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The Phenomenon of Floating after Rob Gonsalves HEATH am I in a lake or outer space? our continents are sprawled above me: an enlarged globe which houses houses both sacrosanct and desecrated. the void saps the colors I own like superpowers. okay, then. I would like to swim my way back to childhood. I would like a party where happiness bestows flight, breathing, proper posture, a lightness. now fish me back to the rocks, pine trees eager for my return. I would like to swim back whether it might be colorless or too much. 40

PHOTO BY MILLEN ANDRE GELA 41

Chasing Comets ALVIN BRIAN LEGARIO I remember when we shared the stars. It was a few minutes shy from twilight when we settled on top of dew tipped blades of freshly cut grass, waiting for the celestials to appear one after the other. I was no stranger to this astral view and yet, enduring this with you, made the experience even more tantalizing. Perhaps we might even catch a comet tonight, I thought to myself, waiting for the world to dim. When the sun dipped into the horizon, the ambiance shifted into a lull. The atmosphere was no longer ransomed by abeyance, and your voice painted the sky different shades of black. Strokes of ebony and the abyss lead the hues on the canvas, complementing the slight tinge of the stars. Your voice, a chameleon among hymns, delved me deeper into the night. Each word that fell off your lips cascades. A cadence of symphonies, giving life to the heavenly panorama floating above. Symphony: your voice from which the universe thrives on. Grasping the winds that swayed men and trees alike. You dared me to reach for the star among the constellations. Without hesitation, I held you, overlooking the fireflies hovering in the breeze. Your eyes smiled as I nestled your head under my chin. Between Earth and the heavens above, I lay in tainted thoughts, immersed in a zen of uncertainty: If, one day, this plain will fade, the stars won’t forget, as we won’t forget them. I closed my eyes, knowing that tomorrow, the sky won’t have the same shade. Perhaps our gaze might envelop the same canvas again one day, ‘till then we’re better off chasing comets. 42

FICTION ART BY ANDREA DANIELLE GAMBOA 43

Obscurity MARIA JASMEN RUIZ “Why are you so forgetful?” he asked. “See, I only keep sensical things and meaningful experiences in my memories,” she replied. “Is that why you forgot about me?” he went on. In her silence, he realized the answer long before they were put into words. Finally, she asked: “Who are you, again?” 44

Hint Fiction CHAD MARTIN NATIVIDAD Of Bamboos and Metals The cashier reached beneath the countertop—eyes, on me. I refused, expecting a retort. Instead, she gave this knowing smile. Like me, she’s also trying. Coup d’état Grass storm out of a crack. My dog pees on a pillar. Neither supports the regime of architecture. Operating room Fear, then darkness. Specks of light, then gratitude. Some people have dared into space, and flown back— encountering a fresh supply of time. 45

Journal #334 LORRAINE LABOS I LLU S T R AT I O NS BY ALY S S A AP R I L RAVA DI LL A 46

May 5, 24 [4:02 AM] Deep down, we’ve always known humanity itself would end humanity—but we never expected it to be like this. Our world has come a long way ever since the historical success of the first nuclear fusion, enabling the planet to have its own never-ending supply of energy. A replication of the sun, some say. From there onwards, we have been continuously upgrading everything in our path. Scientists and engineers alike were doubling their efforts, remedying even the tiniest problems that were slowly rising. We even restarted the time- clock—signalling the new age, the Era of Energy. We were at our peak. But humanity is unique—the dangerous kind of unique. We kept going, never stopping until we deemed everything was perfect. But it never has and never will be. Still, we kept going. Acting like gods, washing away every bit of tarnish this world has seen. They mingled with our DNAs; their attention shifted to biological tests, trials, and experiments. Commoners like me never knew what was coming. Apparently, a group of scientists attempted to decrease the aging process of humans, but something went terribly wrong and now we’re here. I’m here. Writing this journal in hopes of someone out there surviving this wrath we’ve brought upon ourselves. Someone’s knocking. I’ll be back. -Dan 47

