“ Unsent Letters to Alfredo” By JK My Handsome Alfredo, Lately I’ve been writing about love— And in my lifetime, I never believed that I would ever know love like this. For a few years now, I’ve been turning you into words, making you the subject of every story, every poem, and every song. I like to imagine that you feel the same; that to you, we are more than what we are. I have been hiding behind my words, playing with metaphors and similes, too afraid to say that I want you forever. Still I lay here in bed, hesitant to tell you about these unsent letters I keep in my cabinet. My Alfredo, if I only had the time to let my pen bleed more, so I could write you more letters like this—then I would, and I’d pray that someday I’d find the way to your heart and give you these. But for now, I still choose not to tell you. Whatever we have is worth keeping. And I’d rather sit here and bleed your name on my sheet, than risk losing you. For now, I am content to just write here— I love you, my Alfredo. Ever hopeful, Marayah 41
“ Unsent Letters to Alfredo” By JK Marayah, My love—as passionate, as beautiful, and as perfect as a rose. I named my daughter after you—my only love. Sometimes when she sleeps or when she laughs, I fool myself into thinking she looks like you. The letters you did not send have reached my heart, from when your sister handed them to me two days after we lost you, when your illness took you away forever. Marayah, I regret not telling you how I feel. For not telling you everyday that I do love you— more than you dreamed I would, more than just love and the shallow meanings they give it. And I do hate, my love, that I did not tell you these when you were still here, and that I let you wonder wide awake each night, writing letters you never intended to send. So if I could just have one day to be with you, my Marayah, I’d wish for time to stop. But the only thing I can do is imagine. I love you, Marayah. Always and forever. We’ll meet again soon, and on that day, I’ll smile, like the way I did when I could still hold your hands. Marayah, when we meet, I’ll shine again for you. All yours, Alfredo 42
Art by Perlyn Joy L. Suganob
Kalimutaw Ni Kynah Rhea B. Fuentes Indi ako ang takos nga balasulon— kung sa pagpamisok, ako ang handum nga tulukon, kag ang nanari-sari nga kata-kata sa akon ginapaupok; kung tanan nga atensyon akon na gin-angkon, kag akon dungog ang sumsuman sa kada purok; kung sa akon lang galibot ang kalibutan, kag ako lang ang buot sundan ka kapawa. Ina suno sa akon kaliwatan. Amo ni dapat, indi na amo—tanan ini dapat sundon ko. Ano ang takos nga himuon, kung sa kada pagpa-uto tamyaw kag dayaw ang ingreso; bugal kag kaayawan ang manggad; kag pagatakpan sang (kuno abi) maanyag nga yuhom. Akon lamang nabinag-binag— maiwat ang tamyaw sa gamay nga kadalag-an; apang isa ka kasal-anan, ang tinaghol sang kasimanwa indi mapunggan. Nabuhi lang bala ako para sa kalipayan sang iban nga tawo? Nagtuhaw para mangin permanente nga topiko sang kadam-an? Ukon gin bun-ag bilang kalingawan sa entablado? Indi na nakon pagpaligban, apang sa mga masunod nga tini-on, ang pasulabihon nga balatyagon: indi imo, indi ila, indi inyo— AKON. 44
B as al na rehas Ni Ma. Kristine Joy R. Bayadog Tila nakakabingi ang katahimikan ngunit mas gusto ko ito: mapayapa. Dahil sa payapang katayuan, may kalayaan—bagay na hindi basta-bastang nakakamit ninuman. Parang kailan lang, bilanggo ako ng aking isip at damdamin; bihag ng mahalay na nakaraan na para bang hindi ka tinutulutang makahinga. Wala nang pahinga. Pikit-matang nilalabanan ang mahigpit na simbuyong wakasan ang sariling buhay. Pero kung kailan handa nang bitawan ang tali, saka pa hahandugan ng maling pag-asa. Misteryo o milagro ba ito ng kung sinong diyos? Kung naririnig mo ako, ‘wag mo akong handugan ng maling pag-asa. Masyado na akong sanay sa basal na rehas ng buhay. Kaya kung pagkukunwari lamang ang kalayaang iyong ibibigay, mas mainam pang ako ay iyong talikuran. 45
Photo by Keilah N. Baldomar
Haunte d By Joshua Martin P. Guanco It always appears in the corner of my eye. With ill intentions so sharp, it yearns that I die. The specter hovers above me; my body paralyzed. Asphyxia is administered—leisurely inching to my demise. Unforgiving shackles linger in every rhythm I respire. A poltergeist so cold that every sunrise and sunset is dire. Like a chokehold pressed on my neck, halting desire. Dousing my heart and setting my mind afire. This haunting is a circle—almost perpetual. Never has it been unreal, nor even ethereal. It is insinuated by this self as a cruel betrayal. It ebbs and it flows as if it is tidal. It is a phantasm that juxtaposes every night over my bed. It blankets me in a lush void that subdues me with dread. And all that is left are these soliloquies—and all things unsaid. Phrases that this phantom and I will keep forever haunted. 47
When Stars Burn Out By Jaziel Ann V. Seballos 48
