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SCRIBE Volume 22, February 2019 The Literary Folio of The Spectrum Published by the students of the University of St. La Salle All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or any part or form.

LITERARY EDITOR Alvin Brian S. Legario L AYO U T A RT I S T S Alfredo Jr. R. Bayon-on Glen Jed J. Descutido Alexandra V. Bachoco ILLUSTRATORS Andrea Danielle A. Gamboa Carl Hason T. Gerale Anna Theresa S. Parayno Alyssa April H. Ravadilla COVER CONCEPT AND DESIGN Andrea Danielle A. Gamboa

Foreword Ahoy there, mariner! I see you’ve been sailing through this ruffled path for quite some time now. Perhaps you require some assistance? Well, if that’s the case, as your self-employed sailing master, it is my duty to help you remedy the frustration that is now amidst us. My counsel, should you consider it, is to change your course. I know this idea might sound wild, but hear me out. Have you ever hoisted your sails yet deliberately decided not to raise anchor? I feel you’ve been wanting to follow your own destination for a while now, but haven’t fully committed to the idea that it is not the waves you bow to. That is okay, for as long as I am here, you will not be burdened with lifting your anchors alone. Beyond making sure of the fluidity of your ship’s course, I am also here to confer my knowledge (how little it may be) on the ins and outs of the history of sailing. Allow me to steer unto you the said wisdom accumulated and gung ho’d by seafarers more seasoned than you and I. Since the sixteenth century, we’ve been using boats to quell distances, and we did not get there by simply hacking at wood. We had to hone the art of boat crafting and sea navigation in order to complete the voyages we’re destined to travel. Fortunately, these skills have been accumulated both orally and on print; and in this instance, I will be your instrument in recalling this ancient yet necessary data. Direct your attention to the sky, captain, more specifically towards that seagull. Seeing one every now and then is not a queer sight to behold but perceiving a whole flock is an entirely new story. Word of advice, if birds suddenly heave and change direction, be wary. The tides will have a dramatic shift. Take this hint (even if it means going with the waves) and change your course immediately. Now, now. I can see the distress on your face. But didn’t you say to go the opposite way where the tides go? Aye, I did. But this does not mean you should not go back when the situation calls for it. Understanding freedom is one thing, but being complacent is another.

However, if you do stumble upon darker tides, perhaps a truly unavoidable maelstrom—keep calm and brace for battle. There will be no deluge too ferocious nor winds too gallant to down your mighty vessel. The tempest will howl and rage, but that is okay because to that we say—have at thee! Next, take this manuscript of the sea bestowed upon you by the flora and fauna of the deep and allow it to impart to you positive words, vivid illustrations, and encouraging tales that you may draw strength from in your sea-laden voyage. And finally, before I shall retire to my quarters, let me yield unto you my two final shillings: Whenever you feel the waves are colder than usual, look to the stars, for you will navigate towards a horizon where the waters are shaded with warmer hues. Mayhaps not today, nor tomorrow, but soon. Till then, keep going against the current! Farewell, captain. Your enigmatic Sailing Master, Alvin Brian S. Legario

CONTENTS POETRY Aahon Pa, Umahon Lang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Sandy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 decay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Warrior, Warrior (Three Poems) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 i. Styx . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 ii. Skamandros. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 iii. Lethe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 The Ghost of Room M13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Silent Cry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Desolation & Recuperation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 His Art is Dying . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Headvoice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 ELSEWHERE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Kahel na Langit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Perihelion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Katunggali . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 HQ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 Queen of the Night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Sa Likod ng Isipan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Which Option? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Banaag . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

450 years earlier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Pump boat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 The Phenomenon of Floating after Rob Gonsalves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Chasing Comets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 FICTION Obscurity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Hint Fiction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 i. Of Bamboos and Metals ii. Coup d’ etat iii. Operating room Journal #334 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Wherever The Tide Goes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 The Terror of The Midday Marsh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 COMICS Just Passing Through . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 On Their Pawprint . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 A Risk to Take . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 S C R I B E S A N D S C R I B B L E R S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99