May 6, 24 [11:13 PM] Katrina arrived yesterday morning, crying hysterically because our mom had gone missing. Her boyfriend Lance, followed this morning. I wasn’t very clear about my first entry explanation in this journal, wasn’t I? Remember that group of scientists? They had a successful outcome in terms of wanting to live forever. The drug was given to those who had the luxury and access to government connections. Once the body is able to adjust to the drug, it becomes embedded in the DNA helix and immune system, and a single cough could transfer its effects to a new host. It became a wonderful epidemic— an airborne narcotic capable of halting a person’s natural ability to meet death. Every single one was affected and every single one rejoiced. But, we miscalculated the underlying effects. It was true, people didn’t die—but you see, people actually won’t die. People who were supposed to fall into the arms of death continued living. A person with a disease like cancer would continue living with cancer for the rest of his life, a person with a sunken bullet in his brain would continue living with abnormal automotive motions, painfully agonizing along the way. It was hell. The mortality rate dropped to zero which means every single day, the Earth became littered with half-dead people. Their numbers quickly rose to a billion in a single week, hospitals have long shut down and those who were still healthy enough chose to stay inside until the government had a solution. You may think this wasn’t as bad as it seems but seeing your loved ones, your friends, suffer endlessly—absolute hell. I consoled Katrina a while ago; I told her maybe our mom just decided to visit dad in the quarantine area. But I know mom’s tuberculosis has worsened, and she just won’t let me and Katrina live with someone she’s about to become. -Dan 48

May 9, 24 [5:09 PM] Still no sign of mom. I saw a little boy on the street convulsing; I don’t know what to do. I’ll update as soon as possible. -Dan May 11, 24 [9:16 AM] I woke up to an odd, old creaking sound from the outside. I knew that certain sound all too well, I can basically feel its melody send goosebumps throughout my whole body. Someone must be sitting on our beaten swing from my childhood days. Wait, the sound is bugging the hell out of me. I’m going out. -Dan May 11, 24 [10:25 AM] It was… mom. I really do wish I didn’t let my curiosity get the best of me. I shouldn’t have gone outside. Mom, she was—I don’t know. Here I was, thinking the last few weeks on that hospital was hell, this? This is much worse. She doesn’t even look like herself anymore. Her eyes, the once warmest swirls of hazel I have ever seen, are now void of anything. Sunken, like a perfect ghoul. I touched her arms and she didn’t wince, not even when my fingers began to dig right into her skin. She just stared at Katrina and me whenever we asked about her whereabouts and what the hell had happened. It’s difficult to imagine this was the person who sung us lullabies whenever we thought there were monsters below our beds. I wish… no, it’s too immoral. I just hope this nightmare ends. -Dan 49

May 12, 24 [12:55 AM] We decided to go visit dad. God it was hard to swerve past those people on the street. It’s still a few minutes till we reach the camp. My whole body hurts from carrying mom. -Dan May 12, 24 [1:18 PM] My parents just informed us that they have been married for 36 long years. And that although their marriage was rocky at most times, they were at their happiest when they were with each other. After the sudden outburst of memories, dad gave me his ring and mom gave hers to Katrina. I have no idea why. Mom’s looking worse than dad now… -Dan May 13, 24 [9:04 PM] We decided to lessen our parents’ burden. I hope a precise and quick slice to their neck ends their misery. I’m sorry mama and papa. -Dan May 22, 24 [7:00 AM] Nothing worked. We did everything. They won’t die. -Dan 50

June 15, 24 [6:17 PM] Sorry I haven’t been updating. Last week we’ve received an announcement from the government: there’s a safe secluded place down in Atlack City. It’s a four-day trip from here. If we were to take the journey, it would mean we’d spiral into an endless black hole of problems. But the three of us realized there’s nothing left for us here. Katrina, Lance, and I decided to take risks. I don’t even care whether this is the right decision or not. I just want to go somewhere far away. -Dan June 18, 24 [6:17 PM] We’re halfway there. The streets are littered with people moaning in agony. We decided to shut the blinds in our van. -Dan June 19, 24 [2:50 AM] I just witnessed something disturbing. It was downright horrifying. People started to decompose. The smell—holy shit. The smell. Dear God, what is happening? Their skin is melting right off their bones. I can’t even write this without trembling—I can’t. It’s like wax. And their faces, the look on their faces. Someone looked at me and asked for help. I’m sorry... I’m sorry I couldn’t... holy shit. God help us. -Dan 51

