L ITERARY P IECES

When I first set on this path, you were there, beside me,Looking at how the orange was strewn in forlorn woodland;The final dance of the scorching sun before it’s diurnal death,Breathless and beautiful, but we never noticed such things.

Side-by-side, we went on to the deserted dusty road,Passing by the small plants, the cement stairs, and the sidewalk.Graceful, when you walked, and when the light caught your figure,Eliot wrote, “Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair,”

Visited by speeding Japanese cars and other wanderers,Meaningless strangers that walk in and out of view,“The people are more interesting in the afternoon,”And to have met them instead of ever meeting you, I could not allow.

Reaching the shadows cast by the century-old buildings,A fork in the road, a decision to be made, and we continued on,Trust, that age-old feeling from childhood, was in the air.And so was love, caring, compassion; It echoed through the concrete.

Our journey was ending, that much I knew, as we talked about nothing,You flashed me the most sincere smile, full of hope and laughter,Words and smiles to comfort till the next time, the next time, and the next time.Au Revoires and Goodbyes, it has ended, and I was happy.

Yesterday, I walked that same old path that I once walked with you.You were not there. Yet that setting sun stayed the same.You were not there. Yet the faceless faces still remained.You were not there. Like there was something forgotten in the air.

dusty path BY DEREK PARRENAS

I breathe you in

Relishing all of you as I drown with

The thought of you

Beside me, whispering

Sweet and calm nonsensical

Nothingness, stories

Of you and me under

The clear blue sky of cotton candy

And eros, Endless but

Impossible.

I breathe you out

As monoblocks raining down on me

Watching the erratic flight

Of emotions, and the lights

Flicker on and off and

Leaking echoes stalk my every

Waking hour of dawn, then not

Knowing the lefts and the rights

But I try, try to fight, to survive

Each uncertainty, to keep

My balance, I want

Clarity.

Open Air SadnessBY CAMILLE MAALA

Your fingers play me vigorously,

Covering every hole in my body.Tickling me,

teasing me thatEach sound I make is of your

bravery,To push our limits

at every noteAnd keep composure despite

the blissful melody.

Happiness only lasts as much- My wooden build doesn’t last that long. I’m sure

you’ll replace me when you play your next song . .

But I’ll never forget the short time you had me,Still believing it was destiny.

The Wooden FluteBY BLACKHEART

scatgive he itit has lentit forgetsargument

lent to himhe who talkstalk he mustfurther down

he aroundwithout soundinto sightearly light

now he laylay on firetouch her cheekeve desire

to be missedhe acquirelife is mistpity and

disbeliefhe could beardisallowedeven there

where she talkstalk she mustfurther downafter dusk

BY KENNETH REYES

“I’m here again”, I said to myself as I look at the pale white gates that greeted me. There are two gates, one small, the other extremely larger, and both of them turning brown as the white paint fades to rust. An image of a car disappears at the garage it used to occupy. Now, the garage is full of expensive antiques discarded by the family that lived there. The garage floor is cleverly designed with squares of white pebbles often scattered around by cats that passes by every now and then. One step makes it two, and two makes it three- large steps one should make just to make it out of the debris of pebbles. This is the entrance to this old house- the place where they used to live.

Further inside the house is a garden which to the surprise of many, is lush, color-ful and healthy. Short, green grass covers the soft soil of the garden. It was here where the siblings would play habulan and langit at lupa. A variety of imported plants are displayed across the four corners of the garden. Tall coconut trees guard the long edge of the garden while a rickety nippa hut covers its corner. At the center of the garden is a fishpond with a bridge hanging just above it. The bridge is pure wood. It doesn’t have holes because the couple who used to live there was paranoid that their children would drown in the pond. Near the pond stood an old dead tree which used to bear spiky, green, hairy fruits whose name until now is unknown to me.

Inside, one will be amazed at the interior design the house possesses. It is a two story house built by solid concrete with flashes of wood and plastic. On the 1st floor, an array of glass figures and cups along a display table is contrasted by antique lamps and cabinets. Musical instruments like the harp and the piano have lost their tune and have now become mere furniture. They used to play such wonderful music when the lady who lived there was still able them. They painfully wait for the day she would play them again.

There are two living rooms, both with large sofas. The first one has a stereo which was used to entertain guests while the second one has a television which was used by the family for their primetime movie bonding. The dining table which used to be covered with food crumbs is now covered with dust. Six of the chairs are utterly covered with dust. The kitchen which used to be buzzing with the sound of cooking oil remains quiet as ever. Only the sound of water dripping from the faucet offers the momentary breaks of silence.

The house is dirty. The dust on the furniture and the smudges on the ceiling demon-strate utmost untidiness. For a while, you would be tempted to clean the house but would even-tually be discouraged by the size and complexity of it.

