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𝒜 𝒞𝓇𝒶𝒻𝓉 𝐸𝓈𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝒷𝓎 𝒦𝑒𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒬𝓊𝒾𝒶𝓂𝒷𝒶𝑜

  One… two… three… it all began with a simple pun. I was in my intermediate years when my fingers and my mind started to scribble some words on my phone. It was then such a gloomy day when I was doing it, after I was stuck at the moment by the story I read. I started my freshmen year when I finished crafting my “so cliché” novelette, and there my heartfelt the ever-most overwhelming feeling because of the thousands of readers and hearts on my story – well not that it is an actual story but just a scribbled words with such scenarios in it. When I entered my Sophomore year, I stopped. I stopped for a reason that someone in my life, someone close to mine even the universe knows how close we were, started to discourage me. I told her everything about my scribbled words with scenarios in it and she laughed at it, directly telling me that it is too distasteful and not really appealing, well maybe she is right. Maybe I am not the one for this, I thought. Another one, a person whom I can learn to, doubted my work. Everything for me back then, was just a waste of time if I write. Until it had come to a point that instead of loving the story more, I started to hate it. I started to curse writing, and when they want us to write? I’d just come up with a simple yet the “mema-est” they say essay that you will never ever want to read, even the novelists, the gods and goddesses, or William Shakespeare doesn’t want to.

Four… five… six… everything fell on its proper place. Vacation starts, one event changed my entire outlook, my standpoint or whatever it is about writing again. It was then, when I got bored and hesitantly grabbed a book. The book that was still my favourite until now, I fell in love with “The sky is falling” that is also about writing, reporting and I was amazed by how the character was written in the book. I was 15 years old when I met some amazing talented people who creates meaning and story in their  music, I became a fan back then. They were one of the motivations in my system that made me imagine with creativity more and more as time goes by.

One time, I have been with amazing people and one of them motivated me to restore my heart in writing. She tasked me to make my writing be worth the second shot. And that was then my very own poem entitled “Difference” appeared. The blood was shed, the sheep was fed, while the words were spread the peace was spread – a gist of my poem which made me happy then. Which by the way, made my eyes sparkle and my heart thump when reading it. Until in my 10th grade, I was always tasked to write poems even if it is hard, it always made me give my full effort with enthusiasm, admitting that it was hard and tiring yet worthwhile.

Seven… eight… nine… it happened again as if it was fine. As I stepped into another school, during my Grade 11 year, I experienced difficulty since I am a transfer student and I just always want to stay in our house to get homeschooled for a reason that it is hard to cope up and hard to adapt to the environment. For a fact that we were also piled to do some essays and my mind wasn’t that deep in thinking some words – in simple words I wasn’t the best in stating my standpoint. But even I encountered difficulties, I have met a person who helped me meet the school and the people that are my friends today. She is that someone which I am close with told me that whenever I have something to tell in my endeavour, it inspires her to write with sensation too. But the same person, that I trust with my works, that I am close with, also judged me. And up until now, I can still feel the criticisms that surrounded me ever since.

Ten… eleven… twelve… I was then 12 years old when I started to build words and imagine scenarios in my head. Trying so hard to write stories that aren’t really striking to someone’s heart. Nevertheless, it is better than nothing to write. I am now 17 years old, hoping to make my writings more natural and creative.

“It’s about your faith that writing exists” – said the quote that struck me, it is about the faith we put in our creations, I was today years old when I put my faith in all the stories I make. I was today years old when I realize that if you want to write, let your feelings and thoughts bring you to a place where you will fulfil yourself. As Dana the character in my favourite book said, “All this and infinitely more in the space of sixty seconds, and then time ticks on until it finally sends us into the same unknown eternity.” I was today years old, the very first time I enjoy writing genuinely, without being so down when receiving the works I made, without feeling the rejection for the piece I make. And it was all because of two persons, these two who were lovely as their personality, that even the universe will fall in love. These two that we met, that even the world turns us upside down, they will never let us fall on a cliff. And I was today years old, when I am finally writing the piled feelings, without doubting myself I could make it. The fear is still here, but the heart will never stop beating to make me give up and in order for me to improve. As Alice Walker said, “Writing permits me to be more than I am. Writing permits me to experience life as any number of strange creations”

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𝐸𝓁𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝒶𝓈 𝒪𝓃𝑒

𝘈 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘮 𝘣𝘺 𝘒𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘰

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𝙰𝚗 𝚄𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚢 𝙺𝚢𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚕 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚘

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𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓥𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽

