SCRIBE 2021 LITERARY FOLIO

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SCRIBE Volume 24, July 2021 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 Carl Hason T. Gerale L AYOUT ARTISTS Alexandra V. Bachoco Kiara Nicole D. Villa Mikey Vincent T. Vicente ILLUSTRATORS Alexandra V. Bachoco Angela A. Coronel Christian Dominic L. Ledesma Carl Hason T. Gerale Jaziel Ann V. Seballos Mikey Vincent T. Vicente COVER CONCEPT AND DESIGN Carl Hason T. Gerale Jaziel Ann V. Seballos Set in IM FELL Double Pica and Iowan Old Style

Foreword At the vantage point of these rickety rows of seats, the trick act’s rather enraging, no? Pardon my sudden voice disrupting your deep contemplation, kind patron. You see, my quite curious eyes can’t help but notice a rousing soul seemingly addled among this audience. Perhaps the fun rides outside and ever-present flashes of blinding lights have finally lost their allure to you? Well, if you would let this meddlesome fellow bargain for a quarter of your hour for a golden ticket out of this scene, then allow me as I let you in on a secret. After all, once one catches the sleight that maneuvers the mechanisms of this place, there is no descent back to naivety. Without further ado, pay close attention as I tell you my knowhow of the Wiles. This place hides more of what can be seen under its cunning spectacles than it reveals with all its grand scheme of magical wonder. Look past the perfected smiles on the performers’ faces, lines of multicolored stalls, brightly painted booths that would haggle you over for comfort. Things are not what they always seem to be in the height of bliss. Humor this thought: the way out lies just beyond all these colors and extravaganza. You jest, dear friend! You contest that no trail leading outside exists within this fair, but believe me when I say that you are capable of tracing one—if only with a little more intention. How I knew, your averting gaze revealed your apprehension towards unfamiliar grounds. On top of that, you would have outright refused my proposition if you so much deem the idea utterly ludicrous. Now, at the time you arrive out of this tent, stride with your feet. Worry not of where the dead crowds go or form a queue, the path you seek is not always where they herd and crow. Veer your vision at which you tread and away from where the contraptions coax for a spin or two. In a place that you have long circled the same old dirt road, steer your course towards the path you never dared taking before. My eyes have already spied the ensemble of tiny horrors on your face, mimicking the acrobats up front from when I mentioned departure—

and perchance, a stray sighting of suspicion. The call is still yours whether to wager your trust upon this random folk. You will always have a hand of choices, good friend. I could further argue that there is no need for distrust in our newfound acquaintanceship, but I suppose a speck of skepticism is a good thing to have, don’t you think? To resist it shows less of your defiance to be fettered by ignorance. We both know humans live life not with strings secured around their limbs. Here, take this old pamphlet and sift through the accounts salvaged from the old belongings of artistes, merchants, and machines that have long departed the Wiles should your resolve waver. This is no golden ticket, contrary to what I guaranteed, but I deduce you need the belief of possibility more than a pretty piece of paper. Keep your coins; payments are unnecessary for an object your courage has already earned. My shift shall end soon. And so, before I take my leave, bear in mind: embrace the knowing as much as you brace for it, dear friend. That is when the haze draws open the path for you. Mayhap, I’ll see you on the other side. Some strange and nosy vendor, Carl Hason T. Gerale

CONTENTS POETRY and the stronghold falls������������������������������������������������������������2 Per(y)ahan ng San Miguel��������������������������������������������������������5 Mechanism ������������������������������������������������������������������������������7 Prinsesa������������������������������������������������������������������������������������9 Inclemency ����������������������������������������������������������������������������10 “One More Spin?”������������������������������������������������������������������12 ‘v’ for ventriloquy������������������������������������������������������������������15 Homo modernus��������������������������������������������������������������������16 Ganito (ba) ako?��������������������������������������������������������������������18 agahan������������������������������������������������������������������������������������21 Balik-Tanaw����������������������������������������������������������������������������22 signed, undine������������������������������������������������������������������������24 Hiraeth ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������25 Identity ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������28 Esklabo sang Misteryo ����������������������������������������������������������29 Preceding the Name of a Body ����������������������������������������������33 Consider No Mercy����������������������������������������������������������������34 FICTION Mass Hysteria������������������������������������������������������������������������36 Tower to Aether����������������������������������������������������������������������37 when the ravens murder��������������������������������������������������������41