POETRY ART BY CARL HASON GERALE

Aahon Pa, Umahon Lang KR ISTINE BAYAD O G Iapak ang mga paa sa dalampasigan at damhin ang kiliti ng buhanging sumasabay sa iyong bawat pagyapak. Lasapin ang sandali. Ilublob ang sarili sa naghihintay na tubig-dagat at namnamin ang maalat nitong lasa sa iyong balat. Lunurin ang sarili sa sandaling panahon at hayaang lumutang palayo ang mga alaalang idinulot ng nagdaang kahapon. Lumangoy papalayo sa marka ng baybayin at tunguhin ang kalagitnaan ng dagat hanggang sa hindi mo na matarok ang kanyang pinakailalim. Sumisid, lumangoy, umahon —labanan ang mga alon. Sumisid pang muli at salatin ang pagkakataon. Lumangoy pabalik mula sa iyong sinimulan —pabalik sa dalampasigan. Lumangoy hanggang sa sumabay na ang mga alon. Sabay tutungo sa iyong paroroonan. Umahon ka. Muling tanawin ang mundo Sa isang bagong pagkakataon. Aahon pa, umahon lang. 2

Sandy ANDREA NICOLE FAROL I remember myself reflecting dancing flames Sweating in the cold evening air Gripped by a man shouting in merriment Of music and voices in cacophony till I felt empty. I remember flying Of being airborne in the salty air The feeling of endless possibilities Until I broke the ocean’s film. I remember being carried by the waves Swallowing a little sea water Of being lost and floating aimlessly Under a blinding sun. I remember meeting a man On an island without a name He filled me with purpose But still, I could not stay. I remember being in a storm Of foam and crashing into limestones Of breaking into a thousand little pieces And settling on the ocean floor. I remember thinking about the man How I can never see him again For this little bottle in the ocean has shattered A message lost, and forever one with the sand. 3

decay LANCE CHRISTIAN JUAREZ through short breaths and the flailing of limbs, the rushing wind mimics voices ‘gainst ears— a beast gives chase. unblinking bloodshot eyes dart about shrouded branches and tangled foliage. bruised soles drag flesh from bone as arms tear through thorny vines endurance disintegrates and sanity erodes, leaving only instinct. pain blurs into an inferno engulfing what was once humane. he has become an animal, irate at the threat of demise. he stops and turns around predator meets prey. 4

5 PHOTO BY KATHERINE CO



Warrior, Warrior Three Poems LEX DIWA ALORO ART BY ALY S S A AP R I L R AVA DI L L A 6

i. Styx Your mother, Thetis, drowned you into life The desperate mother, the beaten wife Submerged you, upside down, in River Styx and there! And then! Your fate became affixed For he who bathed inside the Stream of Hate emerges strong but lives a mortal’s fate Your mother knew that you were human still — that Death may someday grab you by the heel A sword, a spear, an arrow fired from bow could pierce the part of you of which she can’t let go Yet she persisted ‘gainst uneven odds She thought she once might trump the will of gods But Thetis knew what had been prophesized She saw your future with her vadic eyes She knew her futile act could not disturb the course to which the river’s current stirred She heaved you out, reborn and sanctified — so starts your life of charging ‘gainst the tides. 7

ii. Skamandros When Hektor killed him, anger roused a beast A ruthless warrior with a conscience ceased You loved him so, that could not be denied That’s why you wept when you heard he had died They say you turned to bronze with iron heart The day when death tore soul from soul apart Gods watched you weep beside the ocean tide The morning after drachmas co’ered his eyes Inside your tent, a poet said, you died from deep within; outside you seemed alive — Alive enough to rise and charge once more towards walled Troy to even out a score At godlike speed, you rushed to Doom itself towards what fate had put upon your shelf. You carried weapon, shield, and rage at hand Your soles imprinted anger ‘pon the sand The Trojans shook at the sound of your step as you reached the bank where Skamandros slept But then you roused Him with murder and blood You scattered corpses like a malevolent god! With every thrust of your sword, Trojans fell — their cadavers clogged the river to swell. The river choked on all the casualties that your broken heart slayed without mercy Skamandros turned a shade of Trojan-red With armor-clad bodies, His fish were fed He begged you, “Please, take your quarrel elsewhere! These dead bodies are more than I could bear.” But you wouldn’t stop ‘til your foes were wiped You enraged Skamandros into a fight. 8