－ ᴀ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʙʏ ᴋʏʟᴀᴄʜᴇʟ ᴍᴀɴᴀʟᴏᴛᴏ

03 AUGUST, 1968

22 B, MELBOURNE ST., SAN LORENZO, UNITED KINGDOM

IN AN APARTMENT, a 51-year-old offbeat man hit the buttons hard off the typewriter. His room stench with old papers, burnt grass piping hot off a pot, and grossly familiar smell of a slum. It’s like an everyday yearning and eagerness that tries to burst out of his chest. He’s typing it as vigorous and brisk as his senses---evidently plastered on his face which makes him look like a madcap. Ideas flowing out of his mouth as his eyes focused with great enthusiasm evident with his gritted teeth, churning it with lust and insanity, he proclaims:

I am certain, definitely, indisputably, indeed mad. That’s what society describes my wholeness, my being, Alas! just to protect their claims, I acted like one. A hideous wretch! It was because of my heart! It was beating its evilness inside me and I couldn’t stop it. Sometimes, my sanity drives me crazy, that it wants to feign my atrocious beating heart so my hand could be planted inside to rip it off with antagonism. I thought of doing that but I don’t know why my chest felt so hard and tight. And these stitches around my chest wouldn’t go off. What should I do? Even Google couldn’t help me. What a scornful, impudent, hypocritical reality this world has! Hearken! and carefully observe how calmly it was written. I will show you the reality of a madman who had “heard all things in heaven and earth”.

It was not impossible to hear a loquacious old hag babbled---I was very much certain!---when you’re paralyzed on a grave-bed, which I believe was covered with a white mattress as a cloak for my courage! I couldn’t open my eyes, but my senses were as sharp as the needle I felt entering my system. Lackadaisical---my head was banging, my world’s swinging, what am I? Of course, I was just an 18-year-old boy who knows no name, even his’. Wait, my question was “What am I?” Oh, hearken! I’m a person who knows nothing but to write, so I must stop bamboozling you, people. I’ve gone through a surgery, Mamamia said my heart was weak. I didn’t believe her, of course!, I know my heart; but the idea conceived, and it haunted me, day and night, until one day, my heart shrank and so my breathing. Of course, it was tiring because I couldn’t breathe, and then the time I opened my eyes, I was catching my breath. That was not because of 36 hours of an oblivious life, it’s because of my heart that started beating so hard and fast I couldn’t catch it.

I had to look my chest at a mirror on our way to our new home. We were moving at a slum; Mamammia became so poor she traded her body, and soul, and even organs to bevy. I’ve realized that these stitches caused Mamamia and me such trouble. She offered herself to people, and I having these thoughts, which made me peculiar. What could I do, I started seeing things that’s not visible to the eye of the majority: unicorns, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory---only difference was that they’re a Wrong Turn characters with maggots drowning themselves with mud---it made me truly nervous---dreadfully, yes!, nervous I had been was when I realize I was losing my sanity. There I started talking to my papers and pen---jotting it down, so my ideas wouldn’t flow out of my mouth but on the papers.

One day, Mamamia talked to me, I was just 23, she said I killed someone and saw how horrendous it was. She caught me wandering alone under the bridge, caught an old man and hit him with a spare metal lying on the ground. There, I committed an impulsive and hideous act towards the person I even haven’t met. She was bewildered and asked me why. I told her it was my mind that says so and so did my running heart. I didn’t mean to kill him but I was just chasing my heart else I wouldn’t catch my breath! “You’re mad!” was all I heard as I saw her cry hysterically inside as she reposed outside. “Quit! Shh!”, I want Mamamia to stop her grief for the old man I killed-No! the old man didn’t do harm, my heart said I loved him, Yes!-my heart wanted his life, so I took it, my heart had an attraction to that old man. And so my mind told me to find him, my heartbeat in jubilant; I ran from where I saw him, there were police officers encircling his body. Discourteous! plump and suave officers girding my friend; I walked down to talk to his dismembered and balkanized heart whilst these officers gawp at me---I smiled, feared nothing. Suspicious, I’ve been interrogated, under the bridge, beside his body, and told them I was looking for a heart. Shocked and convinced, they brought out their handcuffs and led me to their truck. Mamamia came screaming, holding a knife with blood dripping from it. “Bugger off or you’re next!”. They let go of me and alerted themselves, pointing their gun against Mamamia; they left, absquatulate. Why, Mamamia? Why did you do that---did you surrender yourself to protect me? Did I cause you trouble again so you took this as an opportunity to get rid of me? Why?

I was wandering alone, looking for a nepenthe, and yonder waits for dawn. Knackered, I didn’t realized time prate so fast, snarf! I was starving for how many days I don’t know. I opened the door with a light heart, there I saw a newspaper in front of our slump, and on the headline with a big letter Oh! so big, my Mamamia’s name was on it. Tho, I’m not sure if that’s her name for I remember nothing about names and---a picture of her was printed beside it. There was a name of a man, it said he was a 71 years old ex-convict---released three days ago. He was also accused of murder---dismembering his victim’s body--haha! they believe he has some mental illness or what, also--just like me. Why do they always accuse us?---we only believe what lies in front of us-truth! Reality! I thought of searching his past life for my heart bounce with joy. It talked like it had known this person since then, its enthusiastic behavior made me breathe barely, just barely. So, a donkey’s years of hunting for its prey began.

