Scribe Volume 26: Mayday

["Fuguetive SCRIBE MAYDAY By Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno It comes to me like a solitary whiplash. A too-bright-to-blink headlights. A bullet piercing through the windshield. From a distance, it\u2019s a copy of motion lines from a comic-book thriller scene. From where I\u2019m seated, I am pummeled by a hard left turn, slamming my body against the door. \u201cWhat the f*ck?!\u201d I screech as the rear glass bursts into raindrops, a bit of the spate cutting lines across the back of my neck. \u201cStay down!\u201d Red half-yells. I stare at him from the backseat\u2014black eyes and blue bones hidden behind crimson glasses. He seems unfazed. This is it\u2014at a rainy 2:00 a.m. crescent, with flares of red and blue bolting through the city\u2019s turnstiles\u2014this is where I die. A sedan\u2019s B-pillar and the clang of a Glock accelerate to 180. I clutch the grab handle even tighter, only to find my wrists enveloped inside the cool metal, slivers of chains pulling on my skin. Handcuffs? I can\u2019t help but feel that I should be remembering something. Like the priors of these bonds. But the last forty-eight hours have been a pan shot from an old XT- 30. Like I\u2019m flipping through a photo album; regressing into chaos before I\u2019m laid out in Cronbach. A silkscreen sheet separates the front and back seats, but it\u2019s vivid how Red\u2019s hand reaches for the radio. He switches it to some Rage Against the Machine track I used to listen to as a teen, from a record my father got for my fifteenth birthday. Now, beneath zero visibility, the only thing I don\u2019t seem to remember is how I got here. Red makes another sharp turn, like a needle scratching vinyl discs. \u201cWhere are we going?\u201d His seatbelt dangles from the door. I raise an eyebrow, and he looks at me through the rearview mirror. \u201cStop acting as if you don\u2019t know what you did.\u201d What the hell is he talking about? 39","Flashing a smug chuckle, he amps the gas to 240, rallying suicide season with the blow of its torque. \u201cYou\u2019re going to get us killed!\u201d I could only wail a solo from Morello\u2019s guitar, boring my fists in prayer. Everything is a haze in a speed sanctuary. And like the separation of science and religion, physics blesses me with an aching disc and a transistor on full blast. \u201cWho do you think got us into this mess?\u201d Red snaps. \u201cIt\u2019s not my fault!\u201d \u201cKeep fooling yourself, dumbass.\u201d Seething through the sting, I forgo a reason and try to wiggle my hands free, but to no avail. The engine continues to howl like a laceration as the gunshots rip through every drumbeat of the amplifier. With the rest of my might, I kick my feet up at the back of Red\u2019s seat, repeatedly, making him flinch. But every pang is a tick on the gas meter. I remember my father teaching me trajectory through the needle of a record player. In disobedience, it shatters like lead shells ravaging a car. His tattooed arm cracked a fold. Despair is a prison, they say; but miracles sometimes visit, a magnum slug ripping through the shackles. Like alpha radiation beating from a stigma, it punctures straight through the metal and my palms. The car and the gunshots come to a stop. There is a hole in the driver\u2019s seat. For freedom, God has died in the reflection of the rearview mirror. The air leaves a sour taste on my tongue, but I\u2019m willing to take my chances. I crawl out of the now-open rear window, adrenaline taking me over. I scurry to the driver\u2019s seat, noticing a tattoo on Red\u2019s arm; for a second, friction scratches my soles; for another, I am certain that he has f*cked me over once again. I take the seat without looking back\u2014hands on the wheel, foot glued to the gas pedal with sweat. The stick shift sends a giddy feeling between my toes. As the gunshots resound, I replay the Rage song, stepping on the gas until it reaches 240. Then again, I don\u2019t even know what the hell I\u2019m running from. 40","DARK OF THE MOON SCRIBE MAYDAY By Joshua Martin P. Guanco The rage of the moon is unparalleled to that of the sun\u2019s\u2014 It is silent. It is tranquil. It is seething. It is defiant. Its mere presence amidst the spheres of the night is a mockery\u2014an outright blasphemy\u2014to the glorious refulgence of its counterpart: a perpetual celestial disobedience. It is not the morning But the night; It is not the light, But the dark That fuels the rage of the moon to rise and ascend \u2014unyielding\u2014 to the creeping rays that dare exorcize its dim light into nothingness. Yet, it does not\u2014 The moon\u2019s rage does not. It does not go gently into that good night. For it rages\u2014it rages\u2014into the dying, yet waning of the light that has blazed and blinded countless civilizations with refulgence, with promise, with supposed truths, with unfounded vigor that tampered with the bloodstained halls of history it has reluctantly witnessed over and over again 41","Photo by Febry Anne D. Eduvane 2","Huwad na Panata