A Chill in the Wind����������������������������������������������������������������42 Pag-ikot ng Tsubibo����������������������������������������������������������������48 NON-FICTION Hip-hop in the Time of Appendicitis ������������������������������������52 What I Owe to Odyssey ��������������������������������������������������������55 Apak ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������58 thoughts on a carousel ride in reverse ����������������������������������62 COMICS Friendly Delusions ����������������������������������������������������������������64 The Monster Inside����������������������������������������������������������������68 Weight������������������������������������������������������������������������������������72 S C R I B E S & S C R I B B L E R S ���������������������������� 75 A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T S ���������������������������� 88



POETRY ART BY JAZIEL ANN SEBALLOS

and the stronghold falls BAKEMONO bombs catapult over a field of caltrops where I was a pawn primed for slaughter in an olden siege. as dread trickles down like hail, I surge headfirst towards an unseen peril for the scheme of a queen, the warpath dims where pieces come to life. polished, reaching and striking for angles, the sole victor roars the arena into ruins. and there she stands, proud, unscathed, stepping nimbler than the clock— guiltless. I forfeit and leave. 2

PHOTO BY PHOEBE DAIDOJI JABONETE

ART BY MIKEY VINCENT VICENTE

Per(y)ahan ng San Miguel PAULA MAE VILLAROSA Nakakat’wang pagmasdan ang malabahagharing banderitas, malaalitaptap na mga ilaw, malaengkantadong laro’t palabas na tumatalukbong sa mga kinakalawang na bakal, lumalangitngit na mga karo, huwad na salamangka sa perya ng San Miguel. Nakakaaliw masaksihan ang malalangaw na paghapon ng mga parokyano sa nakalatag na mga mesa’t kubol-palaruan pagdatal sa bunganga ng peryahan— puno ng hiyawan at hambugan sa bawat mapusok na pustahang kumukubli sa mga pilit na paghatak sa eskala ng mga chansa ng sugalan, patagong tinginan at pasahan ng iilang pirasong pilak, harap-harapang pagdaklot ng marurungis na tanso mula sa magagaspang na dakma ng karaniwang mananaya upang may ialay sa masalaping patrong kinikilingan ni Bb. Kasarinlan. Nakakamanghang masilayan ang mahika ng salamangkero, maliksing paghagis at pagsalo ng mga unano, mapang-akit na pagsirko’t paglukso sa hangin ng mga nagtatrapesiyo na bumabalot sa mga matusong pagdukot ng mga relos, kwintas, at singsing sa bawat kumpas ng kamay, mahibong pagdakip sa mga pitaka habang nahuhumaling ang lahat sa pagtatanghal, mapanlinlang na pagkupit sa mumunting barya’t perang nakasuksok sa butas na bulsa sa bawat malagkit na haplos at hipo nitong kongreso ng mga tagapa- nukalang-aliwan. Nakakabighaning panuorin 5

ang paghalakhak at pagpuri ng madla sa pag-among tila’y mga tuta ng mga tigre’t leon sa bawat hudyat ng sirko de mayor sabay sa pamumula’t bungisngis ng mga dalagang tila sinusuyo na sumasangga sa mga walang habas na paghagupit ng latigo mula umaga hanggang mag- damag, pagsuklob sa mga matitinis na tili’t saklolo, paggutay ng maninipis na saplot— matapos ay walang kibong maghuhugas-kamay at magmamasid sa mga bakas na dinulot. Kung kaya’t lagi akong napapatigil sa dakong rito— nakakat’wang pagmasdang gabi-gabi’y kumpol-kumpol pa rin ang mga parokyanong nalilinlang, nadadaya’t naaalipustang naniniwala sa manipis na haraya ng namumulok na perya ng San Miguel. 6

Mechanism. ЖҮРЖ Up and Down The Ferris wheel I go: Neither High or Neither Low. Up and Down The Ferris wheel I go: As if This flesh Is in Limbo. Up and Down The Ferris wheel I go: I do Not reap The seed I sow. Up and Down The Ferris wheel I go: 7

It brings Forth life Yet nothing Grows. Up and Down The Ferris wheel I go: How can I ever Stop this Ceaseless flow? 8