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Musings of a Curious Creative By Hana Patricia Raj E. Hautea Say, have you ever been to a museum before? What was it like? The first time you went, were you giddy at the thought of what you’d find inside? Of all the hidden treasures and trinkets crafted by brilliant human minds? Amid the struck of awe, were you uncertain of which masterpiece to scruti- nize first? Where did your feet end up taking you? Toward the shining, elegant marble statue of a celestial beast in flight or the vibrant, impressionist painting of what looked like a fruit basket? Following that decision, did you take your time and drag your feet, unravelling its greatest secrets from afar? Maybe you tried nearing it as swiftly as possible to get the best possible view of the varying strokes and blatant subtleties? Now, did the dashing young men of the Renaissance actually wink from the corner of your eye, or could it really have been a trick of the light? Well, how long did you stare at them to be sure? Were they trying to tell you something? Was it something you’d already known? Whenever you moved onto the next artwork of your affection, did you linger on it in a dedicated attempt to admire its aesthetic, its complexity? Or was the beckoning finger of the neighboring canvas too powerful a temptation? Here’s a good one: was it your eyes or your instinct that led you all the way to the end of the vast gallery? The comforting hand of a close companion, for some? Why did you have company—or why didn’t you? 51
Musings of a Curious Creative By Hana Patricia Raj E. Hautea With all the brilliantly bizarre creativity in visual form, there had to be something you paused to laugh at, right? A particularly phallic-shaped stroke concealed in the corner of a painting or unrealistic body standards in the shape of poorly drawn proportions? Do you ever think they snicker quietly about us too? What do you think the worn-out women in the frames were whispering about as you ambled towards the exit? Did they peer at you with eyes of disdain, scoffing at how you tilted your head gazing at them? Perhaps the pottery vases came to your defense, arguing that it was in pursuit of appreciation? Tell me—how did it feel to be surrounded by the magnificence of art in all corners? In the midst of it all, was it a sense of satisfaction and quiet calm that connected you to their creators? Was it the elation and excitement that there was much to be explored? As you finally stepped out, did you notice anything different? Was the sky a little bluer than it had been? Was everyone oddly kinder than you remembered? Was it all that you imagined it to be? What was it like? Ah, how I’d like to know. 52
Photos by Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman
scars of the theatric s By scythe rumor says the theater is haunted. the shuffle of the torn curtains painted ashen figures behind the spotlight’s flare. frantic hands aided production backstage but were unsung. choirs had too many voices; lights flickered figures in peripherals— an uncanny aura declares itself. rumor says there’s always more show. the glow stays past rehearsals and performances. gusts of wind sweep the crevices of the place, creating makeshift whistles and melodies; while moonlight intermittently breaks past the blackened drapes— a spotlight on that old, familiar stage. rumor says the finale climaxed in spectacle. a charming tale of a lady maneuvering through the stirring tension amid two men competing for her favor. her playful winks and smirks danced around sweet nothings, oblivious to the heavy air between the rivals— wolves baring their claws and teeth, unshackled and mad. 56
scars of the theatric s By scythe violence erupted, igniting an inferno as one animal struck first. but after an exchange of blows, both were engulfed in the roaring flames. a raging hue shadowed a woman on her knees. a smoldering fire loomed overhead— crackling louder than expected. rumor says not everything died. rumor says it was arson. one could spot the once dark marks along the walls and the charred scars of the floor. a single match backstage was all it took. in the midst of its ascending crescendo, the theater became a graveyard but remained a stage for the liveliest performances. and though it survived, rumor says not everything died. 57
Art by Josh Aldrich B. Diola
On the Precipice of Damnation By paradoxica To the almost-villain: Your sister was like sunshine. She heaved me up from the depths of whatever pit I buried myself in. She took the hand of an outcast—a monster, and smiled as she did it. In her eyes weren’t pity, but compassion. It was humanity— something I wasn’t used to, but I so greatly craved. Your sister was my sunshine. I would have given the world to her. I would have pulled my heart from the cage it is in, and offered it to her had she asked. I would have died for her—happily— but I guess that’s out of the question now. It’s all because they decided to take her. “How can you just take sunshine like that?” I didn’t understand—I won’t ever understand. How could they? How dare they! How can they stomach to spill the blood of someone so young—so pure? I should be seeing her smile. I should be hearing her tiny giggles when she sees a dog wearing a tie in the supermarket. I should be feeling her soft hands tugging away at my sleeves as she pulls me towards the candy aisle. I should be taking in her flushed cheeks whenever I catch her playing house with one of her stuffed animals. I should be watching her struggle as she tries to put her hair up in a perfect ponytail, like all her other friends. I should be with her, yet I am not. 59