Twenty-eight years have passed and this donkey got abundant of information about the old man I killed in the past. Starting from scratch, it was almost impossible for a man like me to look for clues as tiny as a microscopic organism. But this old hangdog didn’t give up because even a sibylline creature couldn’t pass through me and my friends. Paralogize! and watch it with your own eyes how I decipher this notion with my friends! You couldn’t see them? Yes! They lived inside my head, hah!

It was true, certainly! that he killed an old man, for that man has an eye of a vulture. I couldn’t believe the police officers knew about that, they said three of them visited him and were even offered seats for some talks. They were so convinced and was about to leave until they saw him writhe, with both hands on his head covering his ears, threw his head back and forth as if looking for something, and talked excessively to them. He looked like a complete madman they said. He was confined in a Psychiatric hospital and there compensated his violent and demoniac act---I knew it! Everything was clear! Mamammia doesn’t want me to go there, because she knew I don’t deserve it. Unlike him! because it’s not the first time he went berserk---trifles! I don’t have time for that. What’s necessary for today’s journal was that I’ve found out that that incident happened 33 years ago. And 33 years ago, I’ve gone through heart surgery. The doctor who happened to operate me gone berserk too! What?! The heart---it’s evil. The doctor who sets an eye to that heart bought it and took care of it. For he believes it posses a magical, legend, wonderful, and mystical power---which was true! I’m alive! for 125 years, it’s still beating. And that made me feel terrified that I couldn't even go to sleep. My heart spoke to me---atrocious!---I’ve never had a heart like this before. I don’t know what to do, no, I knew it! Help me!

As the madman continuous batting on his typewriter, mouth drooling with enthusiasm, and eyes beating its last sight, a feeling of eerie arose. He had learned that his heart was from his victims’ victim’s heart, and for 33 years he possesses the spirit of peculiarity. Because of that, they call him a madman, an old, bald, skinny and a nasty sludge with nescience---wait “Someone’s watching. No---it’s the eye of the vulture---quick! and write! Your heart is about to explode!” In the midst of the night, all you can hear is his fast and brutal treat to his friend---he’s following his heartbeat! I knew it! That’s why people knew nothing about my stories. I write no not because of money, or for some entertainment, but a warring warning. Wait, why? You ask why? It’s because of this!

As he writes this story, he carved the name Cion under his finished product. His story screams for mercy: help me from my villain's heart!

- Nicholas

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𝓕𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓢𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

－ 𝘈 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘮 𝘣𝘺 𝘑𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘙𝘢𝘯𝘻𝘢 𝘐𝘣𝘢𝘺

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𝙰𝚗 𝚄𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚢  𝙹𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚁𝚊𝚗𝚣𝚊 𝙸𝚋𝚊𝚢

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𝒫𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝒲𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 - 𝘈 𝘊𝘳𝘢𝘧𝘵 𝘌𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘺 𝘑𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘙𝘢𝘯𝘻𝘢 𝘐𝘣𝘢𝘺

  Vivid images. Brightly colored scenarios. Aesthetically pleasing words. Everything started with the way I have imagined things.

   At age 4, it was the time I started kindergarten. My mom became my first teacher to guide me on how I should write my name. It was the most horrible experience ever. I am neither interested on going to school nor tracing those printed ABCs on worksheets. I was fonder of going out of our house to play with our neighbors’ kids rather than to exhaust and stress out myself in compelling my hands to write something. It was the sense of wholesomeness that only conquering our streets with laughter could bring. Obviously, I really hated writing. It was as if an obstacle trying to hinder my happiness that I always tend to avoid.

    At age 7, my time after class was divided into playing with my playmates and watching cartoons and animes. This new hobby of mine was the reason my mind has begun to reach the ends of the universe. I have loved visualizing different scenarios and stories with happy endings. It was then when I felt the urge of creativity dominating inside of me. The way my imagination fascinated me was beyond the box. Even the smallest details made me excited. The curiosity and eagerness to explore more enveloped my well-being.

   Back then, I was filled with the most positive and purest intention to go out of reality. As a kid, it was my escape in a chaotic world to a place of utopia; full of fun with no problems at all. I believed in fairytales so much to the point that these stories inspired me to become those good writers I have always looked up to.

   At age 10, I found peace in staying at home. A shift from spending my days running with kids outside to living my life in solitude took place. Reading mangas and comics were the things that piqued my interest too. With all the resources, starting from texts to cartoons, I have read and watched, it was at this time I decided to try making my ideas alive in the form of writing.  