Prinsesa JOSHUA MAHILUM sinorpresa ka niya ng isang palumpon ng pulang rosas ngumiti ka pinuno niya ng sanlibong mahal kita ang ‘yong tenga humalik ka huminang siya ng pilak sa ‘yong pang-apat na daliri yumakap ka ginawa ka niyang prinsesa nabulag ka sinaksak ka ng mga tinik sa rosas na bigay niya ngumiti ka pa isa-isang napalitan ng pasensya ka na ang sanlibo niyang mahal kita humalik ka pa pinulbos na ng kalawang ang singsing ninyong dalawa yumakap ka pa kalilibing lamang niya sa prinsesa dumilat ka 9

Inclemency MERYL SIGATON He crossed ice-flaked corners, eyeing the snow-crusted cobbles. Chivalry on his left, fresh freesias on his right. His love had eyes like pine, locks—reflecting ebony sheen. He found her under the chestnut tree, a Calla Lily beneath a book. He stood frozen under the lamplight— an open velvet box lay before his love. A diamond throned on a silver band; a stranger on a bent knee. He retraced rimed footprints, eyeing the damp pavement. Gallance on his left, creeping obsidian night on his right. His love had a smile like March, skin gleaming golden honey. She found blooms beneath the waning hoar; laughing, whimpering, musing of spring. 10

ART BY CHRISTIAN DOMINIC LEDESMA

‘One More Spin?’ A L A N VILL ANUEVA JR . Today, my body knows nothing but the sun pulling me out of bed and the moon ramming me back to sleep. Now, I seek the gleaming chunks of copper, sheathing me from the rains pouring, hushing my rumbling stomach, and quenching this thirst—strangling me, even for a little while. A bow-tied gent steers a wheel and for some change, he moved the earth, spinning until I lost track. And when it stopped, I held the golden glimmer in my eyes. For days, his grace doubled my offerings, but for some, he was quite greedy, denying me my pining. With my sight dimming, I reckoned my faith measly. To regain his love, I wagered my all. With senses waning, I nailed my eyes to the wheel dancing its grand pirouette. It was life, swinging one with the wind, and slowing down like ripples. And my heart stampedes like a horde of horses as this beauty settles to its last stance. My feet, itching to jump, froze and screams of victory went down my throat—I fell, 12

but no sound was heard. My head recalled the spinning wheel, every coin stolen, and my eyes racing against the wheel’s every turn. It was time to close down— curtains were drawn, lights were put out, and the tranquil night remained unbothered. As I move, a single glint from the wheel swears to meet me again, though I pray not. My head recalled the spinning wheel, every coin stolen, and my eyes racing against the wheel’s every turn. It was time to close down— curtains were drawn, lights were put out, and the tranquil night remained unbothered. As I move, a single glint from the wheel swears to meet me again, though I pray not. 13

PHOTO BY STEVE LOUISE

‘v’ for ventriloquy HANA PATRICIA RAJ HAUTEA “If you don’t have anything nice to say, Keep your pretty little mouth shut. Read my lips from far away, Lest your tongue gets cut. If you don’t have anything nice to say, Lay your volume low. God forbid, you offend someway; Just play us a dumb show. If you don’t have anything nice to say, Cast yourself aside. When grins and laughs could be delayed, What use is silly pride?” Yet my wily mind whispers Of its own right and wrong. Amid blaring, fervent streets— that is where you belong. Silence invites smiles—yes; But my voice demands to be heard. Tomorrow—I swear, when twilight strikes, “Farewell” shall be my first word. Well, mother, the time is ripe To do what must be done. A brand new act I will perform For now, an audience of one. 15

Homo modernus JOSHUA MAHILUM Tao ang pinapakain mo ng hangin tuwing umaga. Tao ang binababad mo sa ilaw hanggang umaga. Tao ang ikinakadena mo sa telepono at kama. Tao ang pinakakagat mo sa bampira. Tao ang ipinakasal mo sa mga libro. Tao ang minamadali mo laging maging matalino. Tao ang sinusubuan mo ng aralin kahit busog na. Tao ang ginugutom mo ng pahinga. Tao ang inuuhaw mo ng lambing. Tao ang pinagtutulakan mong maging napakagaling. Tao ang tinutukso mo tuwing umaayaw. Tao ang nilalason mo ng perpektong ikaw. Tao ang kaibigang ‘di mo na nakakamusta. Tao ang batang pinagbabawalan mong kumanta. Tao ang magulang na ‘di mo nasasabihan ng mahal kita. Tao ang sarili mong nakalimot na siya’y tao pa. 16

