Liham Issue 1 Final

8/14/2019 Liham Issue 1 Final

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Co-Editors-in-Chief Michi F. and Chris Kevin O.

Layout Editors Mahek T. and Bernice H.

Poetry Editors Aurna H. and Anthony G.

Fiction Editors Matt B. and Cindy C.

Non-Fiction Editors Patrick M. and Kinno N.

Visual Arts Editor Zaina A.

Public Relations Officers Kaye K. and Stevii M.

Advisor Wendy D.

When we first conceived the idea of a literary magazine, neither of usthought that our plans would be met with such gracious accep-

tance and anticipation. Once again, the keen interest and unwitting sup-

port that we have received while pursuing the creation of this magazine

have proved the great inspirational power of Creative Writing. We pray

that the birth of this literary magazine will serve as an outlet for the many

creative writers within our midst who know of their talents and wish to

share them with others. But most importantly, we hope that it may serveas a form of artistic release for anyone who wishes to indulge in the

beauty and freedom of poetry and prose. Without further ado, we are

honored to present the first issue of ISMs first literary magazine Liham.

Michi and Chris

Editors-in-Chief

EDITORIAL BOARD

EDITORS WORD


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TABLE OFCONTENTS2 FICTION

The Faade

Birdsong

Manila

Visiting Hours

The Private

22NON-FICTIONAuschwitz

A Brush With Death

How I Came To Be

Garbage

28POETRYABCs Are Misleading Poverty

Till Death Do Us Part The Traveller

Ode To A Paperclip We Are Not Them, This Is Not Us

Two Teens The Learning Process

35VISUAL ARTSBeginning to Look Like Christmas Hustle BustleHiding Smoke Away Sunday Morning

A Village in Swiss American Dreams

Diagon Alley Capulet

Shadow Cities Cherry Blossoms

The House That Ruth Built Egyptian Camel

Food = Love

LIHAM


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~1


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LIHAM

FICTION

The Facade by Caitlin

Birdsong by Angela

Manila by Esther

Visiting Hours by Sofia

The Private by Toni

Writers for this section

On The Green Side by Krizia


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FICTION

THE FAADE

Aug. 5

I told myself that I would have to try today. You know, take her outside fo

be a mother. After her bastard of a father left, Im just left with a mediocre sha

house and that crap job at the restaurant.

Not to mention this hell of a responsibility.So yes, it was her birthday. No, there werent any party favors, birthday

or wrapped presents. Luxury does not exist that simply for us. This morning

wished her a simple happy birthday, and forced these rigid smiles out of me des

fact that Im still partially hung over.

We spent the day at the mall. I let her pick out the clothes that she liked fr

second-hand shop, even though the clerks looked her up and down in that cont

ous sordid manner. I could hear their little whispers, the giggles, the way th

torted their faces in mimicry. But of course, my Eliza could not understand. Sh

not feel the embarrassment, the shame that wells up in dark pools over time. S

just my lovely Eliza, all smiles, and all innocence.

As I rounded the corner to our home, I recognized that scrawny silhouet

ing against our rusting mailbox. That sick bastard; I told him it was Elizas b

today, but no. Time to turn invisible, love, I said, my smile a faade. I neve

how this invisible game started in the first place. I just didnt like her being s

others. I had no idea if it was because I was afraid she might get hurt, or becaus

afraid she would humiliate me.

But Eliza just managed to cover herself when I stopped the car in front

house.

What the hell are you doing here, I hissed as I got out of the car. I told

come tomorrow.

And you honestly think you can manage until tomorrow? he smirke

how I hated those eyes, those tiny slits for eyes.

I damn well know my limitations, now get away from here.And I damn well know how you get when you dont have this, he said

ing up the bottle.

I snatched it from his grasp. Now just get the hell away, I spat. He gr

that spineless grin of his, and sauntered off.

~3

Aug. 5

Today was my birthday.I wanted to have a party, butmy mom said that it wasnt a good idea.

So my mom and I went to the mall

so I could buy bigger clothes. She says that

I am going to grow soon. But she says that

every year so I think she may be lying.

When we went home, there was a

man standing in front of our house. When

he saw my mom, he waved. So I had to

climb into the back seat and put a blanket

over my head and pretend I was the invisi-

ble girl. My mom says I become the invisi-

ble girl whenever we meet friends. Mom

has lots and lots of friends, so I am invisi-

ble very often.

When the man went away, my mom

let me out of the car. She was laughing and

she was holding a big bottle in her hand. I

dont like it when my moms holding a

bottle. It makes her scary. But she was

really happy this time, so I guess its okay.So I went up to my room, and there

was something on my bed. It was a note-

book. My mom said the old notebook that

Dad gave me was full already, so I could

use this one.

I am writing in it now. I really like to

write, so I am very, very happy that Mom

gave this to me. I love my mom when she

does these things for me. Sometimes shes

like my dad, but most of the time shes not.

I miss Dad. One day he went out, andnever came back.

Mom never told me why he left.

Eliza

-----------


7/42

LIHAMSo I stood there, with a bottle of liquor in my hand, and my daughter in the car with a blanket on top of her head. It was

such a spectacle, that I began to laugh. I let my daughter out; her eyes round as saucers as I laughed at the idiocy of our lives.

Laughed at our stupidity. Laughed at myself.

When we went inside, Eliza asked why there was a notebook on her bed. I told her it was her second birthday present, and

that she should write all her thoughts and feelings into it. I knew how Eliza loved words; how she cherished them, and how they

cherished her. Well, old habits die hard. Im a wasted single-parent, and I still write.

Dammit, its the only thing we both have left.

Caroline

Aug. 6

I went to school today.

I didnt want to, but my mom said it was thefirst day of school so I had to go. I told her I didnt like

to be hit, but she said I had to go.

My teacher was really nice. She was always

smiling, and happy. But she always looked at me in a

funny way, so Im not sure.

But then everyone became scary again. They

started to point and make funny faces. Then they

started to push me. I was scared. So I became very,

very small like a ball, sitting under the table, and tried

to become invisible. But sometimes it doesnt work,

and they can still see me. I thought that if I cried, they

would stop kicking me. But it didnt. They only

stopped when my teacher came, and when she started

to shout like my mom.

When I came home, my mom was holding a bot-

tle. I said I didnt like it when she was like that, but she

got angry and slapped me. Then she screamed at me.

She said it was my fault. So I went up to my room, and

became invisible.

I like it when Im invisible sometimes.

Eliza

-----------

Aug. 6

When I went to tell Eliza that it was time for school, she

hid under the pillows. She literally thrashed and screamed whenI tried to drag her out of the bed. They wont hurt you this time,

love, they were just being playful before.

Ah, the lies.

But I expected it. No matter how many years went by, it

was always the same. The same damn problems.

So I got the phone call at two in the afternoon.

Ms. Westwood?

If this isnt about my daughter, I will go and get my hair

shaved off.

I beg your pardon?

Im sorry, please continue. I knew I shouldnt have

chugged it last night.

This is Kilsworths High School Principal, Eustace

North. Im calling in regards of your daughter, Eliza.

So what seems to be the problem, Ms. North? I highly

doubt that Eliza would even be able to cause trouble in your

school.

Oh no, Ms. Westwood, it is nothing of that matter. Im

just here to discuss Elizas condition. She carefully enunci-

ated the last word.

And what of it?

It seems that you have said nothing about her Williams

Syndrome in the application form.Williams syndrome mildly impairs the ability to relate

with others. They have their characteristic facial appearances like

the ones with Down syndrome, and may have this overly

friendly and trusting personality, but otherwise their language

skills are impeccable. Ill have you know that Elizas writing is

positively near perfection even if the ones afflicted with this

syndrome are proficient in writing, hers is astounding.


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FICTION

No, it is nothing like that Ms. Westwood. I realize her literary skills are astonishing for someone afflicted with a mental dis

ability; I read her entrance paper myself. It is simply that Elizas little behavior problems have beendisrupting the class. Whe

some of her peers approached her today, she crawled underneath a desk and curled herself up in a ball. When her teacher tried to coa

her out, she started to moan and cover her ears. Im afraid this behavior is simply unacceptable, Ms. Westwood.

Unacceptable? Okay, now let me tell you what the hell is unacceptable. For the past five years since we moved here, we hav

been to five different schools. And in every one of those five schools, Eliza has been punched, kicked, and bitten, just because of th

way she behaves differently from others. The disease that she has even makes her fear loud noises, so you blame her for how she reacto this treatment?

I understand how you must feel about this, but this is not entirely the fault of the other students. You see, I have contacte

the previous school that Eliza has attended, and they have shared some little tidbits of information. It seems that the past five schoo

that Eliza has attended were all regular, public schools. Have you ever considered special institutions that exist solely to attend t

children like Eliza?