On the Precipice of Damnation By paradoxica Now here I stand, in a flatland, surrounded by people dressed in black— mourning the loss of someone who should still be in my arms. I should be with her, and so should you. Of course it was just a joke. I knew it was a joke— but I also knew you didn’t want it to be just a joke. I knew you wanted them to suffer. I knew you wanted them to bleed as she did—die as she did. I knew you wanted to feel the blade of your knife tear through their skin. Be it be brought about by the poison of alcohol running through your veins, or the need to crush the darker side of you; I knew how much you were hurting when you realized you could never bring yourself to hurt them: Not when you know it wouldn’t be what she would want. Not when you know how much it would break her heart. Not when you know that seeing you like that would destroy her. I understand that your morality means nothing to you now, but you were her hero. So it’s okay. As I hear their screams for mercy— as I feel how easy it is to drive a blade across their necks— as I write this letter with crimson-stained hands, I say to you: “It’s okay.” You don’t have to. Not anymore. I understand. 60
On The Wayward Path By Lz Several blunders, errors, and regrets; adversity comes, posing its threat. Those that rise from ashes emerge with tempered minds; and clarity comes to those who were once blind. Familiarity: the sweet feeling of tranquility and peace; I’d gone through the dull days, yet I did so with ease. Companions await my morning greeting; the sounds of laughter, joy—and for once—meaning. Through brief moments of discerning truth from lie; camaraderie only came because I complied. A pawn to follow at their beck and call; they gave the word, I offered my all. The routine prevailed with almost no reprieve; stopping to rest would be an invitation to leave. Individuality was a concept unwelcome; they would give me kindness, albeit seldom. Days, weeks, years had gone by; I was convinced that we were allies. Sooner or later, my days of growth began; but the words they kept telling me—I’d never understand. In a final act of longing for their support; they offered doubt, disbelief—an absence of rapport. Fear and frailty consumed my mind; finally, I spoke up—deciding it was time. Liberation came at the cost of compliance; a lesson I’ve learned well from many acts of defiance. Today, I awake—alone, cold, and on uncertain terrain. Though connections are divided, freedom is gained. Today, I awake—alone, cold, and unguided. Though freedom is gained, connections are divided. Sometimes, I see familiar faces come through; yet now they are nothing but strangers I once knew. Liberation surfaced at the cost of compliance; a lesson I’ve learned well from many acts of defiance. Today, I awake—alone, cold, and on uncertain terrain. Though connections are divided, freedom is gained. 61
Photo by Keilah N. Baldomar
At the D o cks, You Shall Rest By Alan S. Villanueva Jr. “Where do seas and oceans wander til they scare you out of this nautical crusade?” This I ponder while, on their palms, my ferry tours— forward… onward… without my first mate. Your eyes of hazel were the sun’s shimmer, whose warmth none could ever forsake; behind them was a heart that would not wither, yet the truth remains: every light shall eventually fade. Oh, how I’ll miss you dearly, young sir! With your captain, you sailed to the clock’s every sway: my navigator when fog hovers, but my ship has docked, and behind you must stay. Though you’ve sworn the morn’s humor, down the lowest, darkest depths—horrors await: such that would shatter you into slivers and tatters; from then on, life only dug your grave. Still, aboard, you clung with fervor, even as poison became your air and every day has been torture: “To be spared,” was your simple prayer. Your legs endured as each glimmer grew grimmer, with faith that stars will again trail the way, where your tiny toes had wandered and now, my sail weeps for the sweet child I failed. For you, the sun indeed knocked closer, beckoning you to lay— slip and drift as the sapphire sky’s sailor, robbing me of my trusted aide. Despite the rain’s splatter, aboard, we cruise as the waves cease to sway; the frail lad who foolishly yearned for tender waters was drowned in this life’s waves. 63
c oup d’état By Ivee E. Manguilimotan it’s all in the head, they say. the monsters that lurk in the scathing silence, burning flesh and bones alike— obeying hell’s bidding. a hint of rebellion presupposes bloodshed, with screams of agony composing an anthem. the keepers rejoice the horrors in the inferno, oblivious to the revolution that only time can quell. the prisoners, too, have sold their souls. a plea to the heavens for the monsters to fall. 64
Photo by Phoebe Daidoji Q. Jabonete
Sa susuno d na pahina By Heinz Sarado. Ang bawat pahina na kay tagal kong pinaglaanan ng panahon. Sa bawat paggalaw ng aking mga braso’t isipan, hindi ko mawari kung kailan pa ang huling pagsara. Bukas. Ang aking diwa sa mga palaisipang hindi ko binigyan ng halaga. Siyasatin mo man ang ilaw sa tabi ko’y nariyan gabi-gabi; iisa lamang ang magiging tugon nito. Sarado. Ang pangungusap na hindi ko mabuo-buo. Madilim ang paligid at tila malayo pa ang ilaw sa paroon. Tigil. Tigil. Iyan parati ang hadlang sa aking paglalakbay. Bukas. Imahe ng sining na aking ninanais ay akin nang naipinta. Dako roon ay piraso ng kasanayan na matagal ko nang ginapang. Hindi tiyak, pero malapit na ang saradong matagal ko nang inaasam. Sarado. Paambon-ambon na naman ang mahika na binabahagi ng aking isipan. Sa bawat pagtangka ng aking tinta ay siya ring pagnipis ng linya ng mga ideya. Hakbang. Hakbang. Isang salita at isang tugma. 66