ART BY CARL HASON GERALE 17

Ganito (ba) ako? K RI S TINE R ODR IGU E Z B AYAD O G Isang bangungot ang matagpuan ang sarili na tila’y bilanggong nagnanais tumakas mula sa basal na rehas ng lipunan. Nakakapagod magsumiksik sa kalawanging sulok at magkubli mula sa mga matang nagmamasid— naghihintay na magkasala upang ako’y hatakin sa nakakasilaw na paghuhukom. Nang minsang pinuna ako ni Ina, “Bakit ang ikli ng ‘yong damit? Malandi ka ba?” Naisip ko na kung ang paggalang ay para lamang sa mga balot ang katawan, mas nanaisin ko pang maging hubo’t hubad. Pero baka tama si Ina. Nang minsang kinundina ako ni Ama, “Uhaw ang babaeng maagang nakikipagrelasyon at nagkaanak. Gusto mo bang tawaging puta?” Kung ang magluwal ng supling ang kahulugan ng puta, mas pipiliin ko pang maging batang ina sa halip na maging anak ng mapanghusgang ama. Pero baka tama si Ama. Nang minsang kinuwestyon ako ng guro, “Adik ka ba? Bakit berde ang iyong buhok? Bakit may hikaw ka sa labi? Bakit puro ka tinta?” Kung krimen ang ihayag ang sarili sa paraang ako’y komportable’t totoo, ano’ng karapatan mong hatulan ako? Pero baka tama siya. 18

Nang minsang sinubok ako ng kakilala, “Bakit hindi ka nanlaban? Baka ginusto mo? Baka ika’y nasarapan?” Naglakbay ang mumunting butil ng mga luha mula sa aking mga mata sabay tanong sa sarili, “Ginusto ko ba? Hiniling ko ba?” Pero… Mali sila. Walang kahit anong halaga ng luwad mula sa maruruming mga gunita ng iba ang makakapaghukom kung sino dapat ako sa kanila. Hindi kamalian ang maging isang modernong Maria Clara. Hindi ko kasalanan kung naliligalig ka sa’king katawan at masyado ka nang nilunod ng mahalay mong isipan. Hindi ko kapintasan kung nababagabag ka sa aking kurba, sa kolorete sa mukha, sa dami ng tinta, at sadyang hindi mo tanggap na ako’y babaeng malaya. Mali ka. Hindi ko hanap ang iyong pasya. 19

PHOTO BY INOCENCIO JOHN KEITH FERRER V 20

agahan POLARIS ikubli ang mga pahinang nag-iimbita sa iyong mga mata, umaapaw ang mga letrang nakatahi—nang-aakit na lasapin kung ano ang inihain. hindi ba’t iyan ang dapat mo lang lunukin? dahil kung ang mga talukap mo’y nakasara sa gabi, wala kang karapatang kwestiyunin ang pumapalahaw sa pagsapit ng dilim. wala kang karapatang siyasatin kung sino ang nagtatahi ng iyong babasahin dahil may mga lihim na kailanma’y ‘di makakatakas sa bawat dampi ng bibig sa tenga; ang mga panis na pahinang nagtatalak ng mga kuwentong barbero na animo’y gantimpala sa kumakalam na sikmura. kung sa tingin mo’y bastos ang pagrereklamo sa harap ng hapag, ‘di mo ba alam? ika’y nagdududa na rin, pinaglalaruan ang pagkain, pinipilit ang kayang langhapin. kaya ikaw, tiklupin mo na ang mga pahinang nag-iimbita sa iyong mga mata, umaapaw ang mga letrang nakatahi— siguradong mabubusog ka sa unang tikim. kumain ka na. 21

