Lamigin Elli Amado art by Ayumi Wada Ang lamig ay parang ihip ng hangin na tumutugtog sa mga tinig na hindi ko marinig dito sa madilim na estero na inaagusan ng mga tao. Ang aking mukha’y nanlalamig, naaalibadbaran, at nanginginig. Gusto ko mang maramdaman ang himig ng taglamig, ngunit gaano pa kong lumuhod sa harap ng poon ng Maykapal, hindi makakaila na ako’y hindi makapagsalita, at hindi makarinig. Bingi’t pipi pa rin ang kahahantungan sa paggunita ng kasiyahang ipinagkait. 51
WINTER Lady by the Lighthouse Katherine Anne del Rosario art by Angel Dionisio My father was a fickle man, hard to please, impossible to keep. To add to this, he was a sailor, which meant he almost never docked home. He wanted to travel the world, see the sights, meet new ladies, drink more liquor. Always searching, thirsting, never fulfilled. Even his daughter wasn’t a good enough anchor to hold him down. My mother is a strict, indifferent lady. She hardly ever smiles, or at least as far as I remember. She is a writer, and a very good one at that, and together, we live in a house by the sea, where we’ve been all our lives. My father met her by the shore, she’d told me, and things went on from there. He swept her off her feet, and they soon had me. My father called me his little marina. His harbor. Home. They didn’t even last a year. He wanted to leave a few months later, said he couldn’t be tied down. My mother begged and begged, but she couldn’t make him stay—so she raised me alone, in our house by the sea, just the two of us. She had a lighthouse built on top of it soon after. It was small, but its light shone on for miles. No ship would miss it. And every night since, she’d light it up, hoping he’d come back home. Always waiting, wanting, never happy. We are both old now, spending our days in our house by the sea, just the two of us. As it had always been, all our lives. Under the lighthouse for the man who never came home. My mother forgets a lot these days, but she never forgets to shine a light for him, not even once. Tonight, I want it to be different. So, I ask her, “Momma, how about we turn off the light?” as she sits on the couch, watching the sun set. She closes her eyes, and I watch a tear slip down her cheek. “I suppose it’s about time, isn’t it?” 52
Haikus to Santa Sofia Vinuya art by Angel Dionisio (1) where are you santa, i still believe you are true, never growing old (2) the stockings are full, of my letters and wishes for cures and answers 53
WINTER 54Princess Mijares
John Doe Liana Bongao It was dark when an old Chevy pickup truck swerved through the icy road and ended up crashing into a ditch of frozen water. The driver, a balding man nearing sixty years of age, had ended up with hypothermia before the cold water had filled his lungs—a shard of glass had pierced through his neck. The paramedics arrived at the scene after a few hours due to the snowstorm, but they were too late. They failed to revive the old man and, instead of going to where he was driving towards, he ended up in a morgue. Since his fingerprints were frozen off and considering that his dental records didn’t help much, he was given the endearing name of “John Doe”. A few days after the snowstorm had passed, when the telephone lines and the signal were returned, the very first thing the hospital did was transfer the body to the police for a family member to come claim it. But no one came, so the name stuck on. The old man kept the name for a few more days until a nurse from a local nursing home came forward, trying to get the police department to open a missing person’s case or at least have an APB on a patient, an old man with Alzheimer’s disease, who was on suicide watch and had escaped the home-for-the-aged sometime around Christmas because he was upset that his children didn’t come to visit. John Doe of the 5-2 precinct ceased to be the unknown. He ceased to be to be the drunken grandpa who ended up in a ditch with a shard of glass that pierced through his neck. He became a father of two, a grandfather of six, and a widow of a woman who long since has succumbed to breast cancer. But it was painful to remember him that way. The children never came. So, in the end, he assumed one name. He was John Doe, he had Alzheimer’s disease and dementia. His jugular vein was ruptured by a six-centimeter shard of glass. Hypothermia caused restriction of breath and became an eventual cause for the lack of oxygen intake and which prompted tachycardia and lead to a myocardial infarction. His fingers were swollen and had signs of frostbite. He was alone. He was cold. He’s John Doe. 55