June 21, 24 [7:05 AM] The haven is nowhere to be seen. Lance went for a food run yesterday. He still hasn’t come back yet. Katrina’s still crying. People are still shedding their skin off. It isn’t going to stop, is it? It’s like they have been dipped in boiling oil until their skin turn into a sickly hue of orange and red. I doubt it’s even skin anymore. Scabs full of pus are constantly oozing from the fresh wounds. I could still hear the ringing of their screams and wails. Everything is hopeless fucked up. -Dan June 25, 24 [4:17 PM] Lance just got back. Apparently, he was held up in an abandoned grocery store due to some unforeseen… circumstances. Katrina and I just took it as the truth. What else could we do? After settling in the few supplies he brought in, he suggested playing mind games he learned from uni to take our minds off what’s happening outside. At least someone from among us is trying to alleviate the situation. I’m happy that Katrina is into it. I’m not, however. I can never erase those people’s looks in my mind. -Dan 52

July 3, 24 [10:15 AM] I had a pet parrot named Eugene once. Eugene was such a talkative fella: always blabbering and mimicking words I doubt he even understood. I wonder if he’s okay. I haven’t even seen a bird since everything turned into… whatever this is. We’re staying at a rundown building in the main city. A quick look down the gigantic windows and you’ll see the remains of humani— fuck, they’re still alive. -Dan July 4, 24 [5:05 AM] Woke up a bit early today. Kat tugged on my sleeve while urging me to stay still and listen. Everything is quiet. I’ve never been more terrified. -Dan July 5, 24 [8:32 PM] It’s still silent out there. We’re tempted to go outside and investigate. The dead bodies are nowhere to be found, not even a single trace of their torment. Even worse: our supplies are about to run out. I think I heard shuffling and murmurs outside the room we are staying in, but I just might be hallucinating. I’m so confused. I want to go home. -Dan 53

July 5, 24 [8:32 PM] There’s blood… from my cough. -Dan August 23, 24 [5:39 PM] When my parents asked me what I wanted to study when I grow up, I instantly chose medicine. I’ve always dreamt of becoming a doctor one day. Guess that dream’s way over now, right? Mom and dad also told me how simple life was when they were little kids just roaming around the country. Sure the advancements in technology were somewhat limited, but hey, at least people were contented with what they already had. I wish I was given the chance to live in that generation. Now, everything is shitty. I don’t know why I’m still writing this. Maybe because I’m hoping someone out there truly does survive and read these scribbles a desperate stranger did. -Dan 54

September 8, 24 [8:17 AM] Katrina and Lance are out trying to find supplies. They’re desperate to build a radio in order to contact someone anyone really. And as for me, I’ve been feeling a little drowsy lately. I’ll be right back. My shoulder has been itching badly since yesterday. -Dan September 15, 24 [10:11 AM] Supplies have run out. I think it’s my turn to do a food run. I seriously hope nothing ill’s going to happen when I go out. Will this ever end? -Dan September 16, 24 [1:09 AM] All the stores are fucking empty. It’s as if a vacuum sucked everything at every single station out there. This is making me think about how it’s possible that a bunch of people are still out there, surviving. If that’s the case, I hope they find us. -Dan September 24, 24 [3:00 AM] I don’t know how long we’re going to last. Someone out there, please send hel— 55

January 1, 1 Code 718, Order of the High Alcords: Termination of unsuitable individuals - complete. New Earth will now be repopulated with individuals of desired characteristics. Maximum physique and IQ level is a must. The Supreme Class composed of 100,000 chosen individuals will be able to continue living after the disinfection is complete. The antidote has also been released yesterday at 15:00. Those who have survived earned themselves a place in New Earth. Permission to utilize Journal #334 of Danniel Al C. Holt approved. Classified information within the book will be transferred, recorded, and studied for viable evidence. Rebuilding the nation will proceed next. Commencement at 17:00, Sunday, January 1st of year 1. Welcome to the New Age. -Dr. Hugh Y. Owen 56

Wherever The Tides Go ALVIN BRIAN LEGARIO ILLUSTRATIONS BY ANNA THERESA PARAYNO 57