Balik-Tanaw IMMALIE ROSE CAFIFGE Sa malambing na haplos ng kasalukuyan, sa katahimikang nilagdaan ng balat kong kupas, muling pagmasdan ang pinalayang bihag mula sa nanlilimahid na seldang bakal at mga nanlalatang tagumpay ng isang talunan. Walang gabing payapa sa inutil na ginapos ng tanikala sa parusang hindi kayang tugunan ng anumang ginto o pilak. Ilang patak ng dugo mula sa pitik ng mga pakpak kapalit ng dagliang pagluwag ng rehas habang bugbog ang katawan sa paglatak ng mga salitang nangangakong ililigtas ako sa dahas ng sansinukob. Ngunit kahit ang bulag ma’y hindi mangmang sa pagbabadya ng kasalanang binaon ng panahon. At sa paghiyaw ng mga durog kong bahagi sa bawat sulok ng hawlang kalawangin, muling napagtanto: Ang ‘yong haplos— pugad ng pinantasyang uyaying isang hamak na bilangguan. Hindi ako ang kabayaran sa ‘yong hapak na hinaharap. 22

PHOTO BY KEILAH BALDOMAR 23

signed, undine KRIZZIA RICCI NEPOMUCENO by the coastlines, aquamarine glows bleak and treasures gleam tarnish, traversing the red sundress donned over rich copper skin. between rows of palm trees, the wind blows hush, lulling the leaves. like its taut wooden oars, sitting on a dinghy, wincing at each rock skipped as they splash, as they sink— in dread of a looming rush. with the ebbs and currents, a storm clashes with the waves. under brisk waters, where weaving tendrils were serpents circling shanks— at the command of Neptune, they clawed at a quilted petticoat. in the navel of the corals, the herrings plunge deeper to escape. into a trench, like a trough, numbing darkness glowers; where aghast planktons course through crests to become the ocean’s prey. by the windswept shores, the saffron sun rests upon the horizon. the blue scales are scraped away, to uncover the trove of sapphires concealed beneath pallid blood. at the heart of sea, i shall never swim again. 24

Hiraeth BIRDY I. freak Mama and papa don’t like me mama of golden hair, lacquered nails, and red lips papa of heavy brows, pointed nose, and pillared back they smile in public masks of genteel tenderness but masks crumble behind closed doors rancor in their fists, vitriol in their eyes— blood in their throats. Mama and papa don’t like me i of midnight eyes, spotted skin, and tiny feet i of sharp claws, feathered back, and pointed teeth they cradle me; call me blessing, only to drown me in bleach wrest the feathers from my skin file down my teeth ‘til i am human again. II. oracle The wind whispers to me it carries deceit spewed from the mouth of familiar voyeurs it bears lies that gouge out eyes from seeing they try to hide wicked words and deadly deeds, but the truth comes wrangling mangled and charred from the abyss, and i see it all. The wind whispers to me it carries crescendos of a time forgotten it bears phantoms of the sea breeze filched from my mind i try to remember the warmth of flushed fingers, paintings on honey skin and the tang of red cardamom spice but the colors blur and ripple like coral sunsets, subdued by gale and night til’ i drown in delude again. 25

III. homecoming The skies sing to me elegies of old that pull at my core requiems of a stolen daughter lost to greedy hands i listen to their desolate lullabies and feel their lamentations; let their cries echo, grow steel feathers, sharpen my teeth— rise from the ashes they buried me in. The skies sing to me ballads of joyful reunion and love reveries of promises fulfilled that draw me closer this fire inside smolders and ignites— i gnaw on mama and papa’s steel cage; bruises on my lips, copper on my tongue, stars on my fingertips, yearn and dream til’ i am home again. 26

27 PHOTO BY KARL BRIAN MARQUEZA

Identity ALYSSA NICOLE MAQUIRAN The world was enshrouded with mid-January chills as fog coiled behind her lenses ‘til she braved obscurity. Twin arches rose from a warehouse that was more debris than it was concrete. Small crescents ringed her palm as she veered herself to the right; a roof—shambles— is better than the biting cold. Inside, moth-eaten sheets fluttered, the distorted figures gleaming through punctured linen. Amidst the desolation, dark sockets gazed back, each step and turn amplified a thousandfold. A low hoot echoed through the hall, with tufts of white now peeking underneath sable talons; there wasn’t much of a difference. To her left, the brick corridor beckoned. She bade the moon farewell, her sandals eclipsing the faint imprints of her Stan Smiths before she dared another step. The edifice loomed overhead with its slitted jalousies, mocking her traipse, taunting her lucidity. Inching closer, she caught her eye, gold glinting against darkened bronze; fragments of lapis littered the asphalt, each facet gleaming. 28

