VOLUME I 2008

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Volume 1, 2008 Edited by Conchitina Cruz Department of English and Comparative Literature College of Arts and Letters University of the Philippines Diliman, Quezon City 1101 Philippines Telephone: (632) 920 5301 to 99 loc. 7236, 7469 Telefax: (632) 926 3496 E-mail: [email protected] Website: http://kal.upd.edu.ph/ Copyright 2008 by the Department of English and Comparative Literature, University of the Philippines and the Authors All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.

About & undergraduate and graduate students in the courses offered by the UP Creative Writing Program. Ensuring diversity in subject, substance, and style, it features the most imaginative work to come out of basic courses in creative writing (CW 10 and CW 100); workshops in poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, writing for children/young adults, and comic book writing; special topics courses in creative writing (such as Erotica and Science Fiction); as well as CL genre courses in poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Edited each year by a member of the Creative Writing faculty, & aims to challenge young writers to strive for excellence in their craft by serving as a healthily competitive and elegantly produced venue for them to see their work in print.

& is an annual publication that collects the best work of the year written by both

Cover and interior design by May Jurilla Typeset in Garamond ISSN 20123639 Printed in the Philippines by Econofast Press

Contents
Introduction Sarah Matias, Etymology Anna Oposa, Anna Oposa Loves Loves Loves UP Eris Heidi L. Ramos, I Have Friends in Holy Spaces John Lester P. Roque, Boondocks Aaron Galzote, Universal Time Bomb Melissa Villa-Real Basmayor, Fractal Fractal Louise Jashil R. Sonido, Suspension E. M. Tobias, Lexulous! Lambert Varias, Ss Sarah Matias, Saturdays Never Spent Tracy Ignacio, The sofa Cristina Morales, From Glibness and Grit at St. Judes High: The Two-Fisted Tales of Matt and Jasper Dana Lee F. Delgado, In Saudi Arabia Hong Song I, Ball Pedro Ilustreto B. Publico, From Variations Arlynn Raymundo Despi, Via Crucis Melissa Villa-Real Basmayor, Laws of Motion But She Francis Paolo M. Quina, Five Pages From A Filipino Novel Gayle Grey, Things that make you wonder Georgiana Diane O. Go, People who have died Justine Kison, Seemingly small things Gustav Cruz, Things that make me say Oh Fuck Richard Reposar, From Leaf Jessica Balaquit, The Foreigner Theresa Russel Padillo, Afterwards Afterwards Janina Pascual, How Color Feels to the Chameleon Contributors 5 9 12 16 19 20 26 27 28 35 43 50 51 56 68 83 84 90 96 97 98 110 111 112 113 114 117 120 122 125 127

Introduction

Introduction

e live, think, and write in a place where there are more than enough reasons not to think, not to write. Where we are, there are hardly any publication venues for creative work, and barely any readers for the work that does see print. There are more pressing matters at hand, say, hunger, shelter. Where we are, no less than our generals, officials responsible for our security, can perform the perplexing, amateurish antic of packing billions of euros in their check-in luggage, banking on blockheads like themselves in other shores to miss the obscene display of corruption. This, while those of us who teach in UP obsessively calculate the photocopying costs, at fifty centavos a page, of the readings we require, so oddly apologetic we are, at times, for the volume of required texts, so conscious we are of the price tag that comes with knowledge. Surely, the students can read, but can they afford the (photocopied) readings? Where we are, reproductive health, a right and non-issue in many other places, remains the subject of heated debate. If we still have to ask why reproductive health, then there is no way discussions in response to the question why write can amount to anything encouraging. And yet, we think, and yet, we write. Despite conditions to the contrary, vibrant conversations continue to take place in the creative writing classes of UP, and exciting work continues to be produced by its students. This, if not the premise, is at the very least the hope of &. In providing a venue for student writing to see print, & celebrates the experiments to come out of the hospitable, illuminating laboratory of ideas that is the classroomhard evidence of fruitful conversations which ought to continue well beyond the limits of the classroom and the time frame of a semester. The pages you are about to read house an impressive range of student writing, which, in its valiant attempt to rejuvenate and re-imagine what it is to write creatively, ought to reach an audience beyond one professor and a handful of peers.

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There is no denying the drudgery that also infects teaching, writing, and studyingtepid lectures, uninspired drafts, one-track minds, and dead air are all too common occurrences that they hardly need documentation. But once in a whileoften enough, Id like to thinkthe classroom becomes aswarm with possibilities, its residents alert, awake, and engaged. Once in a while, a student, struck by an idea or dilemma tossed in discussion, takes it home, mulls it over, and turns it into a poem, or story, or essay. Once in a while, in workshop, we find ourselves in the presence of a draft that offers a startling thought, or method, or turn of phrase. And we are only too happy to take a break from the blas attitude that is practically a religion to many of us, and bask in the thrilling encounter with something new. &, of course, like many things born of good intentions, cannot save the world from itself, but, if one can at the very least be given credit for trajectory, it is a whiff of a hint of a step in that direction. What it can do, after all, is provide a space where the imaginationoften the first to go in the face of poverty, corruption, plain mediocrity, and sheer market-driven mentalitycan be cultivated, cherished, and championed. It was William Carlos Williams who said, It is difficult/to get the news from poems/yet men die miserably every day/for lack/of what is found there, with which the journal agrees. As I write this I am snickering at my own loftinessso much drama, todo emote nga namanbut given our context, where spaces for the imagination are few and far between, a little flourish in celebrating them when they do come along cannot be excessive. I am particularly excited about & because it casts its attention on students of writing, whom I presume to be the most reckless and relentless in their pursuit of the imagination. The idea is to collect the best work of the year written by both undergraduate and graduate students in the courses of the UP Creative Writing Program. The process of gathering material for the journal is fairly straightforward. Each year, a faculty member of the CW Program takes on the role of issue editor. All other CW faculty members are expected to submit copies of the best work in their classes to the issue editor, who selects the material for inclusion in the journal and writes an introduction. Each issue, in effect, becomes a version of the year in writing in UP, and each introduction a document of what CW teachers are thinking of, interested in, or on the lookout for when they read and write.

Introduction

In Period Piece, among many things that Marc Gaba asserts is that there is nothing passive about anthologizing, and that the unfair hand dealt the notion of the best when putting together an anthology occurs when there is hardly anything said to qualify it. And so, as the editor of the maiden issue of &, I have a couple of things to say about the pages you are about to read. It being the first issue, it covers the years 2006 to 2008. For this issue, also, I chose to privilege the youngest of the young and limited myself to the work of undergraduates. Because &, fortunately, is somewhat exempt from the demands of the market, in the tug-of-war between catering to and creating audiences, the journal can tip itself more easily towards the latter, and for this reason, I chose to include many pieces that may have a hard time getting placed in the few existing venues that print creative work. I am interested in adventurous, hard-to-classify, provocative writing. I am always on the lookout for writing that is unafraid to make claims, meticulous in its pursuit of ideas, imaginative in its treatment of genre, and unwavering in its exuberance. I like work that takes risks and isnt so keen on maintaining a polished and poised veneer, consequently exhibiting some kind of urgency. I favor work written with an integrity that erases the division between form and content, style and substance; in other words, work that eludes paraphrase. In particular, I gravitate towards process-based, page-oriented work, i.e., work that actively exposes the process of its making and deliberately engages the page in its unfolding. Thus, there are a number of pieces in this issue that are meant to be looked at as much as read. They wrestle with matters of the said and unsaid, space and silence, fragment and fissure, finished and unfinished, version and copy, true and false. They are also about sex and violence, politics and history, humor and decadence, spacing out and ennui. These statements, of course, are crude summaries. Inspired by the term potential literature borrowed from the Oulipo, I am also interested in the appropriation of nonliterary forms and ephemera into literature. In this issue you will find lists, an entire essay made of graffiti found all over UP, an exam, a dictionary entry, a story that is a draft of a story. In employing these forms, the imagination is made to come out and play, something so easy forget when we write and emote and take ourselves oh-so-seriously. There is much delight in experimentation here, much playfulness in the act of trying things out. To animate a word, to capture another lilt in thought, to trigger a shift in

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perceptionthese achievements are most surprising when accomplished by unlikely suspects. That the journal is named after a conjunctionand not the conjunction itself but its symbolis promise and proof of its commitment to the ongoing, the in-progress, the middle of, where minds are always thinking, always on the move, where the imagination is ever in flux. And now, a couple of thank-yous for making this possible: to Jing Hidalgo and Butch Dalisay, whose Natatanging Guro Awards from the Chancellor have provided the life source, i.e., funding, of the journal; and to friends of the CW programKokoy Guevara for suggesting the journal name, Adam David for the generous assistance in preparing the textsespecially those with graphics and other effectsfor publication, and to book historian extraordinaire May Jurilla, for patiently working on the cover and layout of the book. And? Of course, there is always more to say. On with the conversation. Conchitina Cruz November 2008

Sarah Matias

Sarah Matias Etymology

1 I am the Hebrew princess with an h or what modern-day Filipino baroks pronounce as etch etching in me an extra breath. Mother named me after a biblical barren big shot who had her husband sleep with a slave, yet you probably know that by now so I apologize for almost giving you a Sunday School story. Do not worry, my life is far from being one, for what I have is the Kapraningan of a primetime telenovela, a Dickinson Dash, and a Stanley Kubrick Romance rolled into one. 2 Speaking of Mother, she was once a widow. Father died of wine when I was five. (And I say once because a woman is, once dead, no longer a wife, let alone a widow.) And Mother loved God. And Mother loved the Bible.

10 And Mother loved the book of Ruth. And Mother loved it so much because Ruth was a widow just like she was. And Mother loved Ruth, and Mother named me after her. And Mother loved me. And I wonder why Mother did that. Most of the time I am ruthless because like her, the one so loved by Mother, I too am homesick, missing a place I have no idea where. By naming me after two ladies who rode donkeys, she made me princess and poor at the same time. 3 My middle names meaning is, for now, not that intriguing. 4 My father is Jesuss tagalized disciple, the h dropped in the translation, among other things. It is he: The disciple who smothered champorado with tuyo. The disciple who hollered po and opo. The disciple who gorged on pork. The disciple who was cum si cum sa with the Torah. The disciple who scowled at other disciples who offered salvation thru small envelopes. The disciple who came in a little too late. He eventually converted to Islam and served a different master and accepted a new name and made me fatherless and made me inherit the world.

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5 And now that I own the world, I am erasing its names with ease and excitement and enthusiasm, for naming is the same as cursing, as passing on the sins and felonies of the father to the son, as demanding the daughter to do what the mother did no matter how much damage it has done and will do to her soul, as the fruit being broken from the branch, as the kiss on the cheek of the Savior who needed saving. From now on the world will name itself with its own words, the kind that nobody will hear, will ever understand.

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Anna Oposa Anna Oposa Loves Loves Loves UP

nna Oposa loves UP. Whenever Anna Oposa says shes from UP, she hears reactions such as: Wow! or Ang galing mo! and most of the time, Matalino ka pala?! But whenever Anna Oposa says shes an English major from UP, reactions are: Um Wow or So magiging teacher ka? and occasionally, Dahil ba Ingglesera ka? Not that she minds. Anna Oposa loves being an English major in UP. She had planned on taking up BS Psychology as her premed but God Buddha Mother Nature her UPG didnt make the cutoff. At least people automatically assume that shes well read and cultured. They always remark, Youre taking English? Grabe! Nosebleed! Anna Oposa mentally rolls her eyes. Nosebleed is the term for commoners and mortals. She prefers to use the term epistaxis. In some ways, Anna Oposa is a stereotypical English major. During her free time, Anna Oposa loves to analyze the nuances of SMS language (How does one read Di ako maka2punta sa prac 2day. Ba2lik aq bukas. Namatay kc ti2 ko?), think about punctuation marks (Bawal umihi dito. God bless our trip?!?!?!), and obsess over past participles (What is the past participle of dive? Anna Oposa has dove? Anna Oposa has dived? Anna Oposa has diven?) Anna Oposa has not taken a Math subject since high school and is now having problems doing mental arithmetic (Five plus eight equals twelve? Oh wait shit fifteen right? Oh god wheres that fucking calculator?) Anna Oposa has given up on MSTs since her Geog 1 teacher cracked the jokes Ano ang paboritong kanta ng mga geologists? Eh di bato bato pick! and What did one igneous rock say to the other igneous rock? I LAVA YOU! Those are what Anna Oposa likes to call jokes. Her CAL professors are so much better. Anna Oposa loves her professors. Her professors are her gods. Anna Oposa loves Judy Ick

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because Judy Ick believes that she is Shakespeares mistress. Anna Oposa loves May Jurilla because she has everything Anna Oposa wants: Latin honors, two MAs, one PhD in an obscure subject, and sexy legs. Anna Oposa loves Conchitina Cruz because she expected a professor named Conchitina to be a living fossil that required a respirator to function only to find a bombshell walk in the classroom. Anna Oposa loves Jerome Sanchez, who keeps using Anna Oposa as an example of a noisy girl during Italian recitation (Anna Oposa rumorosa!). Anna Oposa is in love with Carlos Aureus. She believes that a genius like Carlos Aureus could not have been a child; he just materialized and came into existence. Anna Oposa is also smitten with Jose Dalisay Jr. and his booming bass voice that should be used in audio books. So much so that his presence makes Anna Oposas IQ drop. When he asked what she thought of Langston Hughess Florida Road Workers, she said, Its about the discrimination against the blacks. When pushed for further explanation, she stared at him and said, Cause theyre like not white? Ah, no wonder Anna Oposas UPG made it to UP Diliman by 0.1. Anna Oposa loves UP. Anna Oposa loves the names of her classmates: Fhamaye (But my nicknames Alfha.), El Shadai (One d lang. You can call me Shads for short!), and siblings Brilliant Hero and Genius Judge (Our sisters name is Jennifer.). Anna Oposa loves the bathroom graffiti in FC. Anna Oposa loves If loving you means suffering, then bury me alive Anna Oposa loves Fuck you world! and loves the reply Fuck you too! World even more. Anna Oposa loves being asked which building is where, like when a nurse approached her and asked, Miss saan yung Pamela Hall? Anna Oposa replied, Hah? Sino si Pamela?! Anna Oposa loves the day UPCAT results are posted. Parents and high school seniors run their fingers down the bulletin boards and expressions change from anxious to either ecstatic or disappointed. But theres a reaction Anna Oposa will never forget: the lanky boy who called up his mom and yelled, Ma! NAKAPASA AKO NG UP DILIMAN!!! At buntis ang girlfriend ko! Rain or shine, Anna Oposa loves UP. Literally. After all, each area in UP has its own stratosphere. Its sunny in AS, dark in ASCAL, and storming at CAL so by the time she gets to her Post-Colonial Discourse class from Phonetics and Phonology shes soaked and sneezing. Anna Oposa even loves the old, hard-to-find books in the library that crumble at her

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slightest touch and the high-tech iLib that never clears her account of books she already returned. Half of the librarians pretend not to hear her and just point her towards the Social Science Stacks, which she thinks could be a perfect setting for a horror movie. The other half is incoherent. Librarian 1: Hija, i-ano mo lang ito sa ano. Librarian 2: Eh kung tawagan mo kaya si ano? Librarian 1: Eh sabi ni ano, ano lang naman kailangan eh. Librarian 1: Ano lang naman pala eh! I-ano mo na! All Anna Oposa wants to say is: ano ba talaga? Nevertheless, Anna Oposa loves UP. Really. Aside from the libraries, Anna Oposa also loves the College of Music because of the cacophony of wind instruments doing scales over and over again in different keys and rhythms which makes her want to drag the NO BLOWING OF HORNS sign from the street to the buildings entrance. Anna Oposa loves UP more than ever because it proves that the idea of an afterlife is imaginary, that heaven and hell are on earth, hell being UP enrollment. But then again Anna Oposa loves UP enrollment because it teaches her to be independent by chasing professors and advisers to sign her add mat forms, yes, the ones who say theyll show up at a certain time ON THE DAY OF THE DEADLINE but wont, and then lining up for hours under direct sunlight and/or pouring rain to catch the 4:30 p.m. cutoff to pay for a ten peso processing fee only to be told that shes supposed to go to the Registrar for approval even if she argues that the Department told her to go to the Bank first. Anna Oposa even found the perfect soundtrack for this inferno: the sound of the Toki or Ikot horn, which becomes a high-pitched cackle when heard at dusk, making Anna Oposa scream and duck. Then there are the devils from hell on earth a.k.a. the Wild Card UP professors, such as the professor who looks like she dresses in the dark, doesnt teach, and uses a set of darts for grading and the other professor who has but one facial expression, went to class about six times the entire semester, and gave Anna Oposa a 2.75 for unknown reasons, even if she submitted everything on time, got above-average marks on each paper, and attended every class. Anna Oposa loves UP because she looks studious when carrying a backpack heavy with crumpled UP blue books, UP readings, and UP workshop pieces. One time, a friend had Anna Oposa keep her daily feminine wash in Anna Oposas backpack. The lid accidentally popped open and for days Anna Oposas blue books, readings, and workshop pieces smelled like a vagina. A vagina nourished with milk and tea tree oil but a vagina is a vagina and

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What again? Right. Anna Oposa loves UP. Anna Oposa fucking loves UP.

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Eris Heidi L. Ramos I Have Friends in Holy Spaces

Although my soul may set in darkness It will rise in perfect light I have loved the stars too fondly To be fearful of the night. Galileo hat crap! (Thats why its called a toilet. Crap also Crapperfrom Thomas Crapper, inventor of the modern toilet.) You should know that by now. You think thats brilliant? You sure are a bitch. You must be a tomboy. You need a hug. You think Im gorgeousyou wanna kiss me. I am a lesbian. Men should vanish. We dont need their penises. But. Marry the guy who loves you. Freedom must go. Procrastination can lead to death or a life full of regrets. Guys are liars. Girls are weird. Geeks suck. The world sucks. I vandal, therefore I am. Serve the people. Junk TOFI. Oust GMA. The lucky bitch. VIVA! CPP-NPA-NDF! Dont be an apathetic spoiled middle class. (And what, be the clich tibak?) Sana umulan ng pera. Sana pumasa ako sa Math. Math 17 is just a phase. It, too, shall pass. (But Math 100 is eternal.) Believe me, there are other things than failing Math. Use Math for sex: Trigo = for the right inclination; Algebra = for the mixture of x & y genes; Stat = to get the standard mode of happiness. Goodbye Math! Goodbye mocha java! Goodbye sex! Is sex wrong? There is nothing wrong with masturbation. Debatable moral issue. I fucked Maam L----. Have some pride. Thats so shameful! I want to do it. Update: I did it. Im delayed. Some say sex is overrated but theyre just not doing it right. I vomited after my first time. He put

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it in another hole. Pity, they didnt teach you. Lagi akong bitin sa BF ko. Perverts! Abstinence. Im turning 20 and I havent had a bf. I crush L---- Locsin. Flirt with him. I tried it one time. Supot yan. (Bkt, magpptuli ba xa sa yo tapos d n2loy?) Watch and see. Malandi ka. OO IKAW. Bakit ka malandi? If guys crave for virgin girls, why dont girls crave for virgin guys, too? Does it hurt when your cherry pops? Ilang percent ba ang pumapasa kay Torrechante? Sino ba si Ederlyn? Sinong ok na P.I. prof ? Whats bigotry? Kakitiran ng utak. How about trying not to be stupid? Dont even think about it. Basura ang pag-iisip. How do you let go? He would ruin my life if I left him. He quit first. Paano mo maibibigay ang isang bagay na wala ka? Paano mo matatagpuan ang tunay na pag-ibig? (Alam ba nyang hinahanap mo sya?) True love awaits. Its time to look for love. I love you so. God loves you. Love is just an option. Dont be too rational. We need love. We never really love people. Friendship is often feigning loving merely folly. Im in love with my prof. Im in love with my cousin. Im in love with my step-brother. Im in love with my best friend. Im in love with my boy friends best friend. Im in love with my boy friend. Is that normal? I love my BFs dick (I love your BFs dick). We all do, darling. Im in love with a gay guy. I love Romar C---- (Hes gay). Atom A---(is gay) Alvin F---- (is gay) Raef A---- (is gay) Marvin C---- (is gay). Apat na tanga, ikalima ang nagbasa. Im gay (Sam). Ako rin (Piolo). Gay men are cute. I feel for you, pare. Mondays are gay, Fridays are economic. What does a heart know about reason? The heart has reasons that even reason doesnt understand. The heart does not think. It is a deceitful thing. (But it knows something.) I know something. I know I wont have you forever, but Im glad youre mine now. Words can shatter the soul. Erase the writings, kill the ideas. Death of the signifier death of the signified. Nothing pre-existed language. Please know that I exist. God is dead.Nietzsche. Nietzsche is dead.God God is a bed. Do I have to be hurt to look up? Looking up, I saw nothing. You think youre in control? God bless your soul. Living is

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enough suffering. If suffering means having you, then bury me alive (The last suffer). I feel pressured (Pressure cooker). Im embittered (Bitter Ocampo). I want to die. Im dead. Its a physical impossibility. If you can dream it, you can do it. Never say die. Pain is normal. Why do I hurt too much? (You love too much.) I gave you so much. I am discontented. You killed me. I feel unloved. Remember that I love you. You saved me. Come down; come down from your tower. You are my soul. Come here. Are you here? I was here. I have seen the world. I found myself at last.

