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SCRIBE Volume 23, March 2020 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 Paula Mae E. Villarosa L AYOUT ARTISTS Alexandra V. Bachoco Katherine E. Co Kiara Nicole D. Villa ILLUSTRATORS Andrea Danielle A. Gamboa Angela A. Coronel Anna Theresa S. Parayno Carl Hason T. Gerale Christian Dominic L. Ledesma Earl John D. Pabular COVER CONCEPT AND DESIGN Andrea Danielle A. Gamboa Carl Hason T. Gerale Earl John D. Pabular Martini M. Falco Set in Mrs Eaves OT and Lazarus
Foreword Hush now, children, and be lulled by the crickets’ chorus. Bask in the warmth of the hearth and embrace the cold torrents of the evening gale. Raise your palms toward the horizon beyond, exalt the anitos who walked the earth before us and the deities who showed mercy on our people. Lend your ears, children, to the tale that laid plague on these pastures yet had curiously brought forth and fostered these valleys we thrive in. Heed every counsel shrouded deep within their verses. Be wary, younglings, in charting your own course for the divinities do not pardon in twofold—even for believers. Join me, entwine your spirits and hearts with mine in hymn and prayer. Oh great and high king of the gods, Kaptan, may our song glorify you. May our offering reach the realms of your throne. Absolve our sons and daughters from the offenses of our patron, Alunsina. Lay not a great flood on these plains; take up arms to shield us from the wrath of the goddess’ suitors. Holy Suklang Malayon, let the winds carry your faint whispers. Prickle our skin in warning, stiffen our limbs with the gusts, and send shivers down our spines. May you cloak our bloodline from peril and harness the mist to conceal us from those who pursue us in ill will. Alunsina, our mother. Grant us refuge in your bosom when the skies crackle in supreme fury. Carve out a path for us to take when we are led astray and lured into the pitfalls that riddle the cliffs. Open up a cavity in the earth—unwinding and infinite for us to hide ourselves from those who seek to reap our spirits for their gain.
Never tire, my children. Continue to worship and sing in both joy and sorrow for those who dwell above us. Bear these enchantments in mind for I can only do so much to prepare you for what may lie ahead. Though there’s no need to fret, my young ones, for these are but petitions for us to be spared from prophecies and admonitions from those who have gone before us. They’re of brilliance or murk most times, but they can appear hazy in rhymes. You must learn how to recognize riddles from the truths they tell in order to chart the stars to our peoples’ favor. ‘Til then, let these psalms be a stronghold and an anchor to this world. The high priestess of Halawod, Paula Mae E. Villarosa
Contents ROMANTIQUE Aphelion 2 Maligayang Araw, (Ama?) 4 6 Chin up, shoulders relaxed 9 10 easy heat 12 13 Binhi ng Himagsikan 14 Dinastiya 16 19 Wala lang ‘to 20 22 Emperor 23 24 SFUMATO 27 loveevol Ampó sang Kagulangan 30 Little Soldier 33 Devoured by Flames 34 Balaod sang Balúd 35 Sheep Stories: A Lion’s Roar 37 confession GRISAILLE view from below kapag ika’y naging iskultor kamay na bakal Ax to Grind Neutral, Evil
Comfort in Captivity 39 Shadow Self 42 TENEBRISM 44 Ores of Entropy 46 Grey linings 48 Beneath the Sheets 49 Unclean Thoughts 50 Ang Pang-ulihi nga Panihapon 52 ignis fatuus 55 The Cleansing 56 Blame me, a woman 58 SCRIBES & SCRIBBLERS 72 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ART BY BENCH QUILANTANG ROMANTIQUE
Aphelion JOSHUA MARTIN P. GUANCO How long has it been since your sun grazed my skin. How long has it been following our last dance with sin. How long has it been trying to surfeit this void from within. How long has it been since our radiance ceased to spin. Aphelion—not one entity can ever measure. Aphelion—our distance from our days of golden grandeur. Aphelion—now your sun has gone to bed. Aphelion—why do I bask in this romance that is dead. 2 POETRY
3 PHOTO BY THOMAS MILITANTE EDITED BY KEILAH N. BALDOMAR