Ill give you a simple answer to that. WE HAVE NO GODDAMN MONEY. Well listen here, Eliza and I dont need you

school full of freaks that do nothing but bash defenseless people in just because they are so damn different. God, you and everyon

else can just go to hell.

I slammed the phone so hard, the plastic cracked.

My nerves were riled. I wanted the conversation to be as civil as possible, and even attempted to be civil at the start of it, bu

that damn woman was just a piece of work, Lord forbid. So it wasnt my fault when I took some swigs from the bottle. And maybe

couple more cause the stuff didnt work quick enough.

When Eliza came home, she saw me with the bottle. She told me that she didnt like it when I drank. So I got angry, for n

reason at all. I slapped her, regardless of the fact that she was already covered in bruises. I yelled at her, saying it was her dam

fault that I was like this, that we were in this dump, that we didnt have any money. And she stood there, taking it all in silently.

expected her to cry, but she didnt. She just walked upstairs, and quietly shut her bedroom door.

The thing is, I think I really meant what I said to her. Does that make me the monster?

Caroline

-----------

Aug. 8Im sorry I didnt write. I didnt have much time.

I didnt go to school yesterday because I didnt want to be kicked again. My mom was still sleeping anyways, s

she didnt know. She didnt know when I took some of her money either.

So I put as many clothes as I could into my backpack, and left the house.

I dont think Ill come back.

Im going to find my dad. I dont know why he left, but I know he loves me. He never shouted at me like mmom does. Or hit me. Or make me become the invisible girl. I know he lives really far away though, so itll take a whil

There was a nice policeman who told me how to get to my dads house. He said it would take a really, really long bu

ride. I asked if the money that I had would be enough, and he said yes.

So Im happy that Im going to where my dad is.

I hope theyll like me better there.

Eliza

-----------

~5


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LIHAM

Aug. 13When people talk to me, they never say nice

things to me. They always say Im stupid or that Im a

freak.

Though my dad never said those things to me, I

think he was saying it quietly in his head.

So I finally arrived at my dads house today. He

wasnt inside though, I rang the doorbell many times,

but no one answered. The phone inside kept on ring-

ing too; I guess Dad is really popular. So I sat on the

steps and waited. Dads garden was really organized

and pretty. The flowers were in rows, and the grass

was very neat. I was bored, so I walked around the

garden. Next to the watering hose, there were two bi-

cycles. One was pink and the other was blue. I remem-

ber Dad had tried to teach me how to ride a bike, but I

couldnt ride it even though we practiced many times.The bicycles in my dads garden were small, like the

one I had. But they were way too small for dad, so

maybe they were for his friends.

I waited for a really long time. I tried counting

how many flowers there were in the garden, but it was

too hard. Im bad at counting.

I was about to fall asleep, when a car stopped in

front of the house. The car door opened, and my dad

stepped out. He didnt see me because he opened the

trunk of the car and took out a big suitcase. But I was

so happy. I was really very happy. I dont know why, but I started crying. I didnt cry when my mom

slapped me, but I was crying now. I think I was crying

really loudly, because my dad came over and asked

what was wrong. He asked in a really kind voice too. I

didnt answer him because its really hard to talk when

youre crying, so he gave me a handkerchief to blow

my noise and wipe my tears. When I stopped crying, I

gave the handkerchief back to him.

Aug. 9Screw this.

She left. God dammit, she ran away.

It was all my fault; why the hell did I have to drink three

bottles and sleep in the whole damn day?

I thought she was moping, for Gods sake, when she didnt

open the door. But she had climbed out the window, and took half ofthe money in my wallet.

When in the world did she learn how to do all this crap?

So I called the police. They said that it wasnt twenty-four

hours yet for her to be considered a missing person. I called my

sister, my cousin, even my old man, and they all said not to worry.

Shes just riled cause you yelled at her. Give her a day or so, shell

come back.

Oh, how much I wanted to believe that.

But I knew, Eliza wasnt giving me anymore second

chances. All these years, she ignored it when I had my two AM

parties, and when I locked her in her room and forgot to unlock it.

When Id come home wasted and broke the dishes. When I had a

bad day at work and would take it out on her. Eliza took it all. She

was my punching bag.

And now that bag had finally broken.

I called the police again at four PM. Approximately twenty-

four hours from the time she ran away. I didnt know for sure, I

was out cold at that time. They asked me if there were any people

that she might go to, any relatives, loved ones.

I knew then.

She was going to Mike: her bastard father. Eliza always

oved him more than me. I guess that was my fault too. Mike al-

ways sat down with her, explained a single math problem, even if itdid take three hours. Id look at it, and start yelling right off the bat.

Mike was the one who taught her how to write, when school and I

gave up on the whole concept. It was because of him that Eliza fell

n love with words.

But he still left. And with that woman. He still left, even

though Eliza loved him so much.

Dammit, Im going to call him now. It doesnt matter that I

hate him.

Elizas not ready for this.

Caroline

-----------


10/42

FICTIONThen he suddenly stopped moving. When I looked at him, he was staring at me and his mouth was open. Then he s

my name. I thought he would say it in a nice way, but he said it like he was scared. Like he was scared that he knew m

So I said yes, my name is Eliza. I then said he was my dad. I dont know why, but he made a weird croaky sound, then

covered his mouth. I asked what was wrong, but he didnt answer me. Then someone called my dads name. The vo

was really pretty and it sounded like wind chimes. Suddenly the woman bent down next to my dad, and asked if eve

thing was okay. She had long golden hair, and her face was so beautiful. She was like a princess. But I didnt know w

she was holding my dads hand. I thought only my mom could hold his hand. My dad told her to go inside the house,

she stood up. I didnt notice it before, but behind the princess was a girl and a boy. They were younger than me, I thinbut they were as tall as me.

Then I got scared again.

Because they were staring at me like the people in school. The boy started to laugh and make faces at me. Then the g

asked the princess why my face was so ugly. The princess didnt answer but just guided them into the house. I didnt r

alize it, but I was crying again. And this time, my dad didnt give me a handkerchief. He just kept on looking at me

that scared way. Like I was the monster about to eat him and his family. So I stopped crying because I was even m

scared. Then he said he was sorry. Over and over again. He just kept saying it, and he didnt say anything else. He ju

kept saying Im sorry. He then stood up, opened the door, then closed it. I heard the lock turn when he was inside.

I started to knock on the door and call my dads name. But no one answered. When I walked around the house, all t

windows were locked and the curtains were drawn.

I was really, really scared. I started to scream, but no one came out of the house. I couldnt scream for a long time b

cause my throat had begun to hurt.

So I began to walk. I didnt know where I was going, but I just kept walking.

So I think I understand now.

No one wants me. Even though I love my mom and my dad, they dont love me. Even though I want to make friend

everyone runs away from me. Its really lonely.

I dont like to be lonely. I never wanted to be lonely.

My mom told me once that when we die, we go to a really happy place. She said it is where everyone loves each oth

and no one hates each other. She also said we cant go there yet if were not ready.

It doesnt matter if Im not ready.

So I think this will probably be the last time Ill write. I really love to write, but I think Ill be able to write there too

dont want to be sad anymore. Even though I smile a lot, Im sad deep down.

By Caitlin, Grade 10

So I think itd be

nice to be really

happy for once.

Eliza

~7


11/42

A solitary bird sings from the branch of the tall barren tree, chirping along valiantly in thecrisp spring air. Its musical trills soar ever higher, pervad-

ing its surroundings with a colorful patchwork of captivat-

ing notes.

Sara, hurry - time to go. I roll over in my sleeping

bag as my father tries to shake me awake. Sara, he re-

peats, Lets go. He moves away and I distinctly hear the

sound of dead leaves crunching beneath his boots as he

begins to gather our meager belongings and put them in

his backpack. Finally roused by my fathers preparations, I

unzip my sleeping bag and emerge from my warm and

snug cocoon, bracing myself against the chill of the early

morning air.

As I stretch out my weary muscles and glancearound the quickly brightening forest, I catch sight of a

white-breasted swallow nesting in the junction between

the sturdy black trunk of a tree and a wide leafless branch

that seems to go on forever, reaching up to the skies. The

bird cocks its bright red head and looks at me with its

clever little black eyes, as if it knows exactly what Im

thinking. And suddenly, I feel tears prickling at the edges

of my eyes as I am transported back to another time, an-

other place.