SCRIBE MAYDAY Ni Jenny G. Millares Walang panibagong kaganapan ang sa aki\u2019y sumalubong sa saglitang pagpapahinga mula sa pagbabanat ng buto. Tumatagas ang pawis sa aking noo at ang mga palad na mantsado ng lupang likido ay nangangatog sa pagsapit ng dapit-hapon. \u2018Di alintana ang hapdi ng pagtama ng araw sa aking balat kapalit ng kakarampot na salaping tinuturing yaman, habang inaasam at pinapangarap ang mas matiwasay na kalagayan sa buhay sa gitna ng sakahang nagsilbi nang kublihan. Sa bawat pagpatak ng oras ay kasabay na tumatambak ang sako-sakong bigas na aking pinapasan. Kagaya ng mga luhang aking isinantabi ay ikukulong sa aking isipan ang libo-libong katanungang kinakapos sa mga kasagutan. Permanenteng nakamarka sa aking isipan na ang pagsisikap ay binabalewala at ang pamumuhay ay inaalipusta ng mismong mga taong nakatungtong sa ibabaw ng tronong nananaig ang Kalinga. Lawit na ang aking dila mula sa walang tigil na pagsasaka subalit walang lakas na natitira upang magmakaawa. Nasaan na ang inuulit-ulit na kaginhawaan? Lubos nang nakalimutan ang mga salitang itinaga sa bato at ngayon ay naging multo na lamang ng kahapon. Hinanakit ay nakakubli sa likod ng mga malalamlam na mata; parang isang tanim na patuloy ang pag-usbong sa isang mainit na umaga ng tagsibol, na namuo mula sa abuso sa kapangyarihan at patuloy na dinidiligan ng kawalan ng katarungan. 43","Hindi ko na mapagmasdan ang mga ibon sa ilalim ng buwan. Ang gulong ng palad ay parang paghahanap ng isang mumunting binhi sa lapunaw na putikan habang buong araw na nakababad sa initan at unti-unting nanghihina ang kalamnan. Sukdulan ng pagsuko\u2019y abot-tanaw ko na\u2014 ito na lamang ang natitirang ilaw sa dilim. Subalit anong mukha ang aking maipapakita sa mga matang nag-aabang sa tahanang punla ng sikap at tatag? Paano ako patuloy na magsisilbing haligi nila kung ang konkretong materyales na ipinapamahagi ay hindi sapat upang mapanatiling buo ang aking yaring-kamay na pundasyon? 44","Mga Sugo ni Warden SCRIBE MAYDAY Ni Joshua L. Mahilum 1. Huwag tumalikod sa hangin. Magtiwala ka sa\u2019kin. Lahat ng lumilingon, kung hindi nabubulag, nasusumpa. Paboritong hapunan ng bilibid ang mga bagong laya. 2. Siguraduhing malakas ang ihip ng hangin. Magtiwala ka sa\u2019kin. Lahat ng nagmamadali, kung hindi nasasampal ng bugso, nasusuntok. Paboritong hapunan ng lupa ang mga mapupusok. 3. Ibuka nang maigi ang iyong mga pakpak. Magtiwala ka sa\u2019kin. Lahat ng mahiyain, kung hindi nilalamon ng dagat, iniluluwa. Paboritong hapunan ng bagyo ang mga mahihina. 4. Huwag huminto sa pagpapagaspas. Magtiwala ka sa\u2019kin. Lahat ng tumitigil sa gitna, kung hindi bihag ng gubat, nawawala. Paboritong hapunan ng mga puno ang tukang \u2018di na bumubuka. 5. Huwag lumipad nang walang kasama. Magtiwala ka sa\u2019kin. Lahat ng lumilipad ng mag-isa, kung hindi paralisado, naaamnesya. Paboritong hapunan ng ulap ang mga ligaw na agila. 6. Sundin lahat ng mga paalala sa itaas. Magtiwala ka sa\u2019kin. Lahat ng hindi nakikinig, kung hindi namamatay, walang nararating. Paboritong hapunan ng mundo ang mga walang muwang. 45","ARTISTS | Jan Brilly S. Chavez & Perlyn Joy L. Suganob","THE CRASH The pinnacle chapter about the moment we hit the ground. It\u2019s the collision between metal and earth. It tells about defeat and acceptance. It\u2019s getting out of the wreckage.","Panagbalay sa Tungang Kagab-ihon Ni Immalie Rose E. Cafifge Tagbalay! Alas dose. Nagapamurugso na naman ako tungod sa ginamo sa guwa sining panimalay. Manugtulog naman tani, galing kay nagabagrong ang wala untat nga taghol sang ido\u2014dugang pa ang nagangurob nga makina sang motorsiklo kag siyagit sang isa ka soltero. Indi ako kaintsindi! Manginit bala ako tungod sa tiyempo, ukon maugtas sa nagalanog nga ugong sa pihak sang gawang? Tagbalay! Ala una. Indi gid mag-untat? Ah, linti. Ginatabunan ko na gani sang ulunan ang nagapalamungol nga dulunggan agud lumsan ang kagahod\u2014wala gid pinagbag-o. Hantud sini nga oras, ugayong man gihapon sang ido ang akon mabatian! Kag ano man ni ya ang kinahanglan sang pastilan nga nagasilinggitan sa tungang kagab-ihon? Wala kami gabaligya ice! Jusko, bisan ano na lang nagasulod sa ulo ko. May dala ni siya ayhan nga armas? Basi kawaton niya amon galvanized roofs, ukon ang kaldero nga silver diri sa kusina? Sumpa gid! Las? Lasi! Alas siyete. Sa pagtamwa sang adlaw sa bintana sang akon kwarto, amo man ang matunog ko nga pagsambit sang: \u201cThank you, Lord!