   My first piece was a nerve-wracking one. I could see all the imperfections in my work. I was still new enough to writing to laugh in delight whenever I hear myself or someone say I am a writer.

    Since then, writing became my catalyst for expressing what I feel instead of vocalizing my thoughts to other people. I am the kind of person that can be outgoing at times yet I hate getting exhausted of talking straight for hours, especially if I am not comfortable with the person I am talking to. With the heart and mind of a kid, I sure had a dreamy way of thinking.

     At age 12, this was the phase of growing up where writing just became one of the needed requirements; a mere requirement for school more than a passion. And because of that, I somehow despised it.  I have tasted a sense of bitterness and longingness for the emotions and feelings that were once overflowing at the same time. It had its own path I chose not to take anymore.

    Endless frustrations, procrastinations and breakdowns were the only ones left; tragic series of events I never thought would happen. I had a hard time weaving words for the sake of completion and meeting deadlines. Seeing my classmates and friends excel with writing while still enjoying, made me feel that I was being left behind in a petty world of mine.

     It became both a routine and a curse I had to endure each day. It felt exhausting and meaningless for me. I have received both positive and negative feedbacks in the form of outright rejection, advice, and invitations to revise and resubmit. It was hard and painful to think that the thing I have loved doing the most was also the same thing I didn’t seem to be good at. It was trying to test my patience. It was as if I lost the fire within me to write again. I lost interest in writing just how fast I fell in love with it.

     At age 17, for a span of time, a question had been circulating my mind; a familiar one, full of angst and hand-wringing, one I often asked myself but never out loud: How can a person become a good writer?

     With the helpful advice of a friend, I learned that, yes, there are secrets and techniques. But, it only takes knowing who to ask and learning that the person to ask is ultimately yourself. Because the moment you start to write, you are already a writer. The rest would follow then.

     Due to this mindset, I have come to love writing again all though there were still times I do feel that writing can’t seem to connect itself with me; a barrier kept on parting us apart. It was beyond my reach; on what I was capable of. But it didn��t stop me from being able to grasp my desire to create masterpieces.

      I had always written in journals, essays, reports, I even tried my hand at scripts, poems and even a story that never got into the eyes of others. But what I brought to my writings had been seared onto the skin of my soul. Words were expressions of my deepest, darkest plea for this world.

      The satisfaction of seeing a completed work of mine was beyond my expectations. It definitely did recover all negative experiences I have been through and everything became worth it in my eyes.

       All these years, writing and I still share a sibling-type of relationship. Sometimes, we get along well with each other, most of the times, we don’t. Yet, what matters most is that, our bond never disappeared. Through the years, we still managed to patch up failures and conflicts. Despite of all hardships, in a snap of a finger, everything becomes better again.

      Since then, I came into the realization that writing is a passion, only people passionate and brave enough could pursue. I have only realized that when you start writing, you never really stop no matter what. Every idea, word and thought comes out naturally; that you don’t need to force yourself with vague words.

       With my experience, I understood that the thing about writing is that there will be that point in your life where you decide you want to write. Perhaps you may feel you need to write. Sometimes this urge inside you is so sweet and urgent that you find yourself forming words, sentences and paragraphs that will flow from your mind to another’s in a bizarre and wondrous kind of telepathy. This desire may come to you as you are studying, attending classes, or working, making you yearn for the time when the tedious details of life might be abated, if only for a moment, so that you can finally work on your story and start your journey of being an amazing writer.

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𝙰𝚗 𝚄𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚢 𝙳𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚗𝚎 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚘

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Ｃｈａｍｂｅｒ ７４

                                   ᴀ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ by Daphne Genuino 

           Christa woke up with a start. Beads of sweat fell down her forehead as she tried to catch her breath. It was that dream again. She was only six, small and defenseless. She was in a place she didn't recognize, with boys who seemed enough like people, but not really. Everyone had some kind of tattoo on their skin, they had piercings everywhere, their clothes were ripped, and they all looked ready to pounce. And they did.  On  her. She saw a blur of arms trying to grab her- or hit her, she did not know. She froze in place. She closed her eyes. She waited for the strike. She waited for it to hurt, but it never did. When she opened her eyes, all she saw was how a boy fought off those three jerk kids. It took three punches to the face, and they all backed off. That boy... That boy with golden hair.... Christa shook the daze off her system and got ready for work.

            Christa is everything a lady from the Silvra Republic would dream to be - beautiful, intelligent, strong and wealthy. Not to mention a valuable personnel of the government. She did not gain this status by just sitting around. Any official would affirm that she's worth her salt. Being a child of a patriotic lawyer and a military commander, it was expected that Christa would be of utmost use to the government. By the age of 7, she was already well-versed with the protocol of the Silvra Republic. By 10, she was taught self-defense, the art of attack, and had rigorous training to improve her agility and flexibility. By 13, she could hit a moving target within a radius of 30 meters with an arrow, and by 15, she could hit the bull's eye with a gun. Now, at the age of 20, none of the male soldiers under her command could even hold a candle to her.