The second floor was dull compared to the first. The stairs remain woody and shiny as ever. An old bookshelf is there immediately after the stairs. Some books are dusty but some are still well maintained. Along the corridor, are five bedrooms- three of them empty, sometimes even four. Each bedroom has a different story. Some rooms have wallpapers that are ripped off and others filled with pictures of the family that used to live there. These rooms used to be very noisy ,that’s why until now I still cover my ears and fold my legs when I go in one of them.

“I’m here again”, I repeated to myself as I stared at the pale white door that welcomed me. I opened the door gently enough to not wake her. There she was, my mom. This was our home. This is our house. This is our place for two.It’s time to water the plants again. Oh god! I hate watering trees. Guess I’ll have to skip them. I hate cleaning!

To all passengers on board: thank you for embarking on this once-in-a-lifetime tour of hell. Please fasten your seatbelts and barf bags are found in compartments in front of you. Refer to the travel guide for the names of people you might see along the way. Thank you for your cooperation and this is your captain, Meg, speaking, welcom-ing you to my version of hell.

This hell may be radically different from what you might imagine it to be, with no clear theme in its de-sign. It is in fact like a collage of my mind’s efforts to distinguish good from evil. You will notice influences from the Catholic religion and also modern culture. Here we are at the entrance, which is nothing but a pitch black hole. This is what scientists call a worm hole, and it will transport sinners to their corresponding circle, and specific pouch if there are any in that circle, according to their most grievous sin. No need to worry, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be touring the nine circles one by one, and I guarantee your safe passage through them.

First stop, we have the atheists. Because of their lack of religion, I cannot judge them completely. That is why I placed them here in oblivion and have given them the simplest, but not necessarily the most merciful, of punishments: solitude. They cannot even see their fellow atheists, but find themselves all alone. Slowly, they will anguish in their loneliness. And because they do not believe in gods or deities, they lose all hope of ever getting out of here. In the Second Circle, we have the slothful, who although are not very harmful, are not useful to society either. The clear blue sky and gentle breeze makes them want to laze around. But they cannot do so, because as you can see, they are running individually on perpetual treadmills. Also, they risk tripping and falling into the abyss below, if they don’t remove the boulders that appear in their way.

Now we’re at the Third Circle, home to the wrathful. A red sun watches over this dry land, sulfur issues from the ground, and many volcanoes and geysers erupt now and then. With the dry, summer climate, tempers rise and they take out their anger on one another. These people, blinded by their anger, often are led to worse sins; their wrath is only the beginning of more severe crimes. The Fourth Circle has two pouches, separate by a violet river. In the first pouch, a mountainous area, we have people filled with pride. Lucifer, the fallen angel, rules over this place and forces them to swallow air, inflating their heads, and sending them flying through the air. Their heads rupture, and before they even touch the ground, Lucifer enchants them to repeat their punishment. In the second pouch, a barren landscape, the vain are surrounded by dead narcissus flowers. Their eyes have been bewitched so that when they look into the river, they see their ugly, inner selves. Although pride and vanity are closely related, the latter is concerned about one’s personal appearance while the former is all about superiority. However, both are destructive when one chooses not to swallow either one, and in the process, one loses someone important in his or her life. It is better for one to let go of his pride or vanity than to lose the people around him by holding on to it.We’ve arrived at the Fifth Circle, an ice-covered land, where the lustful reside. Here, these sinners are chained to the ground by flames, forcing them to crawl their way around this place. But as you can see, they have no eyes, having been gouged out by the demon, Asmodeus. The only way they can go around is through their sense of smell and hearing. Furthermore, they only hear the voice and smell the fragrance of the person they lust after. When a person cannot ignore the temptations of the flesh, is he any different from an animal without sense or rationality? Like ani-mals, they too roam around to satisfy their carnal desires, while being burned alive. Adulterers, who have forgotten the sanctity of marriage, find their place here.

Moving on to the Sixth Circle, where these green, scaly people who lived their lives as gluttonous, corrupt, and thieving people coexist. Like dragons, they like to hoard food, wealth and power. In this wintry landscape, they suffer, in three separate pouches, a bottomless, y-shaped pit isolating the three. The gluttonous are forced to eat

Dante’s Inferno ReimaginedBY MEG ROMARATE

the endless pile of food in front of them, the cold climate further encouraging their appetite. Meanwhile, the corrupt people are like sled dogs, pulling the weight equivalent to the extent of their corruption. Thieves are surrounded by gold, but find that they cannot touch even a single coin. Like the pit, their greed is endless, and their appetites will never be satisfied, as they destroy their lives and the lives of people around them. Anything in excess is a bad thing, and in their case, the standard for contentment is constantly getting higher.

