BALAY: The Westernian Advocate Literary Folio

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97 Gerard Zairus Gupit

98 Vanity Mirror ni Faith Valen Villanueva 5:00 AM, Press to Turn Off. 6:30 AM, Press to Turn O—*click* 7:00 AM, Press t-*click* “Shit.” Hindi pa bukas ang talukap ng mga mata, sinasampal na ng ngimay at ginaw ang aking katawan sa pagmamadaling maabutan ang first subject. Suminghot na lang ako sa ulam at sumakol ng isang sandok na kanin para lang may maipanlaman sa sikmura kong pasabay-sabay at nagkukumahog na buhayin pa ang aking internal organs habang hindi pa huli ang lahat. Chine-check kong maigi at paulit-ulit na parang isang sirang plaka kung sarado na ang gasul kahit hindi ko man lang nalasap ang init na ipinabatid nito sa dapat sana’y agahan ko, ang gripo kung bukas pa ‘pagkat madadali na naman ako ng Tiyahin ko tiyak sa susunod na singilan. Ganoon siguro talaga ‘pag praning at sigurista. Habang kinakandado ko ang mga pinto, mamamataan mo naman sa hindi kalayuan ang agang-agang bungad na mga alagad ata ni Satanas, walang ibang ginawa kundi kumuda at mag-narrate ng buhay mo na tila ba ikaw ang bida sa isang cliched na pelikula. “Ayan si Dane, panganay na anak ni Ka Roger. Sa UB ‘yan napasok, hindi ko maalala kung anong course, basta hindi engineering. Balak niyan ata maging report—“.

99 Lumingon ako sa gawi nila at huminto siya sa pakikipagpulong. Nakaramdam siguro ng hiya. Silang mga nag-umpukan at tinitira ang ininit na pansit kagabi na bigay ng napilitang kapitbahay. Nakakabingi ang halos araw-araw na pakikibaka sa mga gawain, immune na siguro kung tatawagin ang sariling bersiyon ko ng “everyday routine”. Madami na akong pinagsawaan, pero hindi ang mga kantang dumadaloy sa aking mga tainga kahit pa iisa na lang sa earphones ko ang gumagana. Isasagad ko pa ang volume hanggang sa hindi ko na mamalayan na nakalampas na pala ako sa dapat kong babaan. “Manong, para ho.” Ayoko na sana umulit pa pero para talagang nabibingi na ang drayber sa biyaheng ito. Parang wala siyang naririnig kaya iniumpog ko ang mga daliri ko sa kisame ng jeep, wala pa ring tumugon. Mahigit isang kilometro na ang layo ko sa overpass na palatandaan kong babaan, buti na lang may nakaramdam. “Manong, para daw.” “Intay lang sa tabi tayo. Hindi dito ang babaan.” Hassle na naman. Minadali ko ang pagbaba dahil tiyak aabutin na naman ako ng siyam-siyam sa pag-akyat pa lamang ng overpass. Natutukso akong gawin ang ipinagbabawal na teknik na lumiban sa kalsada kaso ayaw ko naman mapahiya para lang mapadali ang buhay. Gusto ko sanang tumawid pero hindi naman puwede. “Ooops. Maya ineng. Hintayin niyo matapos ang flag ceremony. Late na kayo.” “’Pag minamalas ka nga naman. Pambihira.” Parami kami ng parami na nagkukumpulan sa labas ng gate ng school. Mabuti na lang hindi ako nag-iisa. Nakita ko si Chelsea, tumutulo pa ang buhok habang naghihintay rin na makapasok sa gate. May hawak siyang papel na puro highlights. “Huy, Chelsea. Basa na likod mo. Nilublob mo lang ata ‘yang

100 buhok mo sa tabo eh.” “Gaga. Nagmamadali ako. Hindi ako naka-review kagabi. Semis natin sa major ha.” “Ano ba kasing ginagawa mo pa sa gabi?” “Oo na, pokpok na ang frenny mo at may kapuyatan.” “Aba’y sana all na lang.” “Ikaw kasi, tatanda kang dalaga niyan. Tama na ‘yang kakapanuod mo ng serial killer movies, kaya sinasabihan kang intimidating e, daming nabo-borkot sa’yo.” “Magbanlaw ka muna ng ayos, saka na ako a-attend ng seminar sa’yo. Halika na nga. Bembang na naman tayo sa Proctor.” Ilang yabag pa kaya ang ilalaan ko rito bago pa ako makarating sa classroom. Ako na lang yata ang nagi-imagine na what if escalator na lang lahat ng hagdan sa bawat building at slide na lang pababa para hindi nakakapagod. Huli man daw at magaling, nauna pa rin akong matapos sa exams habang patuloy na naghuhuntahan sa likuran ang iba at animo’y nago-orasiyon, tinatawag lahat ng santo maging ang kampon ng mga espiritung may sapat na alam sa pagsasagot ng mga patlang. Naupo ako sa hagdan, kung saan hinihintay kong makatapos si Chelsea at ang barkada ko. Ganoon lagi ang pasikot-sikot namin tuwing exams. Kasama ko na siya simula kinder pa lang at talagang makikita mo na ang laking pinagbago niya sa anyo pa lang, samantalang ako hindi ko alam kung may nagbago ba o kung may dapat nga bang baguhin pa. “Ang hirap ng exam. Na-stress brain cells ko.” Wika niya habang nagkakamot ng ulo palabas ng pinto. “Ah, meron ka?” pabiro kong sagot. “Matatanggap ko since consistent honor student ka naman since then. Pero d’un sa beauty and brains na kasabihan, ako na