             This is not what makes Christa amazing, though. It is her good heart. She let her parents mold her into what she is now because she knew she was doing it for the people - for the Silvra Republic - her country, her home. She would break all bones, tear off all her flesh, and devote every ragged breath to serve and protect her people.

            At a time like this, the people of Silvra Republic could not help but wish that everyone was Christa. If everyone was as strong and brave as her, they wouldn't have to bow to the wishes of other people. They wouldn’t have to hide in their basements for fear of bombs. No one would die with a bullet through the head in front of their families. If everyone was like Christa, they would easily win this war against Anteph.

             Everyone is on edge. Anteph has advanced to the entrance of Silvra. Even with Christa at the frontlines, their defenses wouldn't hold for long. What confuses Christa though is that the government does not seem to be very troubled by this. What are they going to do? At this rate, they are going to lose the war...

  Unless they have a hidden weapon in their arsenal.

             “This has got to be some kind of a sick joke!” Christa says, gritting her teeth. Her hands shake from the anger. It’s taking every ounce of willpower not to punch the wall of the meeting room. Never… never in her life did she imagine that the government of her beloved Silvra Republic would go through such lengths… such cruel lengths…

            Everyone in the meeting is keeping silent. No one has ever seen Christa this angry before.

           “We have no choice, Commander.” the presiding officer replies sternly. “Our doctors have already checked. He has the special gene. If we don’t take advantage of his abilities, we might as well pledge allegiance to Anteph right now. We’ll lose the war.”

          “My men and I will fight the war!” Christa retorts back with a raised voice. “We don’t need to turn an innocent citizen into a weapon just because he happens to have a “special” gene! He’s going to die, mister! How could we kill a fellow Silvran?” she continues, not sure if she’s even breathing anymore.

          “He’s a small sacrifice to make, Commander.  Just a boy from the streets.” the presiding officer replies. The government is hell-bent on winning this war. Christa made a fool out of herself believing all along that the government would never harm even a single one of its people even in dire situations.

            Christa took a deep breath, trying to regain composure. She doesn’t know what she can do for the faultless man they’re about to turn into a weapon of war, but she has to do something… Anything…

            “I want to see him.” Christa says with her commanding voice, the voice that makes even the toughest soldier comply with her directives. The presiding officer exchanges looks with the other officials present in the meeting. Christa stands straight with her chin up, determined to get what she demands. The presiding officer sighs and gives instructions to the guards at the far back. “Take the Commander to Chamber 74.”

She sees the shackles first. And then the syringes. And then the pills.

And then a blinding light.

A flash of gold.

Golden hair…

              The sight paralyzes her. He‘s bound onto the bed by thick, silver shackles. Drugs and medical equipment that she does not quite recognize are lying on the table next to his bed. Anyone could guess that he is being experimented on, operated on. There are bags under his round eyes, his lips a pale gray. He looks so tired. So used.

How could they do this to him?

And of all people, why him?

              The golden-haired boy. The boy from the streets. The boy who saved her when she was  six.

The boy in her dreams.

           The boy of her dreams.

              Christa feels the anger rising up on her throat again. She wants to scream, throw all the medical equipment to the ground. She wants to shoot at the shackles and tell him to run. Don’t let them use you. Run.

            She suppresses her anger, though. The guards are still outside the chamber. She can’t afford to let them know… that she cares more about the man on the bed than they think.

           “What do you want?” a weary male voice brought Christa back to reality. It’s the golden-haired boy – now a man. His tone sounds like nothing could surprise him anymore. He’ll take anything.

            Christa inches closer to his bed, making sure the guards outside could not hear them.

          “I’m Christa. We need to talk.” she says, not bothering with any more pleasantries. He catches the urgency in her voice.

          “I’m Aedon. What is there to talk about?”  he does not sound interested in talking at all.

        “Do you know what they’re doing to you?”

           He angles his head to look at her. “Do I look stupid to you? Of course I know. The doctors do what doctors do, experiments and crap like that. Making me stronger or something. What about it?”

          Christa is surprised. No one ever talks to her like that. She does not have the time to worry about herself, though.

           “They’re using you, Aedon. You have this special gene inside your body that will make you invaluable in combat . They’ll bring you into the frontlines of the war. It will kill you, Aedon. We need to get you out of here.” she says, almost pleading to the seemingly indifferent man.

              Aedon laughs. Like Christa said something so absurd, he just has to laugh. He shoots her a look. “You can’t just walk in here and tell me what to do, girl. I don’t know why you’re sticking your nose into my business, so kindly fuck off.”