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John Lester P. Roque Boondocks

He laughs when he hears the word boondocks. Maybe because boondocks sounds like what he desires mostbucks. Boondocks rhymes with cocks and contains all the letters of books. Are there fewer bucks on the boondocks? Are there more cocks? Are there fewer books? Boondocks and bundok mean the same thing, only bundok sounds cheap to him. Many people in the boondocks hate the word bundok. Dont say, Are you taga-bundok? Say, Are you taga-boondocks? Then, a frown. Or a burst of laughter. There are fewer bucks in the boondocks. There are fewer books. But there are more cocks, too many, that people duck. Thats why flocks leave the boondocks. Fewer cocks mean fewer deaths in the boondocks. But then the same flocks fuck when back to the boondocks they flock. He comes from the boondocks, where it sucks. There are no bucks for him in the boondocks. There is no boon in the boondocks. Only dense ducks live in the boondocks. Only small cocks. But hell stay in the boondocks, he thinks. It sucks in the fucking boondocks. But hell fuck for the boondocks, he says. Hell buck for the boondocks. He wont duck, he swears. Let them all duck the boondocks. Let them all duck the cocks. Let them make more bucks, more books. But hell buck, he says. Hell buck for the boondocks.

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Aaron Galzote Universal Time Bomb

n the far reaches of outer space, that is to say the areas farthest from earth that have been reached by sentient beings, which is not too far away, but still mind-boggling to anyone with no understanding of chronophysics, there is a galaxy much like ours. On the upper left corner of this galaxy, if you are looking at it the way most respected astrophysicists look at itno, a bit more to the left there you go there is a solar system with a blue sun surrounded by seventeen planets, three of which are inhabitable. One of these planets, whose name is extremely hard to pronounce due to the forty-seven ways you have to rearrange your vocal chords to do so, is populated by a race of backward peopleso backward that they have just recently discovered time travel. On this planet with a difficult name is a continent with a name as hard to pronounce. In this continent, a small country, in this country a town, and in this town, a small laboratory, where an intelligent entitywith respect to his worldresides. Since his name is as unpronounceable as the world he lives in, we shall refer to him simply as Shrevqpzn MgXhiouklpt, to avoid confusion and mutilation of vocal chords. Right now, Shrevqpzn MgXhiouklpt was very happy, very happy indeed. In fact, he was absolutely gleeful, and the more he thought about the thing that made him happy, the happier he became. A shiver started in one of his three necks and traveled down to his stubby tail, a shiver of anticipation and suspense. What made him so cheerful was something he had invented. He felt like a winner, something he rarely felt. He had found a way to create a black hole. It took a lot of time and effort, but once you figure out how its done, its very simple, really. All you need are a few capacity multipliers with the mass transferrer upgrade and a paradox template.

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Press twenty-two of the twenty-six buttons, and voila! A black hole you can fit in your pocket. (This is very much discouraged, though, since putting a black hole in your pocket may cause your pocketand in most instances, youto stop existing. This happens almost immediately.) Shrevqpzn MgXhiouklpt once again shivered with glee. He sent an instant message (on his Ultrax-L65 supercomputer, where instant meant it wont take more than ten picoseconds) to three of the many people who mocked his work. Nyahaha! Guess what I invented this morning, his message said. Ah, but we all have our own peculiarities, and we are not merely talking about an extra head or longer antennae, and Shrevqpzn MgXhiouklpt wanted to increase the size of his mini black hole, maybe to something larger than an inch, at least. There wasnt much you could do with a fourteen-millimeter black hole, except make it suck in pebbles. Enlarging the black hole was easy enough, just a plug here, a connection there, and a button to press. He did a little jiggle on his toes, just to show the universe how excited he was. Fortune has been known to mess with peoples lives. A bad situation is widely known as Miss Fortune, which has caused uproars from several hundred ultrafeminist groups, whose members are probably all too acquainted with Miss Fortune themselves. But since most of the sentient beings of this universe are composed of races either void of gender or with five or more genders, these uproars made far less of an impact than intercontinental wars in small planets. On that day, in Shrevqpzn MgXhiouklpts laboratory, Fortune made him forget that he still had a good many capacity multipliers connected to the network that contained his black hole. Shrevqpzn MgXhiouklpt pressed a button. Shrevqpzn MgXhiouklpts Ultrax-L65 supercomputer read the series of information as illogical. If it were just a simple irrationality, it could have handled it, but it was a lengthy stream of fallacies, contradictions, and paradoxes. The black hole expanded at an alarming rate. Shrevqpzn MgXhiouklpt roared furiously as he made a futile attempt to get away; he wasnt even able to show anyone yet! Yaaaaargh! More than five septillion light years away, in a galaxy whose name was perfectly easy to pronounce, on a planet whose name you would have no trouble saying, Rommel Isaacs Sony Nanophone played the Psycho theme. This meant that a very good friend, one he really had no wish to talk to, was calling him.

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Rommel glanced out his window. Sunshine. Again. His windows definitely needed those new glare-sensors and autotints that were so hip nowadays. He rubbed his eyes and groaned. The one thing he hated about morning was sunshine. He also hated the twittering of birds, and how it seemed to be magnified three times the normal volume in the wee hours of the morning. He particularly hated this one bird which whistled the Lupang Hinirang shrilly, something it picked up from Rommel when he was trying to annoy his now ex-girlfriend. He hated the irony of it. He slid his window open, shooed the bird away, then slammed it shut and pulled down his blinds. His Nanophone went teeenteeenteeenteeen! again, and after much groping around with his feet for his Kiko Machine slippers, he found his Nanophone wedged between the pages of Bagong Agham at Teknolohiya, the magazine he edited. He pulled it out sloo-o-owly, so as not to ruin the nanotech. He stretched the paper-thin phone to a desirable length, and pressed one end to his ear and the other to his jaw. It stayed there, thanks to nanotechnology. It would stay there until the call ended, thanks to nanotechnology. Thanks to nanotechnology, he could not pull the phone away as he heard the shrieking from the other line. Rommy! Oh my god, Rommy, a womans voice could be heard over the crashes and thuds, presumably her tripping over equipment. Rommel knew the tone well enough, and besides, there was no other reason for her to call this early. She had made a discovery or invention of some sort, and wanted him to know about it first. The last time she called this early was when she discovered (not invented) time travel. Anokabanamaaan, Rommel said, Its four in the morning, Ruth! If you belong to the tiny portion of the sentient population that has yet to discover time travel, do not imagine you know what it is. Much has been written about time travelspeculations made by uninformed people which turn out to be very far from the truth. First of all, the term time travel should not be taken literally, as though one could enter a contraptionno doubt procured by an overactive imagination and a heady dose of hallucinogensand physically travel to the Jurassic Period. Not only is this highly dangerous due to the presence of teeth the size of human hands and Floborian noses, but it is also far from real time travel. Put simply, time travel involves pitching ones consciousness out of its third dimension (space), into the fourth dimension (time), and into another dimension of choice. For what is time but a collection

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of 3D space? One nanosecond ago, you were in a different 3D space than you are nowtime is change in space. Successfully executed, two consciousnesses from two different third dimensions would switch. Aiming must be superb or else you might not arrive at the desired time, place, or species. All it requires is that you concentrate hard enough. Oh my god, Rommy, a black hole! Umm, what? Ive made a black hoooole, she shrieked, and Rommel silently swore at nanotechnology. Yes, well, so, er, what are you talking about, hey? He hadnt even had his coffee yet. Ive made my own black hole! Do you know what this means? Im the first person to ever make their own black hole! God, its beautiful, Rommy, you have to see it. Switch consciousnesses with Polgas right now! Polgas was Ruths dog. It currently had a drunkards mind residing in its dog body. The drunkard accidentally time traveled and could not get out due to his lack of concentration. Oh, no. Thank you, but no. Hmmm. He was one of the few people who still resided in his own body. Ill just use the FasTrans... Maybe later, when Ive waken up, yes? Rommel heard another thud and a clank, after which she hung up. Rommel told Ruth he would use the FasTrans, but none of the FasTrans stations were reliable these days. They tended to stop in midflight and argued with passengers about the meaning of life. So he walked to her place, a bag of pandesal (you would not want to know how much one small piece cost) clutched in one hand and a bottle of Diet Coke Light Zero Slim in the other. He arrived at Ruths flator, as she liked to call it, her laboratorya few minutes after having eaten his breakfast. After some waiting, swearing, and kicking at her door, her Recognition System kicked in; it groaned heavily as it searched its database for his profile and automatically opened her front door. Maga-andang Umaa-a-a- it ventured, and then it shut down. He jumped the first two steps and the last two steps down to her lab-flat, which happened to be the same two steps since her stairs had only two steps. The place seemed to be even more cluttered than the last time Rommel was there. Delivery boxes were stacked on one corner of the room, most of them bursting with unusable components, some used as tabletops, and one on its side with its contents strewn across the floor.

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Scattered on a long, rectangular table beside the windowwhat one would call the proper work table, were blueprints, sketches, scratch papers, and paper napkins filled with doodles. The floor was a sea of wires, thin and thick ones of different colors all tangled up. In the middle of the sea stood Ruth, who, defying clich, was not wearing a white lab coat but instead a burnt-orange oversized shirt which said Knowledge is best with a cuppa java over a pair of brown slacks. She was a small woman, and a bit round, which caused some people to call her pudgy. Beside her, resting on a stool, was the black hole. It was an unusual thing to behold. She kept it in a glass contraption connected to what seemed to be a crude paradox template and a few capacity multipliers. She fed it small paper clips through a glass chute. It showed that it had an effective range of two inches from its center. Isnt it beautiful, Rommy? And it was. He couldnt see it, as light sidled from it this way and that. Trying to look at it was like seeing something at the corner of your eye. He could not grasp its true form. It is really something, he replied. There was a long pause as both of them admired it, until Ruth turned to Rommy and said, Im going to enlarge it. She said it the way one would expect a fourteen-year-old girl to say, Im going to be a prostitute when I grow up, and it had about the same effect on Rommel. Now, wait a minute, Ruth. Im no expert, but, he looked at the black hole, I think theyre supposed to be really deadly things. The words black and hole do not come up without the word death somewhere. That is to say, arent black holes dangerous? He looked at her again, worry carved into every feature of his face. Ruth was holding a gadget the size of a walnut. Youre talking about big ones, mdear; Planet Devourers and Galaxy Gulpers. Black holes this smallharmless! She plugged the walnut-sized widget to the paradox template. If all goes well, this should make it grow to about an inch or so. Theres not much you can do with a black hole this small, you know, except make it suck in small paper clips. The words if all goes well did not make Rommel feel any better. They both stared at the entire arrangement. It looked like a messy, colorful octopus, with the glass globe as the head and the multiple connections as tentacles. It was an ugly octopus with a beautiful eye, and that eye was the black hole. Ruth grasped a control array. She was looking thoughtfully at the octopus of wires. I dont suppose, she started, but

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immediately stopped, No, I dont think so, and before Rommel could do anything else, she pressed a button. The black hole grew. And grew and grew and grew. It was a foot in diameter, breaking the glass dome and sucking the pieces of glass in before Ruth shrieked and toppled backwards over a delivery box. Rommel tripped on a mass of wires. Ruth was too close, much, much, much too close. Even if the black hole was only a meter long, her legs were already being affected by its gravitational pull. Before they could react, her body stretched to an unbelievable length, warping this way and that, until it disintegrated into pieces and was one with a two-meter black hole. Stress has been found to accidentally make one travel through time. Rommel was under much stress as he tried desperately to yank his feet away from the growing ball of black beauty. His consciousness, fed up with all this buggery about black holes, suddenly lurched out of him, traveling sickly through the fourth dimension. Faces, names, places, and large law books zoomed past him at an unbelievable speed. Light mutilated his ears, sound mauled his eyes, taste mangled his skin, and then for a time, there was nothing. When Rommel came to, he was standing on a huge branch stemming from a gigantic tree. The effect on him was the visual equivalent of the word BOOM. Mysteriously, he found he had no problem balancing himself on a branch so high. It must be these excellent claws, he thought. After some time, he realized what he just thought and looked down at himself to take a better look. He had claws! He had wings! He was covered in feathers! Im a biiird! was what he would have said, his voice ringing with fear and surprise, if he still possessed human vocal chords. Instead, what came out of his mouth (his beak, he thought to himself with horror) was a tune he found familiar, one that usually accompanied these words: Bayang Magiliw, Perlas ng Silanganan From somewhere, he heard a window sliding open, and a voice he knew very well. This was what it had to say: Shoo!

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Melissa Villa-Real Basmayor Fractal

It spins into a brittle skeleton of light the shape of veins or strands of hair maybe a ghost that bursts from a splinter of quartz an oblique motion on some invisible axis a contrapuntal sound rising like the whine of a violin from the next room or sinking into a funnel at the bottom of the screen where sight or a sense of direction ends, what can it know, this singular figure stuck on the notion that all it needs is the present because it thinks it has the present will keep rehearsing its lines for a play that will not get staged will keep saying I am but will never be, its voice an echo layering upon echoes of itself

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Fractal

It spins into a brittle skeleton of light the shape of veins or strands of hair maybe a ghost that bursts from a splinter of quartz an oblique motion on some invisible axis a contrapuntal sound rising like the whine of a violin from the next room or sinking into a funnel at the bottom of the screen where sight or a sense of direction ends, what can it know, this singular figure stuck on the notion that all it needs is the present because it thinks it has the present will keep rehearsing its lines for a play that will not get staged will keep saying I am but will never be, its voice an echo layering upon echoes of itself

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Louise Jashil R. Sonido Suspension

here: I in the light of a monitor. The keyboard mocks my familiarity with its keys, the motions of my fingers, spilling words. The backspace doesnt work; neither do the up or down arrow keys. I am in that break between a working backspace key and a useless one. The full moon watches as the night gets deeper and deeper. The words trickle out. Its not quite a fear of confession. Its more a fear of the way the silence of a confessional can explode at a whisper. His hands always move so deftly, so surely over the wheel and the gear stick. In a world always volatileoften moody, sometimes kindit is humbling to remember control. I frame my world in words. I walk the streets and, all of a sudden, a story of it is inside my head. The rain is not a weight on clothes or the hiss of cigarette butts thrown on pavements. It is a waterfall on a windshield. It is mist on windows. His hand in her hair is a panel in a graphic novel. Photography, like narration, can never be innocent.

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Forget the light that lit the cigarette and the puffs that finished it to the filter. How does it feel, not wanting to live without the promise of death in your own breath? Everything deconstructs, so they say. I is a character. Used alone, it should be in the upper case. I remember: a girl spoke of happiness like she knew what it was. She flew into foreign territory, all pride and excitement. An angel can be a figurine. An angel can be a favor. An angel can be love. Love can be the sound of a car door unlocking when you appear walking towards it in the side mirror. Love can be anticipation. In the light of my monitor, I create euphemisms for a kiss. A girl once wrote all of herself down as a rooted, stable core: I am. I can. I will. Certainly. Foucault said that discourse carves up the world. Then she wrote down a car as home. He has the smile of a child, but also a restraint that can come only from a fear to lose control. The rain washes over the world, sweeping away the dust. Also, fogging up the mirrors. Also, beating against the cement. Also, building up a flood. Maybe the need to promise grows more intense the closer you are to breaking a tacit commitment. One may be lightly aware of relativity but still be knocked violently offcourse when, one day, definition suddenly loses its register. In limbo, probably, even the ground we choose to land on floats.

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Someone once told her that the slow motion in movie kisses said nothing about kissing, the shift from left to right merely for actors to better exhibit their most flattering angles. She thought that was very logical. You can live believing that the heart is an overrated barometer of happiness. The present is always deficient because it tends to forget where it comes from and to anticipate where its going. This could be why its so easy to get lost in redefinition. Often, he allows her hand to rest on his as he shifts gears. Sometimes, he holds her to it. When it is evening, she likes to watch his reflection on her window, superimposed on the streets that blur past. Transition is important. In film editing, a fade-to-black can spell a century. The past has a way of reminding you that it still exists, and that you are as much a part of it as it is a part of you. It can come, for instance, while you are walking, when your mobile phone suddenly vibrates in your hand, blinking a name and a recollection of a younger girls certainty. In film editing, a cut is a sudden, unceremonious switch from one shot to another.

Hello, my baby. How are you? A spoken smile. This is sepia. My mothers voice is sweet and mirthful through the receiver, touched with mild indulgence and an unmistakable longing. Come home already, my baby. Nostalgia is forever a snug and rusty note, like the overeager squeak of a seesaw.

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The metonymic gap is a cultural gap formed when a postcolonial writer, in appropriations of a colonial language, inserts words, phrases, concepts, or allusions from his first language. This results in a resistance to interpretation. Really, why can be such a selfless question. My father says, Theres a battle going on out there in the world and inside the best of us Go where your moral compass leads you. Perhaps, at the words, a collage of descriptions and designations should not echo in the mind like so I recall the slant of light through the blinds, the particular spill of it on the floor in the afternoons. He folds her struggle into his warmth and soaks it up in his shirt. On evenings, the light from street lamps filters through tinted windows in a cool wash of orange (even fluorescent lights look tamer then). Sometimes, at a perfect angle, he says, it glimmers in her eyes. There is the effect of a reclaiming of a self, the reconstruction of a photographic image: one not of cars or mirrors or Foucault. The girl wore a thin, plain piece of silver on her left hands ring finger. Perhaps, then, the silver had caught the rain in a thin band of reflection. Perhaps, then, she had worn the rain on her finger. With my uncooperative keyboard, in order to erase the written, one has to take the long route going back using the left arrow key. Off-screen, deletion can only be regret. I remember those old rewinders that you pop open and slip your VHS tape into for a quick and easy back-to-start. There were some designed like cars. I knew someone who could only balance herself on her own ground, the way bats are lost unless the sound of their own

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voices returns to them. While I mull over angel figurines that become painful risks and passworded wonderings, she is the only reason I can think of to explain why I always has to be a capital letter. The part comes when one probes into the life of another.