101 ‘yung beauty.” “Loka. Tara na mag-review.” “Mamaya na ako, sis. Manunuod muna akong bagong vlog ni Heart Evangelista. Bet ko bumili ng pang-skin care ko mamaya. Naubusan ako e. Sama ka? Tara sa Watsons, mamaya.” “Sige, may bibilhin rin naman ako.” “Taray. Sige, friends that Watsons, together, glow up, together.” “Puro ka Watsons. Nagbasa ka na ba ng pointers?” “Hindi pa, kaya nga nand’yan ka. Labyu, bff!” Hindi pa ako nakakasulyap sa mga hinighlight ko kagabi, hinablot na ng luka ang hawak kong notes at reviewer para sa sunod na exam. Buti na lang nakapagbasa na ako kagabi pa lang, kasi wala naman akong ibang pinagkakaabalahan kundi ang pagtutor ko sa mga kapatid ko at paggawa ng gawaing bahay. Bahay, School, Bahay, School, repeat lang naman routine ko. “Huy, ano naman iniisip mo d’yan? Pawis mo oh, tagaktak na. Kaya ka iniiw—sorry.” Ngumiti lang ako na parang hindi ako nakaramdam ng hiya bigla at binaliwala na lang ang mga salitang iyon dahil si Chelsea lang naman ‘yon at hindi siya katulad ng iba, naniniwala ako. Natapos na naman ang araw na wala akong naiaambag sa mundo bukod sa pagdadala ng bigat na pasanin at sama ng loob buhat nung talikuran ako n’ung pinaka-unang taong naging tahanan ko, si Namtaan. Hindi ko na halos maalala ang mukha niya pero ‘yung mga salitang iniwan niya, andito pa rin ang bakas. *ringing*

102 “Hello, babe. Hello, maniwala ka sakin. Wala akong gusto sa nakakadiring iyon. Yuck. Maniwala ka naman, please. Para din sa atin ‘yung ginagawa ko. Ginagamit ko lang siya para makapasa tayo sa mga exams. Ako bahala sa’yo.” Nakalimutan niya ata na madalas akong nag-aaral sa banyo dahil tahimik. Hindi ko naman inasahan na ‘yun ang kikitil sa katahimikan na inaasam ko. Ginugol ko ang lahat ng oras ko sa pagtatrabaho bilang isang library assistant sa eskwelahan para na rin makabawas ako sa bayarin at gastusin sa bahay. Kung saan naroroon ang tahimik, naroon din dapat ako. Minabuti ko na lang na iwasan ang mga dapat na iwasan at magkunwari na wala akong nasaksihan dahil ayaw ko naman kaawaan. “Huy, tara na sa Watsons. Gabi na. Mag-out ka na.” “Sige, hintayin mo ako sa labas.” Inayos ko ang salamin ko at nagbilang ng kaunting barya sa pitaka, sinisuguradong kakayanin pa at makakaabot pa ako pauwi kahit kapag ako ang lulan parang bumibigat ang angkas at nagmamahal na. Kita ko ang pagningning at paglibot ng mga mata ni Chelsea sa bawat sulok ng Watsons na para bang isa siyang fairy na may angking ganda at mahika na mabighani lahat ng titingin sa kaniya. Sinusuri niyang maigi ang label ng bawat skin care product na kukuhanin niya. Samantala, ako nandito na nakapila sa counter at pinagmamasdan siya sa hindi kalayuan, nagiisip kung anong potion ang hinihithit ng mga tao dito para bumili nang bumili ng mga product na idinidikta ng beauty vloggers, daw. “Excuse me, Miss? Ano pong sa inyo?” “Strepsils at White flower po ‘yung pinakamaliit po sana.” “May value card po?”

103 “Meron po.” Hindi ko alam kung bakit naani ang mga kaklase kong maamoy ang halimuyak ng White flower sa room, air conditioned pa naman ang lab namin tapos parang sinasamaan sila ng pakiramdam kapag inilalabas ko na ito sa bag. “Ilang taon ka na ba, Dane? For God sake, pang-manang na ‘yang pamango mo. Order ka na lang sakin ng biktorya sikret baka ako’y natutuwa pa sa’yo.” sabi ng kaklase ko. Ewan ko ba, minsan pakiramdam ko na hindi na ata naayon ang aking mga gawain sa kagustuhan ng iba. Minsan nahihiya na rin ako na ilabas kahit na ‘yun lang ‘yung lunas sa mga sakit na iniinda ko na kahit reseta sa Generics ay hindi na tatablan. “Ayan na ang panganay na anak ni Ka Roger… oh pare, gabi na ata ang anak mo, saan naman ‘yan nagpunta?” bungad ng mga tambay na wala namang naiambag sa buhay ko kundi ituro ang bahay namin kapag may dumadating na parcel sa bahay. Hindi ko na lang pinansin at dali-dali kong sinarhan ang gate na tila walang narinig. Sumilip lang saglit sa kwarto ng mga kapatid para i-check kung humihinga pa sila, as usual, nagbabangayan na naman sila—enough na ‘yun para malaman kong okay sila. *beep beep* “Meralco bill sent you an email.” “Globe at home bill updates.” Hindi pa nakakapirme sa tabi, may isipin na naman ngayong gabi. Hindi na mahalaga kung hanggang kelan ang due date o kung lampas na sa bigay na oras, ‘yung pagkukunan ang malimit na problema. Minsan sa sobrang hiya ko na sa paghingi, ako na lang rin nagbabayad gamit ang mga napaghirapan ko sa trabaho, kahit na karampot lang iyon, sinisugurado kong may mapupuntahan kahit hindi na para sa akin, kundi para sa kanila. “Oh Nak, iyo ‘yan ha.” Narinig kong bulong ng aking ama sa mga kapatid kong naabutan kong abot-tengang sumasahod ang

104 palad sa biyaya ng aking Ama na nakatama nanaman siguro sa taya. “Oh ito sa’yo, ipambili mo ng gusto mo.” Pagewang-gewang na ipinaabot ang kaniyang suwerte sa anak niyang ipinanganak sa kamalas-malasang araw kung tawagin ng iba. Tumango ako bilang pagtugon. Alam kong niloloko ko na naman ang sarili ko para ma-imagine kung may patutunguhan na naman ba itong salaping ito. Marahil meron, pero hindi para lang sa akin. Kinabukasan, nagtungo ako sa Bayad center para magbayad ng bills, napadaan na naman ako sa Watsons, natutukso akong pumila at maki-osyoso sa mga naghahanap ng magandang shade para sa kanilang mga kutis subalit hindi nagpadaig ang konsensya kong gamitin na naman ang perang galing sa chambang panalo mula sa taya para ipambayad sa lecheng bills na ‘yan. “When kaya?” napabuntong hininga na lang ako habang lumalabas sa pinto ng store. *beep beep* Text message from Bunso. “Ate, may meeting daw mamayang 1PM ang mga parents. Punta ka, hindi ko makukuha ang card ng ako lang. Ty.” Ganito na siguro ang bersikulo ng buhay ko—nagmamadali at paulit-ulit na parang hindi na natatapos at wala kang karapatang huminto. “Magandang Hapon po sa ating mga butihing magula—. Yes, ineng, kaninong guardian ka?” “kay Daina po, Ma’am. Magandang hapon po.” Nagmukha akong kontrabida sa eksena, lahat sila nagbubulungan at nakatitig mula ulo hanggang paa sa aking pagpasok. “Sige, ‘neng. Maupo ka na.”

