen it; the knights do it themselves. The sharpening of swords was too dangerous for young squires. Yet for the purpose of being commended for his exemplary actions, Drake still sharpened the blade after rinsing it with cold water and wiping it with a clean cloth. William, one of the luckier squires, accompanied Drake inside the Armory, hoping to accomplish a task of his own. The squire caught Drake sharpening Sir Zane’s blade; which he knew to be Drake’s way of overcoming insidious thoughts. “Drake! Is something the matter?” He asked. “I’m just trying to do my job, William.” Drake replied. “You’re doing it again. You could lose a hand or something.” William said as he tried to take the blade away from him. “I used to sharpen Sir Leo’s blade too. I’m used to it.” Drake shoved his hand away. “Be careful, Drake. You have to keep both hands intact if you want to remain a squire.” “I will.” “Would you hurry then? Don’t space out too much!” The other squire left the Armory after accomplishing his task of wiping a knight’s shield. Drake thought he could never understand William, nor could William ever understand him.. William was the second-born son of a nobleman. His father would toss their The Red Blade’s Apprentice | 39
leftovers at The Gray, where Drake would pick them up and eat them like a stray animal. William never knew that, and he never had to know. For he took a chance at the moment when they met as squires. They saw each other as equals. Their backgrounds meant nothing, and their value was only measured by their capacity for service. He put the sword back in its place and finished mopping the floor. He ran in a zigzag pattern, being as clumsy as ever and bumping into everything he came across. He picked up items along the way, which he, himself, dropped. He rushed towards Sir Zane’s helmet and wiped it with a brown cloth. After that, he held the weapons thoroughly and rearranged the swords, shields, and the maces according to size. His time working should’ve been long over, but he stayed as long as he could. It was the last moment he would allow himself to rest. From that point forward, he would only work harder. There was a lot of competition among squires; like a pack of hungry wolves, but with no sense of oneness. Still, he was the hungriest among them, and he knew that he could use that to his advantage. When dusk came, the knights assembled at the Armory. Amongst the rugged and shriveled lot was Sir Zane of The Red Blade. All the seasoned warriors gave way as he steadfastly passed the Armory. All the young squires stood behind the knights. “Did you clean my armor like I asked?” Sir Zane asked Drake. “Sire, I did everything you asked.” “What about my helmet?” “Sire.” Drake nodded.
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“My shield?” “I wiped it down, Sire.” He grinned. “Good. Where’s my blade?” “Right over here, Sire.” Drake said after pointing towards the blade next to Sir Zane’s. “That’s not mine.” The knight remarked. The squire was abashed. He held the blade by his hand, and felt that it wasn’t the one he sharpened. He held the one beside it, and his fingertips bled when he touched the steel. He delivered it to the knight, allaying his embarrassment. “Did you sharpen this?” The knight asked. “I did, Sire.” “What did I tell you about sharpening my blade? I’ll do it myself, Drake.” “My apologies, Sire. I just thought I’d-” “Lad, I know you don’t have rules at The Gray, but if you want to be my squire, you do everything that I say,” remarked the knight in a stern voice. The young squire remembered how they looked at them. Those who could not afford anything resorted to living on its shallow floor. They lived in hopes that noblemen would pass them at least every other day, and toss them their scraps for them to consume.
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Sir Zane put his sword in his sheath. The squire attempted to help him with his chainmail, but the young knight shoved him away. “Do you not know how to follow orders, lad?” Sir Zane asked. “You’re here to do as I say.” He added. Drake, spiritless, nodded while facing opposite Sir Zane. “Face me, Drake.” Sir Zane said. The squire raised his head, but he couldn’t look his mentor in the eye. “Step outside after this.” Zane scoffed. The knights went to formation before leaving the Armory. The squires were behind them, listening to the tactical strategy handed down by the commander. “I have a feeling tonight’s task will be dangerous.” William told Drake. Devastated by his encounter with the knight, Drake couldn’t respond. “What troubles you?” William asked. “Sir Zane asked me to step outside.” Drake replied. “At this time?” William was perplexed. “Drake, I’m beginning to think that being a squire is too dangerous for you.” “How many times do we have to converse about this?” Drake asked in reply. “As many times as it takes for you to get your thoughts aligned with reality.” “It’s never too dangerous for me!” Drake raised his voice. “I survived far more dangerous situations. You’d never understand because you’ve always lived your life in comfort.” William turned away, and they spent seconds in silence. Drake 42 | Scribbles
stuttered, intending to apologize, but William spoke before he could complete a word. “It’s my choice though isn’t it? To be here?” He said. “I had a life, but I’m here because I want to know what it’s like to struggle.” “Trust me.” Drake sighed. “You wouldn’t want that.” When he had heard that Sir Zane was about to exit the armory along with the other knights, Drake rushed towards him, stumbling upon his way. He followed the knight to the stairway, until they reached the training grounds. Sir Zane called out his fellow knight, Sir Leo. “Hand me your blade.” He said. Sir Leo unsheathed his blade and passed it to Sir Zane without questioning him. The sound of the unsheathed blade baffled Drake. Sir Zane tossed it in front of the squire. “Pick it up, Drake.” He said. “Sire, are we doing an exercise right now?” “I said pick it up.” The moment Drake picked up the blade, Sir Zane swooped in his direction. The knight pulled out his own sharpened blade and sliced towards Drake. The squire closed his eyes and held his blade steady. When it clashed with Sir Zane’s, he shivered but did not falter. Drake tripped on his feet and fell on his back. “Do you know why they call me Zane of The Red Blade?” “No, Sire.” Drake shakingly replied. “It’s because he bathed his sword with the enemy’s blood in the The Red Blade’s Apprentice | 43