Esklabo sang Misteryo KYNAH RHEA FUENTES Ginapuga ang kaunuran sang kagutok— indi ko mahangpan nga sa kada pagpili, ini’ng sapatos ang ulihi nga pamatbat. Ayhan kay waay na sang iban nga pililian. Nagabanog sang ka-siot ugaling dalayon nga nagapahulong-hulong sa kagab-ihon, kalong sa mga hitabo apang sa rumbag nga payag sa ukbong ang dulong. Sa matag-adlaw, ini ang naandan. Lain ang tuyo, ugaling sa gihapon, pagdayon sa ganhaan, blanko na ang nahibal-an sa sunod nga mga hitabo. Sa pagbutlak sang adlaw, magabugtaw na lamang nga puno sang lagob— pilason. Pito ka tuig nga pag-antos sa wala mahibal-an nga rason samtang palibot-libot sa katanhagsan. Pito ka tuig nga ugtom sa indi mahangpan nga kahimtangan. Inosente bala ukon nagapabulag-bulag? 29

Sa sini nga kasisidmon, antis ang ikawalo nga dag-on, buot man magsul-ob ginpasulabi nga tawhay ang dapa-dapa sa anuman nga suwelas, bisan pa wala panghuna-huna sa después. Nagalaum sa naandan apang wala sang pangalibutan nga padulong sa katuyoan— kahilwayan. Imbes sa rumbag nga payag sa ukbong, sa halalban ang dulong. Halalban kung sa diin dagaya ang madawat nga dapya sang duhoy. Mapalaron nga tinuga— Naga-yami man ang dapa-dapa sa una nga paglapak sa duta apang akon na nga mabatyagan ang wala kaparis nga hilway. 30

ART BY ALEXANDRA BACHOCO

PHOTO BY KEILAH BALDOMAR

Preceding the Name of a Body CARL HASON GERALE I know him— Sat tightly on every panihapon And listened to the table talk about Their gods and religion, Their principles on a platter. Of it, he took a stiff spoonful And for him, that meant something: Same skin and blood—same knowing. He told me of his straw spine, How he let the passing winds name it After chinawares and the act Of propping it between the shoulder Of a friend and a shoulder Of a friend as we’re both Sprawled on our bedroom floor. That night, he entrusted me our body To know the spaces under our bones, And how they can stand when bundled. And as he pieced me from the fragments Of our youth—every tear and tears, He watered my crown, and laid in my arms. 33

Consider No Mercy HEZRON PIOS Did you think of a mob dance, a protest versus hitmen in the shadows? If we chain our hands tight we’d be electric perhaps. So tell me, how should I wake you up? Three fingers in the likeness of Katniss. The television tells us of news leaving a sour aftertaste: men in gray blue, men disposed like cheap tetra packs. It’s just the same channel—same changes. Even the finest heroes who once ousted Macoy still exist years after That Day. Here’s my proposal: plant your feet on the streets so that the Word will be the language of the masa. Mountains must crawl elsewhere while the skies burst in colors to tease apocalypse. Chants reciting the names of slain advocates would jolt Bacolod and a city kissing another city. Then, the whole nation. So tell me, how do we pardon the yawa? We’re past such fickle hashtags, past retweets and tedious threads that can barely do enough. Unless the clowns turn themselves in, blood stays non- negotiable. We will sport hope like a pair of wings. Tomorrow, reclamation. 34

ART BY CARL HASON GERALE FICTION 35

Mass Hysteria ALVIN LEGARIO Look down upon your subjects, brother. See how their faith in you has bolstered? Has it really, sister? For three fortnights they have prayed for your blessing, begging for the monsoon to arrive today. Look how they even gathered in the multitudes. Yes, a plethora of sheep gathered beneath the foot of my mountain yet only one child brings forth a cloak for shade. Is that true faith? 36