105 Matiwasay ang aking pagdating, sana’y ganoon din ang kanilang pagtanggap. “Ang bata pa, Mars pero may anak na,” Sabi ng aleng naka- turban na floral at todo paypay gamit ang abaniko na galing sa kandidato noong nakaraang halalan. “Oo nga, D’yos ko. Mga kabataan talaga ngay’on.” Sagot naman ng kaniyang kausap na animo’y sampayan ang leeg sa daming diyamanteng kwintas na nakapulupot sa kaniya. Tumingin ako ng bahagya at iniangat ang aking ID lace, ayaw ko na sana silang patulan subalit kung hahayaan ko lang sila, nakakaawa naman kaming kapos sa ganda na daig pa ang may pamilyang binubuhay na. May mga araw na sinusubukan kong mag-adapt ng mga uso. Na-try kong mag-make up kahit tinutukso ako at later on, ginagawang katatawanan ang mukha. Sinubukan kong magsuot ng mga off shoulder pero para naman akong robot, miski skin care, walang talab, kahit na anong gawin ko nagiging katatawanan. “Nag-blush on ka ba o baka nasampal ka? Bakit gan’yan ang kilay mo parang busog na linta? May babae bang may bigote?” Sinusubukan ko namang makisabay kahit iba ‘yung lulan ko. Medyo gato pero matatag sa bawat alon. “Kelan kaya ako?” iniisip ko habang nakahimlay. “In your dreams…” may bumubulong na boses. Sa pagmulat ko hinangad kong makakita ng salamin na maraming ilaw na para bang may sarili akong make-up room sa kwarto. Pumikit ako at nakita ko kung gaano kaliwanag na pwede naman pala, may salamin at may mala-rosas pang bulaklak sa bawat tabi, nakikita ko sila nakapalibot at namamangha sa ganda ko sa kauna-unahang pagkakataon. Hindi ko sila marinig pero nakikita ko ang ekspresiyon nila.

106 May nakangiti, gulat at walang emosiyon. Sumilip si Chelsea at ngumingiti na parang baliw ang luka. “Ang ganda naman ng bessywap ko.” Biglang sumingit si Namtaan, bakit kaya ito’y biglang naparito? Siguro nakaabot na sa kaniya ang magandang balita na gumanda na ako kaya magpupumilit itong bumalik sa akin ngayon. Nakakilig naman. Pakiramdam ko ang haba ng hair ko. Marahil hindi sila makapaniwala sa panaginip na ito na nagkakatotoo. Ang ganda ng suot ko parang bagong ahon sa mundo, bago at mukhang may kamahalan ito. Hindi ko sila marinig pero alam nilang masaya ako pero may agaw eksena na namang nagna-narrate ng buhay ko. Sige, pagbibigyan kita dahil, ngayon bida na ako at alam kong kagandahan ko ang ipapamalita mo. “’Yan si Dane, masipag na bata, panganay na anak ni Ka Roger. Hindi ko alam na maganda pala siya ‘pag naayusan. Sa UB ‘yan napasok, hindi ko maalala kung anong course, basta hindi engineering. Balak niya sanang maging reporter, kaso hindi na siya nagising…..”

107 Clark Alduz Viray

108 The roses, I dance over in an empty ballroom by Katherine Nicole Lontok The theater watch as I return as the same broken dancer, and if murals could make face, they would’ve scorned my current state. Stained glasses painted the entire room with a comforting brown hue, embossing me with a temporary burn, helping me stay warm as I colored roses in the empty ballroom. How it hurts. The graze of these thorns, and with each swirls, they mirror the emptiness in the rhythm while I unfold with every pivot the pandora of broken melodies— looped in my tone-deaf stereo. Perhaps even my nightmares can harmonize with these marble tiles, which coldness reeks of dying soles.

109 Angelo Mendenilla Bahay-bahayan ni Gerard Zairus Gupit Kahit anong lakas ng yanig ay hindi matitibag ang balangkas, tunay namang kay tatag ng pundasyong inilagay. Dinaig pa ng tibay ng dingding ang mga binting nanlalambot sa pagod, at walang palya sa pagkatog. At halos yumuko na sa hiya ang telebisyon sa nasasaksihang palabas na ako ang bida — walang patalastas, walang tigil, buong magdamag ay tuloy ang aliw. Sa pagtatapos nitong pagtatanghal, hindi kinayang lunudin ng mga wangis sa pader ang naghihingalong andap ng halos pundido ko nang ilaw— sa palaro ni amang amang gabi-gabing uhaw sa linamnam ng aking munting laman.