Sa susuno d na pahina By Heinz Sarado. Sa wakas ang mga pahina na matagal kong pinaglaanan ng panahon. Sa bawat paggalaw ng aking mga braso’t isipan, hindi ko mawari kung kailan ulit ang bagong pagbukas. Art by Carl Hason T. Gerale 67
Jezeb el, Darling By Sparrow The day I kissed her was the day I won a silver ribbon and a bruise on my cheek. My fingers were stained with vibrant ochre—a facsimile of the sunset in the disappointing seascape I entered for the painting competition. I thought I was creating a perfect halcyon. With sweeping yellows, strokes of pink, and brushes of white, I tore my heart open to enliven a vague childhood memory—hoping to evoke the same bittersweet nostalgia I sometimes choke on. It wasn’t enough. My right cheek throbbed as I slogged underneath the beating sun while my mother hurled mind-numbing insults at me. Her words were always the same; her derision, wholly unoriginal. Jezebel, I ask you for one thing and you can’t even give it to me. Jezebel, are you fucking brain-dead? Jezebel, do you think I wanted you? I tuned her out, drowning in a deluge of confusion. Ms. Marie told me to paint a memory; that the judges were suckers for a sob story—a reminder of the youth they’ve lost. Yet, I still got second place. Was it my technique, then? Was I complacent? That can’t be. My artwork has always been perfect. Precise. “Jezebel!” Mother’s shrill voice pierced through the whirlwind in my head. “Are you listening? I’m cutting your art classes. It’s not doing you any good, anyway.” My stomach dropped like lead at her words, lugging nausea and pain far worse than any bruise on my skin. “No!” Mother’s beady eyes glared at me before she harrumphed and continued forward with her beak-like nose high in the air. “I’m sorry, mother. You’re right, I failed today but the classes help—and it can continue helping. Recommendations from Ms. Marie can get me into a good art school. Please, one more chance, and I’ll make you proud,” I pleaded, softening my voice as if an inferno wasn’t burning in my chest. Mother’s beady eyes glared at me before she harrumphed and continued forward with her beak-like nose high in the air. 68
Jezeb el, Darling By Sparr Jezeb el, Darling By Sparrow ow “Looks like you can think. I’ll send you to class and you can explain to your teacher your failure. Be grateful.” I bowed my head and gritted my teeth, forcing maelstroms of fury to ebb away. At least I would be seeing Ms. Marie today. The studio was cold, messy, with a myriad of textiles and materials cramping the space. I loved it. Whatever fiery monstrosity that clambered up my chest was snuffed out by the sight of my muse. Ms. Marie, draped in effervescent red, stood in the middle of passionate chaos whilst holding a palette and a brush. Her dark hair had streaks of green and orange, a reflection of the orchard on the canvas in front of her. Acrylics and oils were beside her easel, haphazardly covered and already ruined. “Ah, Jezebel! How did it go, darling?” She called out, the frown marring her brow fading away as her verdant eyes met mine. I chuckled bitterly and said nothing, trudging to a stool nearby and sitting down—content with watching her. Noticing my response, she gently set her tools down and approached carefully. Her eyes were studying the swirls of blue and purple that bloomed on my cheek. I wonder if she liked the hue. She hummed under her breath as her calloused hand brushed my face. Unlike the room, it was warm and unfurled a different kind of heat at my core. “I did what you told me to do,” I murmured. “I bared myself, just a bit, and I got silver.” “Well, those pompous dicks don’t know what they’re doing. Your painting was beautiful.” “Beautiful didn’t win me first place.” “And first place is what truly matters?” “Isn’t it?” I questioned. “To be recognized? To be lauded? To be loved?” 69
Jezeb el, Darling By Sparrow She continued to hum, drawing her rough fingers away. Stand, she commanded me, before directing me in front of her peaceful landscape. She took my hand in hers—calloused, balmy, and alive. Her floral perfume wafted into my nostrils, drowning my senses in heady intoxication of the forbidden. Her painting was as enticing as she was. It was aglow with splashes of nature’s shades, drawing viewers to a memory they’ve never been to—one that they will always ache for yet never have. “Destroy it,” she hissed, her saccharine tones turning cold and unforgiving as she transformed into passion’s savage mistress. I whipped my head to her in confusion and was met with flinty expectation. Whatever demon I hoped to bury in her comfort enkindled at her cool demeanor. But would I disappoint her too? No. With trembling hands, I picked up the brush and dipped it in crimson. Words laced with venom slew behind me, wrenching ugliness onto the canvas. She jeered of my failure; of my mother’s hate; of my father’s abandonment. I felt myself get possessed by a frenzy. I slashed carnage and vitriol into her piece—vomiting resentment and vexation until her idyllic scene sunk into the background of my animus. After I finished, my body tumultuously shook and heaved for air in front of the butchered masterpiece. Salt tracks stung my bruise and blood dripped from my lip. I glanced at my tormentor expecting disgust, but was met with a kind smile. With a crazed boldness, I pressed my lips to hers, only to taste the cloying sweetness of iron fuelling my intent to crash in a glorious blaze. Whatever perfection I’d carved into myself it was nothing compared to her damning laugh. I would scorch and smolder and eventually flicker out, but to taste her would be worth it. She grabbed my face with tender paint-stained hands, tilting it to my infernal creation. “See, darling? Whatever perfect saint your mother created is false. See the gore of garnet, the sable void, the envious chartreuse, and sickly pale canary?” she whispered in my ear, low and rough. “That ruin is you.” 70