Why the rage, Warrior? What’s left to prove? Do you fight for pride, vengeance, a murdered love or do you fight to keep the blues at bay - to keep the memories of him away? But the rush of a fight cannot erase the pain you feel at the loss of his embrace. ‘Tis merely a ruse to displace the ache The war cries cover the rumbling of how you break. So, go, Warrior! Show your rage! Attack! For once the rage subsides, sadness floods back. Though you may beat the flow of some rivers, despair is a flood you cannot conquer. Though mortals can clog the path where waters go, one can never reverse a river’s flow. 9

iii. Lethe Your mother’s wretched prophecy came true: Your name went down in songs; but you went down, too. While your legacy became immortal, your body perished beneath a Trojan steeple. A prince, true to the god he served, impaled the heel untouched by Styx’s gushing trails. Now, here, in River Lethe: an unusual sight: a warrior washed-upriver, uneager for a fight. Where has your rage and bloodlust gone to? Did it die from the arrow Paris drew? It is strange to see you willingly board Charon’s ferry and leave your life, your sword. After a lifetime of upstream battles, you leave your life inside foreign walls and let Hades claim your aching soul to rejoin the mate whom another prince stole. You ride the river, now, you do not counter — for you know he waits for you in yonder harbor. 10

The Ghost of Room M13 DOMINIC MAGBANUA The ghosts here have moved on, Have you? You hold onto things You should’ve let go long ago You will not meet her again here Even if you stay here forever Under the wooden doorway Time does not go backward You can not cut out the present road And reattach it to yesterday You should start wearing a watch Start being aware that your past Like a skeleton walking behind you Will tell you exactly what time it is But you do not care about time passing Life is all about her kisses Or the way she looked at you Or the breath she called your name Which are all now for someone else But by all means, continue being a shadow Say the words she would say Keep the lights on 11

Stay by the phone Or better yet haunt her home Tell her that to hell with her Great Wall of China What killed your love was her racism May she choke on her tikoy 12

Silent Cry JEEPERS CREEPERS courage and something else—I summon within as fiercely as dragon-embattled knights pray for life as steadfastly as lilies wait for Winter’s end as hopefully as I wade through the space between us: twenty yards of sea gray floor and a lifetime of regrets over things unsaid and stubbornly clinging within within this heart lies a movie-reel reminder of you: colors like your beet-red blush, the gold filaments on your arms, the chocolate freckles on your cheeks; sounds like your sonic boom laugh, your jet- -propulsion sneeze, your song bursts and potent Freudian slips lingering at the back of my mind they follow me to the next empty minute, the yet -to-be-understood lifetime that wanes like the moon, the June typhoon, or the doxology of summer cicadas saying there’s courage in holding back one’s tears, braving the pressure that builds up inside, getting used to the cold without you by my side though I know tears come to cowards as much as to heroes, I hold fast to my woes—these exquisite ribbons of pain suspending me in space, redefining the unbearable lightness of being so carnally in love, so spiritually in lust with you who can’t feel me through my words, my hemorrhaging poetics, my thirst, my muted sighs, my yawning scars, my idle hours my not touching you, my not kissing you, my not asking why I’m making my silent cry... (my silent cry) 13

PHOTO BY MARTINI FALCO 14

Desolation & Recuperation MARTINI FALCO I tried I tried dealing with pain, sadness, anger, regret— a turmoil It seemed I had to go through it all; A self-recovery should suffice, I say One moment it’s there, a moment it’s gone Battled under deprivation erratically In hopes that I might change the circumstances on my own— upon my crusted palms, in these 4 dark walls, in places that I love and in those that I just went to There are times where I’d tell myself to give up But the thought of “my momma raised no quitter” stood up and banished the notion in mind In the state of being unstable, I’ve come to terms to empower myself with radiant positiveness & hope that this too shall pass This Too Shall Pass 15

His Art is Dying CARL HASON GERALE The stool I used to depend all my weight on now wobbles on every delicate caress of the gentle afternoon breeze from the window left ajar. The bristles of my paint brushes taken by the wind as obedient as dandelions. The poetry I once wrote, replaced by a broken poem with the words of a man who knows no art. I wither as everything that breathes around me grow. Perhaps it was the easel left homed to the termites or my body dipped to black paint. 16

ART BY ALY S S A AP R I L RAVA DI LL A 17

Headvoice AV I C I I Oh, dear! My head is crashing down on me with voices echoing the song of ache - It’s telling me to see the hanging tree It’s never been as bad as this, you see? I’ve never been this close to make-or-break Oh, dear! My head is crashing down on me It’s like I’m drowning down a stormy sea or sinking down a grim and talking lake - that’s telling me to see the hanging tree Why can’t I breathe? Please let me swim and flee for love of life and for my mother’s sake But, dear! My head is crashing down on me And now I’ve drained myself of energy A voice is telling me I’ll never wake It’s telling me to see the hanging tree This pressure seems too burdensome for me Its weight will cause my knees to fiercely shake Oh, dear! My head is crashing down on me It’s telling me to see the hanging tree 18