110 You made me lose when we played hide and seek so you can remain hidden, patiently waiting in a corner ‘cause you no longer wish to be found. -Joviallyn Belegal Photo | Joviallyn Belegal

111 Gerard Zairus Gupit

112 Sculptures and their red endings by Nixon De Villa Yellow is the tint of my once white robe draped over a frail, sweating body. It’s no surprise, no umbrella is ever thick enough to save a cloth whose fabric is constantly frayed and fried by the sun’s cruel heat. Even my skin is blotted with crimson dirt draping on my robe after years of walking door-to-door, city-to-city. But no amount of sunburn will impede my mission. With soles cluttering on rugged roads, I scanned a still neighborhood for doors I haven’t tapped yet. The last house I went into was a rough one—the owner, a middle- aged businessman stranger to anything but money, was a pain to deal with. It’s almost a miracle how I was welcomed into his red- bricked home during his couch potato hours, as I could see from unfinished wine and chips scattered as table mess. I adjusted my tie to hug an almost worn out collar, ran sweaty palms to soothe creases in my long-sleeved polo, and sighed hoping the next person had space in their brain for the good word I’m about to impart. I am equally impressed and disturbed by how I haven’t died of boredom yet from repeating the same routine for more than half my life. Perhaps when you act out of your calling, motivation rushes in naturally. Prior to taking on this sacred journey, life was a carnival of rejections. I knew I was a

113 burnt matchstick in a box of fresh ones; and the world is never kind to the unusual—it only parades what it is used to seeing and dumps the rest of us in the alleys. While other kids wasted leisure time in fields and swings, with their faces painted with running snot, I would rest under any tree shade I could find. My eyes were ironically not in good terms with light. So were my ears with sounds. Had I not avoided noises from an unforgiving crowd in the classroom, or the market, or the park, simply anywhere silence dies, I might have gone deaf a long time ago. Heightened senses only impress in fiction, they are hell in real life. Yet, this physical paradox is one of the simplest pieces in the puzzle that I am. Coming-of-age rushed in like a jeep on a rural side road, slapping me awake that even in hobbies, I had no peers. Jocks held bats and balls, musicians held strings and sheets, geeks had comic books and video games, smarter ones dwelled in the library—at the same time I was in my backyard with a rusty machete and a freshly fetched block of narra. Carving has been my escape route for longer I can tell. It was a talent, remembering how impressive I molded clay cars and reptiles in my nursery room. Every time I was put in time out for rightfully and deservingly pushing away bastards who had no notion of my personal space, those soft unshaped bars patted my shoulders saying I was never wrong. These hands seem to know the right twists and turns a figure needs to be perfect and haven’t changed that much, only as I grew older, they grew tired of clay’s soft nature. And there began a career from my passion. Years really do fly in minutes when life is infallibly uneventful. The backyard that witnessed all the teenage rage and frustrated stabs against wood blocks turned into a freelance carver’s haven and for the first time, I felt like the universe that has ignored me for so long finally extended welcoming arms toward me for realizing a purpose I never knew I had. This is the only thing I was good at. And this is what I will be known for. After tedious months of talking to faces whose wooden mouths

114 can’t respond, my shed welcomed its first customer on a cozy December afternoon. He knocked. I said come in. Meters across the dividing space between my hammock and door, I could see the ear-splitting grin he was flashing perhaps from the thrill of admiring my craft. “How may I help you, sir?” I said in full grace, knowing this is one of the few times I actually started an exchange of words. The only response he gave was a slightly disconnected smirk. I did not have anything to say. A customer’s silence wasn’t in my book of planned scenarios. “I am here to help you,” he uttered, almost ethereally. Again, something off my script, leaving me with no choice but to wait for him to carry the rest of the deal. “For centuries, I hast lent my hands to the likes of thee. Loathed and lost. Eccentric and empty. Gratefulness from those I helped escape this desolate Earth decorate this vessel of thine. Do what thou ought to from my offer, and grasp the freedom thou fancy forever,” he spoke. I have always been bad at words. I once broke a friend’s nose who told me to break a leg right before a soccer game, thinking he was wishing me to fail. But this man in a blazing red coat, whose lines were too blurry to read, spitting phrases twisted in the deepest metaphors, enchanted me as if he was speaking with a harp in his tongue. “But this is a contract devoid of pretentious intent. While the moon’s three rounds of compass over a slumbering night sky appears, return to me with the price I beseech of thee. Go thy way, heed, and a reward shall be given,” he said. He ambled towards my dumbfounded face and whispered the sole thing he wanted me to offer him. The request was unusual, but understandable. Might be hard, but doable. Three nights after he left the shop with no farewell, not even his fingerprints in any of my works, I began the mission I needed

115 to complete for my reward. Whatever it is that is waiting for me, I had nothing to lose anyway. I knocked. They said come in. The first door that opened for me wasn’t the one I tried first. In fact it might be the twelfth—the house of an old maiden whose head shone with silver strands. “Oh. You must be one of those,” she welcomed me slowly with her old voice about to crack. By “those”, I knew immediately what she meant. A glance is all it takes for me to be mistaken as one of those religious missionaries with hair caked in liquid pomade. On the surface, I cannot deny the silly similarities. But my purpose goes way beyond theirs, for I do not move out of the words of someone who only exists in scriptures and ancient fictional books. I actually talked to my client. They haven’t. I rested my sling bag on top of her dusty cupboard right beside a yellowed picture of her and her husband, who, judging from the incense at her room’s corner, already transcended to the other side. How lonely it is to be the lone survivor of a lifetime’s vow, death surely did them part. I opened my bag to retrieve things I needed with a slight smirk knowing I can actually help her move on from the torment of solitude. I talked. She listened. I explained. For some reason, she was then hesitant to believe, a flush of doubt with a hint of fear began filling her crusty face. But through my desperate pleas and intent- driven will, I managed to finish what I ought to do and left her courteously with a gracious hat-on-the-chest bow. Her face spelt enlightenment, mine was filled with fulfillment. I beat the deadline on the deal and now my efforts are not in vain. But it never came. I was sure I heard him right, my ears never failed me, and was certain I did everything perfectly according to instructions. Have I been fooled by a flurry of words? Only losers would accept that. I shall prove my worth to that man, and insist on this mission until I

116 get my reward. That night was long but morning still came. I returned to the metro for yet another attempt at completing this adventure, still donned in that crusty sleeved polo, shoulders still strapped by that worn-out sling bag. After an hour of being surrounded by seemingly-empty residences, I finally came across one where I sensed signs of life. I heard voices. I knocked. They asked, “who’s there?” in a thunderous tone. I merely responded with another tap. Nobody has bothered to ask me who I am, not even myself. Judging from a festival of screams and curses and all kinds of foul noises, it seems to be the harbor of a couple on the verge of divorce. It might come soon, hopefully. I tried my luck for the third time, knowing that hearing some sacred words might be the defusing plier in the ticking time bomb that is their relationship. And there came out a man in his 30s, gesturing me to come inside. I did, and wondered where his partner was. “She locked herself in her room. My apologies for the commotion,” he uttered. Same old, same old. I talked. He listened. I explained. As I went deeper and further into my speech, his masculine facade began to melt into that of an anxious child. I do not know what it is with people, why are they so afraid of my talent? As I stepped away from that home, if one can even call it that at this point, I heard his wife shriek. The fighting must have recommenced, which was strange because I left the man with peace and satisfaction in his spirit. Perhaps there really was no hope for their story. Just a year after my first and the job started going downhill as people became more and more hesitant to open their abodes to strangers like me. Maybe it’s the cold Christmas breeze because they don’t want to chill their skin. It could be all the smoke from the road’s car fest. Or they could just be paranoid from murmurs

