SCRIBE 2023 Mayday

SCRIBE

LITERARY EDITOR
EJ Nell Voen A. Florendo
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.
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

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?
Foreword
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?
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 starcrossed,
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
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.

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.
ARTISTS | Jan Brilly S. Chavez & Perlyn Joy L. Suganob

2
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.
Lift
“This is some pretty hefty stuff,”
“I’m good to go.”
“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.
T e n k i l o g r a m s
“Heavier than boulders, actually,”
“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.)
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.
“You know you can’t miss this.”
“We already left.”
Weight
“Such a shame. We were so close,”
“Should we turn back?”
Arched eyebrows, arms wide,
armor down.
“I’ll do my best to make it,”
Pretend rain checks, pity parties,
pathetic excuses so poor they’re pointless.
“Hey, I’m at the gate. Which way should I go again?”
Staccato breaths, stoic eyes,
straps of my backpack digging into my shoulder.
Why do I even bother to keep up with you?
“Yeah, I hear that a lot,”
Itching palms, iterations of a single word, over and over.
It took me twenty-two years to learn a syllable.
“No.”
3SCRIBE MAYDAY

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.
Art by John Paul V. Pechon
2 5

DISCARD PILE
By Meryl C. Sigaton
SCRIBE MAYDAY
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.
S I G N S O F D E C A Y A N D W A Y S T O S T O P T H E M
instability
For anything to break, it must first be built.
“We were 13, I think.” Then 14, then 15. Proximity.
Photo by Keilah N. Baldomar
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.
2 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.
Exodo 20:13
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!
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it was that fated night
when i noticed
how the musk of your sweat
swallowed my senses
before disaster struck—
baby, did you know
By Hana Patricia Hautea
i wondered why
the light dwindled;
someone else’s
fingers on your
neck tracing
the tender flesh
the signs were there.
CONTRAPUNTAL
in the advent of your glory,
how fiery the stars glowed.
lazed and burned
my body and soul,
the ash your lone witness.
you look different now.
a shell of my past lover,
smile curling your lips.
heartbeat quivering,
the angry streaks you left
still sore and raw.
i ignored them.
HOW TO NOT HAVE A MUNDANE BIKE RIDE:
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.
SCRIBE MAYDAY
if it really isn’t me
then it is my prayer you
soonest indulge in
the darkest of nights.
who can possibly help you
lay bare honest lies and
easy laughter in
the brightest of days.
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.
Art by Jamille E. Barrios
10 11

PARADE RAIN
By paradoxica
SCRIBE MAYDAY
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.
Art by Angelyn Emmanuelle H. Taruballes
2 13

Freedom Airways
By John Paul V. Pechon
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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.
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.
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.
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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.
Photo by John Brainard G. Uberas
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19

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!
Art by Carl Hason T. Gerale
2
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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.
ARTISTS | Jan Brilly S. Chavez & Perlyn Joy L. Suganob

SCRIBE MAYDAY
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.
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.
24 25

Finding My “Fix”
By Anna Maria J. Villanueva
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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 firstgrade
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.
Photo by Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman
2
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.
WORKPLACE FURY
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!
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Flying Memories
By Angelyn Emmanuelle H. Taruballes
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CUPID’S BLUNT ARROWS
By Karen
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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.
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.
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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.
Photo by Phoebe Daidoji Q. Jabonete
2 35

NAHANGPAN ANG KALISDANAN
Ni James Aldrin C. Pamposa
SCRIBE MAYDAY
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.
Art by Jaziel Ann V. Seballos
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.
2
37

