SCRIBE
SCRIBE Volume 26, May 2023 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 EJ Nell Voen A. Florendo LAYOUT ARTIST Juan Paolo P. Agapito ILLUSTRATORS Jan Brilly S. Chavez Josh Aldrich B. Diola Perlyn Joy L. Suganob Jeremy Andrei D. Gohing Sir Emmanuel Lee E. Mediavilla COVER CONCEPT AND DESIGN Sir Emmanuel Lee E. Mediavilla Set in Thealiens and Avenir LT Std Style
Foreword Oh, my apologies. I couldn’t help but notice you falling in deep thought. I have to agree, though, that there is indeed a poignant and consoling feeling when you catch sight of the blue gradient by the window—it suspends you with both hopes and worries for the future. Please, don’t mind me. I’m just another mediocre stranger in this air cab. Although, it won’t hurt if we could have a brief exchange of our navel-gazings. While our transits around this footling planet may be poles apart, in the sense of personal encounters, we cannot deny that we have fared through jet-black horizons. Perchance, are you off for the holidays? Another escapade? Or a new beginning? I see. Sometimes, you drift with heavy luggage without a concrete pretext. All we know is we are in an eternal pursuit of nothing but up and forward. Higher and further. We bring any blissful crumbs that we can from our displacements, both intended and—a bump—unlooked for. Just like that turbulence. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. You’re right, fellow migrant. It would be unforgiving for the human condition if we deny this maxim: suffering is an equalizer and a recurring feature of our very existence. It surpasses any societal boundary, an incorporeal pain that has elevated its own name aside from the physical. Not only that, there seems to be a commandment in maneuvering through these tribulations—that heavy luggage must be carried in silence. But let me air another delving. How much hurt should we take before it is an emergency? Where do we draw the line between having fisticuffs with life alone and admitting we have hit rock bottom? Why did were our attempts to contact weren’t left unanswered? Hmm…some difficult questions to indemnify our losses. In moments of our bottomless, woebegone decline, our Maydays might be buried by theirs. Ergo, even in the wreckage, it’s only our lone selves that can grovel our way out from the pile.
To overcome it without rescue is an admirable yet tragic feat, more so if one subsists despite being less insured against the aftermath. Ow. Another jolt. As it happens, we’ve been too deep into the matter. But come to think of it, it’s comical that we can somehow frame our mortality similar to this big metal scrap of a plane. We lift from one point to another and it’s only a matter of when we become star- crossed, finding ourselves again in a fast-motion blur of plummeting. Huh. Hold on, can you smell that? That’s odd. Just a second ago, it felt like we were going down. Or perhaps we’re about to land soon. Now, I do want to keep you company, but I do need to tend to my stuff first. Admittingly so, it was a nice sensible talk with you. Well then, I guess I’ll see you around. Just another clueless passenger, EJ Nell Voen A. Florendo
ARTISTS | Jan Brilly S. Chavez & Perlyn Joy L. Suganob
THE SMOKE It all starts with an inciting incident—an engine failure, turbulence, or human error. This chapter talks about the early junctures of narratives that could lead to an impending possible crash.
Fine Print By flight risk Thrust “We’re leaving in five,” “Sure,” Glazed eyes, glances from across the room. Glass wasn’t the only thing you tipped over last night. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Lines crossed, light seeping through nearly-closed blinds. Life had its foot out the door. “I’m good to go.” Lift “This is some pretty hefty stuff,” “It’s just the bare necessities,” Nervous smiles, nodding along while my body burns. Nobody seems to notice the charred flesh mingling with my perfume. “What do you even carry here? Boulders?” Cobwebbed desk, cups of coffee left to sour, and conspicuous playlists that speak for themselves. “Heavier than boulders, actually,” Ten kilograms “You need to take some stuff out. You know, to make some room,” “I know.” Half-spun stories, hedonistic pursuits at 2 a.m.— hitting the backspace became muscle memory. “You can’t carry this much weight to wherever you’re going.” (I know.) 2