117 about a madman rounding the town in terror. It was the beginning of a full-out drought for my routine and soon enough, until decades to come, silence was the only echo of my knocks. I guess everything just went back full circle to its natural state. The tattoo of an outcast imprinted onto me by this fate sunk deep not only on my skin, but found its way into my veins and infiltrated my whole system and grew into a curse I could never dispel. The wall between me and the other kids never really fell. It only relocated itself into the division between me and the people whose welcome I would never taste. Mocking stares and laughter never left, they only come now from unfamiliar lips every time I tread the streets exhausted. Purpose was not enough. Purpose and effort still fell short. Now that I ran out of places to run to, despair seems to be the last resort before I officially become the personification of failures. I knocked. They peek through a glass opening, eyeball scanning every inch of me, and there come clicks of a double-bolt lock to elude the truth I carry in my bag. Whoever that man is must have won with his false promises. Arms uneven from carrying a bag too long, hands calloused from carving, fists swollen, scars all over crimson-stained skin, still lost and loathed, drained and disturbed, eccentric and empty—proof enough that the reward of freedom never really came. But no matter how many doors get shut in front of me, I will never quit opening the eyes of these ignorant lambs, even if it means gouging them out with a knife. I’ve been carving limbs for years anyway, rending flesh is a piece of cake.

118 Nananatiling dahop ang aking isipan sa mga ingay at laban miski na idinaos ko noon pa lamang ang aking kabataan sa gitna ng lansangan. -Angel Joy Liwag Photo | Elaine Mapagdalita

119 Israel Martin de Chavez

120 Young man, play me a sad tune by Clark Alduz Viray and I will close my eyes and let my mind wander as I swim with the melancholic notes that remind me of my own lonely yesteryears. For young lad, you see, nostalgia is a bitter pill, I need your somber melody, that I may reminisce without shedding a tear. I guess I was young once, not long ago but even then, this soul has already been restless and empty, that I sought the company of far too many strangers to feel whole, to be not alone. Only to end as an enigma, even to myself. I’m a whore who sold my music to everyone, who is willing to hear my lonely musings, in exchange of a fleeting touch— a warm body on a chilly night. Please, don’t stop playing, even though your delicate fingers are aching, yearning for a quick respite from the worn out keys of that aged piano, that I used to play back when these ears can still discern the right notes, and these hands still knows no pain, but only affection when they kiss the same ivories. I know this crowded place is no place for a man consumed by his regrets of what his time on earth has become. But son, thank you for playing that bittersweet concerto. On my next sojourn on this cobweb covered tavern, and if my dementia laden eyes, failed to recognize your youthful face, Please, young man, play the same sad tune so my heart will remember what my mind will surely forget.

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122 Ang Pangarap na Samgyup ni Alyssa An Dibuho ni Angelo Mendenilla Ina! Siyap ng animo’y kapipisang sisiw— na mga batang may tangang plastik. Bitbit, papalapit sa maliit na kubong sapin-sapin ng kartong binalot na rin ng pangambang dulot ng tren. Ngusong nanghihilamos sa masangsang na amoy ang lalapat sa pisngi ng madrastang pagal na sa pagtakal ng tubig sa kalapit na ilog. Anak! bungad sa pinapalaking batugan, walang muwang, nangunguna ang tiyan sa pagbati— tila may laman ang loob na masayang pinagkakaisahan ang bakanteng espasyong hangin lang ang may pakinabang. Ni walang saplot ang mga paa’ng yapak na tinatahak ang batuhan. Habang lumiliit ang puwang ng mga hakbang ay lumalayo ang ina’ng tinatanaw ay nabubura. Wala na pala. Huli na para sa tirang karne’ng aming pagsasaluhan.

123 PC4 ni Faith Valen Villanueva Dibuho ni Israel Martin de Chavez Tumitibok ang ulo ko nang umuwi ako sa bahay. Bukod sa hinampas ako ng kawayan habang papauwi sa bahay, naabutan kasi ako ng nanay ko na nasa braso ng isang mababang puno sa likod bahay. Umuwi akong puro dagta at punit ang damit at umiiyak dahil nakaalpas ang aking alagang pitik. Sinisinok na parang lasing ang ganap ko sa bakuran. Tulala ngunit naalimpungatan ako nang dumampi ang malamig na royal sa lalamunan ko. Para bang nagsasayawan ang bawat alon at kumpas sa aking lalamunan matapos isalang ng stainless na baso ang likido sa aking bibig. Parang nakalimutan ko kung anong ginagawa ko.