It was my birthday, and I was back home. I woke up greeted by the most delicious, mouth-watering smell, which I

instantly knew was coming from our little kitchen. Already

thinking about the special food my mother must be preparing for

me, I flung my blankets back, jumped out of bed, and ran down

the hall. The first thing I saw was my mother, and as I had

guessed, she was standing by the stove, stirring something in a

pot. When I entered our bright kitchen, she immediately covered

our old rusty pot and with a big smile, wished me a happy birth-

day. My father, who until this point had been sitting silently at

the table, beckoned me over. I immediately skipped over to him.

He patted my hand then told me to sit down and close my eyes.

After I followed his instructions I heard my father get up and

walk out of the room, the echo of his footsteps trailing after him.

I eagerly awaited his return, squirming impatiently in my seat. I

had just convinced myself that a little peeking wouldnt do any

harm, when I heard a soft snuffling noise. My eyes were open in

a flash, and I saw Mallow for the first time. I reached out to her,

almost afraid to touch her; afraid I would break her fragile-

looking body by so much as breathing on her. I finally gathered

my courage and tentatively stroked her smooth, silky fur. As I

gazed with wonder on her tiny form I marveled that there could

be something as small and soft as this warm little puppy in my

hands. That was when Mallow looked up at me with her choco-

late-brown eyes, and I felt as if she was looking through me,

right down into my very soul, as if at that moment, she knew all

my thoughts and feelings, and I knew I had found my best

friend.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

I shake my head vigorously, trying to dislodge the

torrent of thoughts and emotions flooding my mind; I

quickly brush away the tears threatening to overflow, and I

stuff my sleeping bag inside my knapsack. When Im sure I

have complete control over myself, I walk over to where my

father is covering our little campsite with dry leaves and

dead twigs. I help him scatter some more brush in silence,

erasing the last traces of our stay. When were done, I un-

wrap the package of dry fruits my father hands to me and I

take out a few pieces of apricots and prunes. I eat slowly,

savoring every bite, knowing I will have nothing else until

nightfall.

My father walks ahead; he always does, his gait

steady and unfaltering, his face set straight ahead. My

mother used to tease him that he was carved from stone,

always the same and never changing. Of course, that was

when she was well and could still make jokes. Father has a

scar on his right hand, a thin long line that cuts across his

palm. He is fond of telling us the story of that scar. Long

ago, hed always start, when I was young, I thought our

country was rigid and oppressive, and so stuck in the oldways. I was impatient for change, and when it didnt hap-

pen, I thought I should bring about that change. I became a

rebel and wanted to fight my country. After all, what is one

country against a tough and stubborn young man, such as I,

who then believed that the future lies in my hands? The

very next day, I walked into our kitchen, imagining the

fame and glory that will be mine. Certain that my father

would object, but equally certain that I could overcome his

wishes, I declared that I was leaving home that very day! I

was going to fight for my rights! And you know what my

old man said? At this point in his story, my father wouldalways stop, waiting for our cries of We dont know! Tell

us! Tell us! Then he would continue, Well, he told me to

go ahead! Do as you please, he said! Just that. Nothing

more. Now, that really shocked me. I wanted an argument;

I was ready, confident that my passion for my freedom and

my rights would win. I was going to show him! Imagine my

confusion when he merely said yes. He didnt say anything

else but returned to his newspaper. I stood in the kitchen a

long time, not sure about what to do now that I had been

LIHAM

BIRDSONG


12/42

FICTIONgiven license to go and do as I pleased. So, I said Fine, Ill

go pack my bags now. I marched out of the kitchen and

into my room. When I got to my room, I sat down on my

bed and started thinking. I thought long and hard about

my life and what I wanted to do with it. Finally, I stood up

and walked back into the kitchen. My father again looked

up from his paper and asked, Well? Where are your

bags? I mumbled something like, I think Ill stay onemore day, and sat down at the kitchen table. My father

went back to reading, his face expressionless. The next day

when I entered the room he asked me, Well? Where are

your bags? Again I mumbled, Im just staying for another

day. This happened every single day for ten days until

finally, having been asked over and over if I was leaving, I

gathered the courage to say, Father, Im sorry. I was being

stupid. Now I realize it isnt the country that needs

change; its me. Id like to stay. I remember he marked

his page on the newspaper, slowly folded it up, laid it be-

side him, and picked up his cane that was leaning against

the table. He told me to extend my hand; I obeyed imme-

diately, and with his cane he hit me ten times on the palm.

A loud whoosh filled my ears as he brought down the

cane. A sharp line of pain seared across my palm. I almost

cried out in pain, but bit my lip instead. I kept my agony

inside and received the next lashing. By the tenth stroke,

blood was trickling down my upturned palm, but I held

on. I gave you one lash for each time you were disloyal to

your country. I hope youve learned your lesson, he said,

turned, and returned his cane to its place beside the table.

He unfolded his newspaper and went back to reading.

My father would always shake his head and chuckle aftertelling us this story of his youth. Not surprisingly, my fa-

ther joined the army a few years after this turning point in

his life, and he became one of the best generals our coun-

try ever had. No one else had as much passion and patriot-

ism as my father.

I remember how he used to look the same long

crooked nose, easy smile, and unruly hair but now there

is something wrong, something missing. Suddenly a reali-

zation pierces through me its in his eyes. His eyes,

which used to be so full of passion, with a fire that con-stantly burned night and day, are now a hard dull black.

The eyes I used to know, which had seen much pain,

much suffering, and still continued to endure, are now

gone, replaced by a tired, almost defeated look, which I

had never seen before. This resigned look scares me more

than anything we encountered so far on this long, terrify-

ing journey.

Words are rarely exchanged between us. He does

not say anything; he is immersed in his thoughts, see

ingly unaware of his surroundings, maybe even unawa

of his daughter. I dont know what to say, so I dont s

anything.

I wish my mother were here. She would know wh

to do, what to say to this man. It was her jokes that ma

us all laugh. I remember the last time I saw her... maythats the last time Ill ever see her.

It was late at night: my father entered my room with

frenzied look which alarmed me, but there was no tremor in

voice as he announced, Sara, get your things, were leav

now. Hurry, take your knapsack and meet me by the front doo

His words, though sudden, were not unexpected, and I imme

ately picked up my bag, packed a month before, with all my

sential belongings, and closed the door to my bedroom. I too

deep breath, walked down the hall, and entered our little liv

room to take a last look at my beloved mother, lying helpless

the couch

We continue walking through the vast, silent fore

Our footsteps echo and disturb the still morning air. Su

denly, we hear a commotion ahead. Immediately alert, m

father orders me, Stay low and hide behind tho

bushes. Slowly, he creeps forward and peers throug

clump of leaves hanging from the branch of a large bee

tree. I follow his order and crouch, out of sight, behi

some bushes, shaking with fright. He stands there

what seems like hours that stretch on and on as I imagi

all the terrible things they will do to my father, to me, if are caught. I close my eyes and bury my face in my hand

She was on the couch, face ashen, her hands like a ghos

waxy white at her sides. Her eyes were closed; she did not

me. She lay there, breathing slowly, with shallow breaths, ea

breath measuring out a bit of her life at a time. Her face, once

beautiful and lively, was pale like a rainbow that lost its vibr

hues. Suddenly, her chest contracted as she was seized by a

ries of racking coughs, each one more dreadful than the last.

she trembled on the couch, I was overcome by a sense of pow

lessness, unable to help her. When the coughing finally stoppI watched her lying motionless, all breath breathing in a

out, in and out. As I stood there and gazed at my strong, beau

ful mother, I promised myself I would live up to her memo

live the life she never could, and make her proud, if it takes

the rest of my life. Then my father and I left. No goodbyes.

last hugs. No tears shed except my own, falling fast as I left

only home Ive ever had, and headed out to face the unkno

world.

I hear a gunshot far off. It echoes through a

~9


13/42

LIHAMaround the trees, like the final, dying sound of an animal as it takes its last breath. Finally, I hear a door slam and an en-

gine roar. The noise slowly, slowly fades away. It takes me a few minutes to realize that it is safe, that the people who

would have harmed my father and me are gone. I take a deep breath, and the tight ball of panic and fear clenched in my

stomach slowly uncoils. I try to stand up and realize too late that my muscles have frozen. I fall over, into the bushes.

Slowly, I unwind each muscle, each joint, until finally, I feel capable of standing without collapsing. By the time I suc-

ceed, my father is beside me. I ask him, in a voice that does not sound like my own, a voice that sounds very far away,

W-what happened? My father replies shortly, It was a supply truck. The driver and his companion were having an

argument. The companion is dead now. Oh, I reply, not knowing what else to say. Those supplies were from acrossthe border, my father finally says, We must be very near now. We continue walking, my father setting a faster pace

now that we are so close to our goal. We pass by the dead soldier, and I avert my eyes.