Who did you watch the movie with? I wonder how amusement moves through space. How much slower is it than tension? My mother already knows the answer, probably has a reaction to it filed and ready. But I guess we never get used to it: despite knowing the constancy of its indecisiveness, the world always takes us by surprise. I have read in my fathers words: The present is where all that we have learned and all that we hope for converge. I like to think that there is a time for deconstruction, and a time for meaning. I choose not to allow my choices to become sins. At this point, someones voice echoes in my head, saying that regret comes with uncertainty. I try to make this as casual as I can. Because a certain kind of nationalism defeats itself in its ardent valorization of a myth of oneness, consequently denying the diversities and complexities within the system it tries to champion, I try to make this as unremarkable as possible. My answer is fortified with why not. This is me, somewhere inside a cross-dissolve or a fade-out. Just the two of you? The girls hair grew longer and flowed down her back in a flood that she didnt know it could take the shape of. They said it made

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her look older somewhat, and she laughed, twisting the strands into a loose knot. I find myself recalling the capacity to blur the lines of what I want, to deny my urges, to mutilate my irrationalities into some version of consideration or proper virtue. The metonymic gap reiterates that absence that lies at the point of interference between two cultures. It presents a cultural gap that emphasizes difference yet situates it in a way that makes the piece accessible. Everything you see is an after image. This is because you can only breathe a lungful of air at a time. In front of my laptop, again, I make the mistake of attempting to scroll up using the arrow key. Theres so much I want to say. Try to hop from one blog entry to the next, or even just from one self-help book title to another, and you may notice that we recycle realizations as often as we revel in recycled redemptions. Some would set this up as a premise to the appeal of a vice. I have heard about a best friend who promised to quit smoking if another abstained from kissing, and that, months later, when the said best friend took a chocolate-flavored puff, there was no mention of guilt. All this openness validates an inexhaustible cache of excuses. In some cultures, they pray to the devil, because it makes no sense to ask God to smite your deceiver with sickness and suffering. What a heartbeat can become when felt against a cheek Hm

34 It ends, and it is odd to fear ones own relief.

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Where does a conclusion take off from, when letters and erasures can only whisper among themselves on a page? The moon watches the obstinate backspace key as it sits uselessly on the bed of symbols, staring up at me while I become more accustomed to using the delete button. There are people who prefer to highlight the words before removing them. What kind of alchemy is there in a computer-generated works omission of omissions? Maybe happiness is a myth, like forever, the only access to which is faith. The way once upon a time is always recent enough at a certain age. I am one of those people who curl up in a fetal position as a defense mechanism. In psychology, its called regression. Its comforting that B has always stood for Ball. When she becomes her own barricade from the world, he breaks her down to make her admit that she is crying. A raindrop shattering against glass, I think, would feel the same way. Here, i sit, where writing is an act of sealing oneself into ones own memory, where i cant really know. Because the future waits for us as much as we wait for it. Someone who had never once owned a mobile phone decided to buy one when he and his first love broke up so he could reassure himself that she would not send him a message. A new keyboard sits on my desk.

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E. M. Tobias Lexulous!

t takes me 42 seconds to think of a word, and BEAT is all I can muster. I place it at the center of the board. Double-word, 12 points. I suck. My opponents a 42-year-old nipple pincher from Worcestershire, England. I have a little farm, he says. My wife and I milk cows. I say Im a foot reflexologist from Manila, Philippines. I am a fictional character living in a fictional country filled with other fictional characters like Wendell Capili and Jessica Zafra. He adds ACK to make TACK, C on a triple-letter score, 16 points. Philippines, he says. Lovely. Have you been here? I ask. No, he says, and adds a smiley. Ive seen El Nido on tv. Looks really nice. That polysyllabic place you live in, I say, Ive never heard of it before. Where is that exactly? Midlands, he says. Central England. Given the choice, Wendell Capili chooses to be an optimist. Jessica Zafra chooses to be a pessimist. Together they annihilate each other. I lay AMEN down KA, double-word down and across, 24 points. How long have you been here? he says. He meant here in Lexulous, the online board game. I say Im a noob. I havent played Scrabble since high school. What about you? Been here a couple of weeks. Just for fun, really. Married with children? Yes, two kids. The girls in high school, the boy works in a dairy factory, he says. Must be nasty working with peoples feet. He tiles WEB up the B of BEAT, and makes loser points of 9. Not really, I say. I disinfect them before the massage. Depends on the area you press. Heals illnesses. Hmm, he replies. Whats your foot like, I ask. Im big-boned. My feet are pale. I wear socks everyday. Do your feet stink? I type a grin emoticon. He grins back. Sometimes. When the weathers really cold. My feet sweat in my shoes.

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In this construct I choose to be a foot reflexologist. In the UP Diliman construct, Capili is a professor. In the construct of the writing industry, Zafra is, well, a writera critic, a fictionist, a postmodernist. I place QUEEN across the double-word grid from AMEN. I rack my brains, wince, and change it to ELOQUENT, T a blank tile. Scrabble! 104 points. Not bad for a beginner, he says. WOOT, I type. I break into a Dance Revo. You are EVIL EVIL EVIL. I hate you. I quit. He LOLs and ROTFLs. Hey, I say, whats your name? Chad, he replies. You? My brain hangs for five seconds then I type, Patrick. WTF, youre a guy? Pause. Not meant to insult. Pamela, I type. I was kidding. In Lexulous I am Pamela, my vital statistics 36-25-36, a trio of perfect squares. My wardrobe hues are mostly red, pink, and purple. I wear red catlike eyeglasses. Capili wears glasses. Zafra wears glasses. A trio afflicted with defective genes. Chad tiles HME to spell HOME down a triple-word score from ELOQUENT, 39 points. How old are you? he says. 24, I say. Do you have a family? I prefer to be single; Im quite the vamp. I type in a smiley. He grins back, says, If I visit the Philippines, will you tour me around? Sure, why not, Ill even give your bony feet a massage. That would be nice, he replies, smiley. Ill open your Qi, your energy field, and grant you a horrible disease. LMAO. Do that, he types back, and I might kick you with my other foot. Grin. Writers create worlds: comprehensible inkblots printed on white paper. We interpret color with our eyes. The earth doesnt really resemble the shape of an orange. Its shaped more like a pumpkin, squashed at both poles. I lay OX below the E of ELOQUENT, X on a double tripleletter score, 50 points. Your wife, where is she? Fixing dinner. Whats she cooking? Steak and white asparagus with truffle soup. Sounds appetizing, I type. What does truffle soup taste like? Some sort of mushroom, he says. Sharp and oily. Delicious. It stinks though. Smiley. What do you do on your free time? I filter my interests and say, I read cult fiction or mountain hike. Wow, he types. Mountains here. Windy. Occasional blizzards. Sucks, I say, laughing. Do you have snow? Sometimes. Weathers erratic out here. Cold. Around 8 degrees. The truth resides in our heads. Or up above in the realm of Forms and Ideas. What is Truth? The truth is, nobody really knows. Nobody even knows the truth nobody really knows. Reality: me, voluptuous. Capili, pillowy midsection. Zafra, similarly pillowy midsection.

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He attaches WEEP to WEB, P on a triple-letter score, 15 points. The scores 190 to 79. What book are you reading right now? I glance at the stack of books on my bedside table and type, How to be Idle: A Loafers Manifesto by Tom Hodgkinson. Freedom and fine art of doing nothing. He ROTFLs and says, Doing nothing? Interesting. Youre a loafer then? I work smart, I say. Im a sybarite. He doesnt reply so I ask, Do you read? When I have time. Crichton, mostly. And some detective novels. Ive read Next, I say. DNA manipulation and stuff. Really? I work on my tiles, wait for him. Yes, he says a minute later. I just checked my bookshelf. I have Next. Never got the chance to read it. You should, I say. The plots complicated though. Do you know me? You know me, you know Chad, in the confines of this text. You know Capili drinking milk on the television screen. You know Zafra the character in her books. What makes you think were real? I place L to make LEX, and spell the word TOOL on a double-word score, 18 points. My wife is spying on me, he types LOLing. What did you say to her? I said Im playing Scrabble with someone from the Philippines. Pause. Its been 20 years and Im still in love with her. Why are you telling me this? I type but scratch it out, backspace. I key in a smiley and say, Thats nice. Then follow up with: I dont believe in marriage, apparently. Everybody says that. Youll never know until you find the right person. Its just paperwork. You have the right to your opinion, he says. Grin. And kids, I point out. Im not fond of kids. Another smiley from him. He says nothing. You look out the window and see the moon, shaped like a coin cut in the middle. The moon isnt really a chunk of rock rotating around this pumpkin planet. Its really just a large silver coin with elves on the surface, adding and removing bits of it each day. Literature, science, the Internet, Discovery Channel, everybody else led you to believe its a satellite influencing the tides of the sea. He affixes SLEDGE to the E of WEB, L scores double-letter, 9 points. Its fun skiing with the kids once in a while. Ive never seen snow, I say. He grins then types, You should see my son. Pretty boy with blue eyes. I laugh out loud and ask his sons name and age. Roland. 21. Skinhead. Races a horse. Interesting. His current girlfriend is a black racehorse named Pauline. He wonders what I look like and asks for a photo. I fabricate an exotic babe in his head: chocolate skin, long hair, brown eyes, slender. I say I have a birthmark on my shoulder the shape of a goat. He finds this amusing.

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Another fictional character creeps in. Roland, six letters. One head, one torso, two arms, two feet. Ten fingers, ten toes. A penis. But then again, Roland is just a name printed in this text. I tile GEY on double-word, and make WEEP an adjective, 27 points. Is your son around? I ask. He tells me Ronalds out, but hell be home before 9. Its 30 minutes past 7 at Worcestershire, 7 hours behind Manila. Then his email address appears on my screen. My son would like to see what you look like. Your son, I say, mistyping LMAO. What makes you so sure Ill like him, or hell like me? Just a hunch. You sound like a nice lady to bring over here. White Christmas, windmills, verdant meadows, and a legion of cows pop up in my head. Then I see myself thirty years later, in rubber boots, wading through cow shit and tugging at cow nipples to fill filthy buckets with milk. I laugh and type, I dont even have a passport. Ive never stepped out of the country. Chad adds S to make STOOL, and double-words STAG vertically, T a blank tile, 13 points. Then he asks, Arent you sleepy? What time do you work? Freelance, I say. I freelance foot work. I post ads on bulletin boards and restroom cubicles, then people call me. Why reflexology? The kicks, I say. I get lots of tips. Me, Chad, Roland, Capili, Zafra, and the moon, we are characters two worlds apart from the realm of Forms and Ideas. In this world of words, we are mere inkblots structured in such a way to convey meaning. In the realm of Reality, we materialize in the minds of other people, in documents that support our existence. To be is to be perceived. Or so deluded philosophers say. I would like to believe I am deep and intellectual. I take out a J and score 18 points beside an O from STOOL. I can sense your chakras at the abdomen level, I type. Which means? I pause. Which means you have a lot of sexual energy. He LOLROTFLLMAOs and grins two times. My wife and I, he says, Were active individuals. Im happy for you, I say. Not all people get to that point. That stool isnt really excrement or a piece of furniture; it only produces a shape and texture in our heads. That stool isnt really brown; it only produces a color of brownness in our eyes. He spells DRIFTS up the S of SLEDGE, triple-letter double-word. That makes 24. My mom and dad, I say, have zero sexual energy. They have lots of mental energy though, their chakra. The chakra talk gets boring, so I ask, Do you sell milk then? We sell most of it. We leave something for ourselves. To make cream, yogurt, and ice cream. Cool. Whats your favorite flavor of ice cream? Cantaloupe.

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That ice cream isnt really cold and sweet; it only produces a sensation of coldness and sweetness in our tongues. That milk isnt really white; it only produces a color of whiteness in our eyes. All my tiles at the base point of 1, I link a double-word RUIN to DRIFTS. A sucky 8 points. I almost forget what cantaloupe looks like. But its out of season. So we have vanilla instead. I like vanilla, although I like chocolate better. Generic flavors, I think to myself. I grew up on dirty ice cream. I ask, Do you know the flavor ube? He doesnt. I tell him its a purple yam unique to the Philippines. Im not sure about it, but I tell him that anyway. I say it tastes like gabi or kamote. What are those? I laugh. I forget their English counterparts, I say. Im not good at naming vegetables and plants. That this sentence only exists when you are looking at it, and when youre not there, it disappears. That ideas only exist when youre thinking of them, and when youre not, they die out. He puts SHIRT at the end of ELOQUENT, same 8 points. We tried garlic ice cream once, he begins. Then ginger ice cream, for the nutritive value. GROSS, I type. How was it? Awkward-tasting but is okay. Speaking of garlic, I remember my paper about vampires for Popular Literature class. You go to school? Oh shit. I mean, back in college, I say, gathering my composure. The vampires, the concept originated from England. Bram Stokers Dracula, you remember? Tom Hodgkinsons How to be Idle: A Loafers Manifesto, Bram Stokers Dracula, Michael Crichtons Next, Wendell Capilis Mabuhay To Beauty, Jessica Zafras Twisted Series, and this article I am writing, these things are, in one way or another, advertisements. All writing is a form of advertisement. What do you think am I selling? I lay AGREE on the triple-word score at the bottom left of the board, extra word OE, 23 points. He says hes seen the 2002 film version. What about vampires? We have the manananggal or half-segmenter. A vulture-woman who tears her upper body from her waist and flies off at night to suck the fetuses of pregnant women. He LOLs at this and comments, I heard of a half-segmenter breaking vertically. Gross. If that were a guy, I tell him, where would his penis go? Chad tiles ZIT at RUIN. Double-word score, 24 Grin. I dont know. Probably be sliced down the middle. We smiley and ROTFL and LMAO. Fiction is the lie that tells the truth. But fiction is a lie, nevertheless. Together the terms cancel each other out. One minus one? Zero? What makes you so sure zero exists?

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I add S to ZIT, and place SAC across a double-word, 23. Suddenly, my four-year-old niece bangs at my door and enters my room. In a raspy voice she says, Tita. Eyes droopy, hair tousled, pajamas rumpled. I need to poo. Nature calls, I tell Chad, and he says Ok. Kaira, my niece, takes more than two minutes to crap her long dark brown turd. Keliitliit mong tao, kelaki-laki ng tae mo, I kid her. We laugh in the bathroom. I wash her butt, and when thats done, she runs into my room. I wash my hands. When I get back I find her punching the keys, fdftthgjgffllk;;l on the chat screen. Sorry about that, I tell Chad. My cat just walked on my laptop. I shove Kaira out my room. Did this game happen or not? A fictional character in a fictional text in a fictional world in a fictional idea. A lie within a lie within a lie within a lie. He spells a word down the L of SLEDGE. LOUT, U on a doubleletter, 5 points. You have a cat? His names Tubby. I picked him off the street as a kitten. Cute, he says. How old? One year. Apparently I left my door open. Hes sprawled on my bed now. Do you have pets? We have some sort of lizard at the kitchen counter, he says. He lives in an aquarium and changes color depending on the curtain. Coolness. What do you call him? Lizzy. Very creative. We LOL at the same time. GRUNT, double-word across from GEY, I score 14. My wife, he says. She needs to lose weight. Can you lose weight through reflexology? I laugh and say, Yes. But if you press or squeeze the wrong way, shell inflate and soar to outer space. Smiley. He ROTFLs. Seriously. Has she tried apple cider vinegar? What about it? You mix two spoonfuls with half a cup of water then drink it before meals. Does it work? Yeah, I lost 25 pounds in two months. I am a compulsive liar. What makes that previous statement true? He triple scores the word BOOT, 18 points. Apple cider also has other magical properties, I tell him. It cures superficial illnesses. Headaches, menstrual cramps, constipation, and stuff. Erectile dysfunction. He laughs. How fat is she? Not cow-fat or obese-fat, he replies. She just doesnt look like she used to. LOL. She mustve been hot back then. He tells me he met her in church. Sings in the choir, beautiful voice. Until now? Oh, she still sings, he says. But she only sings for me. Thats so sweet, I write. My heart melts, somewhat. I spell MIRE from AMEN, double-word with a bonus double-word IN, 16 points. Christian? Anglican. Active? Very. He pauses for a while then asks, Do you believe in God? I am a radical atheist but I type, Yes. We are a Christian country.

E. M. Tobias

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Our world greatly relies on words alone. Without words, there would be no history, no culture, no society, no Pamela, no Lexulous, no Roland and his penis. The Bible is a necessary fiction. He tiles WIRE up from WEEPY, W on triple-letter, 11. Christian country in Asia, he says. Philippines, East Timor, and some parts of Indonesia, I say, Christian countries. East Timor, he types. Where is that? Its beside Mexico. What? he says. Im kidding; I have no idea where it is. Poor sense of geography. He grins. Do you travel? I ask. He says he hardly leaves England. Hes scared of riding airplanes. Why, I say. His parents, he tells me, died in a plane crash back in the 80s. I say Im sorry with a sad face. Its ok. What do you make of this world if words are removed entirely? No labels on the streets, no libraries, no Internet, no signs, no symbols, no texts? Double-word YOUR crossing GRUNT, I get 14. Were almost out of tiles, I tell him. Youre losing! 321 against 180. I quit! He LOLs and ROTFLs. Youre good. Just lucky, I say. Seconds of boredom. Did you know there are erogenous zones on the foot... that give genital stimulation? What? He laughs. You are kidding me. Would I lie to you? A pregnant woman faces her husband and asks, How do I look? You are beautiful. You look like a cow. PIT across from the end of LOUT, I in triple-letter, he scores 7. I dont know. He laughs. Its what keeps my customers coming, really, I type. Its like being a prostitute, in a way. He ROTFLs, saying, Youre telling me, the foot is connected to the genitals. Two words FA and AY from the word YOUR, I score 14. I dont know if I should believe that. Grin. Would you prefer to see the Emperor naked? Of course you would. You like seeing naked people. Were all animals, really. Only we wear clothes and make everything complicated. We see our crap in the toilet, we see the food that we ate and digested, its nutrients distributed to the cells in the body. We see food converted into energy. We see why we get up in the morning and do the things we do. And when we die, our bodies rot, intermingle with the earth, and become minerals for plants, which are then eaten by people and animals. The cycle goes on. Life is a piece of shit. LAWN at the W of WIRE, L triples, he gets 8 points. Look, were running out of tiles. Can I have your email? I place VIA down the top center triple-word score, 18. Alright, I say. I invent an email address then type, [email protected]. Ill send you my picture.