124 “May bukas pa naman. Hanap na lang kami ng bago.” Kinabukasan, parang ibinawi ako ng kaban ng mga anghel sa pinakamalas na araw ng aking kahapon. Isang kahon na punong- puno ng pitik ang aming nahagilap. Tuwang-tuwa akong umuwi habang ipinagmamayabang ang makukulay at tila pagod sa laban na mga gagamba. Fast forward. Hanggang sa sumikat na si Bieber, naging ekperto na kami sa pagha hunting ng mga ito. Isang araw, may bagong bukas sa aming barangay, animo’y mga taong naninirahan sa kinabukasan ang nasa loob. May kompyuter at sandamakmak na tao ang pumipila rito. Naririnig mo ang kalansing ng mga baryang tila kinupit pa yata sa bulsa ng pantalon ng kanilang amain. “Boss, pa-extend pc4”, ani bata. Nakita ko kung paano namatay ang halaman sa pagkain lamang ng isang zombie, araw at gabi. Di naglaon ay natuto rin akong masaulo ang keys sa pudpod at hirap pindutin na keyboard na ito. Ginagawang araw ang gabi hanggang sa hindi na mawari, kung uuwi pa ba o hindi. Kasi nandyan naman si Cena ang tagasaing ng kulot na pansit canton na kahit malabnaw ay nakakapawid pa rin ng gutom at uhaw. Hanggang isang araw, bigla na lamang sumalubong ang yerong harang at hindi na muling naitaas ang maingay na yerong panangga at pangsara sa mga nagnanasang mauna. Umuwi na lamang ako, lulan ng isang kakaibang pampasaherong sasakyan. May signage na nakatala ngunit hindi ko mabasa. Pero nakita ko kung paano kumunot ang noo ng mga nasa loob nito. Teka, may ginawa ba ako? Parang nakalimutan ko ang ginagawa ko. Isang sasakyan na tila pamilyar sa aking kabataan. May harang

125 ang bawat upuan at tila pagod ang mga lulan sa naging paglaban. Binabawi na yata ng aking mga anghel ang pinakaswerteng araw nang sandaling makaramdam ang aking lalamunan ng pagkatuyo’t hindi malaman kung anong nararamdaman at tila namamanhid ang aking dila. Pagdilat ng aking mata, umiiyak ang aking ina at kapatid sa sasakyan habang hindi ako makagalaw sa aking kinalalagyan. “May bukas pa naman. Hanap na lang kami ng bago.” Sabi ng kuya ko sa kanyang katawagan. Nakita ko ulit ang mababang sanga ng puno noong aking kabataan, ngunit iba na ito dahil tila naging bahagdan pataas. May tao sa isang gate. Hindi naman hayop pero parang tagapag-bantay. Nagpipindot siya na parang katulad nang nasa tindahan ni Cena, pero walang kulot na pansit. “Titingin ka na lang ba dyan? Papa-extend ka ba o hindi na?”

126 When they asked him, a forlorn poet, “Why do you pen words that speak of loneliness?” With a bitter smile, he answered, “‘Cause all my life, sadness and abandonment, has been my only loyal companion.” -Clark Alduz Viray Photo | Gerard Zairus Gupit

127 Nicole Beatriz Rosales

128 Anniversary gift ni Jane Therese Banaag Maingat na nilakdangan ni Mang Isko ang bawat putik na kanyang madadaanan patungo munting tahanan. Bagama’t hindi na alintana sa isang kargador na katulad niya ang ganitong uri ng mantsa, ayaw niya nang maperwisyo pa ang asawa sa paglalaba ng kanyang pinakamaayos na pares ng pantalon—lalo pa at ngayon ang unang anibersaryo ng kanilang kasal. Dala-dala ang napakalaking supot na ang tanging laman ay ang regular sized fries ng McDonalds, nagpapawis ang mga palad ni Isko sa kaba habang palapit nang palapit sa bahay nilang sa pawid lamang gawa. Nadidismaya rin kasi siya na ito lang ang maihahandog niya sa kanyang maybahay. Ngunit umaasa siya na magiging tulay ang paboritong meryenda ng asawang si Tina sa panunumbalik ng dating sigla at giliw nito. “Tina, nandito na ako. Nakakain ka na ba? Bimili kita ng McDo fries sa bayan. Pasensya na kung tinanghali ako ng uwi, nilakad ko lang kasi ang daan pauwi,” sunod sunod bati ni Isko sa asawang hindi inalis ang kanyang tingin sa orasan na nababalot ng makapal na alikabok. Tanging ang umuugong na mga kahol ng aso sa kapitbahay kaakibat ang malulutong na mura ng lasing nitong amo ang mga ingay na bumibisita sa pamamahay nila. “Kahit ngayon lang, pansinin mo naman ako,” pagmamakaawa ni Isko sa kanyang asawa na ang kawalan na kibo ay hindi na niya ikinagulat. Mabigat man sa kanyang kalooban, matagal nang tinanggap ni Isko na ito na siguro ang binigay sa kanyang happily ever after ng tadhana—isang hardin na nababalot ng mga tanim ng sama ng loob.

129 “Tina, isang taon na tayong kasal, at ilang buwan na ang nakakalipas matapos mangyari ‘yon. Gagawin ko ang lahat bumalik lang tayo sa dati,” pakiusap ni Mang Isko sa asawang kibit-balikat lamang ang tugon. Walang pinagkaiba ang blangkong titig ni Tina ngayon sa huling beses na tinignan niya ang kanyang asawa habang umaagos ang dugo sa kanyang mga binti noong nakaraang Pebrero. Ang kaibahan lamang ngayon, umagos na rin ang mga luha na tila matagal nang ikinukubli matapos malaglag ang bata na kaniyang dinadala sa kanyang sinapupunan. “Ano ba talaga ang gusto mo? Ibibigay ko, maayos lang natin ‘to,” mariin na dugtong ni Isko na siyang ikinatigil ng pag-iyak ni Tina. “Kwintas.” nangangatal na sagot ni Tina. “Talaga?! Anong klaseng kuwintas ba ang gusto mo? Ayos lang kahit may kamahalan, uutang tayo kay Aling Linda,” “Ikaw na bahala,” walang kabuhay-buhay na naman na tugon ni Tina sa asawang nataranta sa galak. “Sige, mahal. Tutal, lahat naman ay nababagay sa ‘yo. Ako ay hahayon na. Hintayin mo ako,” nagmamadaling sagot ni Isko. Mawawarak ang sahig ng ikalawang palapag ng kanilang munting tahanan nang nagkukumahog na bumaba si Isko. Ngayon niya na lamang muli narinig ang malambing na tinig ng kanyang misis. Higit pa rito, ngayon na lamang ulit ito humiling ng kahit ano sa kanya kung kaya’t kahit siguro lamang loob niya ay kaya niyang isugal kung ito ang ikakapanalo ng relasyon nilang mag-asawa. Habang tinatahak niya ang daan patungo sa isang lumang sanglaan sa plaza, kanyang inalala ang munting mga panahon na nililigawan niya pa lamang si Tina. Sa kung paanong ang anak ng