Tower to Aether SCYTHE ART BY CHRISTIAN DOMINIC LEDESMA

The irregular rhythm of rusted iron against rock permeates through the hot underground. A desolate, gargantuan cavity houses a molten wasteland with men and women boring into its foundation. It has been 7,432 days since Soren arrived here with the condemned—cursed with an eternity of punishment when purgatory caved in. He remembers the great beast who coveted a thousand souls to create his empire. Scouring through the underworld, the beast threatened the dead with hellfire but a few lost souls weren’t enough. And thus, in his unholy lust, he annihilated the sanctuary between death and paradise. Soren remembers the sight of bodies free-falling in a hollow ravine, salvation’s light growing dim and distant. Limbs flailed in an attempt to grasp whatever there is to grasp and the broken choir of a thousand horrid screams pierced from every direction. The crackling of bones and the sloshing of blood decorating the terror orchestra was burned into Soren’s mind ever since. Now, Soren spends his days as a cog in a wretched dominion. For his first four years, it was gathering the bones of the fallen. For the next seven, it was eating the coarse, hot sea of sand all about the underworld. For six more, it was pooling a river of boiling blood. And now, it is to mine into the rock indefinitely. But Soren knew that deliverance was divinely prophesied. Down the river of blood and behind the gory waterfall lay a cavern. Slaves would carefully trod about the treacherous cliffside to behold the grotto’s inscription. At first, Soren dismissed the holy writ as a false promise, but it has been six years since the scripture was first found and everything has come as it had predicted. Before the pouring of the crimson river, prophecy bled onto the rock in pure white light. Those who laid witness were enthralled—it reminded them of the post-mortem bliss before arriving in purgatory. The Elysian Fields could almost be felt through the light as it was written: Hear me, fallen souls: the almighty has seen you suffer in this wretched place. The beast has remained sharp, but after two decades, he has grown careless—too engrossed by his work. I know he had commanded every man and woman to eat the sand along this place. I know that his demand is now a river of blood. You must hide this 38

message at this time. Know that he will then command a great quarry upon the earth. Trust in your true lord and know that this will be his gravest mistake. Follow his command diligently. Strike the rock beneath you with every ounce of valor and strength. The beast knows aether’s light all too well. As such, this will be the only message. Have faith. Deliverance will come. And strike it they did. Though, Soren remained cynical. He went about his work but dared not associate himself with the message in fear of an even darker punishment. In his worn rags, he ventures through a bony path and dug along the red shore, dreading the metallic smell. He shuddered at the sight of blood after the falling—a reminder of that gruesome choir. When the river was pooled, Soren’s breath hastened and his limbs grew shaky— losing his sense of reality. But he tried to conquer it—a small goal amidst his suffering. Still shaken, he grips his debased pickaxe and tries to focus, but with every whiff, he can nearly taste the disgusting rust. Soren grits his teeth and represses his nerves, dead-set on ridding himself of the nightmares. Moments pass and after concentrating, his breathing steadies. To his surprise, he recovered much faster this time and a smirk crept up on his ragged face. His humble work, now a foot deep hole, gazes back at him. Almost done. Upon the next few blows from his gaunt tool, Soren feels the ground harden like nothing before. He struck thrice more but not even a chunk of the thing gave way. Soren shakes his head and raises his pickaxe high. He buckles his body and, with all his might, strikes the rock dead center. Without warning, a great geyser of hot steam erupts and knocks Soren afar. Beneath the stream is pure darkness and a big hiss echoes throughout the underground. The floor all about the massive cavern rumbles. Bewildered, the slaves look around and in an instant, more steam geysers spew forth and shatter the foundations of the cave. The slaves scatter, but a chain of heat and explosion shakes the entirety of the hollow until the ground begins to give. Geysers all about the crimson ocean compound into one colossal 39

tidal wave, flowing through every crack and crevice and devouring anything that came its way. Soren flails about in the wave in sheer terror with the others. The destructive path slithers through the winding grooves littered with gore until it comes upon an enormous throne of bones in a ceiling- less chamber. Beaten and bloody, Soren submits to the scarlet surge. One blurred sight is the last thing he sees before darkness: a towering creature with the body of a man, head and legs of a goat, and crowned with three twisted horns. Soren awakes on a cliffside above the massive throne. Rubbing his eyes, he sees the relentless torrent of blood savaging everything it caught and sees something caught on a stalagmite: a shattered horn ripped apart by the current. Still in disbelief, Soren finds himself in the bottom of a familiar hole. Upon looking up, he saw exactly what the message had prophesied: the masses of slaves clawing their way up into the dim light above— exodus. 40