last crusade.” Sir Leo remarked. The disheartened squire held the hilt of the sword tightly with his right hand. He wiped his misty eyes with his left and stood back up. He brushed the dirt away from his pants, before holding the hilt with both hands. William reached the training grounds just in time to witness the clash between the young knight and his own squire. “You’re out of your mind, Drake.” William whispered. “Still think you have what it takes to become a knight?” Sir Zane asked as he swung his blade with a drift of declaration. “I wouldn’t know until I become one, Sire.” Drake answered, clenching the hilt of his weapon, still dreaming of fending off the tenacious strike of the knight. Once more, Sir Zane forced him to the ground. “You’ll die before you reach the answer. War is not a training exercise, Drake.” He said. Young Drake rose for the second time, with a newfound dauntless countenance. “Then let me die a knight.” He raised his voice. “I’ll die anyway if I don’t become one.” He added in a calmer manner. Sir Zane let out a small breath. “Fine.” He said. “Put a dent on my armor and I’ll consider training you.” The grimace on Drake’s face inverted to a smirk, while Sir Leo’s eyes opened extensively. “You’re not serious are you, Zane?” He asked his fellow knight. “Stay out of this, Leo.” Zane replied. “It’s time he realizes this is not for him.” 44 | Scribbles
Despite his delight for the trial, Drake was filled with anxiety. He couldn’t move an inch. He threw small punches to his legs, asking them to listen. Zane, on the other hand, stood with resolute strength. Sir Leo would recognize Zane’s stance anywhere, the stance of an unwavering warrior. It was the stance that won him every battle. “Poor lad,” Sir Leo whispered to himself. William laid witness to the standoff between his friend and the hardened knight. As much as he wanted to believe in Drake, he couldn’t see any possible scenario that’ll do him any good. He looked at Drake, and saw him grinning, as if he wanted the test. Sir Leo noticed William sneaking around, “Squire!” He called him out. “Fetch me another blade, this one’s done.” William turned his head towards the knight slowly, unsure of what he meant. “Do I have to repeat myself? Your maids are not here to do it for you,” Sir Leo shouted. It rubbed him the wrong way, but he hoped to prove that he could change. William stood up and called his friend. “Show him what you’ve got, Drake!” He ran back to the Armory, knowing he was on the opposite side of an order. It was his turn to fetch someone something. Drake heard William and collected himself. He faced the knight the only way he knew. He took a step forward and felt the ground below him. He listened to the gust of wind passing through the metal plates of Sir Zane’s armor. He followed the sound of it and felt the atmosphere when he inhaled. He sipped the air, only to taste his own fears and recognize his weaknesses. He put himself in striking distance. The knight waited for him, ready to counterattack. Drake sliced through thin air, exposing himself. The knight aimed for his blade instead, splitting it into two. “You have a lot to learn.” Sir Zane told the young squire. William ran back to the training grounds to deliver the spare blade to Sir Leo. When he had gotten there, Drake was already The Red Blade’s Apprentice | 45
on his knees with his fist against the ground. “Let’s go, Zane. We’re already far behind.” Sir Leo said. Sir Zane ignored his fellow knight. “We start training when I return, Drake.” He told his squire. “But I didn’t dent your armor.” Drake replied. “You don’t know that.” Sir Zane said. Sir Zane turned his back on the squire and walked with Sir Leo. By the time they were at a distance where the squires couldn’t hear them, Sir Leo asked the younger knight, “Did he really put a dent on your armor?” “You’ve been a knight for more than a decade and there is still something that you don’t see.” Sir Zane replied. “Really? And what is that?” “The boy grew up in a human junkyard. He’s hungry. This is all that he has.” “You’re trying to compare him to yourself?” Sir Leo asked. “Just because you both lived in poverty does not mean that you’re tougher than us.” “Well? How many of you have I surpassed?” Sir Zane quipped. “Cocky lad.” The older knight patted him on the back, letting out a soft laugh. He smirked at the prodigy. “Seems like Zane of The Red Blade finally found the right apprentice.” He said. Sir Zane kept an expressionless face, and kept walking in a
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nonchalant manner. On the training grounds, William came running towards Drake who had his chin up and his eyes wide open. “You’re gonna do it, are you Drake?” He asked. “Yes.” “I apologize, Drake.” “Why do you apologize?” “We’ve had our differences. I know you’ve had it hard, while I lived all my life in comfort.” William wiped his face. “Don’t apologize, William.” Drake paused. “In fact, you’ve respected me more than anyone here.” “You know this castle accepts everyone from all economic backgrounds right?” William asked. “I know. But sometimes I think it’s more than that.” “At least you know you’ll prove them wrong now.” William grinned. Drake let out a soft laugh; the most genuine he’s ever had since the passing of his mother. “You’re really gonna do it!” William repeated. “The first blind knight and survivor of The Gray! What will the kingdom call you then, Drake?” Drake closed his eyes and listened to the call of the ravens. He felt the wind on his skin and smelled the forthcoming thunderstorm.