Once upon a time, there was a poet who was very fond of books. His affection for them led him to travel all around his homeland to purchase or at least study what he could not bargain for. This was his day-to-day routine. He would go to bed excited for the ‘morrow, looking forward to another day of finding new bounded leaves to add to his already swelling collection. One day, he realized he had frequented every nook and cranny in his homeland. He revisited every place again in search for a new book, tome, scroll, journal, fiction, and nonfiction. But to no avail. After a lengthy time of routine traveling, he finally compiled every book he could find in the four corners of his country. He thought that if no new remarkable information was being recorded, then maybe everything was already discovered. Fearing this, he immediately went home and looked for maps depicting places untraversed by his two feet. After a thorough and complete scan, he concluded that there is but only one place he has never truly treaded and with this in mind, he looked to the open sea. Right there and then he decided he wanted to have a taste of the open waters, previously unknown territory to him and his people. The next day, he bought a boat; a simple fishing vessel reinforced with hardwood and planned an adventure out to sea for four days. By this time, his adrenaline was pumping. The last time he felt this excited was when he realized that a certain book he fancied was only the first novel of a trilogy. The adrenaline-fueled poet started packing his supplies, eager to start his voyage, wanting to leave as soon as he could. With nothing but six loaves of bread, ten bottles of water, the clothing on his back, a pencil, a knife, a notebook, an unread book on fishing, a mind full of curiosity, and a heart full of hope, he took to the sea to be immersed in aquatic flora and fauna. He wanted to return a new man with knowledge unknown to his world written by him on paper, and with this mission; he moved forward. He pushed his boat off the dock and rowed fast until he saw land far 58

into the distance. The assurance of seeing something to turn back to made him felt safe. After an hour of rowing, his skin started to feel the winds having a drastic change seeing the yellow banner he placed earlier flapping incredulously. This signaled him to decide that it would be the best time to let the winds take charge of his voyage. Promptly, he stood up and untwined the knot that was keeping the mast and slowly lowered the sail. He looked back one last time and saw that, although he was relatively further from before, he could still see the docks where he left off. Completely rid of angst, he laid back, crossed his arms at the back of his head, and soaked in the atmosphere. The sun; slowly setting in the horizon, colored the sea a hue of dark green and indigo. The sea, delivering waves from distant lands created a symphony that was eerily peaceful. “This is paradise incarnate,” the poet said as he bit into a loaf of bread and washed it down with fresh water. As he finished his meal, he felt an instantaneous shift in the strength of the winds. But this was no cause for concern he thought, as he saw a flock of seagulls floating above the blue atmosphere in the opposite direction. “I haven’t seen birds those sizable in almost forever,” the poet said, admiring the elongated yellow bills, sleek necks and the white crisp feathers of the fowl. “They seem to be migrating. But spring hasn’t come to Grandora yet. Perhaps they are flying away from something? That’s more probable but what could that something be?” the poet asked himself quizzically. Not wanting to find out, he hurriedly bundled his belongings. He then realized that lowering the sails might lessen the control the upcoming gust will have on his boat. As he prepared to lower them: it happened. The shift in strength of the winds was now noticeable. What was once a light tug brought upon by the breeze slowly turned into a durable gale. Realizing this was too vigorous for his knowledge of seafaring, 59

the poet’s calmness casually descended into dismay. He took this as a sign to begin rowing back to land, but even with the sails down, the boat was already out of his control, ambling into directions the poet was not intending. This caused his feeling of dismay climax into panic. To gain control back of his vessel, he brought out the ores and desperately rowed as hard as he could, but this brought him little to no success. He tried to determine where the patch of land he docked from earlier was. But what was once a sizeable rock in the distance was now a barely noticeable speck. He had no time to dread though as his little craft commenced to bounce to and fro: the waves playing a little game of catch, and his boat— the ball. Wet and exhausted, he laid down on the rocking boat and closed his eyes. “I should have never left home” was the final thought that lingered in his head before slowly drifting into sleep. On daybreak, he woke up to calm blue waters. The serenity was complimented by the sun whose rays infused the sky with shades of orange, blue, and white. There appears to be a certain beauty to my situation, the poet thought. As he broke bread for rations, had an epiphany: beyond the books he studied intensively, he had no real experience in sailing. After the 60

