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SCRIBE Volume 21, February 2018 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 Hezron G. Pios L AYOUT ART I ST S Glen Jed J. Descutido Jowan Dave G. Guides Shara Mae L. Pelayo ILLUSTRATORS Keanu Joseph P. Rafil Karen D. Panganiban Seth V. Pullona Cedric Lance M. Militar COVER CONCEPT AND DESIGN Glen Jed J. Descutido Shara Mae L. Pelayo Set in Iowan Old Style BT and Chronicle Text G4

Foreword Hello there, buddy. It’s been a while since your last speculation here. Whatever brought you so long to set foot back again signifies less against your actual presence. Here, things may seem out of focus at first since you’re newly arrived, yet this mechanism will proceed to be prosaic over the duration. Forget about your duffel bags, leave that set of keys, and unbolt those windows wide enough for light to magnify every corner of this house. Worry not about the trinkets secured safe and sound, buddy. They were further catalogued depending on their usage: large carton boxes for coming- of-age novels, cheap stickers and zines contained by envelopes, missives sent during senior year, an alphabetical OPM song book. Even knick-knacks such as bottle caps, pins, carnival tickets, movie posters, polaroids, coins unthrown to a wishing well or tidy bills—linger, without a doubt, like your surreal murals outliving one another. I’ve already gathered too much dust and cobwebs more than your collected items, buddy. This is my insistence for you to stay on. Those miniscule details you previously shunned years ago? They appear with clarity this time. An image of a boy slicing a cake on his 7th birthday party tells about glee. The calendar’s sheets are left parching. Fortune plants glued beside your running shoes and plastic armchairs are rendered motionless. On one hand, the radio hums a feeble tune of persistence. On the other hand, no creature capable of speech except yourself seems to interject. In the backyard where there used to be pale afternoons of migrating birds in skein passing above, appear grumpy dogs glaring at you meaningfully as if your hands have not fed their mouths with tenderness once. Maybe they must have forgotten how you sneaked out so you can play hide and seek with the neighbors whose bodies were recently found to no avail. Only ghosts remain next to us, buddy. Take this as an omen blissful like a

dream sequence. Meanwhile, my architecture of wood, metal, and cement had preserved its own sense of defiance versus complete reduction. This same structure has taught you larger-than-life youth and several midnight reveries. This same structure says in the family of things, solitude proves best to heal burnout. Nonetheless, carry on. Even if these corners begin to disintegrate in the same moment the objects refuse recognition, further withstand those internal matters, buddy. For this is another process of withdrawal. And I am hauling you back to the start. Roots, causes, points of origin. Wandering through this bizarre folio encasing residential materials, poignant backstories, and refuge from composite angles in no other direction but inwards might not be that arduous. Remember to remember, buddy. Perhaps take all of the time that you need. For the thrill of inertia courses on loop. This harbor guarding souvenirs with sentimental value, Hezron G. Pios

Contents POETRY Prinsipe������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 2 Nuestro Hogar�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 4 Unausweichlich������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 6 Past Midnight Phenomena (Three Poems) Siquijor �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 9 No Room����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������10 Flatline ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������11 Night Funerals������������������������������������������������������������������������������������12 Midas Complex����������������������������������������������������������������������������������13 A Flight to a City of Endless Roads ��������������������������������������������������14 Black ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������17 Hanggang Ngayon������������������������������������������������������������������������������19 Cairo �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 21 Wood Carving: a monostich ��������������������������������������������������������������22 Of Hearth and Departures (Two Poems) Flying South ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������24 To Hiraeth��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������25 to the other half of the sky ����������������������������������������������������������������27 The Neighbor Across the Street ��������������������������������������������������������28 With Eyes Open ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������30 Us according to eidetic memory��������������������������������������������������������31 Song of Old Nightingales by the Veranda������������������������������������������33 Winter, or the Performance We Badly Dreamt of������������������������������35 NON-FICTION a new set of keys��������������������������������������������������������������������������������38 In Case of Theatrics����������������������������������������������������������������������������41 Journal Entry #0317 ��������������������������������������������������������������������������45