\u201d Gintamdon ko na lang ang kagarot angay sa libagon nga music box para matulugan. Ugaling, wala man ko sang mabatian nga maoy sa akon pagbangon\u2014ginbuslan man ini sang ala-megapon nga tingog sang akon iloy. 48","SCRIBE MAYDAY Las! Lasi! Alas onse. Wala gid ko nakapangaman sa akon naabtan. Sang akon nakita ang ginkusnit nga sako upod ang imo ginlangawan nga unod, diri ko lang naathagan ang makahaladlok nga tinuga sa sulod. Lasi ang imo pangalan. Sa kadugayon nga pagtinir mo sa amon, tatlo ka tuig ang naglabay sugod sang nagpahuway ang imo amo. Naparalisar ang akon mga tiil sang nagtupa ang akon mga mata sa nagahamyang mo nga lawas sa tugnaw nga semento. Oo gali, ikaw to ang nagagahod kagab-i. Oo gali, ikaw man ang naguwa para sugata-on ang soltero. Ikaw to gali. Las? Lasi. Ikaw pa ang ginbasol sang hubog nga drayber. Ginhulat-hulat ko man ang pagtulo sang pait nga tubig halin sa akon mga mata, galing kay indi ko gid mapilit. Ngaa kami pa mabayad kwatro-siyentos sa pag-ospital sang hangag kung iya man sala? Ang makatilingala, nadulaan ako sang labot. Las. Lasi. Sa tuod-tuod, gusto ko mangasubo, pero paano? Ayhan, kung ginsabat ko ang panagbalay sang mango sa tungang kagab-ihon, ano ang imo madangtan subong? Tagbalay\u2026 pagligad sang tion, nalimtan na lang ang imo taghol, wala gid nag-abot ang akon paghilibion. Sa di-magkubos, makatulog na man gid ako sang hamuok. 49","Art by Jan Brilly S. Chavez 2","SCRIBE MAYDAY THE BURST OF THE SOCIAL VOLCANO By AC Himaya V. Tupas Here Lounge the Overlords of the Societal hierarchies Who conquer all power; \u2014 And then down goes the few ones With deep pockets and silver spoons That they ransacked by smogging truth, Stifling resistances, and subduing mankind Through the smokes and mirrors of their rule; \u2014 Now comes those wedged midway the social ladder In a constant conundrum whether to trail the footsteps of Those atop the sky-scraping summit or to stand with those at The rock bottom, smothered by the clouded ash flow of slavery, The piling avalanche of cruelty, and the flickering flames of death; \u2014 Then lingers the ones with hammers upon their clutches, the proletarians Who have shed their blood, sweat, and tears toiling in the desolate industrial Wastelands, quashed by the weight of the elite\u2019s promises of gleaming utopias. They are the givers who build, light, and clothe the world yet ironically the same Plebs trammeled from reaping the fruits of their sown labor by shackles and chains; \u2014 And crumbling at the deepest of all depths, almost rotting over the bedrock are the masses Wielding concave sickles which they thump over parched fields through rain or shine; those Who have seen blood upon their crops, bullets in their homesteads, bombs over the mountains. But behold\u2014for these are the same crowd who will propel the outburst of the social unrest\u2014and The vanguards who will make the ruling class tremble from the quake of their inevitable revolution. 51","Photo by Esther Joyce M. Limba\u00f1a","SCRIBE MAYDAY APAT NA TALAMPAKANG LALIM Ni wormwood takipsilim sa bunton ng rosas\u2014patawarin mo ako. mahimbing na ang lupa, ngunit hindi ang aking diwa; alaala ay kandong ng malakas na agos ng ilog na ani sa luha. gayunman sumusulong, hindi maikubling apoy ang kaakibat. mahimbing na ang lupa, ngunit hindi ang aking diwa; para kanino inaalay ang bawat hininga? gayunman sumusulong, hindi maikubling apoy ang kaakibat. sapat ba ang apat na talampakang hukay para ilibing ang kahapon? para kanino inaalay ang bawat hininga? ang hantungan ng sarili kong katawan ay sa\u2019yong kalinga lamang. sapat ba ang apat na talampakang hukay para ilibing ang kahapon? iidlip\u2014at nang sa gayon tuluyang mawari ang layon. ang hantungan ng sarili kong katawan ay sa\u2019yong kalinga lamang. alaala ay kandong ng malakas na agos ng ilog na ani sa luha. iidlip\u2014at nang sa gayon tuluyang mawari ang layon. takipsilim sa bunton ng rosas, kalayaan ko ang mapatawad mo. 53","Loop By Perlyn Joy L. Suganob","SCRIBE MAYDAY","Dream Blunt Rotation By \u8840\u96e8 The walls still bleed beyond the smoke. Fan jerking in motion\u2014as if yearning for air in talcum fog; its sharp logo blurs as the dial reaches three. And with a bass drop, the ceiling marries the floor. \u201cThis must be hell,\u201d I groan between sips of Cuervo and an empty Stick-O jar. A fire sizzles in my throat through the pauses of a triplet beat. This is not the 3005 Childish Gambino promised\u2014this is polyester upon polyester of balaclavas straddling what little is left of my bones. Indulge me. As I ache for the room to shrink into itself, I could trace the tile lines of this recurring theme: He hasn\u2019t called me in six months. I think. His cigarette still smolders. I think. I deleted it in September. The telephone lines have died like a punctured cochlea as I loop around the ringing inside my head. It\u2019s all my fault, isn\u2019t it? In another life, I am an engineer wiring the protons between the duplex coil and the receiver. I could craft a firebomb like opening a doorknob. I could nick holes like a gastric ulcer. I could tie it down with magnesium chains. But he still runs through me like electron waves. It is not enough to die in the flesh. But like a dream blunt rotation, it always has to be him. Indulge me. As the blackout blinds fail to shelter me from the sweltering sun, its rays bludgeon thought after thought like the tiny weevils drawn to the couch. He broke the keys on Chinese New Year\u2019s Eve. I think. His face has become blurry to me. I think. I saw him during a night commute. The cars whirred like the melody from the cheap set of speakers. I don\u2019t know what time it is. 56","SCRIBE