           “Look, you have a whole life ahead of you. And you have the choice to choose that life. I’ll help you leave this place.” Christa insists.

         “Then what?  I’d have nowhere to go but the streets. Just shut up and leave, girl.”

           “Then go back to the streets! It’s a small sacrifice to make! Anything is better than being a weapon of war!” Christa could not stop herself from yelling anymore.

            Aedon lost it at the remarks of Christa. She hit a sore spot. “What do you know, you spoiled, rich bitch? I’d bet my non-exixstent money you never had to struggle for food, or sleep on the cold hard ground, or fight off fuckers who picked on you for fun. I don’t give a damn what you think, you don’t know what I’ve been through! And oh, just to let your sheltered ass know, because I’m sure you don’t realize it with all your goddamn privilege, anything is better than living on the streets, even being a weapon of war!”

             Christa pauses for a while, realizing thing after thing. Of course she never had to struggle like that. For all her skills and intelligence, really, what does she know?

     What do you know, you spoiled, rich bitch?

             “Is there really no changing your mind?” she asks, almost in a whisper, looking down at the ground.

              “Actually, there’s one thing that might convince me.” he replies. Christa looks up at him. She can swear something changed in him just now.  Is it the tone of his voice? Is it the look in his eyes? Is it something else entirely?

            “What is it?” she asks. There is a long pause. She does not realize she’s holding her breath. She does not know why, but there’s a voice at the back of her mind telling her to brace herself… brace herself for what she’s about to hear.

              Aedon looks at Christa straight in the eyes, as if piercing through her. Christa has to stop herself from shaking. What is it? What is he planning?

              He moves his face closer to hers. She can feel his breath on her cheeks. He moves his mouth closer to her ears. She closes her eyes. He tells her what he wants.

              Christa’s face is drained of all color. Her legs turn to lead. She can barely stand after hearing Aedon’s demand. She takes a moment to gather herself, to make sense of it all. To decide.

            She inhales a lungful of air and says with finality, “Fine. I’ll do it.” As soon as the words escape her mouth, she feels a tinge of fear.

But there’s no time for second thoughts now.

For the golden-haired boy,

For her hero,

            For the person who inspired him to fight for other people by saving her on that day on the cruel streets,

It will be worth it.

It’s a small sacrifice to make.

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“Ｂ’ＲＲＯＷ’Ｄ ＴＩＭＥＴＨ”

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Ｃｏｎｖｅｎｔｉｏｎａｌ        Ｐｏｅｍ - 𝒷𝓎 𝐻𝒶𝓃𝓃𝒶 𝐸𝓊𝓃𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝒟𝓊𝑒𝓃𝒶𝓈

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𝒜 𝒟𝒶𝓎 𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝑀𝓎 𝐵𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝐹𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹

                                𝘐𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘸 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘺 𝘒𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘰

                I had a day with my bestfriend, I was waiting for her at the coffee shop and thought about nonfic and something to ask her for us to not be bored, as she arrived we ordered our drinks and started talking.  When she finished her talk I asked “Hey Ash, can we talk about more ourselves? Katulad nung ginawa natin kina Arian nung nag open forum tayo” and she said “Yes” so I grabbed my notebook and pen and smiled “Do you have any skills or talents? Aside sa dancing and singing haha” “Ah ih alam mo na pero I think I am good in photography because of my background in photojournalism. Also, I can draw a little but not too good. I can also sing ay joke alam mo pala but not songs that are as high as mountains” we laughed as she joked. “Hmmm, let’s be basic, do you have anything like you usually do? Your hobbies?” she nodded and genuinely said “My hobby is watching movies on my free time. I especially like Disney movies, romcom movies, indie movies and movies that are adaptations from books. I also surf the internet.” “Ay bet ko rin Disney rawr, that was nice. Since you do photography and you like movies din do you like place quotes na mag dedescribe sa pictures or any quotation lang” She nodded and said “My favorite quotation is a quotation from Saint Marie Eugenie of Jesus which is ‘Love never says I have done enough’ because for me, true love never gets tired” “Oh Ashley lumalablyp…ang deep shocks” I said in a low tone, “You look like someone I already know for so long, but can you tell me yung totoo no, ano yung mga sinsasabi ng mga taga-Apalit or basta ibang tao sayo?” She remained silent to think? I guess after a few more minutes she spoke “Most people say I look like a responsible person but I personally think I am not because I don’t even study for exams and other tests or even prepare for the lessons on the next morning.” I laughed and glared “True naman kasi na responsible ka, teka ihi lang ako” I retouched as I excused myself. I heaved a deep sigh and smiled at myself to see If I look fine.