SHORT STORIES The Arrow’s Make������������������������������������������������������������������������������48 What is dead cannot be����������������������������������������������������������������������69 Apples������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 70 Where I end and the Sea begins��������������������������������������������������������75 Estrella ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������78 COMICS Wrinkle ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 82 Home is... ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������84 S C R I B E S & S C R I B B L E R S ��������������������������������� 89 A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S ������������������������������������� 96



POETRY ART BY CEDRIC LANCE MILITAR

Prinsipe WA N D Y ART BY CEDRIC LANCE M. MILITAR 2

Ako’y isang prinsipe na walang suot na baluti, walang kumikinang bakal na sa katawa’y nakatampi kundi isang ordinaryong kasuotang luma at maraming bakas ng kahirapan at mga bagnos ng punit na aking kinalakihan. Ako’y isang prinsipe na walang kalasag na gamit pananggalang sa bawat sandata ng kalaban na kanilang kapit-kapit. Walang pangharang sa mga bagay na nais kumitil sa aking buhay ngunit ako’y nananatiling nakatayo sabay sa pagdaloy ng aking dugong inaalay. Ako’y isang prinsipe na walang makinang na kabayong sagisag ng kataasan sa isang kawal nitong sinisimbolo. Walang kasama sa paglalakbay sa kabundukan kundi ang mga paa na aking karamay simula nang ako’y matutong manindigan. Ako’y isang prinsipe sa sariling kong panaginip; naghahanap ng prinsesang makakasama sa kastilyong hinihihip ng hangin. Mga kayamanan na para sa iba’y ‘di mahawak-hawakan dahil sa ako lang ang nakakaalam sa sarili kong kaharian. 3

Nuestro Hogar (Our Home) MEL INA VAN O L I & KU RT T E E A mattress on a dusty red floor El día desde mi ventana se ve gris A warm December night Caminare por las calles disfrutando la vista de esta ciudad Bare streets and orange lights frame the loveless and hopeless En cada paso que doy siento que algo debo encontrar Quizás alguien diferente Is this how home should feel? Acaso estoy en el lugar incorrecto? Home should be a beach in Mar Del Plata All smiles and yerba mate Donde el amor nos rodee que alguien nos encuentre Where young cheeks are smudged with dulce de leche Es mi ciudad, es acogedora Pero mi corazón desespera por un nuevo lugar Donde las comidas es el mejor lenguaje del amor y pienso en Filipinas Where I can see you dance to reggaeton! Kiss your sleepy eyes while the cat plays at our feet and the dog naps! No dejo de mirarlo, mis ojos se enfocan en el esta imagen es tan real Where waves and hearts follow the same song and your lap is my pillow Solo cierro mis ojos para pensar en ti, mientras tus manos acarician mi rostro Esto es sentirse como en casa 4

Home is not Manila El hogar no es Mar Del Plata Home is in your brown eyes El hogar es en sus brazos 5

Unausweichlich JEPROX G. LINGAMEN for Jing What very few memories I have of you, I let fall with psychomotor ease. Fingertips on Toshiba keys the weight of my heart in Calibri (Body) crashing as swiftly as I said Unausweichlich that morning you told me you’d love me to stay around, a beautiful sound, lingering in my ear as I type my way through what was bound not to happen. Like an apple falling into the sky or me not falling into you. 6

PHOTO BY JHON ALDRIN CASINAS

Past Midnight Phenomena Three Poems ELSIE COSCOLLUELA ART BY CEDRIC LANCE M. MILITAR

Siquijor Folks say they do not live there Anymore, witches stitching Rag figures of souls to slay, Or warlocks brewing potions Of bark and root three moons Before Jesus-God lies cold On a slab of stone. They say they have grown weary Of chanting the same old incantations, Casting the same spells over loves Lost or betrayed, claiming justice For the helpless and oppressed, Or setting our small worlds back To its proper tilt and turn. They say they have their own lives To live, burdens to bear: fields To till, seeds to sow, water jars To fill, and sons and daughters To tend and teach mysteries Of blood and bone, earth and sky, Wind, water and fire. Folks say when you first set foot On the shores of Siquijor That those you seek do not live There anymore, but if you truly ache For righteous remedy, you might linger For a night: one might fly home With a magic brew for you. 9