SCRIBE MAYDAY Drag “Where the hell are you?” Windows drawn, would-have-beens; wading thigh-deep through mud untainted. “Something came up,” Flus, family emergencies; faking urgency was an art I perfected. “It’s been half an hour,” Checking the time, chimes of my alarm set five minutes apart, chips in a bond I once believed adamantine. “I’ll do my best to make it,” Pretend rain checks, pity parties, pathetic excuses so poor they’re pointless. “You know you can’t miss this.” “Hey, I’m at the gate. Which way should I go again?” Staccato breaths, stoic eyes, straps of my backpack digging into my shoulder. “We already left.” Why do I even bother to keep up with you? Weight “Such a shame. We were so close,” “Yeah, I hear that a lot,” “Should we turn back?” Arched eyebrows, arms wide, armor down. Itching palms, iterations of a single word, over and over. It took me twenty-two years to learn a syllable. “No.” 3
Art by John Paul V. Pechon 2
SCRIBE MAYDAY dreams of strings By James Aldrin C. Pamposa Nearing a supple descent, elegies were chanted along the shrieking plane, fluttering on a sandpaper trail. Acute human bellows swarmed the cabin with frantic steps and dripping sweat. My compartment shatters open with a jarring blow; I toppled—a present sinking in the air, buoyant to meet its master and hoping to be spared. A chalk-white slim frame and six strings of brass that can prelude a thousand songs. I am a rig—built to play, but may not stay for long. I fancy the burst of euphoria, cheers, and raves; to whir my cords out with the crowd under a fervent limelight, striking them to their core; these reverbs will stay aloud. Such lovely ruminations, forlorn, yet fair. With that, I dread, for those dreams will crumble and lay in ruins with the hundred dead. 5
Photo by Keilah N. Baldomar 2
DISCARD PILE SCRIBE MAYDAY By Meryl C. Sigaton Some things just won’t work. At least not for as long as we want them to, as attested by the rusting electric fans littering the attic and ceiling-high stacks of antiques I found myself facing. Dust everywhere, settling on things we tuck away in a corner of the world we know we can return to—broken as they may be. The room reeked of mold and abandon. It was suffocating. “I’ll get out of this alive,” I convinced myself, still wary of the lurking bugs or intrusive memories that could pounce any minute. In my summer quest to discipline the house, I found: a book on building construction threatening to fall apart; the cabinet of curiosities for all the day-to-day rubble I attach memories to; and photos with that one friend with whom I thought I had a lot in common. Despite my bold contempt for taking inventory, I ended up diving headfirst into the chore anyway. *click* I pulled out a pen and scraps of paper from my grandmother’s now three-legged desk. “Sure, let’s excavate the buried ordeals of the past. Anything afflicted with time is bound to fizzle out into oblivion anyway,” I said, rolling my eyes. What could go wrong? Or did. SIGNS OF DECAY AND WAYS TO STOP THEM instability For anything to break, it must first be built. “We were 13, I think.” Then 14, then 15. Proximity. A flick, a foreign object, change—the solder was so weak that it took so little to crack what would have been timeless. Then, from the growing crevice, came the buildup—the stubborn tartar of narrowing eyes, drying conversations, and compounding secrets. 7
Was my independence that nauseating? *Achoo!* I sneezed. “Just irritating, I guess.” I stood to stretch and open the blinds, remembering I wasn’t flexible enough for the mental gymnastics that riddled what was already a wobbling infrastructure. “How disappointing,” I muttered, shrugged, and scribbled on. warfare “Ah,” I interjected. “An easy box to tick.” The most obvious sign of a fray. The distrust came in trickles, just pinpricks of ego mingled with words. Then, all at once, cataclysm. Are we okay? A deafening salvo of mockery blew up in my face and ricocheted in my skull. But how could y– I remember bleeding, fatally, from the two-faced shrapnels of your self-interest that came hurtling. It’s never okay. With the sun higher than ever, the mid-afternoon was getting hotter. I wasn’t even halfway through. disconnection Attempt failed. “Ah yes, 17 is when it all happened.” Or ended. Settling ash tends to fossilize the remains of the dead. “The aftermath of pandemonium is…” But that’s it, isn’t it? That’s where the line ends. No more splurging on cakes in overpriced cafés, animé speedruns to clamor over sexy seiyuus, or 20-peso tokens for a Just Dance lunchtime getaway in that cozy little arcade at the side of the grocery store. High school replayed before my eyes until the crickets woke me up. That, and my obnoxious ringtone. It was sunset and almost time for the samgyup date with the gang. I guess I wasn’t done sorting all the chaos, but some things clearly needed to go. 8