Fuguetive
By Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno
SCRIBE MAYDAY
It comes to me like a solitary whiplash.
A too-bright-to-blink headlights.
A bullet piercing through the windshield.
From a distance, it’s a copy of motion lines from a comic-book
thriller scene. From where I’m seated, I am pummeled by a hard left turn,
slamming my body against the door.
“What the f*ck?!” I screech as the rear glass bursts into raindrops, a
bit of the spate cutting lines across the back of my neck.
“Stay down!” Red half-yells. I stare at him from the backseat—black
eyes and blue bones hidden behind crimson glasses. He seems unfazed.
This is it—at a rainy 2:00 a.m. crescent, with flares of red and blue
bolting through the city’s turnstiles—this is where I die. A sedan’s 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’t 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’m flipping through a photo album; regressing into chaos before
I’m laid out in Cronbach. A silkscreen sheet separates the front and back
seats, but it’s vivid how Red’s 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’t seem to remember is how I got here.
Red makes another sharp turn, like a needle scratching vinyl discs.
“Where are we going?” His seatbelt dangles from the door.
I raise an eyebrow, and he looks at me through the rearview mirror.
“Stop acting as if you don’t know what you did.”
What the hell is he talking about?
Photo by Learn D. Flores
2 39

Flashing a smug chuckle, he amps the gas to 240, rallying suicide
season with the blow of its torque.
“You’re going to get us killed!” I could only wail a solo from Morello’s
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.
“Who do you think got us into this mess?” Red snaps.
“It’s not my fault!”
“Keep fooling yourself, dumbass.”
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’s 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’s seat. For freedom, God has died in the
reflection of the rearview mirror.
The air leaves a sour taste on my tongue, but I’m willing to take my
chances. I crawl out of the now-open rear window, adrenaline taking me
over. I scurry to the driver’s seat, noticing a tattoo on Red’s 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—hands 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’t even know what the hell I’m running from.
DARK OF THE MOON
By Joshua Martin P. Guanco
The rage of the moon
is unparalleled to
that of the
sun’s—
It is silent.
It is tranquil.
It is seething.
It is defiant.
Its mere presence
amidst the spheres of
the night is a mockery—an outright
blasphemy—to 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
—unyielding—
to the creeping
rays that dare
exorcize its
dim light
into
nothingness.
Yet, it does not—
The moon’s rage does not.
It does not go gently into that good night.
For it rages—it rages—into 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
SCRIBE MAYDAY
40 41

Huwad na Panata
Ni Jenny G. Millares
SCRIBE MAYDAY
Walang panibagong kaganapan ang sa aki’y 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.
‘Di 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.
Photo by Febry Anne D. Eduvane
2 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’y abot-tanaw ko na—
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?
Mga Sugo ni Warden
Ni Joshua L. Mahilum
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
Huwag tumalikod sa hangin.
Magtiwala ka sa’kin.
Lahat ng lumilingon, kung hindi nabubulag,
nasusumpa. Paboritong hapunan ng bilibid ang
mga bagong laya.
Siguraduhing malakas ang ihip ng hangin.
Magtiwala ka sa’kin.
Lahat ng nagmamadali, kung hindi nasasampal ng bugso,
nasusuntok. Paboritong hapunan ng lupa ang
mga mapupusok.
Ibuka nang maigi ang iyong mga pakpak.
Magtiwala ka sa’kin.
Lahat ng mahiyain, kung hindi nilalamon ng dagat,
iniluluwa. Paboritong hapunan ng bagyo ang
mga mahihina.
Huwag huminto sa pagpapagaspas.
Magtiwala ka sa’kin.
Lahat ng tumitigil sa gitna, kung hindi bihag ng gubat,
nawawala. Paboritong hapunan ng mga puno ang
tukang ‘di na bumubuka.
Huwag lumipad nang walang kasama.
Magtiwala ka sa’kin.
Lahat ng lumilipad ng mag-isa, kung hindi paralisado,
naaamnesya. Paboritong hapunan ng ulap ang
mga ligaw na agila.
Sundin lahat ng mga paalala sa itaas.
Magtiwala ka sa’kin.
Lahat ng hindi nakikinig, kung hindi namamatay,
walang nararating. Paboritong hapunan ng mundo ang
mga walang muwang.
SCRIBE MAYDAY
44 45