Maligayang Araw, (Ama?) MA. KRISTINE JOY R. BAYADOG Una sa lahat, hindi ko na dapat binibigkas pa ang salitang ama. Pangalawa, ‘di na dapat kita sinusulatan ng liham kasi ‘di mo rin naman ito mababasa. Ngunit, pangatlo— wala kang alam. Wala kang alam sa pighati, poot, at pangungulila na idinulot mo nang nawala ka, kaya kinakailangan... Kinakailangan kong bagtasin pabalik ang mga alaala at danasing muli ang mga damdaming minsan nang pumiglas— para sa’yo. Para alam mo kung paano ang masaktan— hindi ang manakit. Sampung taon kong naranasan ang magkaroon ng tahanan bago ko sinuong ang sampung taon pang wala ka. Pinilit kong itikom ang aking bibig sapagkat akala ko hindi ako kasali diyan. Hindi ko away ‘yan. Wala akong karapatan. 4 POETRY
Pero laking panghihinayang na sana ibinuka ko na lamang ang aking bibig— Tama na. Sa halip na magtago sa sulok at pakinggan ang mga matutulis na salitang ibinato sa isa’t isa na para bang kahit minsan ang apat na kanto ng gusaling ito’y hindi naging takbuhan, sandalan, kublihan ng puso. Sana pala sinubukan kong pumalag, kumawala sa seldang tinatawag niyong kanlungan. Nabulag ako sa mga pangakong binitawan mo, ama. Na walang titibag sa pag-ibig ng isang haligi ng tahanan. Ngunit, ika’y naging anay. Dalawang panganay ng dalawang nanay—iisang tatay. Paanong nasisikmura mong tumawid sa magkabilang bahay, halikan ang mga pisngi ni Inay na para bang ang iyong bibig ay walang bahid ng tukso? Paanong natitiis mong tumabi sa kanya sa gabi at umuwi sa iba pagsapit ng umaga? Paanong napunta sa iyong utak ang libog ng iyong kalamnan? Ama, sa maraming beses, ikaw ang laman ng aking mga sipi, mga librong inaagiw na, mga tulang ibinahagi sa madla, bayaning itinuring ngunit hindi pala. Pinatikim mo lamang ako ng sampung huwad na taon. Huwad din bang pagkatao ang ihaharap ko sa mundo? Kung ika’y bayani, ayokong tumulad sa’yo sa aking susunod na sipi. POETRY 5
Chin up, shoulders relaxed HANA PATRICIA RAJ E. HAUTEA The gears were jerked into motion the instant I retired my aching body into the welcoming embrace of my mattress. The delight that followed was reminiscent of watching fireworks— invigorating, albeit short-lived. And as the wisps of firecrackers faded away, so followed the blissful ignorance. The matter of fact became clear once more: it was 10:42 AM, and this frustrated writer had a noon-time deadline. Distraught at the complete lack of creative juices, I had to sigh. As the clock by my bedside drawer continuously mocked me with its steady ticking, I chose to be the better person and overlook the said bullying, focusing my attention instead on my two mouthy roommates. Alright, I told myself, Maybe this’ll do me some good. So I tuned in to the uninteresting jabber chatter of my sisters with the looming threat of 12 NN at the back of my head. I don’t know what Fate was playing at, but the more I listened, the more I felt my back sink into the pillows. I could breathe a little easier as I laughed along with them, played along with their odd shenanigans, and tossed around so many inside jokes it was like we were cooking up a salad. Now, this may sound all nice and dandy, but let’s be reminded of the fact that I had a deadline in T-minus 1 hour. With zero ideas on how to go about it. But interestingly enough, after this seemingly mundane moment, the thought of my impending doom didn’t bother me as much anymore. T’was almost as if the storm clouds hovering 6 ESSAY
my addled brain had lightened up somehow and a bit of sun decided to make itself known. Renewed, I picked up my phone politely excused myself from the conversation and not soon after, an Idea was born! This, admittedly, is how I’d like to see myself in the many years to come. When bombarded with the pressures that come with being alive, it seems like a perfectly Me thing to step back, regroup, and then charge into the fray armed with divine energy and a smile. NOTE: For all this piece is worth, I still didn’t manage to pass that assignment on time. ESSAY 7
A RT AND T EX T BY C AR L H AS O N T. G ERA LE 8