I feel nothing, nothing but a great big emptiness inside me. It is better to feel this way, better to forget everything.

Forget the pain, the fear, the sadness that has been my constant companion for so long. Better to keep moving, keep my

eyes looking ahead, keep moving my feet forward, left right, left right, and think of nothing. Maybe then I will not re-

member. Maybe then I will forget what happened on my fourteenth birthday. I will forget.

This was how it all began my fathers estrangement, my mothers illness, our leaving home, and our long journey to the bor-

der.

Knock, knock, knock. And again knock, knock, knock.

Dark thunder struck our door. My father walked out of the

kitchen. I heard him open the door and speak briefly to

someone. They exchange a few more words. Then sud-

denly, dumb silence. The door creaked close. My father

walked back into the kitchen, he did not speak at first, just

looked at my mother. There was a strange emptiness in his

eyes. He said two simple words, two simple words, and I

felt as if an ocean of sadness was pulling me, dragging me

down, down, down, down into a black endless bottom. As I

fell, the words echoed in my head, Hes dead.

Weve stopped walking. I think to myself, Weve

finally made it, and instead of relief, a creeping panic begins to overcome me as I imagine the solitary journey I must

now take. We are standing on a little ridge, overlooking a narrow, dusty road which snakes upward and rises over a crest

before dipping back down over the hill and out of sight. In the distance I see a metallic glint, the sun reflecting off a row

of towering buildings that look like guards, defending the entrance to a great city. My father finally speaks, There are

still many things you dont know about the place that you are about to enter. You will see a whole different world over

that hill. Everything is very modern, very new; it is a world that is fast and constantly changing. It will be the exact oppo-

site of your sheltered life in our little village. I wish there was more time for me to explain, but that is not the case, and

you must learn to find things out and adapt on your own. Know that your future, our whole familys future, depends on

you being strong. Be brave for all of us and forge your own path in that new world. It is too late for me, too late for yourmother, too late for your brother. But it is not yet too late for you. He pauses briefly, and then forges on, I was wrong.

Ive been so wrong. I scorned the fast moving world and its people, thinking that the only things we would ever need, we

could find within the high walls of our country. My belief in the greatness of our homeland blinded me to the world out-

side and the importance of changes in it. I should have foreseen what was happening. I should have known. I had been

right after all, many years ago when I was a foolish young boy. He gives a bitter laugh and I glance at his scar. Sara, I

should never have let that happen to your brother, his eyes fill with an ancient and infinite misery that fills my heart

with nameless agony to behold, But my regrets will not bring your brother back and will not do anything for you now.

Your future is all thats important. He takes a deep breath and continues, You must leave now to reach the city before

nightfall. In your knapsack, there is some money and a slip of paper containing the address of some people who might be

able to help. He looks at me, as if committing my face to memory, cherishing the last few moments we have. I feel love

~


14/42

emanate from him and cover me like an invisible blessing. Finally he says, I love you, and that is all. My throat is dr

cannot get the words out. I choke, trying to speak incoherent syllables spilling out of my heart. Finally, I nod and whis

I wont let you down. I turn and walk down towards the dusty road.

The darkness engulfed me. He was dead my protector, my guardian, my older brother dead. The riot police killed him. A

ple, peaceful demonstration for our freedom, and they took him away. Our country, our damned, beloved homeland that was supp

to protect him, took him away from me. Now I am all thats left, an empty shell, walking alone in the darkness.

I start following the road. Left right, left right. I must continue forward, I must endure. At the top of the hill I t

around for the last time and see my father standing in the same spot where I left him. His face is turned towards me, a

gle tear glistens down his weary, weathered face. I look at him, my strong, tough father, and a tear rolls down my ch

too. I will never forget you, any of you, I whisper. I raise my hand in a final farewell, he raises his, he turns; he is go

turn around and face my future, stretching before me like an open book, waiting to be filled with the story of my life. I

into this unknown, strange, and foreign land. This is for you, I say aloud, and then I too, am on my way.

Deep in the forest, a solitary bird sings from a newly budding tree. Having left its nest, it is momentarily lost

alone, searching to find a new nest and sing its own song. Someday, its heart will teach itself a new melody, and it

find, at last, a home of its own.

FICTION

By Angela, Grade 10

Against the cloudless sky, where a couple of sparrowssoared through the unbearably humid air, the stoplightblazed a bloody red. The minute the light lit up, dark-skinned,

grimy looking children dispersed from a corner of the street.

Like black ants swarming around biscuit crumbs, these chil-

dren horded around the lined up cars, each child knocking on

the windows, cupping their little, filthy hands, and yelling,

Maam, pera, pera, po. One of them, a little girl, rushed to-

wards my car. The gaze that has lost half the touch of reality

melted the glass; the two eyes were two wrinkled, salty olives

soaked in ghostly blankness. Indeed, it was a truly terrifying

sight as the child puffed mist on the window with her droop-

ing cavern-like mouth. She constantly knocked and begged for

a peso or two, until the stoplight turned green once more and

the car rushed on, leaving the dirty child behind in the middle

of the street, her cupped palms still empty.

The bare soles of these impoverished creatures are caked

with grey stuff at their folds, as well as their fingernails each

nail has unidentifiable grime stuck under. Often the thin dark

fingers would hold strings sewn with white Sampaguita flow-

ers while the other hand would form a small tunnel around

their black lips, shouting fresh flowers. In return, ignorant

Manilenyos are either busily talking on their phones or impa-

tiently tapping their fingers on the wheels for the stoplight to

change its light; the deafening roar of the Fords and the

darting by instantly crushes the faint voices of the child

-----------

Ya-ya, take care of Angel,please. Shes crying,

There was a huge family sitting down on the table

mine. The mother of the family was one of those pro

pino women who always have scented makeup p

thickly on their faces and weigh themselves down with

of golden chains wrapped around their slender nec

smell of her Bvlgari perfume pierced the rim of my nost

needles. In a very strong and arrogant Filipino acc

snapped at the two nannies, both wearing white, sittin

corner of the table. Immediately the two dropped their

and forks as one reached for the toddlers toy while th

picked up the child and cooed at the wailing face.

Why is it that well-off mothers, who have an over

amount of time on their hands, are never willing to take

their own young? A scene too familiar in the sophi

parts of Manila, as mothers are either very busy pick

their salpicao and salad, or observantly looking at sho

dows in the Greenbelt Malls while her two children fol

on strollers pushed by at least two invisible figures dre

white. Around the outdoor malls I have often seen a

cat licking its kittens and keeping their fur clean. Als

MANILA

~11


15/42

LIHAM

-Author, Grade

e is told that the baby of a wealthy family is helped at the

owers as soon as their mothers deliver them, all the way un-

the child is twelve years old.

The plates placed in front of the yayas, inadequately filled

th limp stir-fried kang kong stalks and cold rice, were barely

uched as the talkative family walked out of the restaurant

rough its arched exits. Soon after they left, a stray tabby cat

owly meandered towards the table, pounced on it, and

owly began licking up the food with its rubbery tongue. In a

w minutes it left, disappearing into the night.

-----------

was passing through the financial district of the city at its

ak time of the day, at around 7 oclock in the evening. Traffic

Manila is like a herd of a thousand elephants stomping

way from ivory hunters. Even with the windows rolled up,

e sound of the unbearable honking and engines rumblingeped through the cracks and crevices like poisoning gas.

ith deft maneuvering, the wheels the car eventually made its

ay out of the mayhem, but soon I was stopped by a police

ficer dressed in blue. He motioned for the windows to be

lled down.

Yes?

He took off his gold-rimmed sunglasses, and while wiping

em on his sky-blue shirt, Maam, you have made an illegal

ght-turn. At this point my driver interjected in rapid Taga-g, loudly complaining at the policeman. The officer put his

asses back on, swatted a mosquito away from his arm,

eared his throat, and murmured something quietly to my

iver.

Sandali lang, he answered. Then he reached for his back

cket and took out his battered wallet; from it he took a five

undred peso bill and gave it to the officer.

The policeman snuck the bill slyly in his pocket, and with

quiet salamat he waved his hands towards the roads and

nt us off.

By Esther, Grade 9

~


16/42

FICTION

Exhale. I watched my breath made visible in thebitingly cold airswirl around in a cloud of exis-tence. The rain poured down in a curtain surrounding me,

dripping off the umbrella which so steadfastly sheltered me

from the wet and from the cold. There was no wind to rustle

the leaves of the surrounding trees, and the rain fell in no

other direction than straight down. The night sky sat on my

shoulders and at my feet, dancing puddles created by the rain

were polluted with the eerie reflection of the Hospital lights.

It was in this way that I waited for my husband to die.