A Great Disguise By Mikey Vincent T. Vicente 71
Cur tain C all By Joshua Martin P. Guanco This is for those who embrace the night. This is for those who believe in their might. The spotlight is yours—it’s now shining bright. Know that nobody’s watching, so let go of that fright. This is for those with the audience of a sole company. This is for those with dreams stronger than an army. It is time to bathe in the applause of gold and glory. To bask in the radiance of your own success story. This is for those who have outgrown their fears. This is for those who have spent more than years. This is for those who have faced a thousand leers— Yet managed to hear even the slightest, faintest of cheers. This is for the dreamers: the passionate and courageous. This is for those nobodies who are now victorious. Gone are the blood, sweat, and tears, except the unwavering spirit. This is your life now; go out and live it. 74
vaguely By Depravity i. Salieri these thoughts— phantom white; my memories steeped in the coalescent pool of my own breathing regret; my woes, living, and wailing— akin to faceless faces, taking my shape, though bereft of detail, blurred and corroded by my lack of grounding. I am amorphous in my despair, and brittle during moments of hope. ii. Radobaan a cuirass of protruding bone fashioned from both alien, and mine, sprawl across my frame; in poor attempt to safekeep an already failing heart; frailty, veiled behind the illusion of the grotesque, the thirst for warmth, shielded by a curtain of jagged fangs, and assorted claws. A pulsating darkness, it slumbers beneath scavenged death— I am less, and more; I am an amalgamation of 75
vaguely By: Depravity my least, and most, a coalescence of everything, and nothing at all. iii. Halvanhelev manifest yourself through my veins, and come into being, using my tendons and blood—oh sword that cleaves heaven, and sunders earth, become an extention of my own suffering, riddled with traces of my crippled pride, sculpted from mauve silver, and scarlet gold; cut through my facades, as effortless as you cut through the beginning of time, staining the bleak courts of a jaded sky with the blood of a false god that has fallen senile in his indifference. iv. unmake Solidified air hammers against my chest as I push my physical limits to the extreme; disregarding sanity, brushing off blaring reminders of my declining health—all of that, to catch a mouthful of breath. Wave after wave of uneasiness assaults my senses, threatening to rip out my spine from my chest, and force my blood to churn, and implode from within. There is no god in my head’s calloused halls. I scream at absolutely nothing, clawing at an intangible umbra that invades my body through my nostrils; I am truly unwell, but I am at ease knowing that the excruciating ordeal will soon come to an end when I blackout eventually. The taste of blood lingers on my tongue, as I bite off, and chew pieces of my lips to stave off a hunger I cannot ignore. I am here, but I feel that I am no longer a part of this world— disjointed; probably, I never have been. 76
SCRIBES AND SCRIBBL ERS Illusrations by Josh Aldrich B. Diola Perlyn Joy L. Suganob Mikey Vincent T. Vicente Words by Hana Patricia Raj E. Hautea Immalie Rose E. Cafifge Ferry Lyra B. Fronda Zaldy Mar L. Lavada Jr. Ej Nell Voen A. Florendo Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno Gabriel M. Lezama Adrianne H. Saplagio 77
1. Ma. Kristine Joy R. Bayadog (Camcorder) Click. Whirr. Flash. The red light is strobing. The camera is rolling. Remember, the eyes only see what you limn in the refurbished brass cylinder. Frame your commercial faux-charm fired by your gleaming Versailles blue-gold eyes. Everything would appear in pixels in no time. Acts captured in a glass— memory is born. Okay, we’re good. 2. Karl Brian T. Marqueza (Film Lights) The sleek silver angle-poise light incepted from the sturdy boom was in style— albeit austere. It dappled a mosaic of light, directing its saccharine beam. The scene was so dashing that it started to fuse with everything subsisting, glittering, and reverberating. Ecstatic and chaotic, the photons are liberated where gravity has no way of making them fall. 3. scythe (Microphone) “Aughstyero. Wharmyleon. MmMmMm. Augheom aum. Kkkkkkkk. JHAaughhhhhhh. Awk owaghe. Yea. Owouwe.” Hidden pieces of wisdom can only be obtained if one pays close attention to the mesmerizing sounds of foam being shoved down one’s pharynx. 4. Ivee E. Manguilimotan (Makeup Kit) Of maidens and warriors she is familiar, for she is both. With a swipe of crimson on her lips, a touch of mauve on the apples of her cheeks, and a slew of prismatic hues on her eyelids, she builds herself a new identity and a new story at the whim of her stained fingertips. Ever shifting and ever searching, she paints her face with delicate shields that have never once failed to defend her. 5. kallisto (Spotlight) The faintest tremor. A singular bead of iridescent sweat. Quicker puffs of hot breath. Thus were the only subtle giveaways of this long-practiced practitioner as he flung his arms outwards to the thundering applause. While the unforgiving glare of the heavy spotlight blinded his fellow thespians, it was no match for the grinning madman. 6. The Pawn (Clapboard) Clack. His own eyes widened as the sound emanating from him brought the whole room to a grinding halt. This was the 20th time they were repeating the scene, and with previous errors in mind, there was nothing left but confidence and determination. This would definitely be the final time they would rehearse this. He smiled in anticipation as he produced that ever-familiar pang one last time. 82