WINTER Amoy Kape sa Kalye Santa Fe Sofia Vinuya Katulad nga nang madalas na sinasabi ng karamihan, nakakaadik daw ang kape. Kaya naman tuwing alas-onse ng gabi, lumalabas si Kean sa kanilang bahay para bumili ng limang pisong kape sa coffee machine ng sari-sari store ni Ate Maring. Ang hindi ko maintindihan ay kung bakit hindi siya bumibili ng sarili niyang mga pakete ng kape na pwedeng timplahin sa kanyang bahay para hindi na siya paulit-ulit na lumalabas sa kalagitnaan ng gabi. “Uy, Kean, gabi na ah?” “Oh, Julie! Nagulat naman ako sayo.” Tumunog ang bakal na hinulugan niya ng dalawang barya, “Nilamig kasi ako bigla, kaya heto at napabili ako ng aking special coffee.” Kinuha niya ang baso mula sa coffee machine at ngumiti, “Ikaw? Gabi na rin, ah! Bakit inuutusan ka pa ni Tita Alice? Delikado na sa panahon ngayon, marami ng loko-loko.” “Loko-lokong tulad mo?” Tinawanan niya lang ang biro ko, “‘De joke lang. Ano kasi, magluluto kasi bukas si Mama para sa birthday ni Ate, eh kulang ‘yung nabili niya kanina sa palengke...” “Teka, teka nga, maiba nga ako...” Napatingin siya sa akin at napakunot-noo, “Napapansin ko lang...tuwing ganitong oras ng gabi ay lumalabas ka para lang diyan sa kape. Ano bang meron sa kape nila Ate Maring?” Isang mahinang tawa at kibit-balikat lamang ang sinagot ni Kean sa tanong ko. “Siguro gabi-gabi mo akong inaabangan ‘no?” Sabay siko ng pabiro sa aking braso. “Halika na nga, baka hinahanap na tayo ng mga nanay natin.” Wala akong kamalay-malay na pagkatapos ng gabing iyon ay hindi ko na kailanman malalaman ang sagot. Alas-onse ng umaga, isang araw makalipas ang aming pag-uusap, natagpuan si Kean na nakahandusay sa eskinita, hindi malayo sa tindahan ni Ate Maring. Hawak-hawak niya ang isang supot ng tingi-tinging creamer at kape. 56
I Watch the Sky Fall Katherine Anne del Rosario art by Angel Dionisio It rolls and it tolls, And takes its woes out on me, Breathless in its wake. 57
58
contents SPRING 60 After Winter 62 Ika-unang araw ng Abril 64 steps to remember 65 T(h)orn Identity 66 Rebirth 67 in honor of the sun 68 VIBGYOR 70 Hitchhikes in a dress 72 Two years later 73 Acknowledgements 59
SPRING After Winter Liana Bongao The cold winter was almost too much for him, even with a cup of steaming hot chocolate to combat the weather, and not to mention that it was dark. Night time was unusually longer than day, and, sometimes, the shadows failed to disappear when golden beams of sunlight would envelop the earth. Even with long movie marathons, winter was somewhat a time to just sulk because everything is just hard to forget and, at times, it was just plain unbearable, like watching the White Queen rule over Narnia with a cold and iron fist over the magical kingdom, and, like Susan Pevensie, he’d wonder why he had to spend Christmas feeling so alone, despite the glamorous lights and the twinkle of snowflakes sparkling in the air, despite the promise of gifts and money. But, come spring, the Pevensie family was resurrected. The Pevensie siblings were alive, and while he couldn’t exactly raise the dead—he did try, his efforts ranging from a wide array of cursing, crying, praying, begging, falling to pieces, and threats to someone he didn’t even know—he did see the snow thaw and, with it, the budding flowers on a patterned rough dirt patch with a little but significant stone marker at the edge. For the first time since winter, he smiled and left some flowers on the rough dirt patch. “Happy new year,” he whispered to the stone. And this time, his voice didn’t break and his eyes didn’t water. 60
Martha Abesam6is1
SPRING Ika-unang araw ng Abril Elli Amado Ika-unang araw ng Abril noong tumugtog ang busilak ng hardin. Kinalabit ang mga pisi ng gitara at tinugtog ang mga himig ng kuwerdas. Ika’y kumanta sa gilid ng instrumentong aking hawak-hawak; nakapatong sa aking mga hita. Ang mala-anghel na boses ang nagpahubog sa damdaming sumosobra sa tunog, at sa pag-ngiti mo’y ako’y napasugod, sa isang gerang hindi nabubukod, sa hangarin ng iba na ibig ding mapasaiyo, pero narito ka ngayon—nasa tabi ko. Ika-unang araw ng Abril, ngunit ako’y naiiba noon, mula sa mga madlang humahanga, sa ganda’t busilak ng iyong mukha’t himig, sa iyong tinig na nagpahulas sa akin, na para bang ako’y nakainom ng siyam na bote ng alak, dahil sa nakalalasing mong tala. Hindi inaakalang ako’y mabibigyan ng pagkakataong tugtugin ang iyong awitin, na hindi kayang pantayan ng ninumang nasa paligid, dahil pagbusilak lamang ng iyong mga ngiti, alam kong parehas na ang ating damdamin. Ika-unang araw ng Abril, noong tayo’y nagkaparehas na may saloobin, kaya’t nagdesisyong tugtugin ang pisi. Ang ritmo ng ating tingina’y walang katumbas, sa kilig na nadarama tuwing nakikita ang iyong mga mata. 62