42

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In your mind, I is the totality of yourself: your repressed childhood memories, your experiences from cradle to grave, your atomic and anatomical structure, your complex emotions, your thoughts and imaginations and dreams and aspirations. It would take a thousand writers to summarize your I in a library of books. Your I is an entire universe of its own. In words, I is just black pixels in the shape of a vertical line. Ideas, reality, words: the person you love isnt the same person who loves you isnt the same person represented by the word person. The whole is not equal to the sum of its parts. The truth is, a triangular sandwich tastes better than a rectangular one. END down the E of BEAT, he scores 4. The game is almost over. That would be great. He keys in a grin. Do you chat? YM? Webcam? So you can see my son. I add a letter I on the triple-letter grid after the H of SHIRT, 7 points. It would be nice if I could chat with you again, he continues. Outside Lexulous, I mean. I suck at Scrabble. He ROTFLs. I LOL and say, then add me up, footwork96. Grin. Somewhere, deep inside, I feel a pang of guilt. I am Pamela and I exist only in this text. Somewhere in the future, words are going to be added to this text saying that Chad and I met in England. That he is white, fat, wrinkly, and wears five layers of clothing. You ask yourself, did this really happen? It did. It happened here. He adds D to HI to make HID, 7. Ha! I say. You are over mister. Wait, he says. Before you put down the last tiles, when will you be online? I cant tell. You have my email anyway. I put in a smiley. Any last words? Uhm, you get some sleep now. Nice meeting you, Pamela. I LOL and say, You too, Chad. I tile AID on triple-word score from HID, 12 points. The game automatically logs out and the final score pops up on my screen. His remaining 4-point tiles are transferred from his score to mine. Final score, 406 against his 213. I win.

Lambert Varias

43

Lambert Varias Ss sidekick

(\sd-kik\) noun, informal a person closely associated hierarchy, since a questioner < the answerer, and so, Really? A black man invented electronica? What about punk? Do you consider punk to be an original form? Shit like that. But then when they get what they want, when its your turn to say Dear Tita Helen, you can shout all you want and still you can barely get them to notice you? Or maybe in the car, when its just the two of you, just you and the undisputed main man, and hes bitching on and on about this and raving on and on about that (He: Tangina, ganun siya tas pag umalis ako, pababalikin niya ko? Crazy woman! Me: Haha.), all the while asking you to change CDs after every 2 songs, and still you listen and you laugh along (He [points at magazine]: Parang mas okay pa Death From Above kaysa diyan sa MSTRKRFT. Me [looks at magazine]: Mukha pa siyang 70s porn star. What a stache.)? And you get dizzy from all the action, reaching back to

with another as a subordinate or partner. Ex. If you love yourself, you cannot be a sidekick. Word Form: sidekickery (\sdkik-r\). If you are unsure if you yourself are a sidekick, here are three simple questions that can help you decide. First: when in TK, or at a friends house, do people regularly fail to acknowledge you? Theyre not deliberately ignoring you, but theyre not exactly onto you either. Like, when they shout at you over the laughter and the music and the tricycles, you totally take time to digest what theyre saying, like Oh okay, almost all of the genres of music were made by black people, and yeah, hip hops the only really original form of music that has arisen in our time, I see, I see, like that, and when they ask for a decent reply you give them that, you ask questions to feed your ignorance, and more importantly to preserve the

44 get the CD case, reaching below your seat for more CDs, putting them in the player, putting them back in the case again, and then when its quiet and finally you ask him something, you, a silvertongued Adam pining for Eve, say something that needs replying to, its as if you just exhaled. You just let out air in a complex manner, involving your vocal chords. Isnt the silence, as his CD player conks out yet again, just a fucking black asshole? Fourth: Do people immediately think of you next when they think of the main man? When I say Batman you say? You say? Like that? And in that order only?

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table, to have everyone hear him ask you if theres a rift between the two of you, if theres something going on, because if there is hes sorry? Does that someone insist that something has gone down, and of course in a scornful, condescending, maybe even snotty tone? Does that someone mockingly ask your girlfriend how it has come to be that his friend, who was once a free spirit, is now more like a neutered house cat? If you answered yes to all these questions, then you are I. Word Form: sidekickassity (\sd-kik-assity\) As sad as it sounds, being a sidekick does have a lot of perks. If there werent any benefits then there would be no sidekicks at all, only yes men (see Related Terms). What perks, you ask? What fucking perks? Well, whoever says that Robin is not to be envied is obviously a moron, possibly a yes man. Does Robin not live in the Bat Cave too? And get to ride the Batmobile too? Does he not get the license to break bones and punch faces too? Does he not become free of financial worries as well? Does a sidekick not, at one huge dot of a point of his life, enjoy free trips to Baguio, not to mention free food and lodging and booze and weed and good music? Doesnt Alfred also call Robin Master? And arent you the only non-relative, non-employee who is given a

Fig. 1 Notice the penned-in eyebrows on Batmans mask.

Ninth: If, upon not hanging out, drinking with, overnighting, or at least having a yosi break with the main man for, say, a week, does the said person whine when you finally make it? Does that someone wave his hand to stop all conversation, any and all shit at the

Lambert Varias

45 does this insecurity come from? It comes from your recognition of the blinding truth: that he needs you far less than you need him. All he wants is someone to be with him. He wants someone to reply when he asks, even if its just hot fudge sundae to his Drive Thru tayo libre kita ano gusto mo? But most of all, and this is what cracks you up, he keeps you because, for all his laziness, his procrastination, but most paradoxically his selfobsession, he is a poor hysteric: he has no practical and emotional knowledge whatsoever, and he is not aware of the ironies that he provides for you to marvel at. The main man is a man who downloads hundreds of howto e-books, as if hed actually get to learn taekwondo from an e-book, when he has a schedule that reads: Tuesday 4pm: Inuman Na! The main man is a man who sincerely thanks God for

Christmas present by your main mans parents, gifts such as your very first cell phone? Are you not allowed unlimited lease to the main mans Playstation, both 1 and 2 and Portable? Are you not educated through his books and music and magazines and porn and cable TV? And of course, as Robin is sometimes privileged to witness Batman get his ass kicked, arent you privy to the times when the main man is brought back to Earth by his parents? Arent you allowed to be the sometime confidant of the ex, whose sadistic specialty it is to erase whatever dignity the main man possesses, who pounces at the slightest opportunity to humiliate and put down the main man? Arent you yourself allowed to scold the main man, to tell him that his room is the middle-class version of Payatas? That his guidelines to healthy living, Pentel penned so pathetically on the beige wall of his bedroom, the lines curving downward, are so stupid and selfmocking, the ironies so crisp? That he cannot complain about being poor and at the same time still afford to get drunk every single night? Are you not the owner of the ass that is on the Best Seat in the House? Are you not guilty that you are entertained by his suffering? That to make up for your insecurity you savor each blow that he is dealt? And where

Mens Health, the Bible of Mens Health, because of

all its instructional portions, such as You, Improved or Look Great Instantly! and also 32 Breast Kept Secrets! He is a man who, after being in a relationship for more than 2 years, still asks for tips fit for a first date, if its alright to text her at 3 am if hes drunk (NO), what about if hes not drunk (NO). He is a man who, yes, when drunk, sits on the roof

46 of his Civic and asks the 12:51 am atmosphere, Dapat at this age, sikat na ko e, dapat big time na ko. WHAT HAPPENED?! This main man is a man who possesses insane amounts of knowledge but needs an alchemist to turn that knowledge into wisdom. He already has everything a sensible person would wish for, a complete family, a twin sister, a brain, a car, a job, and people around him who are way cool and can spend for themselves, like the Nice Guy in the Rexona commercial, he knows that guy, but of course he is not sensible, and that is why you are friends, and that is why he is generous, that is why he keeps you. Wasnt there a time when he lent you bus fare, deposited it in your empty DOST account, even, just so you could go to Manila and crash at his place when you felt like running away from the problem that was your family? And who introduced you to Dave Eggers, to Justice, to Band of Horses, to Santogold, to Yelle, to Kieslowski, to cigarettes? And that one time, when he was drunk and you werent, like all the other times, except he had broken up with his girl while youd just found Love, that one time when he left his house keys and you were stranded at the side of his house, when he chugged brandy straight up (Gusto ko lang whats best for ~her his voice breaks here),

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resulting in the most painfulsounding cough youd ever heard, the idiot, you then volunteered to get the cigs from his car, even if it was parked a good 300 meters away, and you told him to take the time to cry while you were gone, but really, the sight was just a crime, a shrine crumbling. And at that moment you were an actor, maybe Bill Murray, physically ugly but lyrically handsome, yes, yes, because you were asking a movie question, thinking a movie thought: Why did this have to happen? While at the same time, unashamed, you put a mental bookmark the size of a shopping mall at that moment, knowing that its something to write about, and now as you are writing this you realize that all things counted, all angles viewed, all shit shat, the main man got the shorter end of the stick and you won. And in winning you lose him: now that his wingman (see Related Terms) has lost his girlfriend as well, and through parallel events, and you, by some cosmic fuck up, manage to keep one for a year, now that you are Nightwing, now that you are Kratos, standing over the head of Ares, there, a geek who refers to comics and video games, who could have simply said, now that you are a McCartney apart from a Lennon, now that you are you and he is he, there is that wanting to be the automatic shotgun in

Lambert Varias

47 more, one needs the other less, and you have betrayed him by not telling him about this, and he has betrayed you by claiming that you are equal. But you will stay. You will stay and wear an embarrassed smile, or shake your head and laugh, because hes lonely and needs an ear, and hes buying you a round. And youre eager to say what he wants to hear afterwards, or even just do that thing you do at the same time where you look at each other, nod twice, eyebrows raised, lips curved downward: Yeah, well. You know.

the Civic, that wanting to buy the cigarettes for the both of you, the money from him, there is that moment, when, drunk as usual, he asks you if you are aware that you are the only one people want to convince to hang out with them, something you cant quite believe, there is that wanting to hear the story of how he drove to fucking Novaliches, which is outside of the solar system, just to fetch your skinny ass, while singing Aint no mountain high enough, alluding to you, to him, to the nights, to the years, there is that wanting to sleep on the couch of their family house at Camp 7, where one time his little cousin asked: Dito ka na titira? And there is that night, driving back to Manila, at the NLEX, the treadmill-like ride, the trees, windows down, cigs in hand, the beautiful poisoned sunset, Feist or The National or something as good on, when you talked about how easily you could reduce your friends to character types, all of them, except the two of you. No homo. And now that the wingman is abroad for employment (and hopefully sex as well), the main man will now present you to everyone as his best friend. You will mentally wince and want to run away every time you are introduced as such because you are sure that one loves the other

Fig 2. Aint no mountain high enough.

Related Terms: A wingman (\wi-mn\), if enlisted regularly, can be considered a sidekick. A yes man (\yes -mn\), i.e., a person who agrees with everything that is said, especially one who endorses or supports without criticism every opinion or proposal of an associate or superior, however, is not a sidekick. God no. You see, a yes man, which in the olden times

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main man, in fact, he can make and say his own, which the main man is free to assimilate without fear of ridicule. An Ian is made fun of, berated, verbally abused, by the Joel and/or the Harmon, whereas a sidekick must never tolerate such behavior from the main man, which then tips public sympathy over to the sidekick (Oi wag mong ginaganyan yan! Sinasamahan ka nga lagi e!). Also, an Ian is explicitly identified as a yes man, whereas only the sidekick acknowledges his state. The main man is too busy measuring the significance of his existence to ever acknowledge the sidekicks sidekickness. So: yes man = enslaved, painfully obvious, generally fucked; sidekick = ignored when not needed, not forced to be a parrot and/or moron, still generally a human being. Now a wingman (i.e., a pilot who flies behind and outside the leader of a flying formation; ALSO someone who sets up dates, who scouts a potential date; one who counsels on love/sex/dating/ text messages/psychology of the game) can be a sidekick under special circumstances, especially if the main man is lovelorn or on the rebound, one who recently, one cold April night, twisted open a cheap longneck, and, thinking that his emotions and abundant tears and mucus would insulate him, chugged down two gulps of

Fig. 3 Renfield: Master! Master! I meant.... mister! mister!

was called an Ian, is in reality barely useful to his superior, and at the same time, gets nothing out of the relationship (i.e., slavery) with the boss man, which was once called the Joel, also the Harmon. As you can see, a yes man often serves multiple masters, whereas a sidekick has honor, and is thus loyal to one main man at a time. An Ian has to laugh at all the jokes of the Joel, whereas a sidekick is not obliged to. An Ian has to acquire the expressions of the Harmon, expressions that are used every 12 seconds, expressions such as Wow ah! The Harmon is of course, immediately credited and at once slightly shamed by this, but since an Ian, although he does not use the expression properly half of the time, is always available for the Common Bond (i.e., gaming), the Harmon tolerates an Ian. A sidekick, however, does not have to use the expressions of the

Lambert Varias

49 it once more, then the wingman becomes the appropriate sidekick, right when even the Ate at a bar can become a potential lover to the main man. A sidekick, while making the main man look good and feel good by being uglier than and equally romantically inept as he is, would make the worst company in dealing with affairs of the heart. If the main man is to get any action his sidekick has to be charming and better at women than he is. In other words, a wingman. Furthermore, if the sidekick is busy attempting to graduate, then he can conveniently neglect his duties to the main man since at this point, a wingman is sufficient, nay, necessary.

Fig. 4 Neil Patrick Harris: Wingman Most Legendary

brandy, and immediately regretted it. If the main man is in such a state, causing his life to be all about the loss of love and attempting to gain

50

Sarah Matias

Sarah Matias Saturdays Never Spent

The child needs to learn on her own what image is and what likeness is and what happens when one falls in between, and she will have trouble understanding the world and its ways, what with a father whose presence she can feel only when she looks at herself in the mirror, the feeling fading as the photographs age and a country dwindles into a dot on a map. She is small and she will need to sit on his shoulders when she cannot see the man with his whip commanding the king to exercise temperance in the center of a crowded circus. She will need his hand when she walks amidst the carnival and sees the bearded lady and her tiny beard-comb, the boy with claws created for creatures that crawl, the savage who seeks refreshment from a chickens neck, the widow watching her fish-daughter wading in the water. She will want to know why they have chains on their feet, which day during creation they were conceived. Perhaps during dusk or as dawn breaks like a blow through the heart, those hours when the day seems reluctant to choose its colors? She will ask this out loud, and the strangers surrounding her will mumble some story about an old lady with pins and needles and candles and dolls. She will look up at the space where her father is supposed to be to ask if this is true, but all she will see are stars. She will stare at them for a while and think of the word here, wonder what it looks like and where she might find it.

Tracy Ignacio

51

Tracy Ignacio The sofa

s from my mother

not a gift, exactly

more an adoption you remember it in the living room before they moved

used to be in our old house on just because

they thought they knew

all of us had to move on too I found it there in the bodega just before we moved out it was just a thing

taking up space

not being what it was supposed to be it was certainly

more in the old house in the bodega it was certainly less than it was supposed to be your mothers upholsterer said throw the foam out binahayan na ng hayup, maam (me?

maam? really?) pero pwede pa maam (yeah, ok, me) yung frame maayos pa so all the years that it sat in that space some thing made something

out of it I knew nothing about foam I knew the sofa was a pleaser could seat all five members of the family didnt mind weight gained or lost didnt mind old backsides acting like wise asses being stood on by children playing house crumbs spills vomit tears didnt mind secrets didnt mind

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kisses curious fingers playing naked backs knees elbows strangers who made themselves family who made themselves strangers

&

I had to

throw the foam out the frame was made out of bamboo

it was just too old you know what they say about that says

your mothers upholsterer says re finish the frame re varnish repaint move out dont says your mother s decorator says white would spaces white would create be nice the new house white white white white small if we liked I didnt really care I just wanted to

walls white blinds white floor white furniture white rug

white crib white cloth diapers white booties and mittens white plastic bottles but the nipples were flesh in that house a one year old everything so damned white to think we were moving in with so the sofa once

clearly your mothers decorator was single

some other color than white moved in with my mothers dining table and chairs my mothers old china cabinet my mothers old coffee table my old bed my sisters old bed the tv microwave washing machine rice dispenser rice cooker plates pots pans toaster air pot a hundred million punch bowls and cups your mothers maid the maids niece the maids neighbors relatives daughter a year later though she came

I didnt really

Tracy Ignacio care I just wanted to move out then in being a sofa the old one you say then the sofa could go back to just

53

with new foam of course I thought it would feel like it was stiff it didnt know me give it time

youll get used to it but will we its so pristine so strictly clean the children (yes

be able to use it another one came shouldnt be that way

as unexpected as the first) are afraid of it so you say change it then but your mother her we dont and so we

decorator her upholsterer what do we tell them didnt

I found an upholsterer and a decorator and its such a small town next thing I know shes why its only been a year

your mother knows everyone knows your mother asking why we switched upholsterers and decorators sayang ang tela sayang ang pintura sayang ang pagod sayang sayang sayang only she didnt ask out loud she didnt

see the change see I changed

my mind too much of a bother letting strangers in your life for the sake of upholstery I knew everything had an answer the way it was it looked the sofa stayed slipcovers then

different stayed the same underneath it sat

four it left room for nephews neighbors preschool playmates guests sat on it slept

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in it moved around made room for end tables easy chairs mostly it sat in the space beside the window where I could look out and see the gate it held diaper bags

baby toys lego blocks power rangers crayons pencils books notebooks school bags lunch bags gym bags stayed on that sofa for days when my sister moved in her suitcase when my father visited he sat there promising you sat there playing video games until dawn

never any more children

I sat there when I refused to talk to you wouldnt let me drive your new car we sat there in the

dark while the boys slept in the tent on the rug in front of the sofa in the dark while the boys slept in the dark we were in the dark on the sofa while the boys slept it was where you told me the news about the new house the money to buy the house behind their own in a week how your mother lent you how well be moving out

I was excited I wasnt prepared it was no big deal I

couldnt wait to move on the new house was bigger wed have a bigger room the boys a room each there was too much

there was a proper guest room in fact room the floors all that room

in the living room the sofa seemed dwarfed by the walls we used it for a few weeks but felt out of place I tried

I tried to give it back to my mother but didnt go with her theme to give it to my sister but she didnt remember it

my brother didnt know it

besides he lived with my father they lived in his parents old house all the furniture familiar no one wanted it I couldnt just throw it

Tracy Ignacio was perfectly usable then out one arm broke loose

55
the bottom fell

as if it knew what to do all along it decided its fate for me so

thats why Im here now

looking at this catalogue trying I dont have to

things out asking for advice live with some ones hand-me-down on my own maybe what the store has just

Im enough of a mother to decide wont do I dont

see anything that would fit my need maybe I dont need a sofa maybe well just sit on the floor and make do

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Cristina Morales From Glibness and Grit at St. Judes High: The Two-Fisted Tales of Matt and Jasper

1. atthew Carpio ran through the procession of people lumbering slowly in the shadows of umbrellas as the noon sun beat down relentlessly on the sweltering streets of Manila. His unbuttoned uniform flapped in the air, and his feet barely touched the ground. There was a dull ache in his side, but he didnt slow down, not even after he crashed into a college student and her books scattered all over the sidewalk. Gasping an apology, he kept running, leaving the girl to pick up the books while yelling expletives at him. There was no breeze to speak of; dust settled on every exposed surface, each sweat-drenched body. The rainy season was late. And so was he. The green gates of St. Judes Academy came into view. He skidded to a stop and hopped from one foot to another, restlessly waiting for the guard to open the gate. Peering inside, he caught a glimpse of the wall clock. 1:16. Putik. It had been four days since his first day at St. Judes, and he knew it was going to take him a long time to get used to the place. He was awarded a scholarship to the school after being discovered by a local politician at the junior science fair, where his investigative project on the different uses of coconuts won second place. He was proud of this achievement and felt the need to live up to this honor. But now he was late, and Matthew Carpio was never late. The gate finally opened, and Matthew ran inside. It was suddenly cold in the air-conditioned hallways. And man, was the place clean. Matthew slowed down, almost in reverence of the schools immaculacy, but primarily because his feet wouldnt run, not with the portraits of

Cristina Morales

57

principals past looking down on him in disapproval. The tiles glimmered against his shoes; echoes of his footsteps reverberated in the hallway. Only when he reached the foot of the stairs did he start running again. He gasped as he clambered up the flights of stairs, frantically buttoning up his shirt and combing his fingers through his hair in an attempt to look at least half presentable. He stopped outside his classroom. Leaning one hand against the wall, he bent down to catch his breath. This was all Bens doingif his younger brother had put his notebook in his backpack like Matt had told him to, then they wouldnt have accidentally swapped notebooks, and Matt wouldnt have had to commute to the other side of the city just to swap them back. He took one deep breath, and opened the door. The classroom was empty. He took a few steps backwards and checked the room number. 203. Then he saw the writing scrawled on the blackboard: Class at auditoriumSir Magat. Quickly, he spun on his heels and ran up the stairs, struggling to keep his composure. The auditorium was on the fourth floor of the school building, and when he got there, he slammed against the swinging doors. Everyone stopped whatever it was they were doing and gawked at him. Mr. Carpio, glad that you could join us. Mr. Magat tapped his shoes sharp leather toe on the gleaming floorboards. I... had... my brother... He wheezed. Shhh! The teacher theatrically held one finger in the air. Mr. Carpio, as I have explained to the rest of the classwho were here on timewe shall be studying ballroom dance for our next physical education classes. The class has just finished learning the basic steps of the chacha. You may join us if you are still interested to stay in this institution. Mr. Magat jerked his head the way a girl would to toss her hair, except he was a balding man, and the movement looked more like a random spasm, if anything. Now everyone, pick a partner. Be quick about it. The auditorium immediately erupted into chaos, everyone in a hurry to get a good partner. There were only thirty-six of them in the class, but why did it seem to be cramped all of a sudden? Matt looked around for a friendly face, but everyone seemed to be avoiding eye contact. These people were so different from his classmates at the public school. They were so mature, or at least appeared to be. In the entirety of his four days in the school, all his interactions with his classmates had been limited to strained, short exchanges, mostly introductions.