No Room It is not always true, what old folks say Of love that strays, that always in the end As all processions go, the wayward feet Are led back to the cathedral door— That until then, one must keep the faith Alive, the home clean and warm, The children safe, and the grieving heart Strong and tough as steel— For when all the prayers are done, all Vigil candles burned end to end And the truant heart comes knocking Home, you find there is no room For the stranger at the door. 10

Flatline There was no bright ray of light, No departed kin in sight, nor saints And angels waiting in the night. Only one last breath and your eyes Rise through the roof, over old Cathedral spires, familiar skylines, The pyramids, the long great wall, Golden canyons and raging rivers, Blue oceans and white mountain peaks, And the earth, slowly turning— And in the swelling space you ride On the rings of Jupiter, spin Towards the dancing stars, and lie On the shores of Orion, warm And weightless, apart from, a part Of one great heart throbbing, Galaxies gently breathing— There was no bright ray of light— Only the Breath of Creation restoring The beating of your heart. 11

Night Funerals J OSHUA MART I N P. GUAN CO He attends a funeral every night To his dismay and to his fright For the hearse moves so slow Towards the place he is to go He attends a funeral every night Just like what he does in broad daylight But it is not sadness that fills the air It is the words hurled without a care He attends a funeral every night Towards a place that was once bright A place where smiles used to live But now does not know how to forgive He attends a funeral every night To a house brimming with blight A door that opens to the fields of hurt A house that makes him feel like dirt He attends a funeral every night And always finds himself into a fight A funeral for someone who is alive A funeral for someone love-deprived 12

Midas Complex ALVIN LEGARIO In this instance, extend your fingers. Do as children do when grasping fireflies. An extension of vanity, as you will. Hold on to what you caught. Clasp firmly, and then unfurl your palm. Filth and froth from floating stars now lay dead. 13

A Flight to a City of Endless Roads KEANU RAFIL I’ll fly to you— boarding this 3:00 a.m. flight bound to a city of endless roads where you are in. Packed with an empty pocket and a box of scented love letters, newly-picked daisies from our backyard are placed on my lap. Bones shaking, fingers fidgeting; the clock’s hands have chosen to point at three and twelve only in seconds. Anticipating— a tranquil voice from the radio is a familiar sound speaking a familiar line. Ding, dong, ding, dong. Time to walk back home. The flight is cancelled. 14

PHOTO BY NICHOL FRANCIS ANDUYAN

PHOTO BY NICHOL FRANCIS ANDUYAN

Black JEPROX G. LINGAMEN for Jake why you held on for so long wrapped its answers around your throat a collar of spikes digging into your skin an animal hunger yanking out a scream from a dungeon in your gut where something, more than someone, died. there is no name for it, this question mark hooking your tongue, pulling you into a void black as the Jim Beam label swallowing your light. death is not the absence of life, death is the presence of everything we did not care to know, did not care to be, crashing like a wave of forgotten faces in a roll-call by unforgiving history you asked: “if I say pain is my absence will you fall face-first into map-like vomit as bitter as the lies you could keep inside no more, as misshapen as the lifelines of truth you’ve drawn?” all hope of redemption is as flat as my imagination editing your goodbye note, as bad as a bad joke you had no one to tell to not even your mock face in the mirror no matter how many smileys you put up to make up for the listless minutes escaping towards a world that hurts to call you its own 17

there’s a cold body in an unfeeling casket, black as the tie so inept at strangling you white as the promise you carry in your breast beneath your immaculate suit— wait, it’s a straightjacket 18

Hanggang Ngayon VICTORIA MARIAN B. BELMIS Hanggang ngayon ‘di ko pa malimot, araw na sa akin ay ibinigay mo bestida na kasing puti ng t-shirt na iyong paborito. Hanggang ngayon ‘di ko pa malimot, mga araw na ako’y hatid-sundo dahil ikaw ang hari at ako ang prinsesa mo. Hanggang ngayon ‘di ko pa malimot, mga araw at gabi na halos ‘di ka na natutulog sapagkat maginhawang buhay, para sa amin, lamang ang iyong gusto. Hanggang ngayon ‘di ko pa malimot, araw ng Lunes, aking kaarawan sa pag-uwi ay nadatnan ko ikaw na nakahiga sa kama, buto’t balat, ni hindi makatayo. Hanggang ngayon ‘di ko pa malimot, araw na tayo’y nakatitig lamang sa puting pader, nangangarap, at sa akin ay ipinangako ikaw ay gagaling, hindi susuko. Hanggang ngayon ‘di ko pa malimot, araw na sa akin ay ibinigay mo 19