I just had to escape that room, where the steady beep-

ing of the machine to which my husband was attached was

like a metronome; never stopping, never faltering, never ven-

turing from between my ears. The disgustingly formal floral

paintings that hung on the walls grew pasty and greyscale inmy eyes. The walls closed in on me. Once all my visitors left,

the impostor's face that had been plastered to mine disap-

peared and suddenly I was suffocating in the sterile air, gasp-

ing for breath while my husband breathed freely from an oxy-

gen tank. How selfish.

What you here for? a rude voice snapped me out of

my thoughts. I could barely hear it above the heavy drumming

of the rain against the stretched plastic of my umbrella. When I

turned my head to find the source of the noise I saw a man

standing right in front of the hospital double doors, just underthe two-foot awning. His eyes were slits as he attempted to

guide his vision past the torrential rain and the glare of the

streetlights to find me; the faceless figure that he was address-

ing.

What? I asked, but the rain drowned out the sound

of my voice. What? I repeated again, this time forcing my

voice into a shout.

You heard me! He said, cupping both hands around

his mouth in order to project his voice to me. What you here

for?

Ohwell, I--- Im here because, uhm, becauseI

stuttered, my voice lost volume, and he cocked his head to-

wards the wall of rain separating us in an attempt to discern

my voice. Im here because I cant stand watching my husband die

without the satisfaction of having killed him.

No! I meanwhy you out there! In the rain! Jesus

Christ, its pouring! His hands were cupped around his

mouth again. Come inside! When I didnt reply, he rep

his re-quest even more loudly. Not knowing what else to

heeded his request. I didnt bother to avoid the puddles o

water as I crossed the now-deserted parking lot. Upon rea

the awning at the other end of what must have seemed a bfield in the mans eyes, he put an arm behind my should

usher me indoors and grabbed my umbrella with the other

I was surprised by the deftness with which he closed and

my umbrellasingle-handedlyand led me through the

matic hospital doors into the blindingly white lobby. I h

blink my eyes repeatedly as they adjusted to the light. The

face slowly swam into view.

To say that his age was a puzzle would be an under

ment. I thought he might have been about ten years my sen

the most, but a lifetime of hard work and manual labour had

him indefinitely He wore slouchy blue workmans overall

were decorated with stains and smears that reminded me o

tary camouflage. Near the entrance of the lobby, not too far

us, I saw a janitors pushcart with mops and brooms and bu

dangling precariously over the wire frames. I put two an

together, figuring he must be the night janitor.

Oh, Im sorry, I said, remembering my manners. I

out my hand, Antonia Miranda Marchand.

He wiped the palm of his hand on his overalls

taking my extended one and giving it a single firm shake.

Boyce,he said.

I figured, I said, giving a short laugh. When he

me an inquisitive look, I pointed towards the brass pin ha

from his breast pocket. He looked down at it and shot m

amused smile.

So why were you out there? he asked me, no

towards the glass doors. You could see the rain pouring do

sheets behind it, but the concrete walls muffled the sound

rain seemed somewhat extraterrestrialit couldnt be rea

was that quiet.

I never thought of questioning his right to an a

from me. I just wanted some fresh air? I suggested, with a

ful lilt.

He shook his head. I call scapegoat! Im not lettin

get away with that answer. He stuck his hand into one

many pockets attached to his blue workmans overalls and

drew a beaten up box of cheap cigarettes and a temporary p

lighter.

VISITING HOURS

~13


17/42

LIHAM

-Author, Grade

He lit one of his cigarettes. You dont mind do you?

sked, as he blew cigarette smoke out of his nostrils. Then

remembering his manners, offered me the box. I shook my

d to both the question and the offer, though in truth I did

d the smoke. I wrinkled my nose instinctively. Seeing my

ession, he just laughed.

So answer my question then, he demanded, but his

e was so relaxed it hardly came off as threatening.

The impostor inside of me that I had grown so familiar

over the years took over. I walked slowly over to the un-

fortable looking navy couch a few feet away from me that

art of seating arrangements in so any hospitals in the coun-

I sat down. I sighed for dramatic effect. Its my husband.

ked down. Hes been diagnosed with lung cancer . I just

t know what to do anymore. I couldnt stand it, watching

die like that, watching the life drain out of him like juice

m a lemon. I justI just couldnt. Can you imagine

ping alone, having dinner alone, having glasses of cham-ne alone, celebrating our anniversary as only half of a cou-

It was tearing me open from the inside out. Ive loved that

for as long as I can remember! I just couldnt take it any-

e. I let the idea trail off. Another sigh.

His face betrayed no expression. He just looked at me,

inking. I felt like a child stuck in a staring contest. I tried to

ern his emotions but it was to no avail. Still looking at me,

rought the cigarette back to his lips and took a drag so

I felt his lungs might explode with the weight of the tar.

urned his head to the side and blew out a smoke cloud so

e it could have swallowed me whole.

This must be very hard for you. He still didnt look

e.

I nodded my head, forgetting that he probably could-

ee the motion. It is.

I cant imagine what you must be going through.

Drag. Exhale. I suppose not. I shook my head, look-

down.

You must be positively devastated

I blinked my eyes with eyebrows furrowed in confu-

I am, I replied.

Overcome with grief, he continued, simply heart-

en

What are you insinuating?

Thats bullshit, he said. Still he looked away from

me, chose to direct his accusations towards an unmovable, un

fazeable, white wall. The shadows cast by our silhouettes on

that wall seemed to mock me, shoot me knowing, accusing

smirks. I turned my face away from them.

Watch your language! I said out of habit, feeling as i

I was disciplining a young child. When the implication of hi

words hit home, my voice rose in indignation. Excuse me?

Bull. Shit. He said, his voice breaking the word int

two sentences. He turned to look at me, and again our eye

locked. His eyebrows were raised inquisitively, demanding th

truth from me.

I didnt speak for about thirty seconds. My mouth

opened and closed a few times, trying to find the right words

to voice aloud but unable to grasp any. My palms began to

sweat and I wiped them on my blouse. This had never hap

pened beforenobody had ever called my bluff. I attempted invain to gather my composure. I chose not to answer his ques

tion when I spoke again:

Id like that cigarette you offered me now, I said. He

looked surprised at the change of topic and then amused, th

smirk disturbing his previously statuesque facial expression

After taking another excruciatingly long drag from his own

cigarette and birthing a monster of smoke from his nostrils, he

reached back into the pocket in his overalls, pulled out the fa

miliar beaten up white box and lighter, and handed me a can

cer stick. I looked at it with an expression burning with curios

ity albeit flaked with instinctive disgust. His own cigarett

dangled precariously from his teeth.

Put it in your mouth, he told me. I obeyed.

A miniscule flame borne from the tiny plastic piece o

junk that was his lighter caused my cigarette to roar to life. He

told me to inhale as the flame cradled the cigarettes rear end

and caused it to glow a brighter orange. I coughed loudly

choking on the black smoke that tasted of pollution.

My first cigarette, I told him, waving it in his face.

He laughed, Wouldnt have guessed.

He took a long and bountiful breath from his cigarette

which was already burning out almost right down to the butt

He let the smoke go in rings. I tried to copy him, but instead

burst into another coughing fit. He just laughed as he put ou

his own cigarette.

~


18/42

FICTIONThe smoke tasted of poison; encircling my lungs and

constricting them so that the breathable air bled out of them

and I had no air left to nourish me save for a cloud of black.

I noticed that this whole time the man--- John, really,

but I cant say that we were on a first name basis as of yet

was staring at me attentively, trying to discern my emotions

from my expression. His head was cocked curiously to one

side, ever so slightly, in the same way that my dog did when-ever her name was called.

Okay, then, I said. He looked up at me, startled out of

his observation. You want the truth? Ill tell you the truth. I

felt rather than saw his eyebrows rise all the way to the top of

his forehead; he was obviously surprised that I had answered

his inquisition at all. He didnt dare say anything, lest he say

something that might make me change my mind, and instead

just leaned the tiniest fraction of a bit closer in reply. I cleared

my throat.

Well, I began, you know how everyone says that

your wedding day is the beginning of a new life for you?" I

looked at him. All he did was nod, but I continued anyway.

Well, what they dont realize is your wedding day must also

mean the end of an old life in order to be the beginning of a

new onefor me, the end was much more apparent than the

beginning.

He interjected, confused. But if your marriage was so

unhappy, why did you agree to it in the first place?

I sighed, arguing with myself. The side of me that sim-

ply wanted an unburdening with someone who wouldnt

judge me for my weakness won over, and I replied in the only

way I knew how: I didnt, I said. He furrowed his brows,

his expression asking for clarification. I had no choice.