At ang bukid na binabakuran ng hangin, ay sinimulan nang itaboy ang lungkot sa paligid. Isang milagro nga bang matatawag, na ika’y nasa tabi ko na? Na sa tuwing hawak ko ang iyong mga kamay, ay nararamdaman ko ang damdamin ng aking sinta, walang kapantay ang sibol ng himig na ito— magpakailanman. Ika-unang araw ng Abril, ngayong tinutugtog ko ang mga damdaming, iniwan mong mapanglaw sa akin. Ako’y may sapat na kamalayan, na wala ka na sa aking piling, pero kahit ganoon ang nangyari sa atin, ninanais ko pa ring sumulyap sa mga punong pumapagaspas sa maligamgam na hangin, iniisip ang boses mong umaawit sa akin. Sinta, gusto kong muling marinig ang iyong himig, at payagang manalamin sa nalulumbay na saloobin, ang mga oras na ating iniwan sa dilim. Handa na ‘kong kumaway at sabihin, kasama ang pananalamat sa pagsibol ng Abril, “Paalam na sa ating mga tugtugin.” 63
SPRING steps to remember Leigh Dispo (SOC21) first, listen. when the war is over, when you’re in your bedroom the morning after, you will roll up your sleeves, let the storm that is your heart dangle across your elbow, and you will heave a sigh. here, sit down. it is already spring here. you will make notes for all the time the silence throbbed and drummed in your ears. and then you will look in the window pane— you will find new mornings again. please breathe. the ocean doesn’t stop for the onslaught of desire. the void will get bigger, the silence will be heavier— but you will celebrate and feast on your loneliness. and ache. carry that howling hurricane like a heavy stomach. put down your feet on steady soil. you’ve carried that weight for far too long— you deserve to burn, you owe it to fall to ashes. but, be gentle. some things aren’t meant for ruined hands, not even for relentless lightning that is you—across the sky like the memory of light. 64
Christian Guim6a5n SAR23/ICT22
SPRING “T(h)orn Identity” Kim Nicole Toledo Heaven knows how many sighs he has released for the past twenty minutes. It feels likearitualtohimbecausehe’sbeendoingthisforalmostsixteenyearsof hislife:faking, lying, being a coward—he has to, otherwise he’ll probably get beaten to death and get expelled from that place he calls home. After all, he’s from a family of soldiers—he can’t afford to be gay. He’ll be called a disgrace, and he’ll be treated like sand on shoes: infuriating and bothersome. He goes out of his room. Today is extra special: he will meet all of them in a grand reunion. He immediately gets caught up by the fragrance of the turkey; the boisterous laughter of his relatives which can be heard all over the house, the pops of different champagne corks—they all make him more nervous. And all he can think is how many lies he is going to gibber today. He greets them with white pearls of sweat slowly forming on the temple of his forehead. He lifts his right hand to bestow a salute to all of them. The room roars, signalling that they have been waiting for him. His mother greets him with a hug while his father, Sergeant Mackgomery, follows him and whispers to his ears, “Son, you better not do anything reckless today. Your grandfather is here, the whole family is here. I cannot afford to be humiliated in front of these people. I cannot let them know that I raised a son with a disease.” 66
Rebirth Elaissa Bautista art by Wella Jean Mae Abobo Mas masakit pa sa tinik ng rosas ang itinurok nila sa amin. Ang sinabi nila sa amin kanina, huwag daw kaming mag-alala dahil pagkatapos daw ng ilang mga oras, makakaramdam na raw kami ng ginhawa. Ngunit, malayo sa ginhawa ang nararamdaman ko ngayon. Umiikot ang mga mata ko na para bang gusto ng mga itong saksihan ang buong mundo. Iba’t ibang kulay ang naghahalo sa aking paningin habang nanlalamig ang aking katawan na para bang gusto ko na lang yakapin ang araw upang makatanggap ng init na hinahanap-hanap ng aking balat. Pakiramdam ko ay sumasayaw ang aking kaluluwa; hindi ako mapakali sa aking pwesto. Kating-kati na ang mga paa ko na tumakbo palayo—ngunit hindi nila alam kung saan ako dapat tumungo. Hindi