adrenaline of buying a boat, tackling the unknown head-first, and getting tossed around in the open sea subsided, he realized that this was the most reckless decision he had ever made. He barely knew where the equipment on his boat was located and which part of the vessel does which. His sense of direction was subpar, his fishing skills were little to none, and his knots were chaotic. Tragically for him, he had read a hand-full of books on sailing, fishing, and knot tying, but it was different than actual experience. What he was good at was writing and reading. But with no one to write and speak to, his talents were bleak at best out at sea. He sat down and held his knees to his chest. He was a poet without an audience, a captain to a boat he hardly knew how to maneuver, adrift both out at sea and in thought. The poet’s day-to-day routine was simple. Wake up, sleep, eat and drink (scarcely), write, and sleep. Occasionally, he would fend off sharks circling his boat, but beyond that, he was locked in a trance. This continued on for eight days. On the 8th day of being stranded out at sea, he recorded what little supplies he had left: -a stale loaf of bread -half a bottle of water -the clothing on his back -the lead tip of a pencil -a blunt knife -a drenched notebook -a slightly used book on fishing -a mind full of remorse -and a heart filled to the brim with ambiguity. His chances of survival were slim to none, he figured. If he could not find land soon, the last chapter of his life would be written at the tip of a boat. With that in mind, his determination to survive grew. But that 61

and his supplies were fading. Realizing this, he decided that it was the best time to learn how to fish while his willpower was at its peak. When he bought the boat, the previous owner threw with it a few fishing tackles, a bucket, and two fishing rods provided in the boat’s lower compartment. After searching around his vessel, he located the alcove and found all the equipment: slightly aged but still expendable. He scanned through the pages of the book he brought along about fishing, and while doing this, began trying to fish. He nipped a chosen tackle at the hook of one of the fishing rods, whipped it back, and then lashed it gracefully in front of him. Or that’s how he imagined it would. In reality: he awkwardly knotted the remaining tackle as he lost the others in quick succession, he thrashed his rod back, and gently threw it forward—careful not to get caught again. He sat still for hours, and not a single fish nibbled. The line occasionally bobbed and bounced but it was from his restlessness due to his frustration. He decided to place the rod sturdily at the side of his boat, and rest his eyes. Hunger and desperation were getting to him. Just as he was about to plunge into slumber, he felt something, though this time not on the line but on the boat. The vessel was slowly rocking side to side. He reeled his line in and tried to balance his boat. After a while, the rocking subsided. Relieved, he sat down—wiping the sweat about to cascade on his forehead, he believed that the thing that caused the motion left. And then he heard it: light tapping on the port side of his boat. Concluding this as only his imagination, he continued or at least tried to go back to fishing. He threw his line and waited. Not long after, he heard tapping once more. Curious, and sure it was no longer his mind playing tricks on him, he decided to cautiously check the side of the boat. What he saw left him dumb-founded. At the side of his ship, floating and waving on the water, he saw a metal cylindrical tube with a circular glass at the end. Out of pure curiosity, he extended his hand towards the cylinder. Oddly enough, the cylinder seemed to do the same, slowly edging its way towards him. In all the years the poet has lived, he has never felt this dazed before. In the middle of the sea, something queer was in front of him and all he could utter under 62

his voice was: “Incredible.” Like magic words to an antique lamp, the cylinder instantaneously dove down into the sea. The poet, forgetting about his hunger, scampered around the boat; looking port and starboard to try and spot the mysterious object that was in front of him, mere seconds before. He shifted his gaze to all directions, but only saw the endless vast sea and his reflection. The latter caught his attention. What was once a slew of slick jet-black hair was now an uncombed patch of straw. “Not even a bird would lay its nest in this impious excuse for hair,” the poet said as he stared deeper into the gaunt figure. His eyes, what was once an explosion of pecans and caramel, have now turned heavy from sleepless nights. He ran his hand across his chin and felt his stubble. “Amongst the starvation, the hallucinations, dehydration, and the heat, at least I know I have the capacity to grow a beard,” he said jokingly as he turned his body and faced the sun. “How long have you been out here mi’ boy?” a deep husky voice asked. Passing it off as another deception of the mind, the poet answered unfazed “Eight? Maybe nine days? I not entirely sure anymore.” “That’s an awfully long time. How’d a lad like you get himself in this sorta’ predicament?” “The usual tale of the daring and the dumb of course. A little adrenaline here. A little reckless spending there. Next thing I knew I was marooned at sea.” The voice let out a snicker. “Basing on yer composure, I can conclude that you’re not a water vagabond. You’re prolly one of those land folk I reckon. Want me to take you back to pastures a lil bit… ugh… less blue?” it asked. 63