130 alkalde ng kanilang munting bayan ay sinuklian ang mga sulyap ng isang ‘di hamak na kargador na kagaya niya. Sa kung paano nito tinalikuran ang marangya niyang pamumuhay maisakatuparan lamang ang kanilang pag-iisang dibdib. Kung ang ibang asawa’y mapapakamot sa ulo sa luho ng kanilang mga asawa, hindi si Isko. Ikinagagalak ng kanyang puso ang hiling ng kanyang asawa, lalo na sa ganitong estado ng kanilang relasyon. Sa lalim ng kanyang mga iniisip, tsaka niya lamang napansin na nalampasan niya ang sanglaang may bakas pa rin ng mga tama ng bala matapos ang nakawan na naganap dito, dalawang taon na ang lumipas. Agad siyang pumasok sa loob at naghanap ng kuwintas na pasok sa badyet niya. Gustuhin man niya na hindi secondhand ang ihandog sa asawa, ito lang ang inabot ng kanyang kakaramput na kita bilang kargador. Tinitigan niyang mabuti ang kuwintas na nagkakahalaga ng limang libong piso— nagliliwanag ang mata dahil kahit na katumbas ito ng sahod niya sa tatlong buwan, maisasalba na ng kwintas na ito ang nagkandawatak-watak nilang pagsasama. Matapos itong bayaran ng hindi na siguro mabilang na piraso ng bente pesos na perang papel, halos takbuhin ni Isko ang daan patungo sa kanilang tahanan. Hindi niya na alintana ang sakit ng paa o kawalan ng perang pamasahe sapagkat para sa kanya, walang makakatumbas sa ngiti ng asawang kay tagal niya nang hindi nasisilayan. Habang nakadikit ang malawak na ngiti sa kanyang mukha, dali-daling binuksan ni Mang Isko ang kanilang pintuang nagbibitak-bitak na ang pintura. “Mahal, nandi,” natigilan si Isko sa kanyang nasaksihan. Sa tinagal-tagal niyang nagising saksi sa kawalang-kibo ng asawa, ‘di pa pala siya sanay. Nanginginig niyang nilapitan ang nakabitin na katawan ng asawang ibang kuwintas pala ang nais at inaasam.

131 Chasing Jane Art and Story by Clark Alduz Viray

132 The dead don’t bleed; it’s the living that we must mourn when someone dear to them passes away. It was past three in the morning, and I was sprawled on the cold floor of my room, facing the bland, unpainted wall. I am still wearing the creased uniform of the fast food chain I am currently employed at even though my shift ended hours ago. I paid no attention to the pungent odor of my body, mixed with the aroma of leftover takeout foods and the stench of my still unwashed clothes dating back to a week ago— scattered all over my room. Four bottles of cheap booze bought from a nearby convenience store lay near me, their contents long gone. I have been staring at the nothingness around me for so long and my mind is already a blank slate. I swear, as I look longer at the walls, I can see faces of strangers, laughing at me, mocking my sorry state.

133 On my hand is my cellular phone that has been playing a voice message which, even though it brings me pain and guilt as I listen to it, somehow lulled me to sleep. It was past one in the afternoon when I woke up, still lying on the floor. My throat feels dry and my head is pounding in pain. I stood up and looked at the mess around me. My eyes caught the faded photograph of my friend Jane, who took her life less than a year ago. With a bittersweet feeling, I took the framed picture and stared at her lovely face. No one realized that she was depressed. She was always smiling, always the ray of sunshine in a crowded room. I guess she kept her loneliness to herself, just like what I am doing now. The only difference is that with me, I know that I am letting my life waste away. I I checked my messages and saw that David, one of my few remaining friends, has called me six times. It took me a while to realize that I promised to meet him today. I lazily stumbled towards the bathroom to take a bath, admonishing myself for forgetting the promises I make with everyone. As I walked towards the place where I will wait for a jeepney to take me to the nearest mall, I savoured the dim lighted scenery around me. I live in one of the quietest subdivisions in the city, although the identical houses I passed by never amaze me because each one is a replica of the other house next block. The same shades of yellow, green, blue and orange dominate the neighborhood. Even though I do not know the owners of these houses, I had already judged them. I believe that only boring people will choose to live in a house that has no character of its own. I grew up in this neighborhood but somehow, it is still an unfamiliar territory for me. I can still get lost in its bends and turns,

134 partly because I am a person with no sense of direction and mostly because I try to keep my distance from this place as much as I possibly can. I saw a group of construction workers as I passed a site where another house will be built. The face masks they are wearing cannot hide the fun they are having as they talk. I cannot hear what they are saying but it is evident that they are enjoying themselves. It is times like this that triggers my paranoia. I cannot stand hearing strangers laugh. My overthinking mind will convince me that they are laughing at me-that they are having fun at my expense. I raised the volume of the phone in my hand, willing the music that is currently playing to drown the laughing voice in the back of my mind as I avoided going in the direction of the workers. The mall used to be my sanctuary before the pandemic. I fascinate myself with the faces of strangers. The writer in me loves making up tales about the people around, while the still budding artist inside, enjoys the colors that surrounds me each time I enter the doors of this restless arena. But since Jane died, everything seems to be covered in a palette of grey and somber yellow. Outside the National Bookstore, I saw David and he waved at me. It is hard to miss him. He is one of those persons whom you will easily notice, not only because of his six foot frame and bearlike body, but also because of his beak-like nose. Jane and I used to tease him about it, but he never got angry at us because he also has a big heart to match his physique. He is wearing a floral polo shirt — a gift from Jane and I. When Jane was still with us, the three of us spent hours searching for the latest Bob Ong book or window shopping for pricey art materials that we can afford, yet wouldn’t buy.