MAYDAY In another life, I am a septum goddess with a ball in the middle of my tongue. I light plastics in borderline arson. I drown in salty skin like anorexic tears. I am a diva lavished eye after eye. He once said that my words are my only redeeming quality. He never understood anything I said. Now my stomach feels hollow\u2014the burn leaving behind the thrill of its course. But the table is glutted with breakfast and chlorine, so I do not leave myself starving. Indulge me. As I\u2019m laid over the settee like a sunny side up, I ponder over the jaundiced yolks; of what\u2019s wrong with day drinkers and meal skippers, why my stomach enzymes burn my throat, and why my vomit tastes like blood. He added it to his schedule. I think. His friends are important too. I think. But I don\u2019t think I can wait. The thought of him has started to drain me sick. It flows out of the top of my esophagus like a squalid eruption. Aspiration now means nothing more than a bitter taste on the roof of my mouth. In titrations of a knock, what comes after is the rattling of a doorknob. The telephone rings twice before dropping to voicemail. Electric fields have proven me useless after all, even in this dead hour; even as I whip my head around the chains tied to the door. \u201cI want us to keep in touch.\u201d Hypocrite. I would have mistaken hydrofluoric acid for water if I wasn\u2019t tired enough, but I am not a white experiment type of blue. I am paracetamol and ethanol in a petri dish. A bulimic brain purging every ounce of serotonin. A finger across the bottom of a frying pan. But unlike pots swallowed by tar, the sizzle lasts for hours after the burn. 57","Photo by Vincent Laurence Ca\u00f1al 2","SCRIBE MAYDAY \u201cMELIORA\u201d By Wisdom You\u2019re doing great\u2014or at least I used to be. My days in the sand stunned by flashing strobes, the clanging of golden medals hurt my eardrums; but these smiles no longer meet the eyes. I scuffle, I tread back, every time they mangle my existence not wary of the deep abyss behind me. But I owe myself this last step. The rigid concrete meets my face, and all eyes shift towards me \u2014grimaced, dismayed, and distant. It\u2019s not perturbing at all. At long last, I can be stripped of this choking merit and take my time listing what schemes should I be selfish with, on how should my entire being be vigor. Their obstinate voices were blades running down my throat with a lemon chaser, but I\u2019ll gladly enjoy the pain\u2014 it will be an ally as I escape. The rumors were a swarm of ants, slowly gnawing at my bitter-sweet consciousness, yet, I\u2019ll remain lying on the platform. Am I at the bottom? I think not. 59","Art by Josh Aldrich B. Diola 2","A Cemetery of Lorn Possessions SCRIBE MAYDAY By EJ Nell Voen A. Florendo It smelled worse than rotten eggs. I expected the forbidding wave of air to belch out of the room when I opened the door. You see, an abandoned abode speaks by flooding you with fragments of the past. It is cruel to unfamiliar faces\u2014even crueler if you disturb the maze of clutter in their now solemn state. With a respirator on, I was able to span this former home in under a minute. Printed copies of job listings and squares of notes mantled the right wall. Displaced on a shelf of office stationeries is a Red Bull. And the single bed, fastened to the opposite wall, is littered with civil service test reviewers. He must have wanted a steady post in the government. While the rest is a conglomeration of tangible needs, at the heart of this secluded, meager den is the devoted attention-grabber: a dark scarlet puddle infested with soft creeping grubs looking for decay. Although regarded as repugnant creatures, I think there is a bit of goodwill in their purpose of helping the departed erase their forgotten flesh\u2014to clean the open wounds by eating everything away. I expose my coverall suit even more in this thick gloom, white and unbelonging, as I probe the scene again for the first step of decontamination. Aside from restoring the box of refuge stuck in time, I\u2019ve taken on another duty, fated upon entering this line of work, to understand more of the delivered life. A ghost of assurance that someone tried to make sense of his battles despite losing by laceration. As golden light spilled in when I opened the blinds of the lone window, how can I not wonder about his last moments? Did he at least witness a beautiful thing, like this setting glow, before crashing to his end? Right. 