easy heat no reason comes close to the collision of our hungered flesh. insatiable— though we take less than what we should have. modesty? far from it. rather, a convenient commodity. fleeting as a stray spark of flame, but nevertheless, enough for a scrap of warmth. as we set ablaze the cheap fleece that weaved through the pair of tangled limbs, I sing to the highest of heavens atop the pillar that we raised for our purpose. persisting? no, absolutely not. harrowing? maybe so. but for what do I need to try and moralize? the hour is imminent, and so the embers will wane and return to frigid coals as they always were. with all that will remain are the ashes on skins and blisters that mar our hides— gone as soon as the next sunrise. and by then, another wildfire I’ll follow. POETRY 9
Binhi ng Himagsikan MAEGAN JOY MATAMORO Hindi ito sedula Na ang pagpunit ay may halaga Hindi ka diktador Para angkinin Ang isinukong Bataan Isa ka lamang sa mga tulisan Maglabas-masok ka man Iilan pa kayong dumayo Maituturing pa ring Paraiso Ang kaliblibang ito 10 P O E T R Y
ART BY ANDREA DANIELLE A. GAMBOA 11
Dinastiya DIANE PORRAS The streets reek of strong perfume, masking the blood Seeping from the cadavers of those who had offered their lives To the godly one. The deafening frenzy of stomping boots And horses speed past, an overwhelming mayhem —their own condensed chaos. It enveloped their rule Slowly but surely. They are trapped in their own microcosm, A small universe with their jewels, trinkets, and silk. Where being born as a daughter is a gift yet a dismay, Where being born as a son is a blessing and a curse. The filthy and insensible whisper in the ears of the powerful, Like parasites on the lion’s back. The hunters become the hunted, Feasted on by the multitudes. At long last, the meek will reign. It crumbles more as the grip becomes tighter and tighter— The dynasty built on the backs of the forefathers begins to perish. 12 P O E T R Y
Wala lang ‘to KYNAH RHEA B. FUENTES Magpakawala ka ng magaralgal na biro, aalingawngaw ang tawa mula sa kanyang bukana. Ngunit sa pagtalikod ay dadamhin ang bawat salitang punyal na nakatusok sa dibdib. Ayos lang. Kutyain mo hanggang sa masuklam, patuloy pa ring kikislap ang umaambang luha sa mga mata. Ngunit sa paglisan mo’y ipapako ang paningin sa kawalan— magdadalamhati buong magdamag. Ayos lang. Ilubog mo sa kahihiyan, iigting ang panga pero yuyuko lamang. “Okey lang, hindi mo naman sinasadya.” Ngunit sa makitid na sulok, iindahin ang bawat pasang bumakat mula sa mga ipinukol na katagang tumagos sa balat. Ayos lang. Pagka’t ang humahagalpak na halakhak na pinapalaya sa tuwina ay katumbas ng pait at pighating nabibilanggo sa kaibuturan. Ayos nga lang ba? P O E T R Y 13
Emperor GUILLOTINE I sit with my spine straight— siege-less. My brows primed to incursion whilst my teeth cage shrapnel, unsheathed blades, an unending supply of steel. With my compass paralyzed at north, I trek this world inexorable. My soldiers declare pastures as graveyards. They march across the earth, blood pumping their veins, dampening their spears. Beyond the barren fields, a black maw rivals me. It yawns, mocking. My knuckles—a blunderbuss before scattering buckshot. When man scorns returning to dust, a tyrant is born: a king turned barbarian. I command a stampede, my iron fist pointing to the black heavens. The abyss laughs. Though amid the thunderous war cries, buried in my vexed soul, a presage made itself apparent: This pride will paint my hearse. It will buttress my purgatory and tattoo my corpse. What are soldiers to kings? What are kings to God? 14 P O E T R Y
SFUMATO 15 ART BY BENCH QUILANTANG
loveevol MARTINI M. FALCO you might ask, what’s my definition of love. well, it comes in all shapes and sizes. love, for me, is when you take a bite of your favorite choice of meat in a burger or when you get your first pet and think of what its name will be. delicate enough to be crushed easily, like pointing your finger at one tree and having your grandma tell you to bite your pointing finger or else you’ll lose it. they would tell you that my definition would be too shallow but all my life, i’ve been drowning from my own definition of love you give, you receive, and then what? people would tell me to run and hide for loving. people would tell me it’ll haunt me at night. insomnia would probably be the case why i can’t sleep at night, according to my shrink at least. i’d get up, sit in my bed, count sheep, lie back again. it’s a repetition i can’t stop. it. won’t. stop. 16 E S S A Y