7. Lz (Tripod) The panorama captured in my vantage point flashes through the prisms ferreting into the depths of the figures. Crash! A dramatic whack yanked one of my legs out from underneath me. The proclivity to fold was trounced by my virtuosity to keep it all stable for my cherished baggage. This is what I do: always the silent witness in the battleground. 8. Patrick N. Billojan (Light Reflector) What am I but a vessel? A prism of ivory hues bouncing back and forth to crown a monarch. A sliver of flesh stretched to echo a dim silhouette above peers. But now, dressed in white silver, white noise, and white overtures beyond the curtains, I stand with my chin raised and flaunt my lights across the stage. 9. Kynah Rhea B. Fuentes (Producer) Oh God, not her again. Whispers laced with malice echoed as the producer walked by, back straight as a pin and chin raised stubbornly high. Brushing past the insignificant murmurs, she tossed her hair behind her shoulder extra aggressively for the haters before heading to do what she does best: keeping the production alive. 10. Alan S. Villanueva Jr. (Construction Crew Member) People’s eyes are glued to their phones as he passes by—indifferent, unaffected, and uncaring. He grips his trusted toolbox tightly in his hand, the rattling contents providing him with a sense of security; a sense of home. He smiles despite the distance, knowing that his hands shaped the massive skyscrapers that towered over society. He smiles, knowing that his very essence is immortalized in his work. 11. Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno (Key Grip) Framed in the foliage of briars and myrrhs, of skylines and contrails, she beholds the panorama of all things: the suburban mailmen, the sorority schemes, and the atrocities of the metro’s underbelly. An omniscient witness—the border to the fourth, a voiceless phantom, and most of all, an amnesiac with free will. 12. Carl Hason Gerale (Art Director) Before him was a painting; “A masterpiece by a young upstart,” as his associates say. With a blank canvas on hand, it only takes a few simple strokes to recreate the striking artwork in detail. They stare in astonishment as the artist smiles and gives himself a pat on the back. “Ahhh, their reactions are just as amusing as last week’s.” 83
13. Bjørn (Runner) Scurrying along the stygian byways, prosaic colloquy, and bustle make my hours drip: a war on track. The wreathed mayhem on the towering limelights left no traces, but vision conjures as my blood curdles on command. I am attuned to succumbing to the faintest cues. They have built a willful wretched performer waiting for stillness. Applaud for me too, will you? 14. Anna Maria J. Villanueva (The Screenwriter) She does not know the power she holds at her fingertips. The clack-clack-clack of her keyboard in the silent midnight air births and destroys entire realities aching to exist amid the fickle appetite of a voyeuristic audience. Nevertheless, she continues. God and Devil to her own personal Eden in the cosmos of her mind—searching for the perfect collision of words that creates life. 15. Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman (Film Editor) Click, click. The soft, distinct sound of his mouse echo quietly across the room as he controls the perspective of the masses, illuminated only by the light of the screen. He pauses to take in all the probable possibilities he can achieve with only a few seconds as he weaves stories from thousands of captured, fleeting moments. Should we show the people the beauty of life or the agony it entails? What is it going to be today? 16. Joshua Martin P. Guanco (Set Dresser) He revels the weight of silken textiles and hollow wood slats—the gadget of an injured handyman. His hands were heavy with guilt, hidden behind calluses and wounds. He created the sky first, and then the mountains. But on a whim, at God’s command, he tore everything down and built a throne of fire. 17. Depravity (Line Producer) Control (n.) is defined by the contours of a man’s will; it is when he raises his fingers to touch the moon. Controlled (v.), to wax and wane the rising tides; here, he owns everything within the light beams. He is calm as a heavenly body but bluntly reaps the liaison of reality and the stage—he has mastered the art of gravity. 18. Immalie Rose E. Cafifge (Maria Nunez from West Side Story) From flitting over the slopes, cays, and palm breezes, an opioid it was to breathe the urban air around the skyscrapers stabbed on the horizon. For her, surrendering chastity to the breaches of the Great Migration was an act of youthful esprit. But as there is beauty in her dignified naivety, she’s as likely to commit great follies. 84