huling titig, huling ngiti na habambuhay sa puso’y itatago. 20

Cairo HEZRON G. PIOS Sometimes I illustrate you with fascinating terminologies during evenings in which surrealism devises your happiness although tinges seem pale to me unlike what you thought they would be, whenever blabbering cues inebriation. Maybe we will wake up singing to our own made-up anthem or we would edit a line or two of its dream pop lyrics. Maybe skipping class should be your key to a fuller self-concept thus it’d be quite breathless to replace household rules plotted by figures who were here several generations ago. When I often catch you counting past errors, what does all those spite ever amount to, master? According to the fortune tellers live on the television, nothing seems to erase mistakes yet a road unpaved lies gleaming ahead especially for a Cancerian. So, what else do I have to cross out of my list to get your attention quick? Why don’t you teach me tricks on how to quit you like what your best friends did, asked the dog. You always return late, anyway. And the cat refuses to discuss such matters that could pin you down for a little much longer. 21

Wood Carving: a monostich MARIA ANGELICA M. APE Nene + Joey 22

Of Hearth and Departures Two Poems LEX DIWA ALORO PHOTO BY NICHOL FRANCIS ANDUYAN

Flying South Until the rain stops and the cold winds die Our stories will keep me warm along with the fire You’re out there somewhere, this much I know Keeping your wings dry from the hail and the Snow Note that I wish to be with you but I’m too scared to drown Although you never let any storms try to get you down Hurricanes (and even Balding Eagles) couldn’t stop The fire in your hearts that compels you to fly up South, last I heard, was the direction you were going Even this far north, I hear the trumpets for your homecoming Regretful as I might be to have stayed behind ‘Tis better for me to have dropped out of the ride Considering how I broke my wings under the pressure of the sky Even now that I have healed, I have forgotten how to fly Please, keep flying, though. Your journey gives me light So much so that when darkness lifts, I’ll be ready for flight Lift those flappers, dear geese, don’t lose that V-formation Lark about all you want but keep one eye on the horizon En route, you may find other geese, larks, and maybe even drones Whose feathers, talons and traveling mode complement your own Entice them with your quirks, invite them to your Nest Rejoining, I might be, as one of those homebound Owls next Adieu for now, you wayward birds! says a fowl stuck in monsoon, Fly safe and happy trails! These broken wings will see you soon 24

To Hiraeth We can’t fit through the door anymore I swear all three of us fit before Now, we each have to go one by one Into our house but our home is gone The tiles are colder now—it’s funny Lava used to flow beneath our feet I guess the fire has been extinguished Blown by the wind, our paper home vanished Dear brothers, do you remember, though— When all those scratch papers turned to snow? We brought the seasons under our roof These mem’ries flame deathless, they’re ice-proof We brought suns to fall and moons to kneel How invincible we used to feel Back in our home that stands on the past We ignored the fact that time flies fast The present has given us new eyes Paper’s just paper, tiles are just tiles The sun still rises, the moon still stands The past fades under today’s cold hands So here we stand on our house, our crypt Wond’ring how, through our fingers, time slipped Through the past our minds persist to roam But keep digging, boys, we’ll find our home 25

ART BY MARIA ESTER FARILLON

to the other half of the sky ANDREA GAMBOA the other half of the sea, (separating me) to the half that held my heart, your heart; a part of me. the sea, who holds me like no one else, she speaks, “the way home is in (do not look past, do not look back) your home is where your bones lay.” 27