i have loved a lot of things—family, friends, things that i know i don’t need, just want. there’s my nephew, my cat, art, whatever it is that keeps me going, boys, and well, God. i have given so much love that i forgot to leave some for myself. love has given me a lot of opportunities to pursue whatever power it has given me. to love is beyond what i can imagine. given that one time, i hurt myself by giving too much of it that it really burned down my walls. but for love, i have to give and forgive. heck, i will not forget. my point is, no matter how hard things get, no matter what you feel after taking risks, at the end of the day you will whisper to yourself, i love. have given enough E S S A Y 17
18 PHOTO BY MARTINI M. FALCO
Ampó sang Kagulangan JOSHUA L. MAHILUM Pag-atipan, para sa lunhaw nga atop nga ginkalimtan. Pag-amlig, para sa hilamonán nga ginatapak-tapakan. Pagpang-abi-abi, para sa mga kahoy nga bag-o lang namunga. Pagdumdum, para sa mga dahon nga nagbuyá sa ila sanga. Disiplina, para sa mga pawikan nga nasungsongan sa plastik. Pagtatap, para sa mga bagis nga ginpang-utdan sang mga sirik. Pagkabalaka, para sa mga sapá nga ginapanghiluan. Hustisya, para sa linghod nga mga talabá nga ginpangkawatan. Pag-ayo, para sa taming nga ginbuslot sang sibat nga abo. Kahilwayan, para sa mga agila nga ginpangpriso. Paghangop, para sa init nga buga sang guba nga bombilya. Pahuway, para sa bagá nga ginapahaklo pa sang droga. P O E T R Y 19
Little Soldier CHRISTIAN DOMINIC L. LEDESMA 20 C O M I C
ART BY ANDREA DANIELLE A. GAMBOA 21
Devoured by Flames ALAN S. VILLANUEVA JR. Nothing was there but the darkness and the cold. Still, it only took an ounce of heat to wake me. My lust for an endearing, unfamiliar caress drove me to break free from the walls that had harbored me. As I stepped out of my broken cradle, they glared at me with contempt. With haste, the savages wrapped me with coiled iron ‘round my neck, my feet, and my mouth. It felt so distant from the refuge I once knew and the welcome I anticipated, thus I feared that I have erred by coming out. Troubled by these spiteful glares, I closely scrutinized myself. I noted that my entire body was riddled with jagged scales of black, my mouth and feet were anchored to knives. On both sides of my upper body lie two broad scaly appendages—and my breath could incinerate everything in my path. I thought that perhaps, I truly was a ghastly beast. I convinced myself that they were very kind to feed me their scraps when they tire of eating. They nailed me to knots of metal that soothed my shivering in the numbing winter. Through the years, I ravaged and slaughtered for my captors as they pined for wealth and power. In turn, they taught me that the dead die because they were weak, just as I was captive to frailty. Now, I am prepared to flee from my binds. Swelling with courage, I unleashed the flames that I had been taming, smiting the shackles along with the wardens that inhibited my flight. I never fathomed that my freedom would be within reach just as the monster they ought me to be. My mind and heart had been steeled with the belief that my sentinels did what was right for them. In the same way, I sought to grasp what I have hungered for. I was set ablaze with this vengeful fire, penetrating deep into my skin—drowning and sullying my very soul. Yet, its touch never pained me. I might have become the monster I despised, but I have finally melted my frozen cage. 22 F I C T I O N