ELSEWHERE STARLENE PORTILLO White does not wail sinister. It does not paint the yielding of the high- rise, the pleas of the skeptic, nor the remains of the day. Instead, it beckons you with the promise of what is to come. I continued to stare in the face of Light, once distant, now too close for comfort. It has engulfed both verses and chapped afterthoughts of the Earth in the shade of ivory. The pale nothingness sinks out all there was left to stow above cupboards, yet all I could ponder was how even the end of the world was an imperfection. And then a crossfade. Ivory remains. Paradise was concealed between crevices of a treasure box left ajar. Not too long ago, it housed a globe, half-dried flowers, one Ugg boot, spectacle frames, a roller coaster ticket. It does no good to be listless; every shipwreck can be bottled. Who knows if to live is to be dead, and to be dead, to live? 19

Kahel na Langit JOSHUA MAHILUM Tuwing kahel ang langit, natatakot ka man lang ba sa nagbabadyang kadiliman? Sa oras na lalamunin nito ang maliwanag na himpapawid? At mabilis na papalitan ang tanghali ng takipsilim? Kahel ang kulay ng langit bago dumilim. Tuwing kahel ang langit, nagpapaalam ka man lang ba sa liwanag? Nalulungkot tuwing lilisan sila? Tuwing huli silang dadampi sa asul na kalangitan? Muli man silang magpapakita sa umaga, ang yayakap sa iyo kinabukasan ay ibang liwanag na. Tuwing kahel ang langit, itinataas mo man lang ba ang iyong ulo upang mapagmasdan ang nakalutang na mga ginto? Ninanamnam ang huling sandaling makikita mo ang langit sa ganito nitong anyo? Paulit-ulit mang sumisikat at lumulubog ang araw, magkaiba ang tanawin sa dapit-hapon araw-araw. 20

PHOTO BY NICHOL FRANCIS ANDUYAN 21

Perihelion JOSHUA MARTIN GUANCO I have always thought of catching sunlight— to envelop in my hands the tiny fragments of a thousand flares that ignite the celestials; to temporarily clench the radiance of novas that effervesce within its iron core; and to soak in solar catharsis: a testament in behalf of Icarus. I have always thought of catching sunlight— to encapsulate the surge of chloroplasts as they propel their hosts for photosynthesis; to take a sip on the chalice of hegemony and divinity that indoctrinated civilizations; and to feel the shards of time lacerating through the veins of my contrite corporeality. 22

I have always thought of catching sunlight— even for just mere seconds. Not to lather myself in golden refulgence, but to just ephemerally bask in the albedo of its blades that breathe vitality into the fabric even time and space cannot comprehend: fortitude. 23

Katunggali KYNAH RHEA FUENTES Katawa’y nanginginig sa pag-ihip ng hanging nakakapanindig balahibo sa lamig. Anino sa uuga-ugang bangka’y lalong bumabaluktot sa bawat dumadagundong ingay ng kidlat at kulog. Isa. Dalawa. Tatlo. Hanggang saan aabot ang pagsagwan ng lumang kawayan? kung sa tuwing pagpalo nito’y siya ring paghampas ng sandamakmak na malahiganteng along galit pa sa leon? Apat. Lima. Anim. Paano nga ba kalabanin ang tubig na akala mo’y taimtim, sa ilalim ng nakakasakal na dilim dulot ng langit na makulimlim? Pito. Walo. Siyam. Ilang sagwan pa nga ba ang kailangan, upang marating ang pwestong nakasanayan at maibenta ang pinaghirapang baldeng puno ng isda’t pasayan? 24

PHOTO BY MARTINI FALCO 25

HQ STARLENE PORTILLO As I lean back to reflect on the remains of the day, I see it bent out of fragments we forget to savor: the crevice that sets sky and concrete apart, a heave, the bitterness we try to mask with last night’s pack of ashes, a sigh. We huddle under stars we cannot name under the pretense that we are nowhere less now. And so like gods, we drink to the lives we have yet to live. 26

PHOTO BY MILLEN ANDRE GELA 27

Queen of the Night HEKATE She who blooms after dusk Inhales the energy beaming From the darkness and the moon. The Queen of the Night —Only fragrant in the gloom. She sways in the dark gracefully, Moving in sync with the waves. How hypnotic she is, As she prances and dances Spellbindingly; clutching at freedom. There is enchantment Rooted in the dark. Perhaps some type of magic— A powerful spell lingering, As she dances; exuding wonder. For beauty isn’t always In the light. Beauty— It is also the mystery, The strangeness, the ataraxia The night forever delivers. So, be still and fear not The dark, my friend. Feel the soft chill of the breeze Perfumed with magic. Close your eyes. And like her, Bloom. 28