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He saw a girl leaning against one of the auditoriums pillars, separate from the hullabaloo. She was watching everyone pair up, a half-smile on her face. The girl sighed, then, with her fingers, combed back her long black hair into a ponytail. Matthew swallowed the lump in his throat and slowly walked towards her. Hi. His shirt was drenched in sweat, and it clung to his back. He hoped he didnt stink. Oh, hi Matthew. Whats up? She knew his name. She was looking at him straight in the eye. She had nice eyes. His mind went blank. Do you know my name? She tilted her head. He could only grin like an idiot. Its Julia. Yeah, sorry I... Matthew sighed. Do you have a partner already? Sorry, I do. Julia made a face. I promised Frankie Id dance with him. She gestured towards the boy next to her. Matthew hadnt noticed him. Frankie looked up from his makeup mirror and beamed, lips sparkling from glittery gloss. Matthew smiled half-heartedly. Was it just him, or was the room beginning to spin? Are you okay? He quickly steadied himself, willing his knees to keep him upright. Im fine. He smiled. Thanks anyway. He wiggled his fingers awkwardly into what vaguely resembled a wave. Thanks for asking. She gave him a sympathetic smile. Matthew took one last look at Juliashe had turned her attention to her dance partnerthen looked for an available girl. Only all the girls had already paired up, and he was left partnerless. Whats that, Mr. Pelaez, no partner? he heard Sir Magat exclaim in an over-emphatic voice. Not to worry, it looks like Mr. Carpio has also found himself without a partner. How convenient. He paused. You two shall dance together. The class murmured in disbelief. Sir Magat was known to be one of the more eccentric teachers, but this was just weird. Sir, I... What is it, Mr. Carpio? I... Im... Im a boy, Matthew blurted out, then nodding his head to the other boy, he pointed out the obvious. And sos he.

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Sir Magat sighed. Mr. Carpio, just be thankful that Im not making you dance the tango or waltz. Sir Magat left it at that, and turned to the rest of the class. It looked like there was no way out of this one. Now, let us begin. Face each other, hold hands, and one-two-three-and-fourone-two-three-and-four Matt looked at Jasper Pelaez. Although he sat next to him in class, their brief encounters were far from encouraging; Jasper was the first person Matt tried introducing himself to on his first day, but the other boy didnt even bother to acknowledge his presence. All he knew about Jasper was that he grew up in Australia, spoke with a strange accent, was certainly not a people person, and definitely not someone he wanted to be even remotely close to being friends with. Matt didnt realize that he had been staring until he saw the chubby boys eyes flash with contempt behind his thick glasses. Mr. Magat stopped counting to glare at the most miserable-looking couple in the auditorium. Mr. Carpio and Mr. Pelaez, dont test my patience. Hold hands. The class tittered. You be the g-girl. Jasper finally stuttered. His voice was hoarse. Why me? Matt demanded, indignant. Ive already learned the boys part. You havent learned ananything. No way. Its j-just the same thing. O-only your parts b-backwards. You two, we havent got all year, Mr. Magat snapped. Fine. Matt hissed, rolled his eyes, and held out his hand, which Jasper promptly took. Jaspers hand felt like a dead fishcold, clammy, and limp. Someone laughed. Matt felt his ears heat up. Thats better! Sir Magat exclaimed. Now, class, where were we? He kicked the sound system back into action, then flitted from one couple to the next, correcting postures and always, always reminding them to sway those hips. Matthew kept his eyes on his feet, determined not to look at his partner, who breathed through his mouth and smelled like fabric conditioner and cardboard. Jasper was a sight; he had rhythm all right, but he had the grace of a rheumatic goat. As much as he would have liked to laugh, Matthew couldnt. Not when the whole class was talking about him, staring pointedly and laughing. He couldnt even muster the

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strength to soften the blow by laughing along with them. This was just too much. Sir Magat was cha-chaing in place, his chin up in the air, eyes closed. He spoke. Everyone, get used to your partners. You will be dancing with them until we are finished with the cha-cha. Matthew suddenly lost his rhythm, and stepped on Jaspers foot. Watch it! Jasper yelped. Matthew glared at his partner. They were so close. He could even see the pores on Jaspers nose. The beads of sweat. His stomach lurched. He tried not to gag and took a step back. Cha-cha-cha. There was no doubt about it, the room was spinning. Some boys made kissing sounds as they danced past them. Oh, bugger off, Jasper snapped as they cha-chad away, hooting and laughing. Matthew prayed for it to end. And it did.

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Youre home early. Matts mother said as he took off his shoes at the doorway. The house smelled like dough. She was baking again. She looked at his face and paused. What happened? I, he hesitated, sort of collapsed. What? Her rolling pin fell on the dough with a soft thud. How? What happened? Its nothing nay, just dehydration or an empty stomach or something. Nothing? You call that nothing? Anak, you have to take better care of yourself! Hay, what would your father say if he heard about this? Dont even get me started on Yes nay. As his mothers tone ascended, Matthew trudged up the stairs and into his room, closing the door behind him and falling face down on his bed. Although it didnt hurt as much as when he regained consciousness in the school clinic, his headwhich was now branded with a fresh bumpstill throbbed with pain. Apparently he had collapsed somewhere in the middle of a Julio Iglesias song, and that marked the end of class. He had pleaded with the nurse to let him go back to class, but she insisted on sending him home. All that running for nothing. His mind drifted to the bubble of St. Judes, which was completely isolated from the real world. The school was on a whole different

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dimension, one that had an adjustable climate and portals in the form of big green gates. He sighed and stared at the ceiling, listening. To the sound of his breathing. To the faint buzzing of traffic on the main road. To the ice cream vendors repetitive call. To the neighborhood dogs barking. To the neighborhood kids in a play fight. To the taho vendor hollering. Matthew was glad to be home. He closed his eyes and fell asleep. 2. The best part of the day had to be Filipino class. It was three in the afternoon, the most excruciating part of the day when everyones itching to be dismissed. Because he was feeling especially lazy and didnt feel like giving another lecture on Noli Me Tangere just yet, Sir Tiongson asked some students to read excerpts of their favorite parts of the book. Matthew didnt bother to listen to the first few of his classmates and was instead intently reading the next few chapters, those they hadnt covered yet. He was somewhere in the middle of the nineteenth chapter when a voice floated into his consciousness. He blinked. His eyes had lost their focus. A girl was standing in front of the classroom, framed by the blackboard. Julia Regalado. Some of her hair fell in her face, and she tucked it behind her ear. A lump grew in Matthews throat. Ang Pangingisda. Numiningning pa ang mga bituin sa langit... His ears instantaneously developed the skill to filter out the buzz of the air conditioner and his classmates murmurs. ...nangaglilibot na sa mga lansangan ng bayan ang tungoy sa dagatan, ang isang masayang kawang naliliwanagan ng nakagagalak na liwanag ng mga huepe... In all his years, his sense of hearing had never been this acute. ...pagkakita sa kanilang mga mukhang ang kabataay tumatawa at ang pag-asay maningning... The rest of him, however, was rendered useless. He couldnt even be bothered to make sense of the words she was reading, because the words didnt matter. Her voice, now that was something. It was like early morning, right when the city just began to wake up. Church bells rang, street vendors crowed, the roads pulsated with revving engines and

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honks. It was vibrant and alive. It was bright and colorful. It was full of hope and She was done reading. Very good, Miss Regalado. Thats a beautiful translation you have there. She grinned and sat down. Matthew exhaled. He hadnt even noticed that he was holding his breath. He didnt hear Sir Tiongson ask Jasper to read, nor did he hear his seatmate swearing under his breath as he stood up. As Jasper fumbled and the rest of the class tittered, Matthews mind was elsewherewith the beautiful idea that was Julia, to be exact. His eyes transfixed on the back of her head, he willed her to have mercy on him, to turn around, and to speak again. She turned. Was she smiling at him? She couldnt be. She laughed. Of course Julia wasnt smiling at him. She wasnt even looking at him, she was looking at his extremely red-faced seatmate, who couldnt seem to get through a particularly long word. Thats enough, Mr. Pelaez. Their teacher took pity on Jasper, who sat down on his chair so quickly the floor around him shook. On any other day, maybe Matthew would have felt sorry for Jasper. But Julia was laughing, and no one could blame him for joining in because her laughter was infectious. He laughed, not at Jasper, not at anyone, but with her. Next to her voice, his laughter sounded like the early morning as well. 3. Boys, your dad called this morning. The Carpio family was eating dinner. Their mother had prepared sinigang na baboy and some fruit salad for dessert. Dessert meant something was up, and all throughout dinner, Matthew had been waiting for his mother to say something. This was probably it. The three boys looked up at their mother. Ben bounced on his chair. Did he ask for me? I want a Transformer! Tell him I want a Transformer! Shut up, shes not talking to him right now, Alan hissed. I know what you are, but what am I? What? That doesnt even make sense.

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What did he say? Matthew asked as his brothers bickered. Hes coming home this month. Alan and Ben abruptly stopped goofing around. Cool! Whens he coming? Ben screeched. Tell him I want a Transformer. I want a Bumblebee! Next week, she exhaled. Hes going to arrive next week. Yay! Ben shot out of his chair and into the living area, running circles around the coffee table. Whys he coming? Matthew asked, trying not to sound too worried. It was the middle of August, and their father usually came home once a year for Christmas. His mother sighed and cradled her head in both hands. The two older brothers exchanged looks. Ma? You okay? Alan asked. She sighed again, and rested her chin on her fists. Your dad lost his job. Matthew exhaled, and leaned into his seat. What? Alan sat up straight. He got fired? What did he do? No, it wasnt anything like that. No. Another sigh. The company went under, and they couldnt afford to keep him anymore. A lot of people were let go. Just like that? She nodded. Alan buried his head in his arms, mumbling something incomprehensible. His mother quickly stood up to clear the table. Let me help. Matthew picked up his plate. No, its okay. Her voice wavered. You go study, Ill do this. Matthew looked at his mother. She looked tired, as if she hadnt slept in days. How long did she know about this, and why hadnt he noticed anything earlier? She went into the kitchen and turned on the radio and faucet. Something about the way she stood made him want to put his arm around her or something, but he shook it off, and went to his room. A week later, as promised, their father arrived. When Matthew got home he saw Ben playing with the Transformer action figure he had wanted so badly. His father was asleep, Alan said, fiddling with his new mp3 player. Matthews pasalubong was on the coffee table. It was a digital watch. According to its box it was solar powered, had a digital compass, and could adjust to twenty-nine time zones. It must have been expensive, and he knew he should have felt pleased with the effort his father had put into choosing a present, but this felt like too much.

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He put it on anyway. It felt good, lighter than he expected. It looked good. If it werent for that pit of guilt in his throat, he could almost say that he enjoyed having it around his wrist. It was also a bit distracting. Instead of studying, he found himself playing around with its features measuring the altitude, the temperature, seeing what time it was in France, Nigeria, Chile, lighting it up, timing how long he could hold his breath. When his father knocked at his door, he was jumping up and down to see if the altimeter could tell the difference. Anak? He stopped jumping. His father had obviously just woken up; his hair was sticking up in awkward bunches, and his eyes were still puffy. Dont just stand there, come here and give me a hug. Matthew grinned and walked up to his father, who threw his arms around his son and squeezed. When he was done, he held his son by the shoulders and looked him squarely in the eye. Matthew made a valiant effort not to break eye contact. Wow. His father gave a low whistle. Youre taller. Youll be taller than me in no time. Yeah, nay forces vitamins down my throat everyday. I guess they actually work. His father chuckled. Your mothers done a good job. Matthew nodded. Yeah, shes great. So. His father gestured to Matthews wrist. I see you like your watch? Matthew laughed. His dad was home.

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There are some people who can be in a roomful of strangers and make friends in a matter of hours, not to mention exchange a few phone numbers and email addresses. They are gregarious, outgoing, and assertive. These people are invited to parties. They mix. They mingle. They initiate conversations and follow through. They flit from one crowd to another with ease. Jasper Pelaez was certainly not one of those people. Not only was he socially inept, his Filipino paper came back to him marked with a big red C. His second in the school year. People looked at him, saw the baby fat and glasses and immediately filed him in the nerd shelf. And then when they heard him speak he was that plus a strange accent and a stammer. Nerd squared.

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Little did they know that this boy was a deviant. A rebel. A one hundred percent bona fide non-conformist. One who dared to go against the flow. A lone ranger in a world of caffeine-injected robots. He was the Columbus who said the world was round when everyone thought otherwise. A Vincent Van Gogh, an unappreciated genius. A modernday James Dean, if you will. Ten years from now theyll see the light and wonder why they didnt even give him a chance. Theyll grasp the stupidity of their actions and be sorry they ever pushed him around. Sir Tiongson will wish he had never forced him to write in Filipino when he obviously didnt know the language. Nick Tangco will grovel. Pia Gladio will cry. Theyll kiss his feet and hell ride off into the horizon, enjoying the last laugh. Whats so funny? Jasper gasped. He hadnt realized that he was giggling out loud. His seatmate was looking at him, perplexed. He gave Matthew a look and told him to mind his own business. Matts eyes darted to Jaspers paper. Whats your p-p-problem? Jasper quickly covered his paper. I wasnt doing anything! Oh p-please. Hey, look here Whats going on over there? Jasper looked up. Sir Tiongson didnt look pleased. Meh, lovers quarrel. Nick Tangco, of course. The class laughed. Sir Tiongsons mouth twitched. Hilarious, Mr. Tangco. Yeah, whatever man. A few giggled nervously. The tension in the room was so thick you could throw it in a blender with ice and fruit. Voila, mango smoothie. Whatever man? That was all it took to land Jasper an afternoon in the canteen, polishing old trophies with Matthew Carpio. Nick Tangco was there too, but instead of polishing, his brain was plugged in to his iPod, in his own private concert. Sometimes he played the air guitar, sometimes air drums. Sometimes he broke into song. It made Jasper sick, watching him. Shouldnt we make him work? Matthew hissed. Hell no. Why not? Look, we get to go home at five oclock, whether or not he helps. Bugger, I dont even know why Im bothering with all this. He threw his rag on the table.

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What are you doing? Im not going to stand for this. I shouldnt even be here. Im not going to do dirty work just because Tiongson was in a rotten mood. He sat back on his chair and smiled, quite pleased with himself. The other boy fell silent. For a few minutes the only sounds in the empty canteen were the squeaks of Matthews rag on the trophies, and the occasional spontaneous rap verse from Nick Tangco. Then Matthew started whistling. Whistling as he worked. Toodle-doo-toodle-doo-toodle-dum. To make it worse, the melody sounded like Jaspers mothers kind of music. Was this ABBA? It was. And dammit, it was the fun-freaking chorus from Fernando. Jasper grit his teeth. At this rate, it was going to get stuck in his head. There was something in the air that night, the stars were brightwhy on earth did he know the lyrics? He grabbed his rag and resumed polishing, pressing down harder so the squeaking could maybe offset the whistling. However, it only made the whistling sound louder, and Jasper found himself polishing furiously, battling with ABBA. Snap. Matthew stopped whistling. Bugger. Jasper looked in horror at the plastic tennis players torso in his hand. Oh dear. Matthew gave a low whistle. Jasper looked around in panic, clutching the decapitated plastic man in his hand. Nick was still in his imaginary concert, oblivious to the world. You wouldnt h-happen to have S-superglue on you? Jasper asked Matthew, who had resumed polishing as if nothing had happened. Matthew stopped and furrowed his eyebrows. Yeah, I think I do. The answer surprised Jasper, but he didnt ask why Matthew carried Superglue around. You just dont question things that could potentially save your life. Here you go. Jasper squeezed some drops on the broken piece and pressed it down on the trophy. Breathing a sigh of relief, he handed the tube back to its owner. Thanks. No problem. Matthew continued to polish. Hey, he said, not looking up from the trophy. I have a question. Yeah? Would you happen to know anyone who would be interested in hiring a tutor? Like, lets say, a Filipino tutor?

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Jasper shook his head in disbelief. This guy had some nerve. L-look here, just b-because you g-gave me some g-glue d-doesnt m-mean you c-can Hey, be cool. Im just looking for a little part-time job, and Im weighing my options. His rag squeaked. But the way I see it, its a winwin situation. I get paid, you get better grades N-no, I d-dont n-need a t-tutor. Okay then. Jasper picked up another trophy and resumed polishing. He thought about his two Cs, and how his mother would throw a fit when she found out. All hell would break loose. What about a translator then? You can write your essays in English, and I can translate. Essays make up a third of our grade so I know itll help. Jasper looked at the boy in disgust. He didnt need to be reminded of Tiongsons grading system. Who did he think he was? How much d-d-o you charge? Two hundred per paper, Matthew said without hesitation. This guy didnt beat about the bush. F-fine. W-we do it at m-my house. Okay. Is Friday good? Mm-mm. Matthew was smiling. Jasper wanted to say something to make him wipe that smirk off his face, but he didnt. You dont, not when the person could potentially save your life.