I put the cigarette to my lips, sucking the life out of it. I

could tell he was eager for me to explain myself, but he al-

lowed me this pause. I let the smoke out slowly. It took me a

while to answer. I was about eleven years old when my fa-

ther started gambling, and he never stopped, I began. His

addiction to the adrenaline, the risk, the potential for bigmoney grew and grew as our bank account shrank. He was

bleeding our family dry. He and my mom fought every

night. I swallowed, uncomfortable before looking up at him

and waiting for a reaction. He gave me none, uncharacteristi-

cally, so instead I just continued with a deep breath. One

night he came home drunker than Id ever seen him. This was

ten years ago; I had barely graduated from high school and I

was preparing myself for college. I was so excited to move out

of the house, away from all the screaming and slee

nights. But I would never see my new college.

My father burst into my room in a drunken stupo

yelled at me to pack all my things. I was jolted awake b

disturbance but when I saw my father standing in my

way I just thought he was throwing another one of his p

less, obnoxious, intoxicated fits. So, I lay back down. rather than heard the stomping of his boots as he walked

to my bed, pulled off my sheets and repeated, in a slow

that chilled me to the bone, Pack all your things. If only

listened to him the first time! I shook my head, silently r

manding myself. After another thirty seconds of uncom

able silence I took another deep breath, choosing to leav

cigarette burning away slowly between my fingers, and

tinued again.

My mom had heard the commotion and had woken up herself. I was just getting up when I heard her

in the shrill demanding tone that is the nightmare of all

dlers, What in the world is going on in here! Do you hav

idea what time it is? She pointed an accusing finger a

husband, who in response only swayed back and forth

almost three in the morning! What have you My fath

lenced her with a finger to his lips.

Pack all your things, he said for the third time

time to my mother. My mother protested, demanded to k

what was going on.

Just go and pack! my father screamed. He was de

ate. Now! Spittle flew from his mouth.

No, said my mother, with ironclad calm. She cro

her hands over her chest. Never before had they had a

directly in front of me and I just sat there quietly, too afra

say anything. I wanted to scream. I wont until you te

what the hell is going on. My father raised his hand as

slap her. I shut my eyes, but didnt hear the sound of con

opened them slowly to see that my father had lowerehand.

Ive done something inexcusable, he said slo

casting his vision towards the floor. And thats why we

to go now! Ill just waste time explaining it to you.

I have to know now, demanded my mother. Her

were still locked firmly across her chest.

~15


19/42

LIHAMMy dad sighed but when he answered my mothers

mand it wasnt to her that he turned his gaze but to me. I

t everything; the house, the car. He closed his eyes for all

three seconds before continuing. I lost Antonia, he said

wly. And then he vomited on my bedroom floor.

I looked up at John Boyce, night janitor. He blinked a

uple of times with eyebrows furrowed into a deep V, trying

clear his head and sort through all the information that Id so eagerly unburdened upon him. He lost you? he said

wly, trying to grasp the idea. He did so mid-question, and

hen the implications of those three words dawned upon him

looked up at me with concern etched across his face.

He gambled me away, I explained slowly. Simple as

t. The minute he told my mother she flew into a state of

nic. She was so angry she could have easily killed my fa-

r, but her panic won her over. She ran into her bedroom

ore quickly than I had ever seen her move in my life. My

her was still looking at me. Pack your things as quickly asu can and meet me downstairs. Hurry! I flew into a state of

gency, dumping my books out of my school backpack and

ing it with clothes. I ran down the steps two by two, but

hen I got there I stopped abruptly.

What happened? interjected Boyce; the suspense of

y story had him on edge.

We were too late, I said slowly. The man my father

d gambled everything away to was waiting outside to col-

t his prizes, along with a few thugs to help make sure the

al was carried out. He was just as I had pictured himfat,

lding, decades older than I. He oozed corruption from

ery pore, and I knew the money with which he bet in order

win my hand was not all rightfully his. Upon seeing me, his

oustache twisted into a smirk that would make even the

ongest of stomachs turn over.

This is the man dying upstairs. A statement, not a

estion.

I nodded. I had no choice. I had to marry him. I threat-

ed to go to the police, which made him panic. He agreed tove back the house and the car if I came quietly and never

ered a word of our real relationship to any living soul. My

rents begged him to take the house and the car instead but

wouldnt let me go. I had no choice. I tried to run away

ny times, tried to make people believe my story. But the

rd time I ran away, he went after my parents. He killed my

her. I never disobeyed him again. I knew the tears would-

come now; I had already spent a lifetimes worth that I had

en sucked dry of them.

John swallowed; trying to process all everything I wa

unburdening onto him. Why are you telling me all of this?

I took one last final drag out of my dying cigarette be

fore putting it out on the ashtray on top of the coffee table in

front of me. I turned my head so that it faced his. I don

know.

Upstairs, the steady beeping of the machine hooked up

to Marchand, Francesco IV as the name on his folder read-

suddenly flat-lined. The single monotone note resounded on

the empty walls, bounced off the pasty floral painting tha

hung rotting on the walls, echoed off of the visitors couch

upon which not a single person sat. The nurses and one of th

doctors on duty rushed in to perform the routines they tragi

cally and heartbreakingly knew far too well until the docto

was forced to call out, checking the bleak clock on the wal

above him: Time of death: 5:45 AM.

Antonia Miranda and John Boyce, downstairs in th

hotel lobby, unaware of what had just happened a few floor

above their heads, watched the sun rise through the glass hos

pital doors. The suns rays intruded through the doors and the

many glass windows of the building and spilled out across th

hospital floors, the light patterns as delicate as lace.

The two individuals sat quietly asthey watched the spectacular

scene unfolding before them, not

daring move an inch lest it disturb

the

magic.By Sofia, Grade 10

~


20/42

THE PRIVATE

FICTION

September 1945

Back and forth, the young man sporting a buzzed haircut mopped up the trail of tiny, muddy footprints on the floor til

Rhythm jerkily methodical, his eyes glazed slightly as his concentration wandered to thoughts other than this mindl

job. He thought about whether theyd be served lamb or pork for dinner, about Agatha the cooks assistant and her sective smiles, and about whether he would have to replace the murky water sloshing around in the bucket.

Looking at his wristwatch, he sighed in frustration. Twenty more minutes until his shift is over.

It was then that a low alarm whined and the unmistakable sound of a machine whirring to life was heard, reverberati

in the deserted corridor. The young man stiffened. Fingers tightly gripping the mops handle until his knuckles turn

ghost white, his clear, wide eyes were drawn to the foreboding, metallic door at the end of the hallway.

Placing the mop into the bucket, he ignored the filthy liquid that overflowed and spilled onto his new boots. Slowly

walked across the narrow corridor, each footstep echo unbearably loud in his ears. Dread rising to insurmountable p

portions, he was grateful of the fact that length of the hallway seemed to extend on and on until

Four feet.

Three feet.

Two.

One.

A hairsbreadth away.

The young man could not at all suppress the tiny tremors that ran through his body, raising the fine hair on his arms athe back of his neck. He felt his insides twist in revulsion, and something in him start to fracture. With a halting swallo

he squared his shoulders and briefly clenched his fists, digging his short nails into the skin of his palm, slightly roug

ened by his seven-month stay in the army.

Eyes clenched and breaths coming out in short, staccato pants, he blindly reached out a pale, unsteady hand. The you

man flinched violently as it came into contact with the metal. He opened his eyes warily when nothing as explosive as

soldiers storming in through the entrance door at the other end of the hall and wielding rifles in a haphazard manner.

Burnished to the point that he could actually make out his own reflection, the door was newly made and cool under h

palms. It was hard and unwelcoming, but it gave no indication whatsoever of the choking tears and anguished yells th

lay beyond it.

Two minutes passed before the desperate banging began. Even muffled by the doors thickness, the young man s

heard the cacophony of shrill, terrified screams filtered into the room and felt the vibrations as small fists hammering u

gently against the metallic door. Despite this, the young man did not pull away.

Private Tobias Faust of the 3rd District Platoon stood there until the last of the stifled pleas for salvation faded away li

the smoke from crematoria, until the machine overhead ceased to pump toxic gas into the chamber beyond the do

staying with those he had failed until the very end.

~17


21/42

LIHAM-

June 1966

A booming crack of thunder snapped angrily, deafeningly, even over the

incessant torrential rainfall.

The man sitting under the dark shelter of his own porch barely flinched at

the noise. He merely puffed his pipe every now and then, gazing blankly at

the withered daisy shrubs drowning from the excessive pooling of water.

His hand, large and rough and yellowing, moved to rub the tension out of

his sore leg through threadbare, cotton pants.