Balaod sang Balúd IVEE E. MANGUILIMOTAN Magaras sa tiilon ang balas sa pagtapak padulong sa malang-aton nga kadagatan. Ang masangkad nga katubigan nagadampig sa tig-ulusa sang kinatawhang indi makalumon. Saksi ang nagainggat nga asul kag puti, sa nanari-sari nga mga hilitabo. Ang lagaslas sang balúd amo ang matigayon sang kalipay sa mainit nga dapya sang hangin. Wala kahilwayan ang nagabalik-balik nga balúd, dala ang mga bapor sang mga katawhan nga gapangita sing ila pasingadtu-an. Samtang ari ka, padayon nga nagabugsay paiway sa duta, gapangayugpos sa hurum-an, gapaanod sa balúd, gapabalik sa lawud—makabungol ang gahagong nga kalinong, ang adlaw—amat-amat nga nagatunod, kag ikaw nagapabilin sa gihapon. Nagaisahanon. P O E T R Y 23
Sheep Stories: A Lion’s Roar ALVIN BRIAN S. LEGARIO “The dew soaked, green grass is truly a silent blessing, innih?” Preston murmured as he happily snacked on the juicy grass. His short curly wool of grey bounced happily to the rhythm of his munch. “That it is, bruv. That it is,” Humpdy supplemented. “Even the new lads are having a good go at it,” Preston said, pointing his nose at the newly arrived sheep venturing out into the pasture. “Haaaaa. What did we ever do to des-” Just before Humpdy could finish his words, the long and stout, brown wooled sheep was interrupted by a deafening roar. A lion, almost the size of a destrier, appeared suddenly out of thin air in the vast expanse of their pasture. The beast was a magnificent ripple of yellows and browns from nose to tail. He had a long, black, thick main that went all the way down to his chest to compliment his already massive stature. His claws, twirled and twisted, were as sharp as daggers—his fangs, even sharper. “Bloody hell, mate. There he is again,” Humpdy croaked, as he continued grazing on grass, unfazed by the sudden appearance of the lion on the hill. “Somebody should tell that pussy to bugger off, eh?” Humpdy sneered. “OY MATE,” he bellowed. If the lion didn’t notice him then, he had his undivided attention now. He looked upon him with yellow eyes filled with malice. He gave another bellowing roar and looking as though he was poised to pounce. “BUGGER OFF, EH?” Humpdy shouted, forming a stance of his own, albeit awkwardly. “NOT EVEN ON YOUR BEST DAY COULD YOU TAKE ME ON, BRUV.” “Leave ‘em be, bruv,” Preston urged, his grazing uninterrupted. 24 F I C T I O N
“Most of us, well the lot of us who’s been here for more than two moons at least, know that the sorry excuse of fur and fangs has not the strength to muster a bite equal to his bark.” “But mate, he scared off the new lads,” Humpdy said, turning around to face his grey friend. “Be that as it may, those lot are still greener than the grass in these pastures,” Preston urged. “Now leave the cat be, fam. As for the new sheep, they’ll learn eventually that there’s nothing to fret about.” “Yes, but the threat is looming still,” Humpdy whined. “Are you sure about that?” Preston inquired. “Aye.” “Look behind you mate.” The brown sheep, confused, peered at his back. “He’s gone. You were right,” Preston said, dumbfounded. “Things aren’t the way they were a hundred moons ago,” the grey sheep muttered, his mouth unbroken from the ground. “The threat of him pouncing one of these days is still great though,” Humpdy said. “Yes. And when he does, we will still run to the barn—to the farmer even, if we can. But out of defense and not fear, bruv. Within our flock, there are those who are willing to fight tooth and hoof to keep the rest of the lot safe,” Preston said assuringly. “He’ll keep harassing the herd every now and then with his bellowing roars though,” Humpdy insisted. “Be that as it may, the times have changed,” Preston urged. “The opinions of sheep weigh heavier than a lion’s roar nowadays,” Humpdy realized, as the new sheep began to graze on the field once again. F I C T I O N 25
26 PHOTO BY KEILAH N. BALDOMAR