THE CRASH
The pinnacle chapter about the moment we hit the ground.
It’s the collision between metal and earth. It tells about
defeat and acceptance. It’s getting out of the wreckage.
ARTISTS | Jan Brilly S. Chavez & Perlyn Joy L. Suganob

SCRIBE MAYDAY
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—dugang 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—wala 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: “Thank you, Lord!”
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—ginbuslan man ini sang ala-megapon nga tingog
sang akon iloy.
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… 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.
48 49

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;
—
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;
—
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;
—
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’s 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;
—
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—for these are the same crowd who will propel the outburst of the social unrest—and
The vanguards who will make the ruling class tremble from the quake of their inevitable revolution.
Art by Jan Brilly S. Chavez
2
51

SCRIBE MAYDAY
APAT NA TALAMPAKANG LALIM
Ni wormwood
takipsilim sa bunton ng rosas—patawarin 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’yong kalinga lamang.
sapat ba ang apat na talampakang hukay para ilibing ang kahapon?
iidlip—at nang sa gayon tuluyang mawari ang layon.
ang hantungan ng sarili kong katawan ay sa’yong kalinga lamang.
alaala ay kandong ng malakas na agos ng ilog na ani sa luha.
iidlip—at nang sa gayon tuluyang mawari ang layon.
takipsilim sa bunton ng rosas, kalayaan ko ang mapatawad mo.
Photo by Esther Joyce M. Limbaña
53

Loop
By Perlyn Joy L. Suganob
SCRIBE MAYDAY

Dream Blunt Rotation
By 血 雨
SCRIBE MAYDAY
The walls still bleed beyond the smoke. Fan jerking in motion—as
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.
“This must be hell,” 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—this 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’t 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’s all my fault, isn’t 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’s 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’t know
what time it is.
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—the 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’m laid over the settee like a sunny side up, I ponder over the
jaundiced yolks; of what’s 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’t 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.
“I want us to keep in touch.” Hypocrite.
I would have mistaken hydrofluoric acid for water if I wasn’t 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.
56 57

SCRIBE MAYDAY
“MELIORA”
By Wisdom
You’re doing great—or 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
—grimaced, dismayed, and distant.
It’s 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’ll gladly enjoy the pain—
it will be an ally as I escape.
The rumors were a swarm of ants,
slowly gnawing at my bitter-sweet consciousness,
yet, I’ll remain lying on the platform.
Am I at the bottom? I think not.
Photo by Vincent Laurence Cañal
2
59

A Cemetery of Lorn Possessions
By EJ Nell Voen A. Florendo
SCRIBE MAYDAY
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—even 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—to 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’ve 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.
Art by Josh Aldrich B. Diola
2
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’s 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.
New Recording 13
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—hurling one to set off
out of a deep slumber.
His voice. It has always been the guiding chimes that make tomorrows.
Sweet, isn’t 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—
And it all remained at 13.
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62 63

Aviation (For Dummies)
By Ried
SCRIBE MAYDAY
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’s never enough, isn’t it?
There’s 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’ve 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.
Art by Mikey Vincent T. Vicente
2
65