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Dana Lee F. Delgado In Saudi Arabia

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the people are ruled by a king. men wear white garments called thobes, which reach their ankles. Most of them smell of cologne, contrary to popular belief. it is hot half of the year and cold during the other. Temperatures can hit fifty degrees Celsius in the summer, often causing classes to be suspended. Houses are expected to have air-conditioning. the roads are wide and lined with date trees. Traffic jams are often caused by reckless drivers, and do not last too long, even when accidents occur. there are no movie theaters.

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most people pray five times a day. This is called sallah, about thirty to forty-five minutes of prayer. Stores close as calls for worship are chanted everywhere, simultaneously, through speakers set up in mosques. Non-Muslims wait outside until store owners return. women wear black garments called abayas to cover their real clothes. Many cover their hair and faces with black veils, wear black gloves and closed shoes. Sometimes children confuse their own mothers with other women. music is hardly heard in public, except perhaps when young Arabs turn up the volume in their tinted sports cars and drive past. the deserts in the outskirts of the cities have red sand. Sometimes camels cross roads and cause accidents.

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faces in billboards are mosaicked, and magazines censored, the questionable parts blacked out with markers, or by a rose-colored substance that looks suspiciously like nail polish. men greet each other by kissing each others cheeks. many people gain weight from sitting all day in front of computers or television sets, or having ample time to try out various recipes in the kitchen. it has been talked about in hushed tones that women occasionally gather in unknown places to hold parties, where they take off their abayas and reveal expensive, provocative outfits.

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there are stores so brightly lit that one must squint upon entering. the food is greasy and richly flavored with spices. A serving of takeout kabsa rice is often packed in a clear plastic bag, in a volume that can feed a hungry household of five. Roasted chicken is often served with squeezed tomatoes. the temperature once dropped to four degrees in winter. A hailstorm occurs roughly every four years, leaving unprotected cars deformed. there is a place called Bathaas district, where many Filipinos gather. In it is a store called Quiapo. There used to be a Jollibee in one corner, where they served delicious mushroom sauce. some women are fighting for the right to drive their own vehicles.

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CDs and DVDs do not reach the stores until about half a year after their original release abroad. Once they get there, the bed scenes and kissing scenes have already been edited out. free food, usually packs of dates is occasionally given out in the streets during holidays such as the Eid. there are religious authorities called mutawas whose thobes do not reach their ankles. They stay in crowded places, persuading followers of Islam to go to the mosque during prayer time. To most Non-Muslims, they are better known for telling women to cover their hair. Bs take the place of Ps because the letter is not in the Arabic alphabet. On some walls it is written: No Barking.

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it rarely rains. Sometimes it does during the Christian Holy Week, and the children whose families have been secretly practicing their faith would look up at the sky and feel Gods tears falling onto their cheeks. expatriate families do not stay long, the kingdom a mere stepping stone to places farther away on the map. Many farewell parties are thrown each year. sometimes men suddenly yell out their cell phone numbers to women passing by. people learn to speak different languages. There are Filipino salesmen who wear headsets, demonstrating in Arabic how to use various kitchenware. And then there are Pakistanis and Bangladeshis who call out, Kabayan, mura lang! Bili na!

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men without beards are presumed to be homosexual, which is for the most part forbidden. The same presumption is applied to men who wear their hair long, or wear bracelets and necklaces. For this reason most male expatriates grow facial hair. most schools have separate classrooms for boys and girls. This is often true of international schools and mandatory in Arabic schools. It is as if boys and girls go to different schools altogether. thieves have their hands cut off, and murderers their heads. the shawarma consists of grilled chicken, garlic, mayonnaise, two strips of fried potatoes, and a strip of pickled cucumber wrapped in round, flat bread.

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pork is not allowed, nor alcoholic beverages. If these are found in a persons luggage, they are immediately confiscated. For this reason, people have mastered different ways to pack bagoong. restaurants are divided into the singles section and the family section. Only men dine in the singles section. In most cases, women need an escort, either a husband or a male relative, to enter the family section. Occasionally an unmarried woman is caught dating an unmarried man. There are many speculations as to what is done to them upon being discovered. there are occasional sandstorms. People run to their homes, their noses covered by surgical masks. But upon stopping to find their keys, they notice that the world is suddenly a shade of red-brown, like a memory.

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not many things are spoken of. Some children who ask for the Arabic word for love do not get an answer. the malls are spacious, occupied only by designer boutiques. There are no live performances, and no music heard, sometimes even in music stores. Malls are hardly crowded. suitcases and balikbayan boxes are filled with soap, shampoo, chocolates, and cheese, purchased at promo prices. On the eve of departure, all the pieces of luggage are mounted onto a heavy-duty weighing scale, a measure taken to keep within the limited baggage allowance. some airline companies claim to be In the Pursutte of the Better For You.

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there are men who sexually harass eight-year-old girls in empty aisles in bookstores. gasoline costs have gone as low as 60 halalas per liter, or 0.60 Saudi riyals. Some people then go for long drives, at times reaching the causeway to the Kingdom of Bahrain, the Persian Gulf glimmering beneath it. If one looks out the window at the right angle, it would seem as though the car is floating over the sea. almost every Filipino family subscribes to The Filipino Channel. When it was still being aired, no episode of Pangako Sa Yo was missed, or, for that matter, Meteor Garden. Episodes were often taped and copies lent to those with no TFC in their homes. men sell womens lingerie, except in some malls whose top floors are reserved only for women. What size? the would ask, keeping a straight face.

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Santa Claus figurines found in Customs are often smashed. The penalties are more serious for those caught with Bibles. Many Christians belong to underground charismatic groups and live in apartments with elaborate altars. Some jokingly call themselves smugglers for Christ. the moon is a large, white-yellow sphere sinking low towards the cityscape, watching over the long trails of headlights, taillights, and streetlights. While driving, fathers would point towards the sky, and their children would picture witches flying on brooms across the full moon. plastic bags are cheap, and woman occasionally ask for extra bags at the cashier. Often these bags are sent to people they love who live miles away.

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when the child of an expatriate reaches the age of eighteen, he is no longer considered a dependent of his parents. Some children move back home to attend college. Others simply leave the kingdom for good. Sometimes, they apply for a tourist visa, so they can come visit. it is said that some men occasionally disguise themselves as women by wearing abayas and covering their bearded faces with veils. And then they would get in a car driven by a man (perhaps) dressed as himself, and pretend to ask women for directions, only to drag them into the car and take them away, often to the deserts. women are still not allowed to enter some stores. Occasionally this causes young girls to cry.

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during the Christmas season, some Filipino families gather in secret to celebrate the misa de gallo. A lay minister presides, carols are sung, and a meal of dinuguang manok and puto eaten. When families walk out and into the cold desert night, they see their breaths suspended in the air, to the childrens awe. young girls are instructed to wear abayas and veils as soon as they grow hips and busts. Occasionally, in fast food restaurants, their parents are approached by mutawas regarding this issue. The mutawas are polite, but sooner or later the girls are forced to comply. it is important to get the message across. For the benefit of many there are establishments called Ahmad Company for Transilatory from Arabic to English and Opposittee.

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families go out at eight oclock in the evening. They come home past midnight and do not immediately go to bed. many Filipinos have mastered the trick of bringing authentic shawarma back to the Philippines. It is packed while frozen, the pickles and garlic removed to avoid immediate spoilage. Upon arrival it may then be heated inside a rice cooker and introduced to relatives who have never eaten a shawarma from the Middle East. there are hardly any clouds, and hardly any stars. Sometimes families gather in community parks, unrolling mats on the grass and lying on their backs to count stars. When the number reaches nine, they make a wish.

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Hong Song I Ball

My grandfather Still remains in this world Thick provincial accent Glasses over owl eyes Sickle in hand Hearty laughter floating Drifting here and there Every end of February I spin a ball in my head Fat old man with red cheeks Naughty boy in black and white When I unwind the ball Many grandfathers crumpled into it Spill out along the threads

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Pedro Ilustreto B. Publico From Variations

News Item January 31, 2008 Batangas City President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, together with Governors Gwen Garcia and Vilma Santos-Recto, led the cornerstonelaying event for the construction of the longest bridge in the world. The 500-kilometer bridge will stretch from Batangas City down to Cebu City. Costing about US$ 1 trillion, it is said to be the most ambitious piece of infrastructure to be built in the history of humankind. Different civil society and non-government organizations are opposing the construction of the bridge, pressing the government to prioritize basic social services instead. They believe that the country is not capable of paying off the loan from the International Monetary Fund, the sole source of funding for the project. Expressing doubts over the ability of the government to oversee such an endeavor, these groups suspect that the funds will only go to corruption. Amid various protests, the president insisted that the bridge must be built because it will symbolize the progress, unity, and peace of the country. Meanwhile, ABS-CBN reports that more and more Filipinos are blaming the controversial bridge project for the rising number of child abductions across the nation. Their suspicions are born of an ancient belief that the blood of a child is a most effective material for building a strong bridge.

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Jokes (old and racist) I. A United Nations special envoy visited three countries. The diplomat was impressed by the lavish lifestyle of their presidents. He then asked how they could afford to live that way on a public servants meager salary. Each of them smiled and took him to a window. Here are their conversations: American Can you see that river? Yes. Can you see the bridge over it? Of course. Its beautiful. 10 percent sir II. Make your own human body-metal element-special ingredient combo: Japanese: Human Torso + Steel + Computer Programs = Cyborg Chinese: Corpse Organs + Tin Can + Seasonings = Ma Ling Filipino: Child Blood + Iron + Cement = Strong Bridge Indian Can you see that river? Sure. Can you see the bridge over it? Yes, and its ugly. 50 percent sir Filipino Can you see that river? Sir, its not a river. Its a sea. Exactly! Can you see the bridge over it? No, I dont see any bridge. 100 percent sir

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Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom, Alilang Tulahingon and Dayang-Dayang Maridulay fell in love. Soon after, Datu Arroyo found out about their relationship and decided to kill the servant. A day before the execution, Maridulay begged her father not to kill Tulahingon. She also confessed to him that she was pregnant. The chieftain was furious. He decided to strike a cruel deal with his daughter. He would not kill the servant but Tulahingon must be banished to an island. In exchange, and as her punishment, Maridulay must slay her own baby. Because of her true and great love for Tulahingon, Maridulay agreed to the conditions of her father. Her lover lived, and after giving birth, she killed her own baby. Suffering from intense pain and grief, she then ran away and drowned herself in the sea. Her corpse drifted to the island where Tulahingon was exiled. When he recognized the floating dead body as his beloved, he also drowned himself to death. The next day, troops searching for Maridulay stood at the shore of the kingdom. They were amazed by what they saw. A large structure rose from the sea, a floating road connecting their kingdom to an unknown place. They got on the road and walked and walked until they reached its other endthe island where they had thrown Tulahingon. But Tulahingon wasnt there anymore. They went back to the kingdom and reported all that they saw to the chieftain. Days passed and the kingdom gave up searching for Maridulay. After that, people started to call that massive floating thing TulahingonMaridulay, in memory of Alilang Tulahingon and DayangDayang Maridulay. After few more years, people became lazy and shortened its name to Tulay.

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PASS THE MESSAGE Three Three 500 500 500 500 500 1 1 1 1 1 Some Some Some Some Some Some Some Basic Basic Many Many Many Many Many Many Three Three lady lady lady km km km km trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion dollar dollar good good social social social social social child child child lady lady lady lady lady politicians politicians politicians politicians politicians bridge bridge dollars dollars dollars loan loan loans citizens citizens citizens citizens citizens services services abductions services abductions abductions children politicians politicians politicians politicians lay lay lay will construct will construct will build will build will construct will be granted will be loaned will be granted will be opposed are opposed are opposed are opposed are opposing are opposing are not are not are not are not are not are not are believed are believed are believed lay lay lay the cornerstone. in the Philippines. in the Philippines. the Philippines. a bridge. the Philippines. the Philippines. the Philippines. in the Philippines. in the Philippines. by the IMF. by the IMF. by the IMF. by the IMF. by the IMF. the project. the project. prioritized. prioritized. prioritized. prioritized. prioritized. prioritized. to be mixed. to be mixed. to be mixed. the bridge. to be mixed. the cornerstone.

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Score:_________ Date:__________

I. Multiple Choice. Circle the letter of the best answer. 1. Batangas:Batangas City :: _________:Cebu City a. Tarlac d. Siquijor b. Sorsogon e. Masbate c. Cebu f. Iloilo 2. Which of the following is not a Vilma Santos film? a. Aninong Bakal (1963) b. Bato sa Buhangin (1976) c. Duelo sa Sapang Bato (1963) d. Nagalit ang Buwan sa Haba ng Gabi (1983) e. Bata, Bata Paano Ka Ginawa? (1998) f. Naligaw na Angel (1964) 3. Sexy starlet Gwen Garci, named after Governor Gwen Garcia, belongs to which group? a. Bayanihan Dance Company d. The Maneuvers b. Baywalk Bodies e. Pussycat Dolls c. Viva Hot Babes f. Streetboys 4. Who cheats on ratings? a. ABS-CBN2 b. GMA7 c. AGB-Nielsen/TNS/SWS/PulseAsia 5. IMF stands for a. Inaugurated Massive Facility b. Inter-island Migration Faster c. International Monetary Fund d. PGMA e. All of the above f. All of us d. Inutang Muna Forever e. Immature Man Fused f. I = Mother + Father

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II. Matching Type. Draw a line to connect each number/formula to its corresponding meaning/value. 1. < 18 2. #b 1000000000000 3. (n 1)! 4. W = 500 [
LN N 1

a. fundamental identity b. average age of children c. federal bridge gross weight formula + 12N + 36 ], d. total number of permutations in a circular transaction e. projected time to erect a public structure in the Philippines f. binary form of the biggest Philippine Peso bill in circulation if it is in hexadecimal format tan(gle),

where W = max weight in pounds, L = length between axles, N = number of axles

5. 0 e t dt 6.
sin(ner) cos(tly)
_

where ner, tly & gle are equal angular measurements

For III, IV, and V, use a separate sheet for your answers. III. Enumeration. Identify 10 basic social services which the government currently provides. IV. Essay. If you were a bridge, would you like to connect two faraway islands? Explain your answer. V. BONUS. True or False. No man is an island.

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Arlynn Raymundo Despi Via Crucis

We saw shadows of the morning light the shadows of the evening sun till the shadows and the light were one Janes Addiction, Three Days lices of watermelons hang dripping from the fruit stands. Roadside shops lie asleep beneath fine white dust. The air is thick with sweat; the lahar-covered landscape hypnotic, lunar. The papers yesterday told me a Japanese man would be joining the rituals. I couldnt pass up the irony: a Jap to be crucified on old Death March grounds. This morning, I met with the officials who screened him. They were a little hesitant to tell a dayo where to find him. I ended up flirting with the entire munisipyo, teasing a group of tanods, complimenting the kapitan, telling them I was doing a documentary. On my way to the inn, I pass by streets pulsing with pabasa monotones, tents set up with bamboo poles and crisscrossed pawid, older women chanting into microphones, sitting in front of their candlelit altars packed with Santo Nios strewn with sampaguitas. Have you seen the cross youre supposed to carry? Yes. You drag it through the streets while they whip your back, then they nail you to a bigger one waiting at the other end. Yes. Nervous? No.

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His hair is electric blue-black beneath the fluorescent light, his hands immaculate. Hes thirty but his eyes, like fine surgical slits, make him look even younger than me. His English isnt bad but he prefers monosyllables, explains with gestures. I let the camcorder scan the room: no rosary, no crucifix, no prayer booklets lying on his bed. I watch his eyes move from my questions then turn wistfully to the window. Catch him punctuating his sentences with half-smiles. He looks excited. I heard the locals were hard to convince; only the most pious were allowed to participate. He told them he was doing it for his brother who had a growing tumor. I dont ask him yet about this. Part of the beauty of filming is the unsought revelation. When the mouth moves like a separate creature and the eyes open wide and flare like a lens. When I hardly ask anything, every no and yes thrown out of the window as the truth offers itself up to the camcorder, a church confessional. Night looms, its shadow stretching over the skyline. I head out to a bar near my cheap hotel in Subic. The women are half-naked, the men who look like women even less dressed. The scene like drunken revelry after a UN assembly: in one corner the sunburnt Americans, near the stage some scrawny Europeans, swapping sweat with the girls onstage a couple of chinky-eyed customers. A skinhead spots my skirt and props himself beside me. I pretend to mind my own beer. Me and my friends, he says, pointing to the anemic bunch, we have firstgrade pills. He sounds German. Would you like to drop some? The van is a growling stomach; we are worms slithering on its carpeted floor, wriggling against its fur-lined walls; six bodies crawling over each other, our bellies drenched in a warm bath of sweat, slime, and spilt vodka. Someone in the corner is writhing underneath someone elses pale fingers, saying faster, faster, there, I love you, faster; in the drivers seat, staccato breaths, teeth grinding, chattering. My German friend is mouthing something beautiful, or evil, I cant tell, mouthing them between my breasts as he goes from one nipple to the next; his tongue trails up my neck, circles my lips, and twitches like a dying leech between my teeth; his face is neon yellow, no, purple, purple as a priests vestment; I am palpitating; he hikes my skirt up and tries to get it in; my skin is stinging, rubbing so hard against the carpet that I can almost smell smoke, almost smell flesh burning; he tries again, again, but Im too dry, hes gone limp, were too tired; his face has gone white, my tongue numb.

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Biyernes Santo. The heat like a preview of hell. I make it to the hotel an hour before noon. Just enough time to set up my gear and rush back to the village. The entire province is lined up. The local devotees. The farmers off work. Kids peeking from behind their mothers. Tourists and international journalists with camera straps and towels around their necks, cheeks like ripe tomatoes, red from the fierce midday sun. Leading the procession, the flagellants. A battalion of naked torsos gleaming with sweat, faces hidden behind black veils crowned with thorns, striking themselves repeatedly with burillos. They spatter the crowds with red streaks. Massive blood butterflies unfurl their bright red wings. Behind them, bare-faced, seven kristos drag life-sized yakal crosses through the three-kilometer stretch of searing asphalt. He is last in the parade; I zoom in on his pale flesh, grilled pink by the heat. Two men dressed up as Romanos are whipping him relentlessly, one after the other. His hair is hidden beneath a wig, fastened by a halo of barbed wires. The camcorder doesnt catch his eyes; I fight the urge to push the fake strands away from his face. By noon, the nails are drenched in alcohol, while the crucifixees take their places. Red strips of cloth are strung around the cross and their arms and wrists to support their weight. The nails are driven in with swift movements of the hammer and short cries of pain. One for each hand, each foot. Then the cross is planted in a hole, pulled up with ropes, and steadied from behind with slanted beams. They are taken down as soon as they wish. The ones to his left and right take five minutes, ten. The next batch, the same. He stays there for half an hour, eyes closed. My lens traces the sweat forming on his forehead, streaming down his chest, and drenching his white loincloth. Blood and perspiration aside, he looks divine. He is somewhere else, distant. I want to slither along the length of his torso, wrap my body around the cross, and flick my tongue in his ear. Make him aware of his scorched skin. Slather the pink regions of his body with my cum and spit. His eyes open. The media and paramedics crowd him on the way down. I have my footage and the post-nailing interview scheduled tonight, so I leave early. I rewind the tapes back at the hotel. Two hours of close ups, head to toe shots. His breath almost fogging my lens. Then I notice

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during my second play that beneath the sweat-drenched garment, our Japanese Christ had a throbbing hard-on ten minutes into the nailing. The jeep stalls halfway to the inn as the procession is well into its peak. I hop off and walk the rest of the way, passing the carrozas lit up like lanterns, adorned with pink hibiscus, lilac orchids, and white calla lilies; the apostles, the marias, witnesses to the crucifixion, dressed in lavish, gold-embroidered satin. And at the end of the line, Magdalena, the devoted, the beloved disciple, regal in purple velvet. The warm glow making her seem more alive, more human. The devotees trail the floats, their prayers throwing a thick mist over the evening. The local press is just leaving when I arrive; I catch him looking out the window. His hands and feet are in bandages. I start out with the expected questions, how did it feel, what were you thinking of, what kept you up there that long, until I get tired of his answers and say, take off your shirt I want to shoot the scars on your back. The wounds are clotting, nothing too deep. My fingers dance over the cuts. I scratch his back lightly with my pointer and turn the camcorder to his face, waiting for his eyes to change shape. He winces, says nothing. I scratch harder with all five fingers, slashing his entire back like a furious cat. He grabs my hand and grips it tightly. There is no cancer, is there? I ask. I set the camcorder down on the dresser, and with my free hand I scratch again. There is no brother? He has both my hands now and stares straight at me. Slit eyes open wide as fingernails dig into my wrists. I wont tell, I say, but I want you to show me, I smile, exactly how it feels to be on the cross. He locks the door, tears my clothes off, leaves nothing untouched, grabs my arms and throws me onto the mattress. He pulls out bandages from the drawers and wraps them vigorously around my wrists. Then he ties them to the corner knobs, letting my head dangle over the foot end of the bed. My eyes turn towards the dresser: the camcorder stares right back; the mirror frames our secret ritual. With his teeth, he tears off another strip, places my foot over the other, and ties them up tight. My fingers and toes start growing cold. He takes his loincloth, still damp from this afternoon, and wraps it around my waist. He pushes himself up from the bed, taking a moment to examine me.