ko makontrol ang sarili kong katawan. Nakarinig na lamang ako ng isang hindi pang- karaniwang boses, “Magsimula na kayo.” Hindi ko mapigilan ang aking mga kamay nang ang mga ito’y kumuha ng baril mula sa kloseta. Para bang may mga pising nakatli sa aking mga daliri at mayroong isang higante sa kalawakan na pinaglalaruan ako na parang ako’y isang puppet. Tumingin ako sa puting kisame, wala akong nakitang kahit na anong kakaiba. Ito ang unang beses na nakahawak ako ng isang baril. Mabigat sa pakiramdam na para bang nangangati akong kalasin ang bala at paputukin ito sa ulo ng kaharap kong estranghero— isang mapayat na morena na marahil ay nasa kalagitnaan ng kanyang kabataan. Tulad ko, tila ba hindi niya rin alam ang kanyang ginagawa. Ang mga mata namin ay nagtagpo na para bang parehas kaming humihingi ng tulong mula sa isa’t isa. Ngunit, nagulat ako nang biglang nag- iba ang kulay ng kanyang mga mata mula sa isang malamig na kayumanggi patungo sa isang maningas na pula. Lumingon ako sa buong bulwagan. Pinagmasdan ang ilan sa mga taong naglalakad, hawak- hawak din ang kanilang mga dekalibreng baril. Walang kahit isa sa mahigit kumulang dalawang daang tao rito ang nakakalam ng kanilang ginagawa. Pare-parehas lang kaming naghihintay kung sino ang unang magpuputok ng baril. “Ano pang hinihintay niyo?!” Isang putok mula sa kanan. “Kayo...ang pag-asa natin. Sige lang, ituloy niyo ‘yan! Sige lang, ‘wag kayong matakot!” Isang putok mula sa kaliwa. “Matira matibay.” 67
SPRING in honor of the sun Warren David Saga (ABM26) art by Wella Jean Mae Abobo let this mark the end of your clandestine tears’ reign let this serve as your greatest lesson let this deterrent go; show him your resilience your entitlement calls upon you your confederates demand your presence your hero will be watching; make him proud the moon and the stars long to put you to slumber the agonizing pain leaves you broken the void in your heart vexes you; it pines for his guidance but, the war is not yet won but, the villain remains almighty and glorious but, you are yet to avenge the death of your sun; now, go save the world 68
VIBGYOR Sofia Vinuya Lila, pagkamuhi ay ipinatong sa balat, sinisigaw na dito kayo ay hindi nararapat Anyil, makulimlim ang langit, dilim ang kumukubli sa mga saloobing, kinikimkim Asul, ang mga boses ay nahati sa dalawa ang humihila pabalik at isang nagsasabing tumingin sa alapaap, sundin ang ninanais Berde, mga paang handang magmartsa sa landas na takot at kaba ang tinatahak, saludo’y karapat-dapat hindi pa man tapos ang giyera. Dilaw, talang nagniningning sa gabing bumabalot, hindi akalain, na ang liwanag ay lumalabas mula sa dilim. Kahel, sa takipsilim inilahad, ang pagkatao, liwayway, ang tumanggap ng buo. Pula, mga labing nakakurba, mga pisngi, kung saan ang pag-ibig ay makikita dito, sa wakas pawang ligaya 69
SPRING Hitchhikes in a Dress Geraldine Rambano She had one night to live her life. Short-lived as it sounded, one night was a hot bath after the frigid February chill. One night not spent in wrong-fitting clothes, being called by the wrong name, and serving her family. Her mother, her real mother, had always been tall, stocky. A few adjustments and Ella could fit the dress to her thin form, corset unneeded and brassiere secured. She was ready. She hitchhiked as soon as her family left, heading towards the party. In the swarm of skirts and coattails as the music played around them, she met with the first boy who’s ever seen her as she is, as she had done the year before. The music sears into her bones and stays, warming her ‘til she gets home. She hummed as she inspected her shoes, which were now worn at the soles. She smiled and felt the ghosting brushes of her skirt against her legs like waves over her body when she spends too long in the thawing lake behind the house. Undressed for the night, she lied about catching fireflies after chopping up firewood when her stepmother came back. Over breakfast the next morning, her sisters giggled amongst themselves. The town crier announced that the royal family was looking for the prince’s dance partner. They were asking for all the women in every household to answer the call. When the guards came, Ella opened the door and introduced herself as Elliot. 70
Nadine Bautist7a1