“What are you going on about? How can I take myself back if I don’t even know how to sail hmmm?” the poet asked, vexed. “Instead of asking myself eccentric questions like that, I should probably check my line. There probably isn’t anything on it, but it’s worth a try. You know what they say after all: to the bold go the spoils,” the poet exclaimed. He rose up to investigate his line. “Just as I thought. Empty,” the poet exclaimed, unsurprisingly as he laid down his pole back. Deciding to at least get an idea of where he was geographically, he observed his surroundings. “In front of me is a great big deal of nothing. To my left, still a great big deal of nothing. To my right, oh look! Nothing. And behind me is—” just as he was about to explain in great detail what was behind him, he suddenly jerked, causing his boat to shift and rock left to right. Rubbing his eyes, he verified what was in front of him. What was facing him was an old man, sitting coolly in cross position on what seemed to be a yellow square metal lid, idle on the water. “You’re not an illusion. Are you?” the poet asked, wide-eyed, coy, and dazed. “Ding ding ding! You got that right Einstein,” the old man exclaimed as he rested his chin on his right hand. “Wha— Who— Whe— Why?” the poet asked promptly, his mind interrupting with each word. The poet, now on all fours, realized his disposition. He immediately combed his hair with his hand, dusted off what remained of his clothing, and stood up rather awkwardly, causing the boat to rock once again. He did these in rapid succession. “I am Anden, a poet and scholar from Rockover,” he said chivalrously, extending his hand while giving a more detailed look at the old man. He looked to be in his sixties—wrinkly, lanky, and short—had a bald spot in the patch of his gray hair, green eyes, a fuzzy beard, and a beer belly. He sported a black blazer, a funny looking hat, white folded- from-the-bottom pants, and black lenses supported by horizontal lines 64

edging on his ears. “Cap’n Duran. The one and only of the famed Theseus, the swiftest and deadliest submarine of the nine seas. Pleased to meet ya,” the old man said, receiving Anden’s hand-shake. “Bet you haven’t had a proper chow nor a mighty drink in a while, haven’t ya?” “No sir— I mean Captain.” “Just as I thought. You just wait a second now, ya hear?” Captain Duran said politely. Anden, confused but hungry, did not question the sincerity of the old man. The Captain, now standing up, revealed what seemed to be a circular metal wheel. He gave it a lengthy swirl, revealing a hatch. He jumped in and after a few minutes, resurfaced. He offered Anden a jug of water, bread, and some fruits. Anden gratefully accepted and started eating. Amidst the ever-turbulent waters, the orange hue of the sun, and an old man, he wept in joy as he devoured his food. In exchange, he told the Captain the tale of how he arrived in his situation. 65

“Well now. That’s a mighty great story you got there lad. Your resiliency is commendable,” the Captain said. “Well, I believe you found what you were looking for.” “And what’s that Captain?” “You were seeking knowledge right? Let me fill yer noggin with something mindblowing. You see, you are what we call, land dwellers. A long time ago, a great flood engulfed what was known then as the present world. This was caused by ice caps and what not, by the way. The remaining survivors gathered and had two choices. To stay on land, or to adapt and create a civilization at the bottom of the sea. My people chose the latter.” The poet, now in shock, asked angrily. “Why— Why don’t we know about this? Why isn’t this written in any book?” “May it be yer leaders of state din’t want to lose their people now? Bugs me. But what I do know is that this is alotta take in. Hop on board and I will bring ye back to yer ho—” “No,” Anden interrupted. “The questions in my mind are endless. I can’t-won’t come home until I have answers. Pardon my intrusion, but perhaps you can take me with you? I’m a quick learner and I work really hard. Honest,” he said, placing his right hand on his chest. “Well. I dunno lad. I’ve been out on me own for god knows how long. Maybe having a crew member won’t… er… go as well as you planned. The least I can do is bring ya ho—” “I understand. If that’s the case, then I shall remain on the Hemmingway then. I appreciate your help captain. Farewell, and good tidings,” Anden replied. “The Hemmingway?” 66