The Seventh Circle is where the fraudulent dwell. Here, liars, swindlers, and those who claim to be a god in the flesh reside in this ever-changing autumn landscape. Like the different colors, their different faces that have deceived others are transformed into contorted, disfigured faces. Here, the stench of acrid plastic fills the air, as their faces too, are plastic. Their tongues are cut off, and wind around their neck, ensuring that they cause no more trouble. Fraud is silent, but deadly, because it operates in the shadows and strikes unexpectedly, with far-reaching effects. In the words of Sir Walter Scott, “O what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!” And on that web, we become trapped, becoming easy prey for the spider that has spun it.

Here we are at the Eighth Circle, where the treacherous bleed from snake bites on their backs and are slowly engulfed by the ground. Trees that the snakes inhabit reflect the rapid change of seasons, like these people whose loyalties easily shift. A short hedge made of dead rats, separate the two pouches; the stench mingling with the smell of gunpowder in the air. In one pouch are the people treacherous to their country. The second pouch contains those who have betrayed their kin and comrades. Those who betray their motherland, also betrays his countrymen. Often, it is easier to forgive complete strangers when they do wrong against us, but is harder to forgive those who are close to us and whom we have trusted, but turn out to be traitors. Not only is it nearly impossible for us to trust them again, but harder for us to trust other people thereafter.

Finally, we’re at the Ninth Circle. The barf bags are ready at your disposal should you feel the need to vomit due to the smell of blood and rotten bodies. Screams emanate from a pit in the middle of this barren, Mars-like landscape. Here, those who kill others, themselves and innocent unborn babies, are in three pouches, separated by walls of human bones. Zombie babies, much like the tiyanak, crawl out of the pit, in search of their parents, who cringe at their sight. Those who committed suicide kill themselves over and over again. Murderers are hunted by their victims who slowly come out of the pit, and drag them back down, disappearing into the darkness. While many people consider other things like treachery or failure or dishonor to be worse than death, I believe otherwise. While one is alive, there is hope. Humans do not have the right to take their lives or someone else’s for that matter. Death will come naturally, so why deprive an innocent baby of a life it has yet to live, take the life of another or cut short your own? These Angels of Death deserve to be in the deepest recesses of my hell, for they not only deliver death, but sorrow and despair to their victims’ loved ones who are left behind.

Now that we’re on our way out, I would like to thank you for embarking on this tour of my version of hell. It is imperfect in many ways, and reveals to you dear passengers, my personality, the extent of my mercy and influences I get from my upbringing, religion, culture and the media. The sins are ranked according to how easily I would forgive a person if they committed it, the damage it would bring to other people and their corresponding punishments are also linked to their sin. For a list of people in each circle, please refer to the travel guide. Please bear in mind, that this is not what hell really looks like, because as my English 12 professor says, I’ve never been there. But then again, anybody who’s ever been there, probably never came back to tell the tale. Once again, this is your captain, Meg, speaking, thank you for flying with me today.

Note:I wrote this essay back in first year, for my English 12 class where we were tasked to write our own version of Dante’s Inferno. Though this was a requirement, I wrote it as something not to be taken seriously though I did input some of my own moral beliefs in writing this. It is not perfect in its composition, and I may have gotten some references and certain facts wrong. Here, I present the essay in its original state, and I would like to ask readers to forgive my 17-year-old self for the grammatical and logical flaws in this work. To this day, this is one of my favorite assignments given to me throughout my college life. Three years have passed and some of my views and beliefs have changed since then. If I were to write an essay like

this now, it would be quite different. But if anybody met me back in first year and asked me what my version of hell would be like, it would be this.

I can feel myself slipping—sliding and falling—into a place where only I can reach.

The air brushes against my skin, cold and soothing. It envelopes me into a pleasant embrace and

further draws into a world that does not truly exist. The gigantic fiery ball is barely awake, prob-

ably still squinting her invisible eyes after hours of sleep.

I find myself leisurely walking down this familiar street lined by towering trees. Somehow, I

feel like a princess gracefully walking towards an awaiting throne, wearing the most glamorous

dress and sporting a million dollar smile. Except nothing is real, and everything is just a fabrica-

tion of my mind.

Distractions. Yes, there are distractions everywhere—all pulling and luring me back to reality.

I see wheels struggling against the pavement, desperately bustling down the road. I hear the

honking of impatient car owners, mentally counting every tick of the clock. I smell the polluted

air of this industrialized land, suffocating me as it passes by. Sometimes, I can practically see

thick, dark smoke looming everywhere, tainting the surroundings with its impurity.

This is a crazy world. Every blessed morning is a premonition of a million possibilities. The mo-

ment I open my eyes in the morning, there’s always this split-second pause of confusion and

curiosity. There’s never an ordinary day because there’s so much to look forward to, so many

things to ponder on and so many things to learn. Every day is a struggle of some sort, a test to

overcome, a fight to win. And annoying as it may seem, living is winning; and winning is all about

surpassing whatever needs to be surpassed.

And sometimes, all I need is a quick respite—a trip to the land where only I could reach.

slithering byBY LORRAINE RANOA

slithering by

VISUAL ART