19. Phoebe Daidoji Q. Jabonete (Angelica Schuyler from Hamilton) Under the chandelier’s pristine glint, her incandescent hope tarries west of the sun. I wonder, does she remember the night she swore to take the bullet for her beloved sibling? And when she does, is undying love deeper than the regret of an eldest sister? Perhaps, the answer remains a fervent ‘YES.’ 20. Daisy St. Patience (Mrs. Lovett from Sweeney Todd) Hush, my love; don’t cry, for this is not a lullaby. You are a quintessential brainiac like your spirit, unrelenting pursuit of what it yearns to be, yet menacingly close to delirium. Face the blank wall of nescience for solace is a standing séance. Baked body drifting, you are a sweet freefall from the bloody lure. 21. Guts (Sweeney Todd) The blood running through his veins hums with a scarlet song that beckons the razor’s edge to take its deserved piece. Gleaming in the moonlight, his only friend swings its final arc to the crescendo of vengeance’s beating drum. With a swift and graceful stroke, he etches his promise into a stranger’s jugular and satiates his hunger with the melody that keeps him alive. 22. Meryl C. Sigaton (Anya from Anastasia) “Dancing bears. Painted wings. Things I almost remember.” – Once Upon a December With eyes closed, her slender physique churns with the unfamiliar tune of these empty halls—prancing to the trail of a forgotten morrow. Her bare feet led curiosity past the clandestine voile as flaccid porcelain sheets draped on the marble floors. At long last, the ‘almost’ is at the tip of her fingers. 23. Esther Joyce M. Limbaña (Sophie Sheridan from Mamma Mia!) An upfront beacon of light that you’re not afraid to avoid. Your pride and defenses crumble against the sun-drunken hair stirred by the light summer air, her seawater smell laced with salt and pomegranate, and her chime-like rippling or sometimes rock-grinding surf voice. Her nonchalance would make you feel like a leaf in its softest fall. 24. Ma. Micah Dearielle V. Trajera (Elle Woods from Legally Blonde) A rose-colored cloud catwalks court-bound in customized couture; case files and Cosmopolitan centerfolds cling unto her Calvin Klein, clipped into place by cosmetic clutter. Pink, pampered, but never short of wit, she once rubbed shoulders with valedictorians at the gates of Harvard. Her only edge? She has no Plan B. 85
25. JK (Eponine from Les Misérables) Ah, cruel fate—forcing a woman to break her own heart in exchange for the happiness of her oblivious love, their love like daggers thrust into her being. Her devotion is unwavering, but she is consumed by her emotions. She eventually sees her life drain from her as she stains the ground red. She gives him her everything, but his heart belongs to someone else. The heavens are weeping. 26. Hana Patricia Raj E. Hautea (Vitruvian Man by Leonardo Da Vinci) Celestial and astral bodies aligned during The Man’s creation. Perfection crowned His curls as every geometric precision of His limbs presented nature’s architectural prowess in achieving divinity in flesh. He displayed humanity’s acme with every angle and turn—and with pride befitting a king—the potential of sublime glory. 27. Sparrow (Ophelia by John Everett Millais) Submerged in icy waters, shrouded by flora of beautiful greens, reveling in the foreign buoyancy of her garments, immersed in her highest element, unbothered by the odd stray leaf that wandered onto her exposed skin, untroubled by tomorrow’s concerns, convinced there was no greater moment than this exact moment. 28. Jaziel Ann Seballos (The Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh) I’ve painted the living and the dead—all the Zinnias, all of my shells, all the sides of the infinite cosmos. Yet somewhere in the blues birthed by my linen sheets and the pale beige of my nurse’s blouse, I yearn for a paintbrush hilt. My missing muse, after all, was the Mausole itself. 29. paradoxica (The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali) An amused smile: “You look absolutely deflated. Like a gassed-out balloon, if you will. Or a cute dog that flopped to the ground. Tell me—why are you laying on the floor like that?” A half-hearted response: “Do you want the real answer or should I make something up?” A deadpan look. A candid shrug: “I just saw it and thought it was cool.” 30. Ferry Lyra Fronda (The Scream by Edvard Munch) ‘Tis the one-man rapture: my ashen skull, a sister’s ribbon, and the sunless golden hour. The lunatics were right: it’s anything but human, anything but heaven-sent, anything but unreal. Should I scream now, it will be heard for centuries to come— my calvary, immortalized in strokes of ochre and vermillion. 86
31. Keilah N. Baldomar (Café Terrace at Night by Vincent van Gogh) She sat still on her pedestal as the lights flickered on. Darting her gaze around, she locked eyes with several onlookers, who only glanced at her first but soon found themselves encapsulated with her beauty. A man whispered to his lover: ‘This one reminds me of the time when you’d call me for dinner somewhere, and we’d talk for hours about anything.’ She smiled, knowing that her existence invoked unforgettable memories from before. 32. Perlyn Joy L. Suganob (Girl with a Pearl Earring by Johannes Vermeer) Her black glass eyes seem to veer away or turn towards you. Had her lips—a polished bright scarlet—already committed an unpardonable error, or are they about to pronounce the greatest sentence of all? In yellow lake and ultramarine, her oriental turban snatches the tiniest sights of familiarity into an envelope, all to remain as a mid-sentence swivel. 