               As I went back, I smiled with full teeth at her and sat to start writing and asking again, “Okay, since we just met a year ago ah loko may pa ganon pero can you tell me something what do you like and dislike the most kasi di ko masyado napapansin, to you know maiwasan din conflict.” She answered immediately “I like people who stays through the sad and happy moments of my life parang kayo nila Nicdao tapos yung mga taong nasasabihan ko rin ng problema, yung nasasandalan ko” “Oh walang iiyak pag nag open forum nalang ulit , char next” “Tapos I do not like someone who’s like a walking microphone who would broadcast everything that I have told them even if those things are not meant to be shared to others. I do not like people whom I cannot trust” I frowned, “Totoo yan, been there done that kumbaga, eto last ano yung biggest regret mo sa life mo?” “I think my biggest regret in my life is that, I rushed things to adulthood when I was supposed to be enjoying my childhood first, if you want to share something go pasulat sulat ka pa dyan ano na yung share mo” and we laughed, I started telling her my problems which is the other purpose why we have to meet.

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Ａｐｏｌｌｏ ｍｅｔＰｏｓｅｉｄｏｎ －𝑀𝑒𝓂𝑜𝒾𝓇 ʙʏ ᴋʏʟᴀᴄʜᴇʟ ᴍᴀɴᴀʟᴏᴛᴏ

photo credits by: starder

The cold crisp air brushed my cheeks; as every strand of my hair danced with the blow of the wind. The thought of going back to Pangasinan made my heart flutter and bounce with joy. Words couldn't describe the astounding beauty of this paradise; a beauty in serenity.

The morning I woke up, stepped onto the cold floor and prepared myself for breakfast, I opened the door as I welcomed the stench of the sea breeze, sinangag, hotdogs, buttered shrimp, and eggs as the main course for breakfast, as trees sang in harmony. I caught sight of the sea and it was staring back at me; allured with its bright color, I pictured it with my own eyes. No time was wasted for everyone wanted to feel the sea's warm embrace, its beauty combined with the risen King gave an indescribable sight. I sat on the sand whilst the taste of mint circling inside my mouth gave a tingling sensation. I couldn't agree more to an incredible work of nature that lies in front of me. How much money I spent, did not matter because it was worth it.

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𝐵𝓊𝓈𝒾𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒟𝒶𝓎 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒲𝑒𝑒𝓀 ʟᴏɴɢ ᴅᴀʏ’ꜱ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ by Jaylie Ibay