Exodo 20:13 SCRIBE MAYDAY Ni Gem Francin R. Diola Akon nga ginduso sang matudo ang sansalon, agud magangutngut ini sa kasing-kasing sang gapakuno-kuno nga propeta— pula ang magabuswak sa sutana nga puno sang kabutigan. Lapuyot ang magahalok sa aro nga indi mag-ayo. Maskin ano nga pangamuyo, indi malikawan ang pagpalanupsop sang kala-ut sa akon pagpanimalos. Nagatuo pa bala ako sa Imo? Tawo pa bala ang tawag sa wala nagaduha-duha ukon nagahinulsol sa paggulot sang tutunlan sa akon isigkatawo? Padayunon ko ang paghanot tubtob indi siya magpalangurog. Ginadayaw ko ang akon kalawasan! Makabuluang ang huwad nga balaan. Kaangay sa guba nga plaka, wala untat ang hapulas sang mga mariit nga kamot sa akon hunahuna. Diin ayhan ang espada sang hustisya kung bungol ang mga hukom sa akon mga maoy kag yamo? Kung wala diri ang Ginoo, paano ko malikawan ang mga panulay nga nagdingot sang paghidait sa akon pamatan-on? Magatinir nga higko ang kalag nga gin-abuso sang yawa. Pamati–i ang akon pulong! Gikan sa mga nagakabuhi kag nagahamyang, sa wala untat ko ya nga mga tabang— siya naman ang indi pagpamatian bangud ang akon unod magapangalipay sa iya pag-agnas kag sa akon pagkabanhaw. Kung yari gid man di ang Ginoo, dapat Ya patawaron ang akon mga sala! 9
CONTRAPUNTAL baby, did you know By Hana Patricia Hautea it was that fated night in the advent of your glory, when i noticed how fiery the stars glowed. lazed and burned how the musk of your sweat my body and soul, swallowed my senses the ash your lone witness. before disaster struck— i wondered why you look different now. the light dwindled; a shell of my past lover, smile curling your lips. someone else’s heartbeat quivering, fingers on your the angry streaks you left still sore and raw. neck tracing the tender flesh the signs were there. i ignored them. if it really isn’t me who can possibly help you then it is my prayer you lay bare honest lies and easy laughter in soonest indulge in the brightest of days. the darkest of nights. Art by Jamille E. Barrios 10
HOW TO NOT HAVE A MUNDANE BIKE RIDE: SCRIBE MAYDAY By Joshua Martin P. Guanco let every particle of the gentle afternoon zephyr gently scrape the linings of your nostrils up to the far reaches of your alveoli. let the spectrum of its solar radiance permeate through your iris and enliven all the wonders that exist with you in that moment. let every neuron bombard the fibers of your body with immaculate electricity in every trudge of your feet. let the oscillations of this rotating mass of rock hum in your ears its primordial hymn with the mechanical song of progress. let every sensation of danger, thrill, and safety be imprinted and ingested to keep you wary yet ecstatic. remember: you are not a vessel— you are an entity— riding a vessel. 11
Art by Angelyn Emmanuelle H. Taruballes 2
PARADE RAIN SCRIBE MAYDAY By paradoxica as the morning dew sparkled like fairy dust adorning the petals of wayward flowers, as the cacophony of the busy streets started to sound enchanting—comforting even, as the morning radio enlightened me of cloudless weather, I urged myself to take pleasure in the day. as the rays of the sun warmed my bones, as I inhaled the scent of freshly cut grass, as the earthy taste of coffee coated my tongue, I believed that it was going to be a good day. I decided today was the time to enjoy things I’ve never really cared for before: greeting evasive faces along the pedway, treating myself to rich, flaky pastries from a small local cafe, and drowning myself in the hypnotic music of street performers as the sun sets. but as I watched the lightning flash across the darkening heavens, I found myself alone, just as I was when the day started. thunder roared, and I realized that a downpour was inevitable. the forecast being wrong is nothing new to me. dipping my fingers in the almost-damped jean pocket, the uncomfortable hardness reminded me of what today was. my hands found the hilt of my blade— my safeguard weapon, a blatant lie I told my mom. my grip tightened, and my heart was but a dam about to fracture, but I no longer had room for fear in me. I no longer had anything left in me. I dragged the steel up to my throat and my resolve —it wavered. it was such a good day. I waited for red to drip and mingle with the puddle on the ground, yet all I saw was the knife slipping from my hands. my usual chaos evaporated with the will to do the unthinkable. here I stand, foolishly thinking that today was the day. I guess both the forecast and I were wrong. 13