The Neighbor Across the Street KEANU RAFIL You speak fluent Spanish, came from a dreadful town— San Joaquin, they say, running away from a chase where no one is after you— but yourself. 339—the numbers I memorized from your front door where you leave your umbrella of rain or shine, yellow like the rag on your doorstep. Flattering each other’s front yard— our daily breakfast-to-bedtime dialogues. A street away, framed by our own windows; a photograph of blooming dandelions. My right hand holds a cup of cold coffee the one I made days ago as we talk from my room to your room across the street of virtual traffic and city lights. My left hand holds an oddly-shaped frame of a picture of a city so dear you have already been to, but not with me, never with me. My eyes, hurting from the sunlight gleaming across the window where I last kept that vision of you. You, watering your plants—full of life. My breath scented by whiskey and cola the one I drank the night where you closed your windows, scared of the storm that never came. 28

My feet, frozen on a wooden-floored corner where I can catch your shadow once you open that window again, tinted by a blue curtain. but you did not, nor the lights went on. My clothes smelled like yesterday’s overcooked pasta and of freshly-lit cigarettes that almost burnt my lips. They stung my nose, but not as much as your absence did. My body I divined, floating from centimeters to feet on thin air I seek for landing—out of reach. The sooner I recognized I was left hanging by a neighbor across the street. 29

With Eyes Open ALVIN LEGARIO I peek into the future, berated by absence. Cities shaded with crimson red and nameless riders drift in and out of the mist. Where is the Messiah? The angels are blockaded by walls of cigarette smoke, lighted by the Children of the Lost; the puppets unbounded by string, by reality. Marionettes of feeble minds mouthing out into the distance. Their cries are echoed with distorted laughter. The children outcry misanthropy into the abyss. Dystopian roads which lead to nowhere have been enveloped by cigarette butts which leave me stranded on a sea of nicotine, rigorously avoiding the poison that has taken over my world. Green and gunk, dense and mucky, spittle of the Forgotten Children droop from the clouds. The floodgates of the Lost engulf the innocent. 30

Us according to eidetic memory HEZRON G. PIOS guesswork My hands distort each time I spell your name on thin air. What does grief contain that making sense out of it seems too obscure? Theory number one: nonlinearity. Grief is a metropolis where a horse and a sellout walk into a bar and no head tilts back to condescend. Or, theory number two: Grief puts things out of hand therefore it leaves everyone awry. Thus categorization. Thus infinite seas divide seas further. dawn The surface of your teeth was black and bustling. Here we are again in the wrong kitchen, in the same tiled spot where I’m supposed to thrust a ketchup bottle into your mouth. There is no other way to turn this twist into something else genial. I know exactly how attachment works, sleepyhead. Get along with the rest of the crew and deliver your lines fast. Lights, camera, action! volcanic The fact of this disbelief must be larger than us. Until we learn about submitting our bodies into the fireplace may be considered revolutionary, then we’ll be past this bullshit altogether. I guess I can tell you now how angry I was the moment I decided to burst like confetti but you resolved to drown in your coffee mug instead. It was a voluntary course of action to spin me off once more. trance Hide your plastic-wrapped textbooks one by one and replace them with poetry, sleepyhead. In my dream, we are breathing ten thousand feet underwater and you’re teaching me semantics. I intended to move forwards but the afternoon windows scorched like the Revelation as if there was no other choice but to shake myself ten thousand times in order to flee from that dream. sequitur I’d love to see you dissolve like iodized salt in hot water for that’s 31

what you deserve after what transpired. Not much tenderness nor spite even seeks to bring you back to life. My summer rain ended just as when you taught the radio how to hate acid jazz. You’re to blame for this, sleepyhead. I’ve been the horse. You’ve been the sellout. None is walking away unscathed. 32

Song of Old Nightingales by the Veranda SETH PULLONA It seems like the other day, we were young. This is how you still remember me—nineteen; gullible and trustful. Words are trapped like birds in my mouth: I’ve been wanting them to say to you. It’s almost everyday that you’re in dismay when I’m not chirpy like you need me to. So I asked you if you liked me prancing on those worn keys every time you sing your dawn chorus. You said, yes, with the most jovial tone half a decade of my fragrant sound and your voice was a harmony smoothed by time. And you leaned back to your chair, making love with the breeze of midsummer. And my eyes dilated, is it really worth writing about? I nodded to myself as an answer. 33