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Man, behold your savior. His pants come off revealing his pierced penis. An ampallang and apadravya. Four silver, circular bumps like directions on a map, the perpendicular lines crossing beneath the taut head. A magic cross, he whispers, the only crucifix I wear. He kisses my foot then kneels over me, his cock as stiff as a broomstick, its moist head touching my toes. In the name of the father, he whispers, then moves forward, traces the length of my legs, glides along my chest, and stops beneath my chin; and of the son, lifts himself up a little, then moves to my right breast, grazing my nipple; and of the holy spirit, slides to the left, tracing the pale brown ring, circling its erect bump; Amen, and his eyes softly close, changing shape, as if he was up on the cross again. A dervish in a trance. He falls over me and sucks my breasts, flicking and pinching my nipples, then moves up and bites my ear while rubbing his pierced head over the loincloth. The thin sheet comes between the skin of our hips but the friction and silver bumps leave me wet, anxious. I bite his cheek hard, suck on it like a bone until it turns purplish red. He moans, pulls away, then gnaws on my chin. I bend my knees and pin his penis between them. I press hard. Harder. Rubbing them together. I pull on my bandages, eager to get him under me. His breathing grows heavy. He bites my lower lip, sinks his teeth deeper, sucking until I feel it bruise, swell. He pulls his penis from my grip and shoves it beneath the loincloth, his smooth balls brushing my inner thighs, the cross touching my labia. I tear my right hand free and slap his hip. He turns red. I hit his shoulder with my fist. Then I aim for his face. With a wordless fury, he wraps my fist in his palm and slides another hand beneath my neck, pressing his fingers hard, biting into it like an apple and sucking. His hands start bleeding. I jerk my other hand free and push him back hard, untie my feet and pin him between my legs. Quickly, I pull off the loincloth and blindfold him. He lies still, chest heaving. I rub his cock against my stomach while removing the bandages around his hands. I slide off the bed, unwrap his feet, and move the camera closer. Then I pull him up and take his bloody hands, press them against my face, my neck, and my breasts. He smells his blood on my face and starts licking. I take his penis and rub its pierced head against my clit. And I ride him. His silver cross making it hard to suppress a howl. And I ride him like the devil that waits, restless, famished, outside the

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church doors, whispering my numerous names spelt in bold letters by the black moon that bears my face, digging my claws into his back, our tongues melting until the crisp crow of dawn, until we burn each other from inside. The crumpled sheets bloom with blood petals. The late afternoon glow covers the room, drifting like cellophane over his pale skin; our bare limbs still stuck together in a seemingly yogic pose. I take the loincloth, soak it in soapy water, and wipe his wounds, working around the clots on his hands and feet, then I wrap them with clean gauze. He kisses his marks on my neck. The haunting clang of church bells calls the devotees to mass, and we commence another nightlong vigil. Hunger pangs wake me early on Sunday, and I open my eyes to a pair of slits deep in a sleepy prayer. I turn the camcorder off and slip out into the first few slivers of Easter light. Back in my cramped patch of the city, I rewind the tapes and line them up with the others on the shelf, right next to my videos of young northern tribesmen getting tattoos the more exquisite way. I play the footage from the nailing, fast forward to high noon, then watch his eyes close, his sweat glide in slow motion as I let my head dangle from the edge of my bed, let my hands wander between my thighs, let the afternoon finish all the local specials and reruns. It is my best work yet.

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Melissa Villa-Real Basmayor Laws of Motion

The widow remembers that the secret for the eye to see clearly is to trick it. Once she decided to put a mirror on each wall so that light would move. Forward and backward, forward and backward, a stitch to sew the rooms together. After the funeral she decides shes had enough of mirrors. She takes to windows, instead. Every time she looks out she feels part of her moving with the gesture, inching to where theres no turning back, but remaining in the room, an illusion.

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But She

After Kandinsky

did not believe the artist because he said was on gradations or because on white when it was of gray and beige,

the painting

now what kind of a joke is that,

he could force order on colors by using a ruler to differentiate a fishing pole or the mast of a ship

from a clock,

a Rubiks cube

from a Rubiks cube

from a red dot, did not look closely because while looking at the figures she thought she heard music that wasnt there, thought,

are those microphones, do those parallel lines mean vibration, whose are these voices in my head, wont they stop talking, because at the center were blocks of solid colors, she turned away, or turned the painting on its side and entered a different door and why

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Francis Paolo M. Quina Five Pages From A Filipino Novel

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he story of these five pages is a detective story I am trying to both solve and imagine. It was set off by Jose Liedos death in 2006 in Switzerland, where he and his family had been in exile since 1986. Liedo, as you know, was an accomplished fiction writer during the prewar period (as a poet he was a lesser man next to his contemporaries, especially Jose Garcia Villa who was, like many of the emerging writers of the time, a close friend of his) who had fallen into relative obscurity after a series of ill-advised choices in associates and friends. At the reading of Liedos last will and testament six weeks after his death, it was revealed that Liedo had kept what were until then secret safety deposit boxes in one of Switzerlands many banks. The safety deposit boxes were, in fact, so secret that not even his wife of over fifty years knew of their existence or their possible contents. Understandably, Liedos children were anxious to open the boxes and look though them, while the writers widow cautioned them about their expectations of finding the hidden wealth their father had been repeatedly accused of amassing in his lifetime. I am reporting all this in the interest of future academic studies, of course, and not as a means to pry into the Liedos personal lives and expose them to the public at large. The last thing I want to do is embarrass those to whom I owe a great deal of my own success. As the reader well knows, I have written a fairly successful biography on Liedo called In Exile (UP Press, 2003), which some in the academe credit as being singularly responsible for the resurgence of interest in the writings of Liedo and other forgotten pre-war Filipino writers not only here in the Philippines, but in Europe as well. In turn that book helped put me on the map not only as an academic, but also as a writer. In writing In Exile I had grown close, not only to the writer himself, whom I interviewed extensively between 2001 and 2002, but with his wife and some of the children. It was perhaps because of this that the family approached me and had me peruse the contents of their patriarchs safety deposit boxes. The e-mail I received from Connie Harper, Liedos oldest daughter, the day after they opened the safety deposit boxes listed the following items as contents: original drafts of stories and novels, both published and unpublished (on this matter, I can say that there were about five to six hundred pages of fresh, unpublished material); extensive notes about his writing (a number of notebooks could be published in the

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manner of a memoir on the craft of fiction); the personal documents of one (a person whom, despite my best efforts and against the Liedos wishes, I have failed to track down); and finally, correspondences with other writers, both from the Philippines and abroad (the most surprising of which are a series of letters from him to the Argentinean writer Jorge Luis Borges, and vice versa). Almost immediately, I was on a plane to Switzerland (at the Liedos expense, I must admit) to inspect and peruse the contents of the safety deposit boxes. As I mentioned earlier I had written on and spoken with Liedo extensively, so I was, in a word, the expert on Jose Liedo, the writer. I stayed in Switzerland for the next two weeks where I hastily undertook the chore of sorting through the papers that represented what turned out to be not one, but two writers legacies. I will be honest and admit that, where Liedos children had seemingly hoped to find booty, I was in search of a personal diary that would contain his own account of his life, in particular those covering the Second World War and the Marcos regime, two periods in Liedos life that proved to be his undoing. Even now, many still view the late writer as a traitor, first for collaborating with the Japanese, and then for cozying up to the Marcoses. Liedo has, of course, defended his cooperation with the Japanese as a desperate act of survival on his part. In Liedos own words: My wife was pregnant at that time. It was inconceivable for me to leave her and join the resistance forces. I considered taking her with me to the countryside, but Manuel [Andrada] and I talked about it and he said it would be better if I stayed with her. But we made a pact that I would help when the time came to act. It was the last time I saw him. (In Exile, p. 79) Although Liedo, in our conversations back when I was still writing his biography, spoke at length about those times in his life, I had always assumed that he was still holding back many things from me; things that I thought he would freely give up upon his death. But that was not the case. There was no diary to be found. Which is not to say that the find was worthless; on the contrary, the safety deposit boxes yielded a wealth of publishable materials including one medium-length novel, seven long short stories and a dozen or so short stories, scores of lyric poems, and what appeared to be an aborted epic about Imelda Marcos. (The reader will note that the poet Alejandrino Hufana came out with such a book.)

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However, it is these five pages, presented above in facsimile, that may very well be the single most important discovery in the Philippine literary circuit in years, for they are proof that Manuel Andrada did write a novel, after all. Or so it seems. A bit of a backgrounder for the casual reader: during the late 1960s, when he returned to the Philippines after his first self-imposed exile, Liedo gave an interview to The Philippine Weekly, a now defunct magazine, in which he claimed among other things (such as being a double-agent during the Japanese occupation and writing messages within Japanesedistributed pamphlets that only Filipino resistance fighters could decipher) that the famed short story writer Manuel Andrada had handed him a working draft of a novel shortly before the Andrada joined the armed resistance. The now-fabled manuscript is said to have consisted of 476 pages typed on a variety of paper, some of them colored, others with one side already used. As to the contents of the novel, Liedo describes it as autobiographical, to a certain extent, and slightly similar, in situations and theme, to Rizals works. Liedo claimed that he had buried it along with some of his own writings in the backyard of his familys ancestral home in Manila to keep it safe from the Japanese authorities. It did not, however, keep it safe from the Americans when they returned to reclaim the Manila, mostly with artillery fire and bombs. The article proved to be controversial at the time, opening up wounds that had not yet healed. Liedo was called both a liar and fabulist by Filipinos who fought and survived the Japanese. Lines were drawn on the sand and sides were named, as those who came down in defense of Liedo were branded traitors by association. There were even those who thought that Liedo had gone mad in exile, and was now building a myth around a friend whom he might have felt he betrayed (Andrada was caught and executed by Japanese troops near the end of the war). Ever the Art-for-arts-sake type, when the furor over his doubleagent claims finally died down more than a year later, Liedo wrote to a friend complaining that people seemed more disgusted at his seeming betrayal than they were over the fact that we as a culture had lost a masterpiece, a great work of a Filipino prose-master. Liedo was only half-right. While the majority of the discussion his interview managed to create was about patriotism, loyalty, and courage, in some circles, particularly in the academe, the rumor about Andradas missing novel became something of a myth among students and

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aspiring writers (I should note that during this time books by both Liedo and Andrada were selling particularly well). However, Martial Law reared its ugly head, and those who were taken by the wondrous and sad tale of a missing novel forgot about it and the wars and casualties of the past. It was the present that demanded their attention and both Liedos alleged war-criminal past and Andradas novel receded in the background of the present turmoil. By then, Liedo had stopped publishing his stories and novels for over a decade and had dedicated his time and efforts to business, where he proved to be equally, if not more, capable. His success in business was followed by a stint in government, where Martial Law found him. Liedo served in a number of capacities in the education ministry before he was elevated to the post of ambassador and consul to a number of countries including Spain, the United States, and Japan. When I asked him about his time in the Marcos administration, Liedo said that he made no distinction about who he was serving. I came into civil service to serve the people, and that was what I did. I served the people by doing the job I was supposed to do. After the first People Power, Liedo held on to his post at the Consular Office in San Francisco for another year, then afterwards resigned and went to Switzerland where he spent the rest of his life in exile, and apparently, writing again. In the late 1980s, he began publishing modest paperback potboilers and detective novels in the United States and Britain under a variety of pseudonyms. One of them, written under the name Thomas Mark, was a historical adventure drama called The Last Dawn (Picador, 1988), about the last days of the Second World War in Manila. I mention this novel in particular because Liedo (as Mark) writes a scene in the novel where his protagonist, Michael, who is being pursued by Japanese troops on the ground as the bombing of Manila commences, witnesses the fate of Andradas novel: All of a sudden the ground in front of him bloomed, sending him up in the air. He landed a few feet away, wounded and shaken, along with a rain of dirt and wood. The last thing he saw before he fell into unconsciousness were strips of paper falling slowly all around, eased in their fall by the air, much like New York snow. Even in such brutal circumstances, he saw a specter of beauty. (p. 368) Reading this, it seems as though Liedo might have witnessed the destruction of Andradas novel himself, though I will say that I could

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just be reading too much into a story. Whatever the case may be, we now have these five pages of that missing novel, with marks by an unknown proofreader. I am sure my fellow scholars will discuss and argue over these five pages for many years to come. I will admit that, at first, I ignored these five pages for reading them on their own they made little sense to me. They did not fit Liedos prose style, nor the subject matter of the other unpublished prose pieces found within the safety deposit boxes. By comparison, the language of the five pages was simple, at turns even trite, and the story, from what I could make of it, involved a young man seeking vengeance on a priest in a small rural town somewhere in Mindanao. It wasnt until I turned over the third page that my interest was piqued (this is actually not accurate since I was, in a way, interested in the peculiar blue paper on which the first two pages were written). The paper turned out to be a letter from the census office in Balingasag, the same town in the story, addressed to Manuel Andrada. You can imagine my surprise: here I was rummaging through the remains of one writers legacy, only to find the remains of another amongst them. Looking over the fourth and fifth pages closely, I discovered that they had been used before to write what read like a draft of Andradas most famous story, Summertime. (Andrada, as the reader must know, was famous among his writer friends for being matipid, frugal, to the point of being called a cheapskate.) I immediately pulled out all my files on Manuel Andrada and began to read and re-read the five pages to confirm my growing suspicion. And confirm them they did, as any close reader will see references to Rizals work all over, just as Liedo had described. But not satisfied with the obvious textual evidence (wary, mostly), I enlisted the help of Prof. Peter Macaranas, whom I might refer to as the foremost scholar on Andradas life and works, and with his help we managed to track down the biographical and factual touchstones used in these five pages of A Filipino Novel, which Liedo claimed to be the Andradas working title. Andrada was notorious for using facts and details from his real life in his fiction; in fact, he was fired from his first job when his boss read his story Bullpen, about a young newspaper reporters conflict with his nitwit of a boss. For example, like the character of Simon Corazon, Andradas mother was a native of Cebu. She gave birth to him in Manila, where he did grow up and finish college. Andrada did live in the United States, but this was when he pursued his masters degree in Literature. Andrada did

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visit the town of Balingasag, not on official duty as a health inspector, but on a personal journey to visit distant relatives on his mothers side of the family. When I visited the town myself last month, most of the structures and the layout of the town plaza remained as Andrada had described them. As for Andradas father, Prof. Macaranas says he was a boy from Cebu who was killed in a construction site accident months after marrying his childhood sweetheart, and not a priest. But then, to expect everything in a semi-autobiographical work to correspond to real life would be foolish. A peculiar note, though. While I was in Balingasag I happened to mention the story of the Irish priest whose plane fell into Hibok-Hibok to my host, the town mayor. He was surprised that I knew of the story since it was a sort of town legend. Apparently, his father had told him the same story growing up. I took it as another sign that the five pages were indeed from the Andrada novel. However, when I spoke to the town mayors father he claimed that the priest, one Father John McDougall, purportedly a former bomber pilot during World War II, crashed his plane into Hibok-Hibok in 1959 and not, as one would expect, before the war when Andrada might have heard of it and appropriated it in his novel. (I invite interested readers to verify this by digging up the June 12, 1959 edition of the Philippine Herald and looking at page A6.) I can only classify and excuse this discrepancy as one of those chilling accounts of fact copying fiction.

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Gayle Grey

Gayle Grey Things that make you wonder

A womans uncontrollable urge to open her mouth in a funny way while applying eyeliner. A babys cry. A security guards empty holster. Sudden cheers and laughter from the adjacent room. The look on a mans face when he looks down at his chest. The automatic expression is to frown. He smiles instead. A teenager chuckling while looking at his mobile phone. Smoke from your bedroom window. Your dog is about to sleep. He walks around an imaginary tight circle before lying down. A kid sleeping on the pavement. A man smells something nasty. Instead of walking away, he asks what it is and sniffs some more.

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Georgiana Diane O. Go People who have died

A lexicographer who knows all the meanings of all the words yet says nothing in conversations. A pianist who has forgotten how to fall into a trance, how to feel each curve and nerve of a tune. Galactic lovers flying across the world and diving ten thousand meters into the belly of the ocean. The hunter without the hunted. The hunted without the hunter.

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Justine Kison

Justine Kison Seemingly small things

The last 25-cent coin to complete your jeepney fare The drop that stopped the tingling in your eye A grain of rice The zipper in zippers A bullet A pimple ready to take on the world Food stuck between anothers teeth A rwong letter in a line

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Gustav Cruz Things that make me say Oh, Fuck

I get the highest score in a test I was so sure Id fail. I get called in front of class. I order a Big Mac meal in McDonalds, upsized, with matching McFlurry. I reach into the back pocket of my jeans. Nothings there. Im on my way to NIGS from CAL. I see someone I really dont want to see. She waves at me. Im talking loudly about my crush, saying how hot she is. Someone behind me says thank you. Im dozing off in class. I suddenly remember a very embarrassing moment back in high school.