61","My job is to lighten their burdens. And not to answer these questions. I need to focus. And so I started picking up, with latex hands, both possible and compromised items into the Hazmat bags. Shoes. Bedsheets. Digital accessories, some in their knotted wires. Anything soiled by human fluid, I disposed of, which amounted to a total of three bags. Does this count as many already? Or too few for a single being to own? Either way, memory is a hazard. And I must separate the hurtful ones, especially those with only weight but no magnitude. I prepare next the spray tank with twenty pumps of pressure, inside the solution meant for purging the micro bastards. It drizzles diluted peroxide on every surface necessary. When a stretch of half an hour ticked by, I moved on to pour Zymax over the dried black plasma to melt it. Memory is a place. By scraping off this reliquefied blood, along with maggots and other bodily wastes, I can make this space safe to remember. Through several rounds of deep cleaning and disposal, my work here is almost done. One more cleansing spray over the whole flooring, and I can let the ozone machine clear the lingering putrid odor of tissue and tragedy. And since it\u2019s risky to breathe the purifying smog, I can only wait outside for it to finish its job. As a trauma cleaner, I can only distract myself from the entailing pitfalls of the heart. But right now, I can only ache about his passing moment without a holding hand. 62","New Recording 13 SCRIBE MAYDAY By Patrick N. Billojan Too good, too well. He could write any song if he wanted to, or pen a book even. Meandering from one phrase to the next. His memory failed to echo how many he had drawn out from the depths of their own chasm, swayed to fleet through the days, and told that midnight was just a speck in time. But, unlike the others, he vividly recalls his first. And it works. It gets better. When both feet are seeded on the ground and all is just tunnel vision, a different gust of wind propels them out of bed\u2014hurling one to set off out of a deep slumber. His voice. It has always been the guiding chimes that make tomorrows. Sweet, isn\u2019t it? From his mellow and summery timbre to the not-so-hurtful hints. He left not a single soul in doubt. And it honestly works. Everything gets better. Just like the clouds clearing beyond his dorm window. But not behind his eyes. No hymn could move a single cloud, and no tone could calm the storms within, just like the first time. I have had enou\u2014 And it all remained at 13. 63","Art by Mikey Vincent T. Vicente 2","Aviation (For Dummies) SCRIBE MAYDAY By Ried So you have learned how to fly. You have read all that there is to read, cast all there is to cast, flown all there is to fly. But it\u2019s never enough, isn\u2019t it? There\u2019s got to be something more to this than the flaps that lift and drag, rudders to tilt the view; engines and ailerons burn in the back, wings, slats, and tailwinds too. The sum should be more than its parts. So you\u2019ve arrived at the right time dear travelers, for the captain appears when the passenger is ready. As you hear wails and screams behind me free falling down this big dipper, remember that it is with you that I end this airborne journey. 65","As this plane descends in ways skies have never dared to, relish the pull of gravity as we pillage through the world\u2019s resistance like layers upon layers of plastic air, scream this symphony in your ears: All the greatest pilots were born to fly. You were born to fall. So let this not be a mere twinkling in the night but the brightest burning star. One that could make any fool\u2019s wish come true\u2014 Recording stops. 66","SCRIBES & SCRIBBLERS Illustrations by Josh Aldrich B. Diola Sir Emmanuel Lee E. Mediavilla Words by Jamille E. Barrios Immalie Rose E. Cafifge EJ Nell Voen A. Florendo Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno James Aldrin C. Pamposa Meryl C. Sigaton Anna Maria J. Villanueva 67","","","","","1. Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno (Horizontal stabilizer) Drifting perpendicular against the vast expanse of an empty blue, the metal bird flaunts its rigid wings. But all it took was a splinter\u2014a tear\u2014for the now-crippled hunk of enginery to pummel into the void in a morbid pyrotechnic display. Perhaps it was better not to have adorned one at all. 2. Ried (Parachute) If the air pressure has taken hold of your cochleas, and your mind buffers about the distance between your suspended self and the expansion of landmass, just jump still. Because you can pull out my ripcord anytime you feel your heart could burst. Use me to soften gravity. 3. AC Himaya V. Tupas (Seared newspaper) A blazing inferno cackles underneath me, eating me from within. Stalin may hamper my skin into ashes, yet I will rise like a phoenix at dawn\u2014a living testament of intestinal fortitude that etches rock-solid truths in the skulls of the living and the dead. You can burn me from the hands of a sinner, but the same fire will ignite a revolution no one has prepared for. Watch me rise. 4. flight risk (Cracked pair of glasses) When all comes crashing down, will I still be the lifeline of the stone- blind? Or will the shards break their world in half? If all I have is to survive, perhaps there is one option left to choose: to stay alive live life beyond the irreversible haze, and let the unseeing see bliss amidst the cuts. 5. Drexel John N. Amit (Hardhat) It is with Newton\u2019s hands that we etch the terminal velocity of our falling debris. We revel in inertia, in the welded frame of a blue Boeing, in entropy, in the trigger of a thermite. But we are noblesse oblige hypocrites\u2014plastic, pliable, recoiling in the snap of a 167. 