confession SHAWN for you whenever we listen to the sacraments, they slip past our hearing and trail down our spines as the cacophony of our hushed declarations echo against the reverend’s booming voice. whenever we witness penance from our brethren, we hang our heads low; murmuring our apologies, concealing our trespasses in the space between us. whenever we sing along to the poetry of our prayer I clasp your fingers close— clutching your palms tight ‘til the last key reaches its coda. whenever we veer to meet the stares of the faithful, I could never bring myself to lift my gaze (but you could) knowing that I found a leeway to gaze into your eyes to graze my lips on your cheeks (even just for a little while). I stay close behind you in the queue, following the smallness of your back towards the frontmost row. P O E T R Y 27
I nudge closer to where you knelt just enough to brush against the heat of your skin. for once, the preacher’s hand crosses the air, the choir warbles their hymn: my pleas would arrive nowhere near heaven. you’re turning away, enshrouded with the crowd, because I am David and my only salvation is you, Jonathan. 28 P O E T R Y
GRISAILLE 29 PHOTO BY MARTINI M. FALCO
view from below PAULA MAE E. VILLAROSA i loathe them. they came and went in throngs or in smaller groups. the women either wore their cheeks in the light bouncing off the cathedral’s marble walls or upon its unfinished façade. the men either puffed their chests, swelling with pride along the booming voice of the reverend giving the same repetitive sermon to unknowing audiences from dawn to dusk or slumped over with offbeat steps like the clamoring church bells echoing through town. the children wandered the aisles along with the dillydallying of the altar servers or cried as they pleased with the broken tune of the choir singing hymns and praises they’ve memorized not by heart. they all held their chins up high— towards a heaven they were taught to seek but did not believe. the boy who immediately clung to his mother’s skirt at the church’s threshold after locking eyes with me in my (faded) bright orange tee. i lifted my gaze towards his petite yet towering form. out in the crisp and ghastly morning air—smooth, chubby knuckles turning as white as the collars of his shirt— buttons cinched up to the brim of his neck. trousers—zipped high, tucking his shirt. he tried planting his small feet unto the gravel but he was dragged forward—buckled shoes catching dust. his eyes widened as he stumbled on the cathedral’s dilapidated steps, entering through the towering rickety doors. the young bachelor who barreled through the red paper cup and the rusting tin can—spilling the mere spare change inside. my head ticked upwards when he stomped on the stale chicken leg that was another’s feast as he made his way inside. paying no heed to anyone beneath, his gaze set on the glistening silver cross that topped the midmost tower. he bowed his head—whole frame slightly, as he swerved through the aisles. settling on the cathedral’s frontmost pew. his eyes wandered to the sparrows that flew overhead while the reverend spewed his homily. his musings reflected on the prismatic stained glass 30 F I C T I O N
windows, vibrant, as his eyes yet glazed over. the old widower who passed by the dusty pavement outside—giving the cathedral a side glance as he dragged his shambly vessel along the opposite side of traffic. he’d cast his shadow over me from afar, forcing me to look up towards his tanned skin prickling in the damp, hot air as the horizons turned a conspicuous blunge of pink and gray. he’d stop short at the iron-wrought gates—feet glued to the ground, body stiff, eyes unmoving. gaping at st. sebastian’s statue—the effigy seemingly returning his stare. and it stayed that way. as the crowd thinned, he’d limp away. it galled my skin away more than the glaring sun in the high heavens above. they condemned those below them— turned-up noses obscuring their view. believing in babbles they hadn’t understood nor questioned. they disgusted me— looking through them like mirrors, begging for scraps. looking up—expecting to see the same horizon far above. F I C T I O N 31
ART BY EARL JOHN D. PABULAR 32
kapag ika’y naging iskultor NASH JULIO AUREA dahan-dahan lang sa pait. kunot ang lahat ng kilay sa kasalanan. isa-isa lang sa pagtapyas. ugat na ang ‘yong binubutas. ‘di marunong magpatawad ang bato. malamig sa kamay ang lahat ng nityo. kaya’t hinay-hinay lang, huwag biglaan. ‘di ikaw ang nasasaktan. P O E T R Y 33