Taking the pipe from his mouth, the man pulled an army hip flask, dulled

by age, from the inside pocket of his jacket. After nearly twenty-one years,

he was accustomed to the alcoholic burn as he savored the deadly warmth

coursing through his body.

Dinner! a churlish voice came from inside the kitchen, breaking the mo-notonous drone of rain. Following this pronouncement was the scramble of

little feet slapping against unpolished floorboards.

A beat passed and then two before the man heavily pushed himself up, the

weathered rocking chair creaking back and forth. He propped up against the

splintered banister as he reached for the wooden stick fashioned as a walk-

ing cane.

Dragging his right thigh with one hand and leaning on the cane with the

other, the man hobbled slowly. With screen door shutting lightly behind

him, he entered the small, dimly lit kitchen.

The room was rather cramped, and the low incandescent light did not help

in that regard. Pushed against the sidewall with a window overlooking the

bare yard was a long wooden table with seven chairs neatly pushed in un-

derneath. The fireplace occupied nearly half of one of the walls in the

kitchen while a small refrigerator hummed beside the black gas stove where

Adele was ladling steaming broth from a sizeable pot into small bowls.

His wife, with her white-streaked hair in a neat bun and cold hands, was

passing out the bowls along with a roll of bread each to five boys. Backs

straight and yellowing shirts tucked in, they formed a straight line in order

of age from eldest to youngest.

Thank you, mother, said each lad, blond hair falling over their azure eyes.

Tobias had just seated himself properly at the head of the table when his

second son whose name he could not quite remember deliberately

nudged his shoulder against his older brother who dropped the bowl, shat-

tering the glass and spilling the soup in all directions.

There was silence.

Private Tobias

Faust stood there

staying with those

he had failed until

the very end.

~


22/42

Pursing her lips, Adele was the first one to move. Wordlessly, she lowered down the flame before moving to pick up t

fragments off the floor and wipe the mess with a dirty rag. The boys were completely motionless, not even daring enou

to blink.

It was only when the floor was once again clean that she spoke. Adolf, leave your food on the table and take your bro

ers upstairs. Klaus, stay.

Herding off her children, Adele only paused long enough to turn the stove off before exiting the kitchen.

Get the cane. It was more of a whisper than a shout, but the man saw his son tremble violently as he turned to obey

fathers command. Good. Children were monsters by nature. And without a firm hand to discipline them, they cou

only grow up to become menaces of society.

Twenty ought to make you remember to behave, muttered Tobias as he took the wooden stick that was as thick as

wrist and weighed it in his hands.

-

November 1946

Wake up, Tobias! A hard nudge to his right leg was enough to bring him out of his uneasy slumber.

Through bleary eyes, the first thing he saw was Josef Archibald hopping around on one leg as he struggled to slip

both his boots and trousers ate the same time. It took Tobias a few more moments, but the blaring sound of alarm th

resonated throughout the camp finally penetrated through his sleep-addled brain. Adrenaline surged through his vei

and he bolted up.

Preparing himself more efficiently than his bunkmate, he grabbed his polished rifle from the foot of the bed and rush

outside where the head of the camp, the Lagerlteste, along with a number of SS soldiers were already other Kommand

and SS officials waiting with grim expressions on their faces.Apparently, the commotion was caused by the discovery that fifty inmates had escaped from a block. Such an event w

hardly a novel experience in a concentration camp, but never before had runaways attacked and successfully killed th

SS officers.

Once everyone had arrived, orders were given to search for and immediately incapacitate the escaped prisoners. Perm

sion to shoot to kill was given should they attempt to resist. At this, a flash of panic appeared on Tobias Aryan featu

before he tightened his hold on his rifle.

Faust and Archibald, you check blocks five to seven. Use your whistles to alert us if there are too many of those go

damn dogs for you to handle.

The two privates saluted to their sergeant briefly before pealing away from the group. His heart pounding, Tobias f

vently prayed that they wouldnt encounter anyone.

Slowing down so their position would not be given away by their footsteps, Tobias and his bunkmate split up once th

had reached their assigned location.

Alone, it was as if his senses were doubly heightened. Tobias was aware of every crunch of gravel under him, eve

flicker of shadow in corners made his muscles tense. The smell of the chilly night air was free of the acrid scent of blo

and burning flesh and death. With a finger on his rifles trigger, his sensitive palms could distinctly feel the deadliness

FICTION

~19


23/42

LIHAMhe metal he was holding.

ust as his breathing and heartbeat evened out slightly, a

noise to his left alerted him of anothers presence. Turn-

ng without a thought, he aimed the rifle at the dark

niche between the dumpster and the wall, and very

nearly dropped his gun at the sight of a boy that ap-

eared to be just a few years his junior, crouched in hid-ng.

Clad in the standard iron grey uniform that was several

izes too big for him, the inmate was little more than skin

nd bones with his gaunt face and overly thin arms. Blue

yes locked with dark brown.

A split second passed.

All clear here! Tobias! Anything there?! called Josef

rom a few yards away.

A choice. Turning in an inmate could look very well on

his record.

Their connection snapped as the boy struggled out of his

hiding place, probably assuming that SS officers with

more fiber than this one would soon barrage down on

him.

No! All clear here as well! A decision made. He could

With a finger on his

rifles trigger, his

sensitive palms

could distinctly feelthe deadliness of the

metal he was

holding.

~

sleep in peace tonight.

Pausing, on his hands and knees, the boy momentarily

looked at him blankly as though he could not at all under-

stand what Tobias had done before scurrying away into the

night.

Feeling quite light on the inside, Tobias returned to the op-eration center of the camp while Josef doubled back to look

for something or whatnot he had dropped earlier on.

The pleasant feeling in his heart did not last very long.

A ringing shot rang in the darkness behind him, and fear

washed over him.

He turned to run as fast as he could in the direction of the

gunfire. Coming into a halt, he saw the boy from earlier, but

this time with a wild look on his face as he clutched a smallpiece of bagel on one hand and a small handgun on the

other. A body lay slumped before him, the origin of the

oozing vermillion liquid that was now spreading over the

asphalt.

And then Tobias knew. He knew that Josef had gone to

back sneak some food from the mess hall. He knew that his

bunkmate had seen the boy, probably doing the same thing.

He knew that they had gotten into a scuffle, judging from

the bruise on the boys eye. He knew that sometime during


24/42

the fight, the inmate had gained control of the weapon and

had used it against a German, whose blood is considerably

more pure, more precious than his.

But what Tobias didnt know now was what to do. How to

react.

Faust, shoot that bloody Jew down! screamed a hellishvoice from behind him, that Tobias would later find out to

be his father.

Still he did not move to raise his gun even an inch, but the

boy did. Spinning around to face Tobias, he awkwardly

trained the handgun on him.

There was no recognition in the boys eyes. He only knew

that there was a threat and nothing else. Time slowed

down and somehow, even from at least eight feet away,

Tobias saw the thin finger squeezing the trigger.

Instinct took over, and once again, two bullets burrowed

themselves into a warm body each that night.

From that point on, everything was a blur. Vaguely, To-

bias remembered being brought to the infirmary where he

was told that the bullet had broken bones and ligaments in

his thigh. That he would not be able to walk properly ever

again. Distantly, he felt the congratulatory slaps on shoul-

der, and understood that with his first kill, he was now

one of the real soldiers.

His first kill? Not really, he thought. He already had hun-

dreds of notches in his belt before this night, even if he

was not actually the one to push the button that released

the gas or the one to pull the lever that dropped the wail-

ing children with their non-blue eyes and non-blond hair

to burn alive in a fiery ditch.

After the nurse cleaned and dressed the wound, he re-

turned to his bunk where he avoided looking at the other

bed, the one that belonged to the Josef with light in his

eyes, with studied care. Tobias went to the bathroom andpromptly punched the small mirror that hung over sink.

As he rinsed his bloodied knuckles under the cool spray of

water, he was mesmerized by the liquid vermillion flow-

ing freely from his land and swirled down the drain. It

was then that Tobias Faust felt that growing fracture in

him break completely.

-

FICTION

September 1995

As he lay on what he knew to be his deathbed, Tobias F

could not help but wonder if he had lived a fulfilling en

life.

Yes, he supposed he had a good relationship with his pa

as a young boy. But then the thigh injury he had susta

back then had resulted in him being discharged fro

duty, and his fathers dismay at having a crippled son

strong enough to turn him away.

Yes, he had manage to finish university but education cr

tials meant nothing if there were no available jobs.

Yes, he had been able marry a woman classified by socie

be respectable as well as father five healthy sons. But f

the years he had spent with them, he had never been

reach out and relate to any of them.