6. Phoebe Daidoji Q. Jabonete (Burnt journal) Tinted pages of rosy days, hear me out!\u2014for I have relished every scratch of the nib. Yet I root remorse in the words I left unsaid in between the cursive scripts. I should have burned in the sun with you than stamp- waxed tales that could never redeem the blaze in your eyes. 7. Jan Brilly S. Chavez (Trophy) Inaudible cheers encompass the coliseum as my name got dubbed before \u201c...first place!\u201d. Enchanted smile and watery eyes burst in explosive delight. Blood and sweat, all worthwhile. 72","8. James Aldrin C. Pamposa (Charred white electric guitar) They keep it in a triad\u2014the tattling about a reverent high-flier who echoes in P.A. machines and engine squeals. Like a Dimebag showtime, his pedals reverberate indoor pyrotechnics. In a Gibson pick-up, they whisper, reaching for the third fret: \u201cHe almost had it.\u201d 9. Wisdom (Locket) A wretched chain of golden kisses from my dearest turned to scourges of the broken promises left to moths and rust. I regret the day I let you ride on your dreams made of wax and fire. Thy candle wick has burned down to void, and with it went the light of my life\u2014exiled. 10. Keilah N. Baldomar (Mirrorless Camera) Her hands pilot photons like metal slugs waxing into the eye of the universe\u2014at bird\u2019s peak, at worm\u2019s end. But beneath the turbines where the aperture is vertigo, she is a dopamine inhibitor, a live wire, a Northtrop. Through the viewfinder, she is a stoichiometric conductor. 11. Karen (Charred collar) What\u2019s your 20? A scorched piece of leather frames itself amongst the rubble and all things apocalyptic. It puts a face to\u2014humanizes, rather\u2014 what were once mere statistics, numbers, and profiles of the innocent. That when all was gone, one furry fellow had their back. 12. Meryl C. Sigaton (Seashell) Up in the air, on speeding locomotives, in the side pocket of a walking wanderlust was a trace of the rippling sea. An exoskeleton, seemingly out of its element, evoking the waves\u2019 peace and tranquility. Hold it to your ear\u2014oh, how well-traveled you are. 13. Sir Emmanuel Lee E. Mediavilla (Face Mask) To bare only the windows of the subliminal self is a power of arrest against another\u2019s conjectures. If lethargy in the trade of language ever occurs, stretch out my fabric, and I\u2019ll willingly cover the lower half of your visage. Don\u2019t worry, I\u2019ll keep you safe from the torrid spotlight. 14. Mikey Vincent T. Vicente (First Aid Kit) Tell me your corporeal pains and I\u2019ll nurse them with my life-saving contrivances and medicaments. Cuts? Burns? Bruises? (No. Make me whole again). Oh, I can\u2019t do that. There is a reason I come first and not the next time: I don\u2019t tend to deeper wounds. 73","15. Perlyn Joy L. Suganob (Broken Laptop) A grin sprouted on her dim-lighted face, \u201cIt\u2019s finished, thank God! Sending it now.\u201d Right after she hit send, three words flashed on the screen as the night lamp beside her went out. No internet connection. \u201cAh! No! No! No! The power must have broken down. It\u2019s almost midnight, no!\u201d 16. Gem Francin R. Diola (Pilot\u2019s Badge) Hopes, dreams, a cap, and a badge\u2014not a dress rehearsal. Heaven, with its humming symphony, carries the sanity we so feverishly dream about, and I get a front-row seat before the tilted cloud. Rain falls in real-time when weighing the scales, sic Deus sit mecum. 17. Angelyn Emmanuelle H. Taruballes (Purple cardigan) Tucked loops of wool pilling as fervor interlocked each strand. Purple as pansy, I remember the shade vividly, and the cloth consoling me every time it sees through my paved chambers of insecurity. Till death do us part, this tapestry of splendor will have stories to tell behind every button and mysteries yet to be solved in either pocket. 18. Febry Anne D. Eduvane (Wallet) Apart from me, yet, still a part of me\u2014the leathery sheen of a pocket-size treasure trove is reflective of one\u2019s musings; its size relative to what is held dear. As I wisen, so too shall it thicken. And as I decay, so too shall the coveted patina gild its skin. 19. John Brainard G. Uberas (Money) Held at the fingertips by the breadwinners. Folded among the hands of the grandiose. Torn, crumpled, exchanged\u2014nothing destroys its power. It is only in the afterlife that it shows its true colors: mortality. 