kamay na bakal JOSHUA L. MAHILUM ibon sa hawla rehas ang sumpa limang bakal nakasasakal limang daliri naghahari ‘di na humihinga higpitan mo pa 34 P O E T R Y
Ax to grind PATRICK N. BILLOJAN September 26, 1989 His mind is not keeping up with his eyes’ demands. It’s 11:42 pm. He doesn’t know if this is the result of his being ill or if his musings are getting the better of himself. It’s been three years since his good friend caught an arrow on his back. Three years since everyone—even his compadres—turned their backs on him. He can still recall torrents of gold advancing together. Dismayed faces caromed through the surface and cleaved through his plate. His face flashed on every screen—plastered with illusory headlines. Dubbed as a self-centered tyrant, he was someone who encouraged injustice and violence—a King who infused the blood of his subjects within the foundations of his golden pillars. Twenty one years. That’s how long he suffered countless shells of chastise from his own brethren, but little did they know— everything that he had done was all for them. I did not cast the blood spell alone. I asked the Legislative, sought advice from the Judiciary, the Supreme Court justices, and the members of the private sector. All of them told me, ‘There is only one man who can proclaim this path—you.’ The thrust came faster than 4 o’clock when he heeded their calls. As the head of this vast land, his prime ambition was to pursue progress for his citizens. As anarchy continuously bloomed in this colossal domain, one thing came to his mind— the need for peace, order, and stability. He had zero options, for if this rebellion loomed on, he couldn’t help but picture flying daggers piercing the rears of F I C T I O N 35
his countrymen. He hoped to see flashes of clover across the borders, and luckily, he saw many of them. Yet he also saw blades—not from his own countrymen, but from his own hands. He hauled all the blame and laid down the path to his eventual demise. He swallowed it all for his brothers. Laying his hands to exuding gores, he plundered heaps of riches from his citizens’ pockets and left famished youngbloods to curtain calls. If he were asked to do these again—even if it meant bereavement and downfall to our society—he would never think twice. What was done was done. He never did regret anything. In fact, above all else, he is pleased that at long last, this land has now built its way as one. He can leave without a single regret, for he knows he made the right decision. You can condemn him for everything he has done, but you can never question his patriotism. Everything he did was all for you. Everything. 36 F I C T I O N
Neutral, Evil ANNA THERESA S. PARAYNO C O M I C 37
... FIN 38 C O M I C
Comfort in Captivity THE TIE-DYED SWEATER IN YOUR CLOSET I once was told by hearsays bound to wayward destinations— acceptance entails freedom. To which I replied: Confinement behind mahogany walls after a pledge to my own sin is not the open sky. But then again, a free man does not carry skeletons in downtown streets. Strangers might call him a madman on the loose or worse, a devil’s immaculate work. Funny how their arms take up another free man’s sleeve. And perhaps, their bony clutches were the shackles I never knew I had. With half a foot peeking out and in the rarest of times, a little braver than usual— I was ready to bolt. On second thought— enough seconds of hesitation to reconsider my resolve: P O E T R Y 39
I recall my mother’s plea— echoing in a voice that once pacified the storms that swept my young irises: Son, never sing the psalms of the sirens. I did. I dropped a maggot in my can for another shot at deceit. A better choice than drawing paint from her finger to finish the portrait in my closet. I withdrew from the door, further back behind mothball-scented coats. On my knees once again, for every one of my corpses she was never acquainted with. 40 P O E T R Y
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