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He tasted the seed of success on the tip of his tongue. “I’ll leave that to the witnesses.” Drake replied to his friend. “I have an idea.” William said as he recalled witnessing the actions of Drake against the terrific blade of Sir Zane. “Do tell.” “Sir Drake of The Four Senses, apprentice of The Red Blade.”
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Martin Flores
Martin Flores is a writer and a student journalist who is currently taking up BS Advertising Management in De La Salle University. His first writing experience was at a workshop from Get It Write before proceeding to participate in different writing organizations.
Darcy Encarnacion
Darcy Encarnacion is a student who’s taking a double major course in BS Advertising and AB Psychology. However, she’s planning to shift in AB Psychology, hoping to focus her attention in studying cognitive behavior and biological psychology. She deemed Gudetama as her “soul animal” both because of her love for eggs and being “lutang” most of the time. She also loves reading horror stories late at night, but can’t seem to handle watching horror movies without covering her face.
Ruk Guevara
Rukmini Guevara is a student under the College of Business taking up Interdisciplinary Business Studies. She’s also a writer in the making and an advocate for women empowerment. Rukmini enjoys writing self-help articles that challenges people’s mentality and drives their sense of meaning.
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Trisha Liscano
Trisha Liscano is a student of De La Salle University from the College of Liberal Arts, taking up Behavioral Sciences. A big part of her is greatly drawn to celestial beings and believes that she will be able to have a conversation with the Universe. Other than that, she is just someone who is in love with playlists, indie, rainbows, pastel skies, and her favorite meal from Bloemen -- siomai rice.
MJ Abalos
Mary Joy P. Abalos is on her way to completing a degree in Bachelor of Arts in Literature, majoring in Creative Writing. On some days, she sleeps thrice a day. On some days, she doesn’t sleep at all. Most days, she’s holed up in her room laughing at chonky cats.
Ian Holgado
Adrian Neil C. Holgado is currently taking his undergraduate degree in Bachelor of Arts in Psychology minoring in Organizational and Social Systems Development. Although he’s not a mind reader, he spends his quarantine time understanding reality among people and repeatedly telling himself “this pandemic will end eventually”.
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Acknowledgements Writers’ Guild would like to thank the following for their continuous support in allowing the organization to pursue the release of the Scribbles Magazine: Mr. Eros Atalia, the dearly departed Mr. Mario Mendez, and the rest of the Department of Literature for supporting the events and activities of Writers’ Guild; Ms. Franz Louise Santos, Ms. Jeanne Tan, and Ms. Ma. Manuela Agdeppa, and the Student Media Office; Ms. Lounelle Godinez, Mr. Lorenzo Mercado, Ms. Alexandra Simone Enriquez, and Ms. Renzelle Polido, the Office of Student Leadership, Involvement, Formation, and Empowerment, and the Council of Student Organizations for guiding the organization in the approval process of the Scribbles publication; Ms. Clarissa Militante, Mr. Patrick James Martin, Ms. Sylvelyn Jo Almanzor, and Mr. Ronald Baytan for being our panelists for the Scribbles Writers’ Workshop 2020, Ms. Nelpha Triño, Ms. Erika Santelices, Ms. Caitlienne Juan, Mr. Paul Raymond Robles, Ms. Althea Catipon, and Ms. Daisy Dacanay for guiding the Executive Board A.Y. 2019-2020 to their transitioning; the entire Writers’ Guild Executive Board for A.Y. 2019-2020; the Writers’ Guild Junior Officers for A.Y. 2019-2020; the members of Writers’ Guild for A.Y. 2019-2020; the Scribbles Members who have shown persistence in their growth as young student writers. Finally, and most importantly, to all the students, friends, and faculty who have shown their support to help Writers’ Guild achieve their vision—to redefine writing.
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