20. Joshua Martin P. Guanco (Orange) You can say it is a warm, freeing hue bursting with promising youth and intrigues. You can say it quenches your thirst in the summer heat with its carpels of sweet-tart juice. Or you can say it\u2019s a personality\u2014igniting, changing, and catching. But most of all, you can say it is who I am. 21. Vincent Laurence T. Ca\u00f1al (Sketchbook) A raging fire burns within me, my pencil\u2014a torch from the inside out, but no one lingers to bask in its glow, and the haze it yields is faint. I know nothing of certainty, so between incinerating a piece of paper and sparing art, I\u2019d do both. 74","22. Patrick N. Billojan (Wristwatch) It is true that the cliche labels my patience as a tick and a tock. Whenever they seize my kinesics in a box of fast-paced pit-a-pats, I have no choice but to face the uncontrollable truth: keep ticking. Even an idler cannot reverse the clock nor stop the plane from crashing\u2014but at least\u2014I am always on time. 23. Anna Maria J. Villanueva (Ripped book) She propped herself on the table, waiting for the reader to pick up the pace of her pages: one and two, and three and four. Three A.M. shenanigans differ from their usual siestas at the library, for only at this hour does her rusty, ink-stained axioms enliven Never Knew Love Like This Before from the old cassette; and that\u2019s when she knows she\u2019s loved. In all her threadbare and tatters, she taught the danseuse to dance. 24. Immalie Rose E. Cafifge (Locket necklace with a ripped photo inside) A comforting weight around the neck held aide-m\u00e9moires of the beloved\u2014now torn and tattered\u2014within its two-sided gold-plated stainless steel interior. Irreparable with even the strongest adhesives, could it ever be the same? Nevermore. And so I, too, shall rust. 25. EJ Nell Voen A. Florendo (Broken hourglass) Can this leaking excuse of a timepiece still be right at least twice a day? Lost in minuscule grains paralyzed in space, the howling winds condemn my lingering. No dawdling is condoned against the tides of time that perhaps, in my standstill, I\u2019ll be ebbed away. What fate could await me in oblivion? 26. Hana Patricia Hautea (Worn-out rubber duck) We swam oceans to reach the finish line, but as we looked under, we realized we only live in a bathroom tub. Our once sunlit feathers are nothing but made out of rubber. We pay tribute under the light of our ancestors, only to see we are sunbathing under fluorescent light. What rubbish! And to think we owe them the cries they long to hear? Quack, never. 27. Jenny G. Millares (Magnifying Glass) Highlighting the complexity of even the most mundane of things. Transforms one into a detailed wonderland of intricate features that are often missed by the naked eye. But now, a remnant. 75","28. Esther Joyce M. Limba\u00f1a (Burnt vintage ring) For better or for worse. An evermore pledge of 143, gripping the fourth as if holding on for dear life. Its age tells timeless tales of love\u2014eros, philia, storge, agape\u2014retold by nomadic spirits passing through terminals, up until the final boarding call. \u2018Til death do us part. 29. Jeremy Andrei D. Gohing (Compass Needle) On the hunt for his ultimate destiny-meeting spot, he hustles. Earnestly seeking the lost map to Atlantis to defy all chances of the ordinary. Indeed, the sun is due west, but north is where thy traveler\u2019s final resting place marvels in glory. 30. Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman (Bracelet) Cuffed on the wrist, accented by chains and colors of metallic. An everlasting sign of the human tendency to connect. Shall it break? Well, that is up to you. 31. Jamille E. Barrios (Silver coin) Leave the galleys for the pilgrims, dearest. Wrap your deserts in the fold of a journal, your rivers in the clink of a pipe dream, your cabins in a silver bust inside your pocket. We\u2019re departing for the castle in the clouds. So close your eyes. Throw it into the sea. 32. paradoxica (House keys) Metallic treasures that unlock a world of possibilities. Jingling symphony announces the bearer\u2019s arrival, a sparkless transmission. To some, a wand\u2014pointed at the fastened hasp. Alohomora. \u201cIt opened.\u201d 33. John Paul V. Pechon (Headphones) A perfect disorder permeates all of creation. And ever since I laid eyes on the vast sea of flocking linnets, my soul was pulverized, burying my ears in a sandbox of blaring tunes, cords tangled. In my incredulity, no song could lull havoc. Perhaps if I had lent an ear, I could\u2019ve crooned a melody that rewrote my fate before my eardrums hit the last burst\u2014silence mocks. 34. Rosenkranz (Broken violin) The once-vibrant notes of the violin had long since faded away, replaced by the dull and monotonous hum of everyday life. The young musician\u2019s hopeful dreams were extinguished by the harsh realities of the world. He longed to recapture the passion that had once driven him, but it seemed that time had passed, leaving him alone with his regrets and unfulfilled ambitions. 35. \u00d3scar Fritz (Mixtape) DEATH. Can I Jump? When I Met You. About Time. Our Song. after hours (interlude). my life. Icarus. I Want You. It\u2019ll Be Okay. What\u2019s with this frightening happenstance between your stash of tracks and forthcoming doom? 76","36. Learn D. Flores (Camera Lens) What is a body without its eyes? No matter how one frequently eyeballs the viewfinder, the light is futile without an oculus\u2014a layer over layer of convex and concave glass, splitting prisms that will conceive you that very moment. After all, it is an eye for another eye. 37. Juan Paolo P. Agapito (Dirty star-shaped pillow) You lace an ankle-biter\u2019s irises with irony. You nestle fleece blankets with holy grail; metamorphose polyester into a mucked comet of silica. You of overnight flights and portholes. In phases. A supernova. 