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Jessica Balaquit The Foreigner

he current silence does not befit the chaos of despoiled buildings. One expects a barrage of missiles and explosions, or at least the groaning sound of concrete and steel giving way, tempted by gravity. A decade or so earlier the expectation would have been quite different; gunfights replaced by a cacophony of noises from crowds and gasguzzling metal cages. At present, only their charred remains litter the empty streets, dwarfed by overturned monstrous machines of war, proof that chaos accompanies Manila, whenever it travels in time. Yet as surely as pockets of disorder arise in the most restricting of systems, so does order, sprouting from the nooks and crannies of the ruined city, in the form of undisturbed stacks of papers, or corpses, too numerous and too unimportant to merit individual graves, buried neatly in a row like sardines. Of particular interest is this one spot, hidden beneath a nondescript structure, with living beings sitting in rows around what may pass for a dais, a desk on it, and right in the very center, a lone figure, bound and unmoving, somehow breathing. A girls voice, slightly unsure and unmistakably preteen, rings out from the right of the dais. All rise. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This court is now in session. The rows begin moving, chairs scraping against concrete as at least a dozen children obey the command, faces bearing grave expressions that ask to be taken seriously. The silence quickly returns, but as it does, a low chuckle is heard, then a whimper of pain. The soldier, now awake, struggles with his bonds. He maneuvers his body and manages to sit and face the assembly. A boy about twelve stands behind the desk. His eyes, expressionless, linger on the soldier. He motions to the girl beside him to continue.

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People of the Philippines vs. Private Second Class Derek Walkins, for arraignment, who hereby stands accused of trespassing and theft... -and rape! and murder! fraud! Silence! says the boy on the dais. His brow creases, then relaxes. He lets out a deep breath and stares at the soldier who looks back at him with head tilted, dazed. Does the defendant plead guilty or not guilty? There is no reply. There is however, a grin, a puzzled look on the soldiers facewhy, it seems to say, am I surrounded by children? Here is the freak, a grown man among children, and he stares at them like they are the spectacle. Only the boy at the desk, who goes by the name Lucas, notices the irony. Hey. Uh, somebody mind untying me here? Ill give yall my candy stash back at the base. Defendant. Please answer the question. He stares, the man in his dirtied fatigues, and stares with eyes barely two decades in age and perhaps even more youthful in powers of comprehension. The judge leans back on the chair behind the desk, fingers steepling. Then we may proceed to the evidence, he says, motioning nonchalantly with his hand. May we hear the first witness? he inquires, and the children follow his line of sight to one boy at the back, eyes downcast, overwhelmed by the attention. Marten shuffles forward. The soldier looks at Marten, and his visage sparks with recognition. It was like this, see. I was walking, and I had my lunch with me. Lunch is pretty hard to find these days. The small assembly murmurs in agreement. Heads nod, hands caress stomachs. The soldier looks around in disbelief. Goodness, he thinks, if thats all this is about... Anyway, so then comes this man, his finger points accusingly at the soldier and he comes and takes away my lunch! concludes Marten with some effort, as if trying to hold back tears. It is an offense, the gathering agrees. He must be punished right away. That wasnt how it happened! A half-indignant, half-abashed voice protests. The soldier stops abruptly. It feels silly, explaining things to kids, stubborn and dense and trying him in a court! How absurd! He forces a laugh, and explains. I was on patrol. Then I see this kid, walking

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alone, and in a god-forsaken battlefield too! He had an apple in his hand, so I Mister Walkins. You have not been granted permission to speak. Please allow Marten to continue. But the silence has been broken, and the queries are uncontainable. They all turn to Marten in a flurry of whats and whens and wheres, all competing for an answer, excited, looking more like themselves, like children. I was within the fence, you know. He came and took my lunch. What fence? I wasnt even near here. Another boy suddenly stands in front of Marten. He pushes out his arms to quiet the crowd, gesturing that he has something to say. The judge, though obviously upset at the rabble, merely watches in silence. I saw Marten. He was inside the fence. Yeah, like what Jojo said. The noise elevates, waning then regaining strength in a sinuous pattern, increasing, growing angry, accusing, resolute. The soldier turns to the only silent person in the crowd. Lucas raises a hand, and the herd stills. Taking advantage of the quiet, the soldier speaks. I dont know what you are talking about. This kid, I saw him walking alone. I came up to him, tried to talk to himI asked him where his folks were. And he didnt talk. He gave me the apple. I ate it. The judge, for lack of a gavel, pounds his fist on the desk. We shall reconvene after a short break.

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Lucas stands, a piece of paper in his hand, the verdict a formality. He reads it out, guilty of course, and a sentence of death. The soldier laughs even as he struggles to free himself from his bonds. They gag him and drag him off. He writhes and groans. They fumble, one by one, with his gun. The girl who was beside the dais earlier manages a firm grasp and tries to do it like in the movies, finger on the trigger andclick!it is pressed but not fired, and they each have a turn at figuring out what is wrong with it while its owner trembles and shakes his head and moans, until someone flicks the safety off and shoots point-blank. The children watch, fascinated, as a singular mark appears on the sweaty, pallid skin, blossoms, then bleeds.

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Theresa Russel Padillo Afterwards

e likes it best in the afternoon, after a long day spent at his desk. She knocks on his door, always softly. Always she brings fruit. Bread when she is hungry. He would eat beside her sometimes when he is hungry too. But all that comes later in the evening. When she comes they are both hungry for each other. This afternoon, there was the anticipated knock. Before he opened the door, he already smelled the bread and oranges. It was a different woman. She came in without his invitation. Without his prompting she began to speak. She told him that her friend was busy and so sent her in her place. She said she knew about their arrangement. He just listened and watched her. She said that he could take her or send her away. He told her to sit if she liked while he thought about it. She didnt sit but instead went around his room. He didnt think but instead watched her. He liked the quietness by which she moved. He stood behind her as she scanned the titles on the shelves. He could hear her controlled breathing. He held her by the waist as he kissed her hair, the curve of her right ear, the edge of her left shoulder. When he kissed her nape, she held her breath and trembled. He liked to think no one had kissed her there before, where she smelled faintly of lavender. She was about to turn when he said, dont. She sensed him undressing and she too did. When he touched her again, she understood only the present. So that this skin on skin, his hands navigating downwards, became some private language of hunger. So that as she braced herself against the shelves, as he pulled her waist towards him, as he entered her, sequence was nullified by moment. So that finally, each moment was felt to be a necessity. The sensation swirled deeper and deeper as they sought the shared rhythm of their bodies. He knew his pace and didnt hurry. She could

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sense the deliberate prolongation of his every thrust. She could sense that the delay was punishment for overturning his expectations. Only it was not for her but for her who didnt come. It took a long time, his punishment. And when he came, he sensed that she also did. He carried her to bed where they both lay still. Tell me, he said. Where is she? With another man. Is she tired of me? She is faithful. Fidelity has nothing to do with it. Do you love her? There was no answer. In that absence they began again. And this time she punished him for his silence by holding out longer after he came. Afterwards they ate. He peeled the oranges with a knife and she ate the bread with butter staining her hands. They smiled at each others nakedness. Then looking at the crumpled sheets, they saw they were strangers caught in some elaborate trap. Without happiness, without patience, without desire.

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Theresa Russel Padillo Afterwards

hat does it matter? He believes in nothing. No, this is what he believes in: the underside of her arm he kisses her armpit he kisses (she laughs) the curve of her breast he kisses left then right (she sighs) her belly he kisses her navel and her, of course. Of whom he knows nothing but is here, now. Enough, she says. Enough. Or she wont believe anything of it. This house, this man, this bed. In this arrangement, her friend told her, you lose nothing. Fortunately, very few things now count as a hard loss to her. And this manhis hands, his face, his body you can tell, is caught up in the act of giving. As he draws up to her, she touches his face. His hair falling across his forehead throws the lower half of his face in the dark. Such seriousness, such effort! She wants to laugh. Still, she touches his face. His hand catches her hand. It is all over his face, such warmth. Steady conviction. He kisses her knuckle, the back of her hand, and then opening her hand, kisses the center of her palm. Has he ever felt this fierce for each separate gesture? Her body is a coil. To touch her is to touch her every way. How could she explain to him the power of touch to make her recall? For in this man, wrapped in an act of tenderness, she sees another man. This one had also kissed her hands. He had brought them to his face and kissed them like someone drunk on perfume. A silly instant, he recalled, with another woman. They were buying fruits in the market. Then she cut her hand on a rusty edge of a nail head from the wooden stall. He dropped the bag of bread and sucked the bright blood welling from the cut. The poison would slowly leave her thumb,

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he imagined, and make its way into his heart. A line from Racine: And I give her my heart to devour. She laughed and told him how pale he was, how seriously he tended to such a small cut. She looks at him, searching his eyes. She sees herself in them, looking up at herself. In the mirror image, she is startled to see a sufficient-looking woman. Someone who if she cuts herself would calmly wash the cut, bandage it, and not mind how it heals. Like the woman who walks away casually after the man who kisses her hand tells her he wants to forget her and go to another city. Now it is also this woman who decides to draw this mans head to her and give him a kiss. He had watched her mouth that day. When she laughed, he detected something other than amusementdisbelief. He knew that laugh in his line of work. Middle-aged couples have that laugh upon being told the price of a house. He liked that laugh in business. It showed how people knew when they were being screwed. But coming from her, after asking what her idea of happiness is, her laugh cut him deeply. He would not ask this woman the same question. She might have the same laugh. This instant is sufficient in itself. He kisses her back. The event of a kiss is always strange to her. It may be a habit to reaffirm a tie, an attempt to create a world, or a break from the known narrative. It can be work, though it is never work for her. Always a contingency, and the pleasure lies in the presence of another sharing this contingency. The wonder is how things saunter into the inevitability of sex. Once the complex rhythm is established, he can find himself. Is he this want? This persistence, this repetition and always, always the loss of ground? He is mystified by the closed look she has during the act. As if she withdraws at the very moment he is closest to her. Perhaps it is this retreat that accounts for her look of being untouchable. But this frustrates him. He strains to go deeper. Maybe he can find her in a clearing. This is the story. This is her body. If she could get out of the city then perhaps she could also abandon her body. For she sees herself in another story. In this story, there is the city, the man who kisses her hand, and the possibility of happiness. In this city she could walk downtown, pass the church where the priest gives solemn proof of faith, and stand in front of the cinema about to run the last full show. In this story she could weep and

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when someone asks her why she would say, its nothing, really. Its nothing. Afterwards, he smokes. The blinds have not yet been pulled up. Outside the window, he can see the city lighting up for the evening. He thinks of her, the one who didnt come. He wonders if he can still keep this arrangement, if he can still survive another loss or be defeated by the anonymity of it all. He wants to get out of this room, this house, and walk the streets until he reaches downtown. Downtown he can forget himself until he is washed clean and empty by the city. Afterwards, she dresses. In the mirror she sees him behind, still naked. He comes up behind her and she turns. A version of his mouth upon her mouth. Without happiness, without patience, without desire.

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Janina Pascual How Color Feels to the Chameleon

e blinks, mulls the question over for a few moments, perched upon a low-lying branch of the gnarled tree by the dirt road. Strange, to find a chameleon there. You mention this offhandedly and he almost smiles. Strange to find you here, he parries. Amused, you look down at your tailored suit and slacks. Touch, you say, but hes changing the subject. He grins sheepishly. Its a complicated question, he says. Color is slippery, always there but always not. Like a fading wisp of thought, or a word at the tip of your tongue. Like the tides of the ocean. He nods, yes. Something like that. How poetic, you praise, and he ducks his head shyly. But you can tell that hes pleased and you nudge him gently, your curiosity piqued. What of particular colors? And he tilts his head, patiently waiting. You think for a moment, and then: What of red? Ah, red, he hums. Red feels like sandpaper against concrete, or ants crawling up your arm. Prickly, like a cactus. Feels like apples, like salt, but not like salted apples. Recklessness and speeding cars, snapping turtles and laughing hyenasred, writhing like a cat in heat, yowling and angry. Then he looks up at you and laughs as if startled. Taken aback, you frownwhat is it? And he shakes his head. Its nothing, he says, but your eyes are so blue! Like the sky!he exclaims, and you fidget, feeling selfconscious. My eyes? Nice eyes, he reassures eagerly and you relax. Blue is a good color, he continues. Feels like berries to cream, raindrops on a tin roof, but sometimes blues much too cold. Like smoked glassmaybe tastes like tuna. Hes never really tasted tuna, but the cats have, he reasons. The cats

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tell me. Tuna tastes delicious and you agree. So does blue, especially at night. Blue always tastes better at night. And in the morning? Yellow, he says happily. Pretty ladies in sundresses, he quips, smile turning into a smirk, and you blush. Silly humans, he laughs. Yellow feels like honey, maybe tastes like it too. Buzzes like beesa bit annoying sometimes, dandelions in the wind making you sneeze. But yellows also like silk, like porcelainlike your hair, spun gold. Flatterer, you chastise. Its true, he insists. Your eyes, your hair You shrug like its nothing, but inside it feels good. Feels like a different color, you say, tickling and soft, not cold, not warmwhat is it? A few moments, and then: like grass?he asks. You look around and nod. Flattery, you conclude sagely, feels like green. He laughs, why yes! Green is his favoritefelt on snakeskin, buttery kidskin leather, rumbling thunder with no rain. Green smells nice too, he says. It feels like it smellsfuzzy and friendly. Like burning tinder on wet earth, or taking a nap under a tree. Then he shifts on the branch, his chameleon-skin rippling. You watch, fascinated; how does that feel? He stops and asks: Why so many questions? Im bored, you say, my car broke down. He brightenscars, how intriguing! So fast, like red, like flying! And then: What color, your car? He asks like its important. Black, you supply. A frownwhy black? Its nice, very professional. He shakes his head. Black is like too much space, like grasping air. Like fear and freefalling and touching ice when youre numb. Black is not nice, he insists. Not nice at all. Get a yellow car instead, he says, then turns away. You look back to your car by the roadside, its sleek and shiny coat like gunmetal in the bright sunlight. Black is nice, you think. Black leather jackets, nice and warm, quiet as an empty room, dog-eared paperbacks under the faint light of the bedside lamp, peaceful as the night softly blanketing the city; tuxedoes and little black dressesbut yellow? Yellow like sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, like that chipped ceramic mug filled with coffee beside a plate of breakfast. Yes. But black is beautiful, thickly mysterious and intoxicating. Black is sexy, and you grin, chuckling softly. Now what would a chameleon know about that?

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Contributors

Jessica Balaquit is a math major. She likes the word Nietzschean but has no idea how to pronounce it. Melissa Villa-Real Basmayor graduated cum laude in 2008 with a BA in English Studies: Language. She is currently a freshman at the UP College of Law. Gustav Brandon Trinidad Cruz is currently a freshman majoring in electronics and communications engineering. In his spare time, he reads manga and the Twilight saga, and plays computer games. His dream is to become a successful engineer and work for a prestigious firm in the country. Dana Lee F. Delgado went to Saudi Arabia when she was eight and lived there with her family until she graduated from high school. She is now a creative writing major who is fascinated by blank spaces that arent necessarily empty. Arlynn Raymundo Despi is a communication arts student at UP Los Baos and a member of Haribon UPLB, a community-based environmental organization. She was a fellow for poetry at the 8th Ateneo National Writers Workshop. She lives in the same town where Bernardo Carpio was born. Aaron Galzote was born on June 24, 1989 in Tarlac City, Tarlac. It took him two years of engineering classes to make him realize that his heart was in creative writing. When Aaron is not jotting down ideas in notebooks, he is drawing them, which may explain his fondness for comics.

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Georgiana Diane O. Go is a sophomore pursuing a degree in architecture. She finished high school at the Immaculate Conception Academy-Greenhills. Her favorite book is The Oxford English Dictionary. Gayle Grey enjoys writing her thoughts down, playing badminton, reading whatevers lying on the coffee table, and hugging her dogs. She is a seventeen-year-old freshman studying sports science as premed. She believes that chocolate is the best thing in the world. Hong Song I is an exchange student from Chonnam National University in Gwangju, South Korea, where she majors in English. She is learning a lot in UP despite difficulties due to the language barrier. She wants to write for children both in Korean and English. Tracy Ignacio is the wife of Boyet and the mother of Max, Josh, and Zoey. She is currently a creative writing major. This is her second degree. Justine Kison attended high school at Miriam College, Quezon City. She is now a sophomore majoring in film and audio visual communication. Sarah Surot Matias recently graduated cum laude with a BA in Creative Writing. She is currently a freelance writer with a day job, which is how she expects life to be until the day she hits the motherload and becomes filthy rich. And when she becomes filthy rich she plans to buy franchises of Mini-Stop, Jollibee and Rodics Tapsilogan, where special poetry nights will be held every month. Cristina Morales is an economics student with a lot of stories to tell the world. She is a vegetarian because she feels sorry for the poor animals. A frequent daydreamer, she has a tendency to space out in the middle of not only long economics lectures, but also perfectly interesting conversations. Anna Oposa is a twenty-year-old BA English Studies major. When shes not analyzing punctuation marks and contemplating John Donnes work, she is an actor, singer, feature writer, and Internet addict (see http:// ahnnabanana.livejournal.com). And yes, she really does love UP.

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Theresa Russel Padillo studies comparative literature. She lives in Pasig City. Afterwards is her first published story. Janina Pascual is a freshman majoring in mechanical engineering. She adores science fiction, is a self-proclaimed geek, and considers fanfiction as one of the most important literary inventions of mankind. When not reading or writing, she enjoys a good basketball game, ponders Xenas impact on feminism and women empowerment, or plans to take over the Internet. Pedro Publico, a computer science major, is a two-decade-old Ilocano, a computer game & anime fanatic, and sometimes (& somehow) a writer. Francis Paolo M. Quina is currently pursuing his masters in creative writing. He received his BA in CW in 2006 as the first Francisco Arcellana Scholar. His stories have been published in the Philippines Free Press, and the anthology A Different Voice, published by the Philippine PEN and UST Press. Eris Heidi L. Ramos is a creative writing major who hopes to graduate soon. Richard Reposar is a philosophy student who, when not sleeping or reading a book, sits in front of his computer playing games while pondering the meaning of life. He enjoys reading comics like Calvin and Hobbes, Kikomachine Komix, Maus, and The Sandman. He plans to make his own comics but finds that he must first overcome his close friend, laziness. John Lester P. Roque originally majored in psychology, his first love. After deciding money was more important, he shifted courses and is currently pursuing a BS in Business Administration and Accountancy. He plans to serve his country after graduation. Louise Jashil R. Sonido finished high school in the Southpoint School of Davao and is currently a third year student of comparative literature. She divides her time between reading and eating cookies, and sees herself filmmaking, buying a video camera, and owning a Mac sometime in the future.

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E. M. Tobias is an amateur writer who would like to believe she has a lot of potential. Writing, graphic design, and mountain climbing are her anti-drug. When her interest swerved from numbers to words, she was forced to shift courses and become a creative writing major. Lambert Varias is a sixth year creative writing student, three units shy of having a minor in math. He will lose friends if (t)his essay gets around. Gian and Karlo are close like Bethlehem and Nazareth. About the Editor Conchitina Cruz, a recipient of Fulbright and Rockefeller Foundation grants, is the author of Disappear (High Chair, 2004), Dark Hours (UP Press, 2005), and elsewhere held and lingered (High Chair, 2008). Editorial Board Heidi Emily Abad, Jose Wendell Capili, Ma. Celeste Coscolluela, Jose Y. Dalisay, Jr., Divina Diokno, Mary Jessel Duque, Emil Flores, J. Neil C. Garcia, Jose Claudio Guerrero, Cristina P. Hidalgo, Carljoe Javier, Ma. Francezca Kwe, Gerardo Los Baos, Lisa Gene Mata, Paolo Manalo, Isabela B. Mooney, Isabelita O. Reyes, Anna Felicia Sanchez, Marie Aubrey Villaceran