“I named my boat after my favorite author.” Captain Duran belched out a laugh, and replied: “Ya know lad, you remind me of meself. Guess being alone this long has caused me to have a difficult time trusting people, and I reckon I have to start somewhere. Come to think of it, if I hadn’t surfaced to refuel me air, you woulda been shark bait by now. Ye pretty much owe me yer life. Hopefully this is enough reason to quell yer thoughts of any mutiny business aye?” “Aye Captain. Indeed it is,” Anden answered almost immediately. “I reckon maybe it’s time for me to stop going solo,” the Captain said, rubbing his beard. “Are you sure about this lad? I’m all for it but once we go down. We go down.” Anden, looking at the horizon; the sun calmly dipping into the infinite blue of the tides, turned to the Captain and replied “I’m sure. I really am.” “It’s settled then,” Captain Duran said firmly. “Welcome aboard the formidable Theseus.” 67

The Terror of The Midday Marsh LYLE JOHN BALANA ILLUSTRATIONS BY CARL HASON GERALE 68

Agent Kintz scratched at his head again. His well-manicured nails, cupped over the pale, wrinkled length of ever-twitching fingers, plied his corn-colored locks with little direction save for instinct. He only really scratched his head when he was confused, or angry, or scared—frontwards when confused, scrambling when angry, splayed and electric when scared. But for now, his fingers were a comb, a sieve, a song—done in the interests of activity, and nothing more. Before him was a wall of pure glass, slick from the blessed water wetting it from base to top. Smeared over that were crushed gloves of soggy garlic, flanked by chaotic splashes of rice, freshly scattered from a sack that spread what remained all over the floor before the glass him. Behind him was a wall of stakes, each attached to a primer that would launch the sharpened pieces of wood simultaneously at the presence of certain triggers—the breaking of the glass, the disruption of the wall behind the stakes, the loss of life of Kintz himself. Behind 69

the glass was a room layered in every inch with silver, polished so well that the slightest hint of light threw blinding arcs reflecting all across the enclosed box. Inside that room was a single wooden chair. And on that chair, wearing wooden shoes and staring right at him from across the glass, was a vampire. At least, that’s what he thought it was. It was beautiful, in the sort of way that made men and women doubt themselves without closer inspection of the object of their desire. Its long, yellow fangs were hidden beneath cherry-red lips that defaulted to an insolent smirk, and it kept its smooth, long arms crossed over its chest. Its feet tapped incessantly against the silver layer of the floor, like a foot searching for thin ice over a frozen lake. Yet its eyes, sunk and haggard, betrayed a hint of fear. The eyes looked past the glass, the man, the stakes, and beyond, into a time and place that crushed the darkness out of this creature of the night. Kintz let his hand fall away from his head. He needed to be more professional about this. “Again. You say you were from another Earth?” “If that is what you call your world, then yes.” The mouth spoke, the eyes remained fixed on him, but they did not really see him. “I came from a world very much unlike you. Nurturing, damp, rough. A fine bulwark for a fine race.” “And why did you come here?” “Because of him. Because of The Terror of the Midday Marsh.” Kintz almost let out a snort. That was precious, even cheesy. A name that would not be out of place in a drive-thru theater, cranked out by a B-movie company missing their Dalton Trumbo. 70

“You seem to know this terror well.” The vampire did not respond. Its feet kept tapping, tapping on the silver floor, never really stopping. It had been doing that ever since he had gotten into the room. And its eyes—it’s wonderful, scary red eyes, had been staring past him without pause. Kintz cleared his throat. “I’m gonna need an answer on that, please.” The vampire shook its head slightly, clearing invisible cobwebs from its raven-haired head. “Everyone knows the Terror. Everyone should know the Terror. He dwells in the spot of marsh that never knows darkness, and he sits within his little shade of daylight. He sits, and all night he sings, and he makes our blood run cold.” Kintz let out a small, ragged whistle through his teeth. The vampire was making no sense. “So he’s a human? Is that it? Why couldn’t you just have dragged him out and killed him?” The vampire’s tapping paused for a moment, and its vacant, distant 71