Freedom Airways By John Paul V. Pechon
SCRIBE MAYDAY
PARACLAUSITHYRON FOR TWO (AND AN INTRUDER) By Rosenkranz Taking the red-eye from here to you, love, seeing red, the tarmac half-melding with the night like a shotgun landscape— dark and velvety as your hair clinging to your scalp, and so did the mark of his knuckle-kiss to your overturned cheek. Tending a red eye, sleepless for you, love, seeing red, the teakwood door creaks into an omen of someone haunting an August, long gone, to dog days and the stench of 110-proof. “Let me in,” he says with the tone of aspirin: heady, hoarse, and dark like whiskey; dulling the scars into mementos for a moment. From miles away— strewn across my midnight lips a litany, with no congregation but the dawn-starved clouds: “I’ll be there soon, wait for me.” Turbulence tries my patience as he does like a chore to yours; pray I come home to you before your reckoning. He brings a bottle rim to my teeth with a chokehold; “Drink,” he says with a throat of brimstone. A parley with my punisher who played long with my pardon; the world went black when sugar and vitriol met. Black, like our minutes that went by in a wrathful whirl. Make haste, love, I would give you wings if I could; pray you come home to me before my reckoning. 16
SCRIBE MAYDAY If I only could leap from the cabin, love, I would with a fury and humble the plane; to keep vigil at your doorstep like the sole gargoyle of the church that is you; to sweep you away from all this and what else, and hold you the way the earth holds a wreckage. I will come home to you. He let himself in with a red eye, seeing red, so seething he puts a slighted father to shame— turning the kitchen knife from jury to executioner; handling him like he once did to me with the warmth of an August long gone to dog days and blood; the blade turns back and tastes red. I let myself in to you from a red-eye, love, seeing red, the dead, and blankness painted across your face. Dark and velvety—your hair and sorrow clings to your scalp, and so does the mark of his knuckle-kiss to your tear-streaked cheek. I come home to you in your reckoning. 17
Photo by John Brainard G. Uberas 2
SCRIBE MAYDAY Hubo’t Ni Joshua L. Mahilum Unang pigtasin ang buton sa leeg; hubad. Hindi ka utusan ng mga medalya; hubad! Isunod ang buhol ng sinturon; hubad. ‘Di ka ba napapagod sa kakahingal? Hubad! Baklasin na ‘yang itim na pantalon, hubad! Hindi diyos ang pera; hubad! Burahin mo ‘yang nasa ‘yong mukha; hubad! Walang kolorete ang kalapati. Hubad! ‘Di mo kailangang masakal ng sinturon; hubad! Hindi ka alipin ng mga titig; hubad! Ligpitin na ang teatrong bukas araw-araw, hubad! Walang sungay ang tupa. Hubad! Hindi ka isang kambing; hubad! Ikaw ang kalapati at tupa; hubad. Piliting lumaya sa amnesya, hubad… Maging kawangis nina Adan at Eba—hubad. 19
Art by Carl Hason T. Gerale 2
SCRIBE MAYDAY Mga Nagbabagang Eksena sa Osona Ni Drexel John N. Amit Minsan nang mapadpad silang mga naka-toga Sa isang disko sa may Katimugang Abenida. Inilabas ang nagyeyelong alak, Magpakalasing ang balak, At sila ay nagpakasaya! Bagama’t siksikan sa may Osona, Pilit pinagkasya ang tatlong daan sa espasyong pang-trenta. Tila delatang sa kasikipan ay labis, Mga katawan ay tumatagaktak sa pawis, Walang tigil na tumaas ang temperatura! Sa pagtugtog ng naka-iindayog na La Luna, Sumabay ang madla sa saliw ng musika. Patuloy na lumalim ang gabi, Pagkalango ay hindi na maikubli, Umpisa na ng mga nagbabagang eksena. Ngunit nang ang kasiyahan ay umabot na sa rurok, Sumakop ang usok hanggang apat na sulok. Tumigil sa pagkislap ang patay-sinding ilaw, Napako sa kinatatayuan ang mga mananayaw, At sila ay inatake ng matinding dagok! Sa pagdaluhong palabas sila ay humahangos, Ngunit sa hangin sila ay naghikahos. Ang gabi ng selebrasyon at kasiyahan, Tinupok ng kapabayaan, At ang mga nagsitapos ay natapos! 21
ARTISTS | Jan Brilly S. Chavez & Perlyn Joy L. Suganob
THE DIVE A microscale accident can ignite a chain of impediments. This chapter is a collection of pieces when the damage had rippled towards collapse—where everything starts to fall apart.