As this plane descends in ways skies have never dared to,
relish the pull of gravity
as we pillage through
the world’s 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’s wish
come true—
Recording stops.
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
66 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—a tear—for
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—a
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 stoneblind?
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’s 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—plastic, pliable, recoiling in the snap of a 167.
6. Phoebe Daidoji Q. Jabonete (Burnt journal)
Tinted pages of rosy days, hear me out!—for 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 stampwaxed
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
“...first place!”. Enchanted smile and watery eyes burst in explosive
delight. Blood and sweat, all worthwhile.
8. James Aldrin C. Pamposa (Charred white electric guitar)
They keep it in a triad—the 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: “He almost had it.”
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—exiled.
10. Keilah N. Baldomar (Mirrorless Camera)
Her hands pilot photons like metal slugs waxing into the eye of the
universe—at bird’s peak, at worm’s 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’s your 20? A scorched piece of leather frames itself amongst the
rubble and all things apocalyptic. It puts a face to—humanizes, rather—
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’ peace and tranquility. Hold it to your
ear—oh, 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’s conjectures. If lethargy in the trade of language ever occurs,
stretch out my fabric, and I’ll willingly cover the lower half of your visage.
Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe from the torrid spotlight.
14. Mikey Vincent T. Vicente (First Aid Kit)
Tell me your corporeal pains and I’ll nurse them with my life-saving
contrivances and medicaments. Cuts? Burns? Bruises? (No. Make me
whole again). Oh, I can’t do that. There is a reason I come first and not
the next time:
I don’t tend to deeper wounds.
72 73

15. Perlyn Joy L. Suganob (Broken Laptop)
A grin sprouted on her dim-lighted face, “It’s finished, thank God! Sending
it now.” Right after she hit send, three words flashed on the screen as the
night lamp beside her went out. No internet connection. “Ah! No! No!
No! The power must have broken down. It’s almost midnight, no!”
16. Gem Francin R. Diola (Pilot’s Badge)
Hopes, dreams, a cap, and a badge—not 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—the leathery sheen of a pocket-size
treasure trove is reflective of one’s 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—nothing 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’s a personality—igniting,
changing, and catching. But most of all, you can say it is who I am.
21. Vincent Laurence T. Cañal (Sketchbook)
A raging fire burns within me, my pencil—a 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’d do both.
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—but at least—I 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’s when she knows she’s 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-mémoires of the
beloved—now torn and tattered—within 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’ll 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.
74 75

28. Esther Joyce M. Limbaña (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—eros, philia,
storge, agape—retold by nomadic spirits passing through terminals, up
until the final boarding call. ‘Til 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’s 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’re 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’s arrival, a sparkless transmission. To some, a
wand—pointed at the fastened hasp. Alohomora. “It opened.”
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’ve crooned a melody
that rewrote my fate before my eardrums hit the last burst—silence 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’s 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. Óscar Fritz (Mixtape)
DEATH. Can I Jump? When I Met You. About Time. Our Song. after hours
(interlude). my life. Icarus. I Want You. It’ll Be Okay.
What’s with this frightening happenstance between your stash of tracks
and forthcoming doom?
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—a 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’s 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—each 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—like 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—the warm breeze of June caresses my skin
while I wrap this tattered fabric of yesterday and today around my neck.
Life goes on.
41. 血 雨 (Umbrella)
Lo and behold, a tribulation—one 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?
76 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’t abandon the other
despite everything seeming to fall apart. You can’t 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.
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’t let your pieces get buried.
78 79

facebook.com/thespectrumusls - thespectrum.usls@gmail.com
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
Drexel John N. Amit
Gem Francin R. Diola
MAGAZINE WRITERS
Adrianne H. Saplagio
Rieden Denielle N. Cuadra
Karen E. Pico
ONLINE WRITERS
Sophia Yzabelle F. Gico
Jenny G. Millares
LITERARY WRITERS
James Aldrin C. Pamposa
Jamille E. Barrios
EDITORIAL ASSISTANT
Phoebe Daidoji Q. Jabonete
PHOTOJOURNALISTS
Esther Joyce M. Limbaña
Learn D. Flores
Febry Anne D. Eduvane
VIDEOGRAPHERS
Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman
John Brainard G. Uberas
ILLUSTRATORS
Josh Aldrich B. Diola
John Paul V. Pechon
Angelyn Emmanuelle H. Taruballes
Jan Brilly S. Chavez
Sir Emmanuel Lee E. Mediavilla
LAYOUT & GRAPHICS ARTISTS
Juan Paolo P. Agapito
Jeremy Andrei D. Gohing
PUBLICATION MODERATOR
Dr. Michael V. Baylosis, CPA