ART BY GILA INEFABLE

Winter, or the Performance We Badly Dreamt of HEZRON G. PIOS after Cole Swensen, after Kate Furler Snowflake I’m trying to keep you safe but you’re in the part where I’m about to pass through you. I like the protagonist, snowflake, & I want you as the protagonist! Do you get what I’m saying? Our lifetimes should extend, should go against stage direction, should be shapeless intention devoid of self-difference. In fact, snowflake, we’re meant for better roles. Note: all excess of ideation must revert to things imaginable e.g. lamppost, sunshower, muscovado1, incense, thesaurus. From now on— only ad libitum will be used in acting to occupy a vacuum, okay? Note: I am in the sequence where I’m about to tell you that : we’ll see the audience in a 10-minute standing ovation : we’ll see ourselves see ourselves mocking ourselves on black mirror : we’ll see etcetera etcetera with their brittle O’s in pure astonishment okay? (The world in shock of our novelty) (The world, like marble, spinning on wary fingertips) Hence we attempt to switch the channel as swift as we could because events had to be so precise in a matter of white noise2. See: comic relief. 35

See: speculative. See: hyperboles in ledgers. Just sing3 me a song I weep the most to. 1Did you know hundreds upon hundreds of hands* dream of departure? 2431-4560. If you haven’t made your mind up yet, here’s your first reminder**. 3Snowman*** *Maybe it gets in the way how you see me as a figure of speech. **Everyone believed you were glued to me back then but you kept on denying so hard. 36 ***Let’s go below zero and hide from the sun. Finally, summoning snow: a ruin we’ve both anticipated.

NON-FICTION ART BY KEANU JOSEPH RAFIL 37

a new set of keys ANDREA NICOLE C. FAROL ILLUSTRATIONS BY KEANU JOSEPH RAFIL 38

I. When we first transferred to the new house, it was dark and chilly. We hauled our baggages and slept on mattresses sprawled on the floor. I remember looking up the ceilingless roof and wondering if we’d move out again because ghosts would terrorize us. I’d find out later that it would be the roaches that haunt the place. Perhaps, there was a fear of leaving home. II. I asked myself if I was ever uncomfortable in that way. I surprised myself by saying yes. Like a repressed memory, I remembered a man with the store a few blocks from my house. He was a perfectly respectable man, a leader and religiously active. But to me, he was the creepy tito down the street. There were a lot of tiangges in our area and whenever my mother sent me on an errand, I always wished the other stores had what she wanted so I wouldn’t have to buy from his. I would run when I saw him walking down the path with his smile. But on days when I had to check his store for the item or he’d catch me playing in the alleys, I would have to endure the discomfort he gave me. He was touchy. He would ask for kisses which I’d have to comply so I can leave. Sometimes, he invited me to come inside his house. I always said no. I haven’t seen him for a long time now. He never did do anything to me that would bring him behind bars but the discomfort and fear he gave me that I would mask by smiling and playfully pulling away is something I’d carry with me. I knew I wasn’t the only one who felt it. He did come up in our childhood conversations. I guess I might never know if his behavior had malice behind it or he didn’t know what his actions made us kids feel. I‘m not even sure if I want to know. Maybe, this is why I did not mind leaving that home. III. Moving away from my childhood home didn’t bother me. I did not experience a wave of nostalgia as we packed our bags. In fact, I think I 39

was more stressing out with what I was going to bring or leave. Saying our goodbyes to my grandparents and aunt, with whom I grew up with for 17 years, there were no tears, no hugs. We are not that kind of family. I always attributed this lack of emotional farewell to the period that in which we moved. I was in college, the last time I talked in a non- awkward manner with my childhood playmates was probably when I was a high school sophomore. Half of the kids in my area went to the barangay’s schools while the other half (to which I belong) went to the schools in the city proper. So, when we begin to sprout in different parts of our young bodies, so did the gates stop clanging of sneaking kids, and the court in front of our house started to be filled by a new generation: toddlers that used to bother us when we played. So there was it, I was already detached from the people of the place to be upset. Having to leave two of my four dogs, however, was the thing that made me upset. I guess I just never actually had the feeling that I was leaving. I’m not sure if this means I am emotionally too healthy or I actually have a problem. Or maybe, I know that I can always come home. 40