33. naicha (Sunshine in the living room by Peter Vilhem Ilsted) In a sparse room that smells of daybreak sits a young girl, quiet and contemplative. Do not mistake her demureness for weakness nor her silence for naivete. You do not see what she does as she peers into the looking glass bathed in golden light; a luminescent corona of the sun’s rays lies on her head, crowning her the queen of her realm. Tranquil and serene, she commands the air as she commands herself—with beauty and peace. 34. Josh Aldrich B. Diola (Fallen Angel by Alexandre Cabanel) The dead silence of a skyscape romance is a Lothario’s purgatory, but where he lies bare and contorted from beneath the church bells is the enactment of man’s first disobedience. In utero, in morte, in the terrestrial morality of heaven, he revels in nothing but the beauty of sin—the dissonant transgression of becoming god. 35. Drexel John N. Amit (Spoliarium by Juan Luna) The alewives have soaked the bloodbath in their stola; the collaterals of the Roman nirvana have been lined up; and the widowmakers are back slouching on the dais. Everyone has done their part. But alas, the Tiberian tides never ran red, for the macabre menagerie lets not a single drop go astray. 87
Acknowle dgements To Kynah, Hana, Patrick, for showing the direction and the steps as I jive on the wooden floors of poetry; for your patience and constant pulling whenever I fail to dance on two feet. You didn’t just give me a window of opportunity; you placed doors before me, and I am forever grateful for that. To Ivee, Kristine, for being my aching pocket’s bed of roses. My fingers cannot count the number of times you have saved me from financial ruin. To Meryl, Mikey, for joining the Midnight Drama Club and sitting on the bench with me. In a life full of melodramatic expositions, your prudence and comfort are my sanities. To Perlyn, Jaziel, Hason, for seeing mise-en-scène through the eyes of an artisan god. Your creative abilities and majestic hands have etched a spectrum of cement-stained colors across the entire folio. To Krizzia, Lance, Alyssa, for lifting the prop boxes, hanging the painting frames, lending the tools, and for sculpting the rough edges of this folio. Regardless of how fully packed your luggage was, you never hesitated to ask if I needed more assistance in carrying mine. To Karl, Jobe, Keilah, Phoebe, Dea, your leniency for static motions paved the way for the immortalized carvings on the wall. What you laid bare will never be forgotten. To Voen, Zaldy, Ferry, Paula, at some point in life’s history, it was your unwavering devotion that I carried with me as I leave the place where your art flourished. This past self and the self to come will remember your works as a memorial only time can provide. To Drexel, Anna, Alan, Christian, Elizabeth, Gabriel, Addy, for the appetent yes! heedless of the faint whispers of cants. Howsoever the travails brought by the non- stop Z-paths to the top, you perversely persevered with passion. To Angela, Eazel, Zack, for taking the leap of faith that no matter what was at stake, you took the risk, bearing the misgivings of the brush’s tip you held. It took one tick of a clock; one swing of a conducting wand; one hit of Beethoven’s nocturne note to be versed by the sublime handicrafts you brought to stage. To Jerianne, Dhannalee, Khen, for reviving the demised momentum of the artists. Oh, chanteuses of Buglas, your ballads shall remain holy in the hollows of mise-en-scène. 88
To Arish, Joyce, Josh, Crystal, Kurt, for breathing life for the dramatis personae of the museum’s grandiose, giving justice to the damned. Misfortunes were hard to conquer, but your conviction knocked the nemesis out. To Franz, Reenan, MJ, for sculpting the performers of the great magnum opus— the musical. I could never weave the faces, lines, and acts without your God-given prowess. To Kadenang Tibag, say, how many times does a castaway trip over its own hem? As countless as the times it gets up and tries over and over again. In my seemingly never-ending detours and falls due to my own scarcity, my frail hands will always be grateful for your constant support and consolation. To our contributors, for auditioning to be part of the most-awaited musical of the Scribe. Your verses have sung with the songbirds of the night; free, at long last. To our families, for cheering on each of our individual journeys, and for being the pillar that stands up for us when we need them the most. To Sir Mikee, for keeping the cup from spilling over the deepest void we tried too hard to avoid. It was only one of the year’s twists and turns, but you made it all possible with one phone call. And nothing is as significant as the story’s unexpected plot twist. To God, for the times my skin was numbed from the raindrops that pour on sleepless nights, you did not cease to embody the form of a compass that led the process of the folio and its production beyond the finish line. And then I knew: everything did have a purpose. And to you, for persevering despite the never-ending tug-of-war with your dead selves, and for still looking for obscure reasons to keep going. This is for those who never give up and find themselves in the most extraordinary and unimaginable places they have or have never been. In the hopes of discovering an uncharted remedy for the aching bosom, may you take a break from the edge of the pedestal that society has placed you on to finally master the artistries of your life story. 89
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