BLACK DOG By Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno Luthor has teeth to his ears. Tongue bouncing like fluorescent coruscate; lungs heaving through stale atmosphere, in nitric acid— a foul dog smell. Luthor gnawed on a broken scapula. He licked barbed wires and Flagyl, zoning into retching. Purging an envelope of invoices, a Rubik’s cube, my blue Titus pen. Luthor has fur of Stygian coal. A comb shredding like slivers of needle dropped between cold tiles. Cries buzz the skin fresh, drab but chaste. Luthor stared behind a black cage. Carnal photograph of red-eyed sin, scratching marks on walls—multitudes to count. Wash it clean, then try again. 24
SCRIBE MAYDAY Luthor has nails of sheepsfoot. He claws at crevices of porcelain. Black box warning along necklines and turnstiles. Bleeding harness— ropes swinging. Luthor yanked on hoodie strings. And mood rings stained indigo fall off the bones from my hands; around penned tendons, inhaling Prozac in powder form. Luthor has a tail stacked high. “Black dogs don’t lead long,” they warned. But Luthor is two decades old— watching me from door frames. Luthor talked to me last night, and the stillness turns off the lights. In hunched whimpers and groans of one long longing, he doesn’t say another word. 25
Photo by Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman 2
Finding My “Fix” SCRIBE MAYDAY By Anna Maria J. Villanueva Everything starts small. The moment the water beads slip from the fingertips and touch the water, they are bound to grow. It takes over in a blink and goes from being an insignificant part of your life to, ultimately, defining it. I was that Orbeez—or more like the nonphysical fiend—planted in an academic ecosystem, and there, flourishing my bloom, are my first- grade teachers and classmates. Eventually, we were ready to take a deep plunge and find out where we tread on the quarter’s honor roll. Little me did not know any better when she was catapulted to become a vessel of this immense water bead. The Expansion It was a mix of all things confusing, surprising, and novel. Hearing my name echo within the classroom unconsciously lifted my chin up, stretched my shoulders out, and straightened my back as I headed to the front, lauded by cheers and applause from my fellow classmates. By the time the honor’s assembly rolled around, my stance and posture had settled in and made themselves at home. Water continued to pour from the constant praise and line of 9s, and the Orbeez continued to grow. It became the shifting of the sun and the moon—consistent, with little me wanting to drown myself if it meant feeling this constant empowerment. I constantly craved the validation that numbers could give. But it is not just about the compulsion or the bliss and peace it brings. The thing with fixation is that it feels normal. By the time you are in deep, it has intertwined with your everyday life. The Compression It constantly feels like a powerful hunger. One that should be fed even more often than the biological need for food. And then eventually, everything else becomes secondary. 27
When people know you as the “smart” one, there is this innate ability to constantly be—if not, strive—to be the best. Once you’ve reached the ocean floor, you dread seeing the surface. And I constantly sought the highest “anythings”. One failure, like a mere mistake on a quiz, can be enough to break my soul, to crack the Orbeez open at the hand of too much water. The Recuperation I want to work on fixing myself. So I cruise around on a four-wheeled piece of plywood or release my frustrations through the jabs of my wrapped fists. But as much as I try to indulge myself in other things, the vice remains. My reconstructed walls only enlarged the reservoir for bad water to pour. I suppose it never truly goes away. The potential for relapse is always there. The scars and cracks are a tough sight to behold, but within those, are beams of light—hope that things can get better. That amidst the cracks, the little Orbeez can grow—in a body of water that nurtures it and it alone. 28
WORKPLACE FURY SCRIBE MAYDAY By Óscar Fritz Please, forgive my questions. I should have been tongue-tied; I should have been clear-cut ideal to indulge your glass-glinting remarks. Feel free to beat their record of the longest to make me pick up my blown chips of confidence. Please, forgive me for my splitting nights. I should have pinned my lowly cries; I should have glamorized these jaded eyes to sensitize me of your missing time. Don’t be shy to break their record as the hardest to knock my body clock down. Yes, forgive me for my turning point. I should have picked your sweetened lies; I should have dialed down your sharp tones. I’ll be another record in your non-existent blacklist of unexpected repulsions. So, forgive me for my landing right hook. I should have applied more force; I should have broken more of your pearls. Give me your nicest crossed face as I have given my ugliest one when I finally wanted to see red. Oh, please. Just shut your trap! 29