Sa Likod ng Isipan IVEE MANGUILIMOTAN Sa pagpikit ko ng aking mga mata, iyong mga haplos ay damang-dama, iyong mga munting halik, tila’y lasap ko pa, sa iyong bisig ako’y nakakulong, ni minsa’y hindi ninais makawala, sa iyong pagtitig, aking kalamna’y nalulusaw, iyong mga salitang, bawat titik saulado ng puso. ako’y nabihag ng isang anghel, nagpakawala ng pakpak, dinala sa langit, dinama ang hangin, lumutang sa ulap, kinausap ang araw, at natulog sa buwan. ngunit sa umaga’y pag mulat ng mata, hindi maipagkakailang, isang alaala lang pala. 29

ILLUSTRATION BY DANIELLE GUTIERREZ

Which Option? HEATH Toblerone / Hershey’s Seaside / Cityscape Rial / Peso Fist fight / Virtual disconnection Flash floods / Armed robbery Feet bitten by snakes / Be a cult leader Itchy lemongrass / Sandstorm Taksi / Quiz Planet Abroad / Anak 31

PHOTO BY MARTINI FALCO 32

Banaag KR ISTINE BAYAD O G Alas kwatro. Nagapabilin nga bukas ang akon mga mata biskan wala ako sang may makit-an kundi ang kadulom. Sa piyak sang kahipos, ang lamang nga ginahanduraw amo ang palaabuton nga inadlaw. Alas singko. Nagaturuok na ang sulog sa likod balay apang wala pa sa gihapon nagabutlak ang Adlaw gikan sa sidlangan. Kung huna-hunaon, siguro ginkapoy na siya sa pagsugata sa magaabot nga kaagahon. Alas sais. Iya ginbinag-binag ang iya pugon kag siya nagtindog halin sa iya ginharian para bawtismuhan ang banaag sang bag-o nga aga anggid sa isa ka lapsag. Alas syete. Nagapabilin ako nga nagahigda samtang nagaamat-amat na huni ang mga kasapatan sa guha. Ang dulom, naislan na sang kasanag. Ang kahipos, nangin gahod. 33

Alas otso. Apat na ka oras ang nagligad apang ginabutong pa ko gihapon pabalik sang akon katuyo. Pero tama na. Tama na nga katamad. Tiyempo na para magbangon para sa bag-o nga kahigayunan.

450 years earlier CHAD MARTIN NATIVIDAD A child threw a plastic bottle into the unsuspecting sea. White waves of froth braced the foreign element with a splash. Of course, you could not have heard it, buried by the humdrum of the ferry. There was also no crater; no stain from the contaminant. The bottle contained half an hourglass of distilled water. Upon impact, the liquid broke free, but the bottle had been absorbed by gravity, drifting, unto this day, by the port. The whole motion: in less than a second. The child: entertained for less. 35

But, what does it matter? After all, he was just a child launching a rocket unto a blue sky. 36

Pump boat CHAD MARTIN NATIVIDAD Once, we sat by the shore. Two monobloc chairs facing the sea. The moon, though alone, glimmered softly at a distance. We lamped over the existence of flat-earthers. How they insist: our planet must be flat simply because a ship does not vanish from view—sailing into the horizon. We chuckled at the silliness of it, but refrained from debating. For we, both, had yet to witness an ark depart from our person. Nearby, a pump boat, tied to a palm, would bop over shallow water. You dared me to swim just right past that outrigger but I said no, like you, I am no swimmer. Like you, we step foot on distant islands, dip our feet on their beaches, then return home telling our friends how often we swam. Perhaps, you did somewhat that, the day after—when you made up your mind whether to fly abroad. To find yourself, you had told me, to secure fairer work. Somewhere, beneath the ocean, before the cliff of a trench, a fish convinced her finned-friend to plunge deeper into darker waters. Just keep swimming, she chanted—a mantra (in the form of song). 37

That chat we had transpired years ago. You are in a foreign country now: whiter beaches. If you were still here, I’d take back what I said. If you were here where I could speak to you like we used to, I’d challenge those flat-earthers. For I have seen a ship sail to the horizon and it disappeared from my view. A country, where I am not, had become that horizon. And you, darling, well you were that ship. 38

39 PHOTO BY CHAD MARTIN NATIVIDAD