stare switched to a glare that drained his mouth of spit. For one, tiny moment, Kintz did not feel in control. And despite everything in the room, along with the murderous stare of the creature, he secretly felt glad that there was one final solution if everything else were to fail. It could never leave this room alive. But it was only for a moment, and then the vampire reverted to old habits. “We have hunted your kind to extinction in the old world,” the vampire said slowly, carefully, “with all manner of tools. But the Terror of the Midday Marsh is different. He sings. He enlivens all he touches. He resists our cunning and our power. He burns what he pleases, and he will not be denied.” Agent Kintz cocked his head slightly. This Terror guy had quite the resume. If he were still alive, and it seemed like he was, seeing as this vampire fled all the way to another dimension just to escape, he would have liked to recruit him. Such useful agents on the field could solve a lot of problems, a lot of headaches. All the bad guys in the world would have to watch out. “So, what does he look like? Does he have any interests? Perhaps he is afraid of the night?” “The night is his slave, and he is master of everything he seeks.” The vampire’s smirk was still there, but it wasn’t a smirk anymore. It was a remnant of its soul, hanging on for dear life in the vapid void of its face. “We could not defeat it, however, we tried until we came 72

upon the ancient scriptures of our race. We prayed to the moon for guidance, and cursed the sun with the power of sacrifice until we had what we hoped to have. A weapon.” “A weapon? What weapon was this?” There was no response. “What weapon was this? Respond, please.” The vampire tapped its shoe-clad feet, its posture stiff and erect, its soul long lost to the terror. After what seemed like an eternity, it finally spoke. “We thought we beat it. We thought the Terror was lost to the strength of the moon. But he roared, and he raged, and he smote us all with a power that slew even our most sacred nights.” The vampire started taking off its shoes. Its porcelain feet flashed out of the brown varnish, inviting for the split second they spent whole before both of them were driven into the silver. The vampire burned, then and there, still tapping its feet until they sloughed away into melted piles of flesh, like the rest of its ilk in the poorly described tragedy that it waxed about the Terror of the Midday Marsh. But before its throat dissolved into ash, it gurgled— “Even now I sang his song! Even now he stands behind you!” 73

Kintz froze. The smell of barbequed flesh sneaked into the room— the glass wasn’t as airtight as he previously thought. He checked his faint reflection on the dirty glass, ignoring the screaming, roasting vampire. But there was nothing. Nothing but the wall of stakes. Kintz breathed a sigh of relief. How foolish of him to believe a mad vampire! It probably went crazy, unable to comprehend that a simple human could have beaten a whole world of them, whatever method the crazy bastard used. He pressed the hidden receiver surgically implanted over his left jawbone. “Kintz to Tango. Disengage room nuclear safeties. And check the air seals, it’s compromised.” 74

COMICS ART BY ANNA T H ER ES A PA RAYNO 75

Just Passing Through BY A LY S S A A P R I L R AVA D I L L A 76

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On Their Pawprints BY CARL HASON GERALE 78

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A Risk to Take BY A N N A T H E R E S A PA R AY N O 80

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SCRIBES & SCRIBBLERS IL LUSTRATIO NS BY: ANDREA DANIELLE GAMBOA CARL HASON GERALE ANNA TH E R E SA PAR AYN O ALYSSA AP R I L R AVADI LL A WORDS BY: ALVIN BRIAN LEGARIO CHAD MARTIN NATIVIDAD KR I STI NE BAYADOG LORRAINE LABOS JOSHUA MARTIN GUANCO 84

27. Mangrove Tree 14. Milotic 11. Axolotl 12. Siamese Fighting Fish 1. Northern Pufferfish

9. Manatee 19. Vaporeon 25. Albino Axolotl 7. GoPro Underwater 4. Message in a Bottle

22. Lionfish 3. Nautilus 5. Royal Blue Tang 6. Merman 15. Granulated Sea Star 8. Seaweed 87

20. Cannonball Jellyfish 2. Bottlenose Dolphin 16. Swordfish 1 3 . Tu n a Fi s h 88