             I have always hated Mondays. Tons of school works waved at you. Stress, pressure and anxiety started to envelope your mind. Consecutive alarms bugged your sleep and made you irritated. You would be circulated with thoughts of tiredness and would even dare not to go to school anymore. But guess what? You would still, of course, as a student, you need to comply and persevere. You have your dreams. Nothing could ever hinder you from achieving them. That was your personal mantra for school. It was like you were in a battlefield where formidable gladiators have surrounded you as you stood in the middle and all you could do is either to beg for freedom or to stand up for yourself. “Beepp.. Beeeeeep.. Beeeeeeeepp…”                5:00 am. After all the annoying beeps of my mobile phone alarm, I was finally awake. “Argh, Monday nanaman pala” as I have thought. I got used to this kind of setting and situation to the point that nothing could surprise me anymore. Though, I won’t close doors for possibilities. Somehow, I was still hoping for a miracle, in other words, suspension – a class suspension. Afterall, the weather was threatening and harsh as thick, grey, rain-laden clouds obscured the warm morning sun. Times like that could be as enchanting as a perfect lullaby that would surely put anyone back to their sleep.               As much as I have wanted to still enjoy the comfort of my bed, the clock started to tick fast so I immediately went out of my room and began my morning routine. My mind kept on wandering and I couldn’t seem to concentrate. I had indecisive thoughts on whether to take a bath or not to, for instance. Still, I went on from doing proper hygiene to finishing off my breakfast and made my way to school. 6:20 am. “Oh crap, am I going to be stuck in this traffic?” I whispered as I have been bothered for almost 10 minutes now. Heavy traffic was evident while people looked problematic and haggard because it was already raining cats and dogs outside. Classes have not started, yet there I was, looking like a wet potato already.              As soon as I arrived on school, I decided to sit on one of the benches near the main gate and took deep breaths. I messaged JB and Hannah and asked them where they were already. JB replied, “Malalate ako ng dating, mauna ka na sa room. May bibilhin pa kasi akong gamit”. Since it was already time and Hannah exactly arrived at that moment, we went directly to our classroom and exchanged stories and small talks. As we have reached the PGN building and we were about to get in the elevator, we have realized that only one was working and it shocked us. "Sira yung elevator? Nanaman?! Bakit hindi pa kaya inaayos 'to?" I asked Hannah as I have vented out my frustrations.               A lot of students waited for their turn, so did we. After we had patiently and successfully reached 7th floor, we went to our room and took our seats. At that time the feeling of sitting comfortably felt new to me. While I waited for the start of the class, I looked around the room and first thing I notice was the lineup of colorful opened umbrellas at the back. It was like we were in a circus.            The time ma’am Aly, our adviser, arrived, JB exactly arrived too as he looked tired and exhausted. We started the preliminaries before proceeding to the actual discussion of lessons.            Another thing that I have noticed was that my classmates looked so drowsy and listless even though it was still our first subject. School really became too tiring and stressful these past few days and less fun to the point that even weekends became working days too.           Creative Nonfiction was our first subject and it was also the most exciting compared to the rest. Energizing activities made the discussion more interactive for both the teacher and students. Also, the part that I liked most was the time after the lesson, where we were able to talk to our adviser regarding our concerns and issues about certain subjects and teachers. Communication, such as that, between the educators and learners, played a big role in establishing connection and creating a stronger bond of mutual respect.               Then recess came. There was no break, even a quick one, because we still had to practice for our roleplay in Socsci.e spent the whole period of our Socsci subject on the presentation of our skit. Our group was assigned the topic of school bullying and how does counseling could be applied to that. All groups did well as they also gave their best. We were proud of ourselves yet with the thought that we would still need more practice to improve and be better.              Lunch time. “Ah, finally” I let out a sigh. My friends and I formed a circle of chairs and chose the place we wish to sit. Precious and simple moments would always be treasured in our hearts. Those laughs and conversations could never be compared to grades and material things. In a quick span of time, it was already our PolGov subject. During it, sir Jeff reminded us about the requirements and process for the voter’s registration which started last August 01, 2019, Thursday. The discussion afterwards was just brief then we proceeded on the creating of our gallery walk per station. All groups were assigned a specific place to avoid confusion so they could execute their plan properly. Everyone were bringing their materials and took their time preparing.           On our Trends subject, the first half was intended for the preparations of our creative presentation about the dimensions of globalization and the second half was for the presentation itself. Our group would be the first to present. Unexpectedly, although we had minimal preparations only, our presentation turned out great and got praises. Only group 1 and 2 were the groups scheduled to present for Monday, the rest would be on Friday. Our classmates who would not present were instructed to write their criticism and feedbacks on LAS.              4:30. It was my most awaited time of the day. As soon as the bell rang, we were dismissed and I packed up my things to go home already. Unfortunately, JB and Hannah couldn’t go home yet so I went on my own and bid my farewell to my friends.             A stampede of people was seen in the midst of an unpleasant rain. Drops of water dampened my uniform. It seemed like a race for everyone to get on a public vehicle first as they ought to go home. The flow of traffic became worst. It was really a challenge for a student to take his/her chances of getting on a jeepney. Deep inside, I felt drained. Everyone did felt drained too as shown in their faces.            I didn’t have much energy when I reached home. I looked worn out and the only thing that I badly wanted to do is to sleep. My family asked me about my day but the only response I gave was a tiring expression on my face and a ‘thumbs up’ which signaled that I still can continue.            I have immediately finished my usual night routine, starting from eating dinner to taking a quick shower for refreshment in the body. I prepared all my clothes and things for the next day and began doing my individual and group assignments.           After few hours, i already felt the urge to sleep and recharge my mind. I couldn’t push myself to the limits and put my health at risk. But there were a lot of things I still had to accomplish that night. I had to decide. Both had consequences either way so I chose wisely.           Though I have wanted to force myself to work and stay awake, my body wasn’t able to keep up. It, as if really was talking to me face-to-face, conveyed a message implying ‘I am tired. Please rest. School matters. But you matter more.’           So I have already decided to take my well-deserved rest for that long day and tossed my phone on my bedside after I set the alarm clock. Sleep was my escape to reality. I was hoping that every sweat, tear and effort I exerted would be all worth it on the following day and for the sake of my future.  

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FACEBOOK STATUS REPORT          by Daphne Genuino

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THE PERSON I ADMIRE THE MOST

 - ｂｙ Ｈａｎｎａｈ Ｅｕｎｉｃｅ Ｄｕｅｎａｓ

         There might be a lot of people in this world that I admire but there's only one for me that stood out the most and that is my one and only daddy dearest. They said a father takes full responsibility when it comes to family but my dad is more than that. Honestly, my dad is a person with a disability on his leg and he experienced struggles a lot but he did not use that as an excuse to rest and not take care of us. Despite what he was feeling inside and outside, he still kept on living, going, and do things that were meant for us. Relatives always say I am his junior female version, and I am truly grateful for that compliment and that I am his daughter. My dad is my inspiration and motivation when I do things easy or hard and the greatest example I could ever think of; I admire him for bringing joy in our lives and molding us to be the kind of person we are right now a responsible, initiative, caring, and a Christ-centered human living in this world.