Flying Memories By Angelyn Emmanuelle H. Taruballes
SCRIBE MAYDAY
CUPID’S BLUNT ARROWS By Karen how can i? how can i appreciate the slivers of moonlight touching her bare skin like how i relish her silks and laces strewn over the vinyl floorboards? how can i crave the brush of her lips against mine, like how i ache to grab the back of her head and move it southward, wishing for her to dew the already dampened territory? how can i make our hearts beat as one? our in-between breaths in sync? how can i make myself love to hear her whisper my name as she digs her nails into my back, gasping for air, searching for my eyes, foraging for a hint of candor, a bit of hope in my stares? huh. i wonder what it’s like to actually have an answer. i wonder what it’s like to love like she does. and now, i look at her enjoying her peaceful slumber, fingers slacking around the now-creased sheets. her pensive eyes, her coral lips— are now lost in my train of thought— i pay no heed to the ordinary. 32
SCRIBE MAYDAY so, as quiet as the moon, i flee before the dawn wakes. as the nautical twilight sheathes me, i wondered: what if i stayed? earlier, we found ourselves entering the oldest cafe in town, smelled the waft of freshly brewed coffee, and enjoyed the plain pleasures of eating pandesal. we filled her grocery list together, picked oranges over apples, and took the long route to her apartment. and then, we kissed on the kitchen countertop with our hands in places they shouldn’t be, only to be broken off by the burnt smell of charred bacon and eggs. and so, i wonder what it’s like to be in seventh heaven because of the shockingly, absurdly, mundane things. i wonder what it’s like to actually fall for these sweet nothings, to find the sense of putting love on a pedestal. until midnights become eternal and the dawn stops coming— maybe i’ll let myself learn, even just once, how to not recoil from the thought of falling in love. 33
Photo by Phoebe Daidoji Q. Jabonete 2
SCRIBE MAYDAY wander home By Phoebe Daidoji Q. Jabonete I heard your muffled cries as you cowered on brittle cement. Hunched like a lost child in a crowd, you keep your wails to yourself. I was nothing but a bystander; a critter looking for refuge. For someone who can only be inquisitive, curiosity is about to kill me. Like a pirate to a siren’s song, I was drawn to you. What is it that torments you so? Somberly, my query only whirred in the air. As he towers over you, a wrinkly reflection of your Lilliputian eyes interlocked with mine. With unsettled nerves, I greeted the desolate vagabond. “My furry friend, will you console this kin of mine?” he asked. His heart ached as much as yours— never again can he dance with his little princess. Two lost souls chant a chorus of lamentation, such a faraway requiem for the beloved you lost. “Meow.” There, there, it’ll be alright. From now on, you can embrace me, as your dear one can no longer. 35
Art by Jaziel Ann V. Seballos 2
NAHANGPAN ANG KALISDANAN SCRIBE MAYDAY Ni James Aldrin C. Pamposa Nagapati kamo dira? Nga ang mga tinuga sa kalibutan, ang tanan nga bahin sang imo kabuhi iya nga ginbuhat? Kung ara sa langit ang kahilwayan, ngaa kinahanglan pa magpanikasog sa matag-adlaw? Indi ko gihapon magpati sa pagtuo nga wala sing pakadtuan luwas sa pagsunod kay kamatayan. Sa pagsiga sang pula nga tipulon akon gin-usoy ang husto nga alagyan hinay-hinay, halong-halong kag wala pagsupak sa mga patakaran sang dalan, hasta nabatian ko ang mabaskog nga busina, ang awto nga wala animo. Sa dasig nga pagburon sang naghilitabo, nagdulom ang akon nga paghuna-huna—nagadeliryo. Subong, ako ang nagahamyang— dugo ang nagabuswak sa akon sulok-sulok, kada selula sa lawas gusto na magdulog. Ubra man ini sang ginasamba niyo? Sa tunga sang dalan nagaisahanon ako, nagahulat sang tabang. Indi nakon matukiban ang nagligad sang nasugata ko ang sulab sang garab. Napuno ang hangin sang pag-uwang. Kag akon nakit-an ang pagigpat-igpat sang pula kag asul— dali-dali nga gapalapit; amat-amat nga nagaburon. Wala na pag-aman sang plasma ang akon utok para magpalibog; nagadiutay na lang man ang bilin sa akon nga ginhawa. Wala na tsansa sa pag-agum sang kaluwasan sa bulunglan. Pero diin na ang Amay ninyo? Palihog, gusto ko na magpiyong. 37
Photo by Learn D. Flores 22
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