He had forgotten how.

There was nothing else for him to do now, so, after n

fifty-seven years from that fateful night, he prayed

prayed for the redemption of his soul, for his family an

everything that had defined him as a human being.

And, alone in aretirement home, Tobia

Faust closed his eyes an

breathed his last.

By Toni, Grade 10

~21


25/42

LIHAM

~

NON-FICTION

Auschwitz by Mariella

A Brush With Death by Jennifer

How I Came to Be by Nicole

Garbage by Kevin

Writers for this section

Rest by Anton


26/42

Auschwitz.The name itself punches you in the stomach, especially

since it comes with the recollection of the three million peo-

ple who died in historys greatest mass murder. To me, it

brought a rush of history frenzy, recalling heaps and heaps of

alarming statistics left in history books that try to encompass

the gravity of the events. However, never would I truly grasp

the dreadfulness of these crimes if I had not visited Ausch-

witz itself.

The road to Auschwitz was planted with forests of

trees and varieties of crops, and the seemingly untouched

landscape guided me on a path that had once lead to either

death or a furnace of work and

suffering. For the prisoners, it was

a cramped cattle truck transport-

ing them to a lifeless hell where

the idea of home and family were

placed behind the pages of their

minds. For me, it was a comfort-

able tour bus that only seemed to

replicate the emotions through an

Auschwitz documentary played in

its 12-inch television screen. How-

ever the closer I got to Auschwitz,

the more real the events seemed.

And arriving there, I was

ready to burst with emotion as I

stepped on the trodden pebbles

that contained the worn out

ashes of painful memories.

Arbeit Macht Frei.

Work Makes You Free.

The bold words struck me. How ironic that a concen-

tration camp built with standing cells and suffocation rooms

would even mention the notion of liberty. How was liberty

ever attainable in a place where the closest escape was death

itself? Pure mockery.

And immediately images of walkingmarching

running soldiers flowed through my mind, and I saw the

blazing heat of the sun and the poking droplets of rain pour

through the misty memories of men in striped uniforms com-

manded by harsh SS men.

When I thought that the images in my mind were de-

spairing, photos of malnourished civilians with sunken eyes

and bones almost piercing their delicate skins did my head

in. There were images of the different blocks and pictures of

piles of men and women lining up to meet their fate.

What struck me most, however, were the pale innocent

faces of children whose possessions were taken, including

their locks of hair, and whose eyes reflected weariness and

their dimness. Arriving at the camp, they were separate

their parents, forced to take a path that would never lead

home. They had unknowingly walked the road to death

that a sweet SS nurse called shower.

There was no other word for it, but inhumane. It w

cult to comprehend how human beings were capable o

atrocities, atrocities directed towards innocent lives. How

hatred could one possibly have to cloud ones conscience

morality, ones superego, however you may call it? The im

urable direness of this crime was a reflection of the immen

den of faults carried by the SS.

Block 11 assured me that I was correct in believing th

It was the only block that remained untouched in th

in order to give reverence to the memory of the lives th

been lost. It was also the death

wherein the only escape was

from life itself.

So demeaning were the

tions here that the most comf

room consisted of a small bed a

to a bathroom where women sh

before they were brutally shot

red brick wall overseen throu

glass window. Cells were cla

into starvation chambers, standi

and suffocation chambers. Perha

can liken the conditions to that

stock, with barns and barns of

disgustingly treated like aInside were the roaring c

ments of hell itself. Outside

garden of death, where peop

either left to hung or shot repeatedly.

As I silently and reflectively stored the thoughts

mind, I felt the emotion brought about by the empathy I w

able to slowly grasp. I was dumbfounded by the shock an

ness I felt, feelings I could not entirely encompass in r

books.

Now, these events were no longer statistics to m

planted in my memory was the environment that was onc

in by humans who deserved life as much as any of us dohopelessness and their lack of dreams swept away by the

of worlds cruelness were unequivocally disheartening. An

these monumental grounds did was revive these souls, an

them the voice that could not be heard by the rest of the wo

For now visitors can show the reverence and unde

ing that was taken away from them.

NON-FICTIONAUSCHWITZ

Rose by JiWan, Grade 11

Mariella, Grade

~23


27/42

LIHAM

affected by this unexpected gulp, I felt as though my internal

organs were twisted upside down. Flashes of gum from the

past appeared before my eyes and I glared at the pack of gum

in absolute fear and abhorrence. The pack that once seemed so

desirable appeared as a big rock that was waiting to tighten

my air pathways and murder me. Sitting rigid in a right angle,I counted backwards and swallowed very carefully, hoping

the feeble saliva would wash the gum away. It was only after I

had screamed for my mom to notify of this shocking incident

that I became relieved that I was not going to die. After all, it

had been my parents who terrified me, with tragic stories of

old classmates that suffered from gobbling down pieces of

gum. Fortunately, it turned out that the gum in fact, did not

get jammed in the airway, it headed straight for the stomach

instead. Although it was not trapped, the terror and panic of

possibly dying switched my sensitive gears on.

As riotously odd and even humorous as this frighten-ing experience may sound, it was indeed, one of my most anx-

ious moments. I jotted down an important lesson that night on

my diary: sometimes, life offers you a big, happy bubble.

Sometimes, this bubble can pop without warning. Things can

happen when you didnt plan for them to, but just because

your life is occasionally out of order doesnt mean you will

die. Perhaps thats the way the world is supposed to work,

flawed and unanticipated. When I realized that not everything

has to be perfect all the time, I became more nonchalant, re-

laxed and less critical and life seemed slightly more exciting

that way.

Gradually, I overcame the fear of chewing bubble

gum as I grew older. However, I can still recall the chills and

cold sweat on my forehead and the whisper to myself in a

trembling voice, Bubblegum? Not soyum!

Jennifer, Grade 10

BRUSH WITH DEATH

Pop. The succulent, purple bubble exploded just beneath my eyes. I slid the gum back in myuth as I scrupulously investigated the nutrition factors

icated on the back of the wrapper. It could have been an

inary day. Streaks of twilight rays entered through the

ndow sill as the skyscrapers of Seoul slowly engulfed thestard sun. Gusts of ruffled breezes brushed against my

eks as I lay on the brown leather couch after a light meal.

sounds of teeth moving up and down frantically, de-

nding the last sweet squeeze and constant popping ac-

mpanied the silence of the room.

When I was about 6 years old, I was the type of kid

o chose to and wanted to live by the rules. Of course, I had

entures of my own, but I never let myself fall into the

chievous, intrepid activities other children often engaged

mselves in. Even at a young age, I preferred to abide by

law and order of the world and I was satisfied with my

style. For example, I always bicycled down the permitted

nues where safety was ensured and I avoided sodas with

monstrous amount of sugar. Despite these mature aspects,

part of me that resembled the most of a regular youngster

s my endless desire for humongous pieces of bubble gum.

The daily routine was executed on that day as well.

er leading a strenuous excursion around the town in my

erblades, it was time of rest and peace for Miss Street

ptain. Released from a refreshing bubble bath, I clutched

rand new pack of gum in my right hand and listened to

odd music my gum made. I thought to myself of blowing

ubble that was massive enough to reach my toes. When Itted a hilarious photo of a three-nosed boogie monster on

omic magazine, it forced me into hysterical laughter. I had

grab my stomach from falling over. While I suffocated

m the endless chuckle, I unconsciously swallowed the

ssive lump of gum. My smile immediately faded and my

bs stiffened. Although it was only my breathing that was

~


28/42

NON-FICTION

The doctors toldmy mother longago, before she met

my dad, that she

would never be able

to conceive a child

because she had endo-

metriosis , which

caused cysts to grow

in her womb. Many

time, this illness

caused her to fall to

the ground cringing in

pain. One day, when

my dad and my mom

were already engaged

to be married, theystrolled in Ateneo de

Manila University.

When they were near the big famous white statue of the Risen

Lord Jesus, to the unexpectedness of my mother, my dad got

down on his knees in front of her and placed his hands on

her lower abdomen. Then he prayed, Lord, please open her

womb. We promise that our firstborn will be Yours.

After they were married they became missionaries.

During this time, I was conceived. That was truly a miracle.

They took leave from being missionaries and lived back inmy mom's parental home in Cubao. There was a major road

repair for several months in front of their house and the air

pollution that the road repair caused made my mother very

ill. She developed pneumonia, bronchial asthma, and pleu-

rosy, which was a very painful ailment. She was pregnant

with me, but she had to take medicines to recover from all

t h e s e r e s p i r a t o r y a i l m e n t s .

In the hospital, the night before my mother was about

to give birth to me, my father was massaging her hand. Then

he turned

Liham Issue 1 Final

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