135 “I freakin’ missed you!” David hugged me tightly and I had to pry his arms from me. If his hug lasted for a few more seconds, some of my bones would probably be shattered. “You have lost weight, have you been skipping meals again?’’ I did not answer David’s question and instead, I played with the leftover chicken on my plate using my fork. The silence lingers between us for a few moments. David sipped the pineapple juice in his glass before continuing the one way conversation. “The wedding will be two months from now.” The fork in my hand fell to the plate, making a loud clanging sound that made few of the restaurant patrons look at us. David gave them an apologetic smile and reached for my hand. “It’s what Jane would have wanted.” I pushed his hands away and stood up. I was about to speak, but there’s a lump in my throat that made it impossible for me to utter even a single word. But David knew the thoughts circling in my mind. He stood up and was about to walk towards me, but I ran away. How could David continue with his life as if Jane’s death did not happen? How can anyone move on that easily, after losing a friend? As I stumbled out of the mall, a gush of warm air greeted my face. I searched for the nearest trash can and let the bile that has been rising from my stomach leave my body. As I finished heaving, my eyes caught sight of a nearby convenience store. I entered and searched for the liquors section. II Despite my drunken stupor, I decided to visit Jane’s grave. I had no trouble finding her resting place, as I have been visiting the

136 cemetery almost every day since her funeral. I know the way by heart. As I neared her tombstone, I realized that I brought no flowers. My eyes darted around me and I saw a fresh bouquet of roses in another grave. I took it and staggered towards Jane’s grave. “Hello Jane, long time no see. I know you missed me.” I giggled at my stupidity as I started speaking. In between hiccups and peeing, I told Jane how my days have been since she died and how, if God really exists, I hope I will soon die. “I will probably go to hell, but I think you should be there too, Jane. After all, you fucking killed yourself!” By this time, it’s not me, but the liquor that is speaking. From behind me, I heard the sound of something hitting the ground, followed by a familiar voice. “What the hell!” It was Amy. Is that guilt that I see in her face? I don’t really care. Even in my state, I can see the similarities between her and Jane, especially in those doleful eyes that seem to always ask for love and affection from those who dared to look at them. I looked at her snidely. “What are you doing here? Making sure that Jane’s really dead?” “You’re drunk. Again.” I looked at what she dropped and realized it is one of those funeral bouquets that they sell for a cheap price-the ones that are adorned with those annoying white flowers with little or no scent at all. I threw her a look filled with disdain and pity before admonishing her for her hypocrisy. “Do you ever wish that it was you who is dead, and not Jane?” I did not wait for her response and started walking away. As I threw a last look at Jane’s grave, I saw Amy pick up the bouquet. I can tell from the rocking of her shoulders that she is crying.

137 I guess like me, Amy is being consumed by guilt. For you see, Jane has been overshadowed by Amy her whole life. Jane used to tell me that she was a product of an unplanned pregnancy. Her parents married not out of love, but only to stop bringing more shame to their respective families. It was a loveless marriage filled with nights of screaming between the two of them, witnessed by a young Jane. When Jane was five, her parents were about to file for annulment, but when Jane’s mother found out that she’s pregnant; they decided to give their marriage another try. In a way, Jane’s existence is a reminder of the hurtful phase in their parents’ lives while Amy’s birth, for them, is a miracle that made them stay together. Their parents used to put too much pressure on Amy, while letting Jane fend for herself most of the time. I guess that was a good thing because Jane grew up to be an independent woman. But despite her independence, there is a fragile woman that has always been yearning for the attention of her parents. But their parents are too busy showering their time to Amy, that they did not notice how Jane’s mental state slowly deteriorated. They paid no heed to the early signs of depression that Jane has been exhibiting—the sudden loss of her interest in socializing, the sudden emotional outbursts, and the nights she just begged to be alone, entombed in her own room. They were the first ones who stabbed Jane in her heart. III I arrived at my apartment at half past six in the evening. I entered my room and looked at the mess. I have seen dumpsters that look better than my place. I went to my bed, which sagged under my weight, and closed my eyes. I hate this. I hate remembering Jane and the people who left her when she needed them the most. I hate myself. After a few minutes, I checked my phone and saw David’s and

138 Amy’s numbers in the missed calls notifications. It’s a good thing that I keep my cellular phone on silent. I turned it off and looked around me. The walls, they are mocking me again. I can hear the voices from last night. “I didn’t know she’s depressed!” I shouted to the unseen entities behind the voices, as they screamed at me, blaming me for what happened to Jane. I should have seen the signs. I should have known. I failed Jane. I covered my ears as the laughter and mocking reached an unbearable crescendo. It’s as if the voices are everywhere and there’s no escaping them. After a few minutes, the laughter subsided. I surveyed my surroundings and I think I can still hear the faint giggling of the unseen beings created by my guilt ridden mind. My hands were quivering when I took my phone and played Jane and I’s last conversation. “Michael, it’s me, Jane. I think I owe you an apology for what I’m about to do……..” Should I confess? Could I have the courage to tell them that I was busy wallowing in my own misery when Jane tried to reach out to me? I keep asking myself, If only I had picked up my phone, if only I were not selfishly ignoring everyone during that day, would Jane still be with us? As Jane’s voice echoed in the mausoleum-like room I am imprisoned in, I fell on the floor, covering my ears as I started hearing the voices again. MAKE THEM STOP, MAKE THEM STOP, MAKE THEM STOP, PLEASE!!!! How long willI suffer? Am I losing my sanity? I don’t know. I don’t care anymore. All I know is that I will mourn for Jane until my very last breath.

139 Maraming nagsasabing “hihimas sa malamig na rehas”, Kahit tagaktakan ang pawis ng s’yang nabilanggo. -Francis Aaron Magpile Photo | Francis Aaron Magpile

140 Solemn shrieks and rageful whispers crowded the harrowing airs of Tondo whose rumor and riot worshippers, roaring and rambling toddlers, reckless and rampant drinkers yearned for quick glimpses amidst heightened brick walls and solid cemented grounds— the devious facade where morbid secrets of last night’s ritual were unveiled. With sheets drenched in shades of crimson, screams as soft as thunderstorms, grips as gentle as tsunami tides, and feared fingers pointing at my direction. I guess Tondo will never know Of all the muted scars schemingly finding its way down to the depths of my guilt Of all the battered vows scribbled down as forsaken profanities onto my stripped numb flesh. I guess Tondo will never know how its noise and its mayhem were my escape from peaceful wars and tranquil duels where I now retreat six feet under. Once, in the silence of the slums by Jane Therese Banaag Artwork by Marion Macatangay

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