38. Carl Hason T. Gerale (Briefcase) The crispness of the pages, the faded ink, and the familiar layout of the text took me back to a time when everything was possible. These pages were the fruits of my labor, a tangible reminder of the hard work I had poured into my craft\u2014each sheet a snapshot of a moment in time, a testament to the journey I had taken to get here. Despite the passage of time, they still held a special place in my heart. 39. Joshua L. Mahilum (Absolute pardon document) The air felt fresher, and the sounds of the airport seemed more vibrant than ever before. With each step, I felt as though the weight of my past was slowly lifting\u2014like a fog clearing on a bright morning. As I boarded the plane, I closed my eyes as a sense of relief washed over me 40. Jaziel Ann V. Seballos (Yellow Scarf) Woven together by threads of sunshine, busy bees, daffodils, sweet honey, and lemon drops\u2014the warm breeze of June caresses my skin while I wrap this tattered fabric of yesterday and today around my neck. Life goes on. 41. \u8840\u96e8 (Umbrella) Lo and behold, a tribulation\u2014one that is reeking of crimson blood and bitter tears cascading down in the dunes of regret, never to be equalled. I yearn to be drenched in the stars and to my revelation, the cosmos let them descend from the sky for me. Is this my doom or destiny? 77","ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS To Patrick and Anna, for pushing me to go beyond the bounds of what I can do and for your forbearance when I am stuck in clouds of grey. Your soundness helped me overcome the demands of this visionary expedition. To Immalie and Krizzia, for the painstaking perusal of the narratives present here and for sharing your mastership in the thrilling course of the creative language. To Alyssa, Hana, Keilah, and Phoebe, for the extra fuel of motivation when you find me lounging between spaces of our humble office. To Jam and James, for being the crew I needed to set these pages into motion. I would have fallen flat still far from the runway without you two. To Meryl, for proving that a true friend doesn\u2019t abandon the other despite everything seeming to fall apart. You can\u2019t imagine how many times you pulled me from the bottomless pit. To Mikey, for the gift of a newfound sense of kinship amidst our differing transits, and for your commitment to rigging out this folio with disposition. 78","To Pao, for framing the fuselage of this collective output, making sure every piece is in its rightful place. To Sir Emmanuel, Perlyn, Josh, Brilly, Jeremy, Angelyn, and Paul, for providing the folio with a face, and cabin doors to transport the readers into your genius craft of illustrations. To Keilah, Jobe, Brainard, Joyce, Learn, and Febry, for never missing the right standpoints to capture the sublimest perspectives of the written compositions. To Drexel, Gem, AC, Addy, Ried, Karen, Jenny, and Sophia, for unbuckling each story to their highest potential and giving them justice upon their cessation. To Sir Mikee, for the unfailing expression of your unreserved support despite being a compartment away. Your sonant support helped us ease our shaken seats during this passage. And to our contributors, for trusting this vessel to carry your honest and undisguised recordings. Even if you are lost in a storm of otherly debris, don\u2019t let your pieces get buried. 79","","facebook.com\/thespectrumusls - [email protected] Member Alliance of Lasallian Campus Journalists and Advisers and College Editors Guild of the Philippines Patrick N. Billojan EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Anna Maria J. Villanueva ASSOCIATE EDITOR Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno MANAGING EDITOR Immalie Rose E. Cafifge EXTERNAL AFFAIRS DIRECTOR CREATIVE DIRECTOR Mikey Vincent T. Vicente NEWSPAPER EDITOR Alyssa Nicole T. Maquiran ASSISTANT NEWSPAPER EDITOR AC Himaya V. Tupas MAGAZINE EDITOR Hana Patricia Raj E. Hautea ONLINE EDITOR Meryl C. Sigaton LITERARY EDITOR EJ Nell Voen A. Florendo PHOTOS & VIDEOS EDITOR Keilah N. Baldomar LAYOUT & GRAPHICS EDITOR Perlyn Joy L. Suganob NEWSPAPER WRITERS PHOTOJOURNALISTS Drexel John N. Amit Esther Joyce M. Limba\u00f1a Gem Francin R. Diola Learn D. Flores MAGAZINE WRITERS Febry Anne D. Eduvane Adrianne H. Saplagio Rieden Denielle N. Cuadra VIDEOGRAPHERS Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman Karen E. Pico John Brainard G. Uberas ONLINE WRITERS ILLUSTRATORS Sophia Yzabelle F. Gico Josh Aldrich B. Diola John Paul V. Pechon Jenny G. Millares Angelyn Emmanuelle H. Taruballes Jan Brilly S. Chavez LITERARY WRITERS Sir Emmanuel Lee E. Mediavilla James Aldrin C. Pamposa LAYOUT & GRAPHICS ARTISTS Jamille E. Barrios Juan Paolo P. Agapito EDITORIAL ASSISTANT Jeremy Andrei D. Gohing Phoebe Daidoji Q. Jabonete PUBLICATION MODERATOR Dr. Michael V. Baylosis, CPA",""]