SPRING Two Years Later Sofia Vinuya February 2016 You’d probably think that my favorite memory of you was when you had my heart beating three hundred times a second when you appeared at the elevator wearing red. I dreamt of you wearing that beforehand since you told me you couldn’t come to our prom. I liked that…but my heart hurt like hell afterwards, and because of that I still chose to love the absence of extravagance. The mundane. Of you going with me to get groceries and handing me the pack of salt on the top shelf which I couldn’t reach, teasing me about my height in the process... Or that time when I couldn’t stop whining how hot it was, so you bought me a bottle of water. Or even that night before Chinese New Year, when you tried to compose rap verses because you said that it was how you will wish for me. I know you couldn’t give me everything under the sun, I mean, who could? Right? But the thing is: you tried. And I’m more than thankful for that. 72
Acknowledgements Katherine Anne del Rosario Let this be the day your flowers bloom once more. The rain will keep pouring—the earth never stopped moving—the sun goes on, beaming—and never let it stop shining on you. What we forget to remember is this: we are all but patchwork, made up of moments, big and small. A choice we made years, days, minutes ago does not define us; rather, what makes us is the summary of all these moments leading up to right now. You are the coming and going of the light as dawn breaks, always changing, never in the same place twice. You are scar on skin, a testimony of pain and survival. You are warm afternoons with family, glowing with love. Seasons have come and go, and yet here you are still. Thank you for staying. Thank you for making it through all these winters, and for giving back love despite of the cold. People like you are the reason for poetry, and song, and art—and I will remember you when the new morning comes, and let your rays linger; let this be the day you shine. 73
WRITERS’ PROFILE Elaissa Bautista Sofia Vinuya Para sa pananatili Literary Editor i’ve written too much honesty—they’ve become lies. remember my cause. Katherine Anne Del Rosario Blesilda Mae Padolina hindi na takot, hindi na bulag a book once frozen in ice, found its way and melted through their eyes
Elli Isaiah Amado Kim Nicole Toledo As they turn from green to brown, I Like the leaves on trees, I fall; but realized that falling down isn’t that bad falling isn’t dreadful, it is both from time-to-time. wonderful and a symbol of rebirth. Liana Bongao Geraldine Rambano arduus ad solem tired, 18, they/them (reach for the sun) “In the morning, when I opened my eyes, the world was the same.” -Benjamin Alire Sáenz, 2012
G R A P H I C A N D L AYO U T A R T I ST S Leerick Bautista Wella Jean Mae Abobo Angel Dionisio Layout Editor Izabelle Siarot Willem Dominic Dimas ARTISTS Romeo Christopher Avila Ayumi Wada Art-in-charge
PHOTOGRAPHERS Miguel Saligumba Martha Abesamis Photo Editor Juvilee Galacgac Nadine Bautista Mary Joyce Simon Julian Semilla Princess Mijares
La Estrella Verde The Official Senior High School Publication of De La Salle University – Dasmariñas EDITORIAL BOARD A.Y. 2017–2018 Micah Juliana Montano, Editor in Chief Nathan Kristoffer Manikan, Associate Editor Jean Geibrielle Romero, Managing Editor Warren David Saga, Copy Editor Lance Angelo Mejico, News-in-charge Jelo Ritzhie Mantaring, Features Editor Wynona Raechel Magnaye, Sports Editor Elaissa Bautista, Literary Editor Romeo Christopher Avila, Art-in-charge Leerick Bautista, Layout Editor Miguel Martin Saligumba, Photo Editor Maeca Louisse Camus, Web Editor Robbie Ann Jesser Eullo, Adviser La Estrella Verde has its editorial office at Room 311B Hotel De Oriente (College of Tourism and Hospitality Management) De La Salle University – Dasmariñas DBB-B City of Dasmariñas, Cavite 4115 Telephone: +63-46-4811900 to 1930 local 3402 Email: [email protected] Facebook: www.facebook.com/DLSUDLaEstrellaVerde For the next issue of Morpheme, La Estrella Verde will be accepting submissions of photographs, graphics, artworks, and literary works (flash fictions, short stories, and poems) from the student body of DLSU-D Senior High School. Contributions should be sent as an attachment in an email to [email protected] with the author’s/artist’s/photgrapher’s full name and section. Anonymous contributors will not be recognized..
All contributions in this folio are originally produced and created by their respective owners. No part of this publication may be reprinted without written permission from the author and La Estrella Verde.
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