The Manila Magnolia Vol. 2 Issue 1

02 tmm AN ARTS & LITERARY JOURNAL volume 2 issue 1 SPRING 2024

a note from the editors I do not think you have ever lied to me but I know that you have never told me the truth— why? ― James Baldwin, “Giovanni’s Room”

table of contents Poetry - Part I The Apocalypse As Retold By Candido’s 7 Spiritual Successors Part 2 by Miguel Arroyo Pedagogy 9 by Mikael de Lara Co asukal at iba pang rekado ng dagat. 11 by Elijah Aaron Molina Grocery shopping 12 by danne niko dolar footsteps of winter 13 by Taki 14 Lines Written by Angela Salma Lou Andal 16 Piraso ng Epistolaryo mula sa Malayong Ako by Mikael de Lara Co 20 nicknames by Gretta Trafficante Fiction 21 Via Crucis by Lawrence Diasnes

table of contents Tubo 26 by Noel Diaz Visual Arts Serene 31 by John Paul David Gentle Sunlight 32 by Kahlil Roque Snake Tongue 33 by Mariel Ypil 34 Insight by Alex Verano 35 Infernum by Ridge Ross De Veyra 36 The Walker by Ridge Ross De Veyra La Familiar 37 by Ridge Ross De Veyra

table of contents Poetry - Part II Connect the Stars 38 by Leanne Waverly Sy bridge house 39 by Iris H. Mauricio TINIK: DIBUHO SA PALAD 40 by Judiel Alcober Regeneration 42 by Elizabeth Wilson Davies as the light 43 by Bryan Salazar 44 In Our Slavery by R. W. Haynes 45 Once In A Brownout by Eric Abalajon 46 Complex Silence by Eric Hansen

The Apocalypse As Retold By Candido’s Spiritual Successors Part 2 Miguel Arroyo 7

8

Pedagogy Mikael De Lara Co 9

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asukal at iba pang rekado ng dagat. Elijah Aaron Molina iniirog kong sireno. ako ang karpintero ng dagat. aking sinasala ang tabla ng araw at ang asukal ng binurong alon upang alagaan ang bubong ng ating puso. dahil sa iyong koral na pag-ibig at ating daliring dumudura tila mga poso. tayo ay lumalangoy sa asul na mga simento. ating iwaglit ang wika ng tao para sa lengguwahe ng kapwang pagkalunod. mga bula bilang bitamina ng bunganga. haplusin natin ang tanong ng mga tubig hanggang lumigamgam ang dugo ng bawat isda at bulaklaking asin. hanggang sila ay magsilbing tanglaw sa alinlangan ng binatang bingwit. ikaw ang alamat ng aliw. ang iyong hininga ay nagtatanim ng halaman sa hati ng aking mga hasang. dinidiligan ng iyong malinaw na dura ang kreyon ng kabibeng mahiwaga. 11

Grocery shopping danne niko dolar 12

footsteps of winter Taki す ぐ 冬 そ 聞 の こ こ ⾜ で え ⾳ た ね Right there Footsteps of winter I heard 13

Lines Written Angela Salma Lou Andal 14

sa panaginip ng pandiwang araw ay sinusunog niya ang salitang paalam sa mamasa-masang rosas ng ating mga dila. habang tinitikman natin ang mahal kita sa ating labing mamula-mula. 15

Piraso ng Epistolaryo mula sa Malayong Ako Mikael De Lara Co 16

17

18

19

nicknames Gretta Trafficante 20

Via Crucis Lawrence Diasnes Tony brought up the rear of the slow procession from the kitchen to the mango tree that grew in one corner of their backyard, and for every tenth step or so, he lashed at his older brother’s back with the antenna of a broken radio, pretending it was the ruler that his kindergarten teacher used to whip his naughty classmates. Angelo was naked save for the muslin cloth tied around his waist, the same cloth that their maid Gina still used to wipe milk off his chin. It was the second week of April, the morning was damp with last night’s rain, the first rainfall of the summer. Tony watched his brother glow in the sun, his skin as bright as the muslin that draped from his hips. Angelo’s pinkish-white complexion was something that everyone, even strangers on the street, couldn’t help but point out admiringly. But now the scourging had marred his body with red chicken scratches, and Tony thought it needed more. He whipped his brother again, and Angelo let out a drawn-out cry of pain. Normally he wouldn’t let Tony beat him at his own game, but today this mortification was a means to his predetermined end as Savior of the World. The boys had been plotting this since Holy Week. Tony had been reluctant to participate at first but Angelo, who had a way of lording over the smaller boy, had promised to deliver him from his most recent evil: “Do it and I won’t tell Mama that it was you who broke her sunflower’s stem.” It wasn’t until this morning that they found the perfect time to carry out their plan. Their parents left early to be sponsors at a wedding three towns away 21

away, so the boys were left to the lenient care of Gina and their father’s younger brother, whom they called Uncle Junior. Their grandmother was to come over and take them to church that afternoon. Gina didn’t make French toast the way their mother did, so for breakfast the boys only took a few bites of the eggy bread and quickly went on their way. The procession lurched on. They skirted the compost pit, past the charred stump of the atis tree that had to be set on fire because it became infested with hairy caterpillars that made Angelo break out in hives. Uncle Junior led the way. Tony liked him well enough when he wasn’t drunk, and he hadn’t been drunk for more than a week already. Tony’s grandmother naturally took this as a sign that God was bringing him closer to a reinvention, blind as she was to the fact that Junior’s personal demons were far stronger than her faith. The boys had fashioned a cross out of the halves of a bamboo pole. Angelo carried it on his right shoulder, plodding, pretending it weighed him down. They were in the backyard now, and he kept tripping over the exposed roots that made the land uneven. Every time he stumbled, the crown—a halo of orange nylon rope—tilted on his head. Tony was still upset over this. Uncle Junior and Gina had thrown away the crown of thorns that he had made from the stems of their neighbor’s bougainvillea, which grew over the cyclone wire fence that bordered the backyard. They both insisted that this was going to be just a harmless reenactment, something that the family would laugh 22

laugh about in future gatherings, just one of those irrational things that kids liked to do, oblivious of the glaring morbidity that would catch up to them only in hindsight. How did the grown-ups get involved anyway? But when Tony heard the three laughing, he immediately knew for certain that it was Angelo who had gotten them involved. Angelo liked being the center of attention, and he would willingly spoil the solemnity of a given moment if it meant getting more of it. Tony felt betrayed seeing that his brother wasn’t taking this as seriously as he was, and he fell into despair knowing that nobody would take his side if he fought Angelo about it. It took a village to raise Angelo, which meant that everyone coddled him like he was an egg on a spoon. Teachers found his bad grammar endearing and thought it cute how he couldn’t tell his left leg from his right. Relatives laughed heartily at the way he would scrunch up his face after stealing a sip from his father’s beer. Strangers liked to pinch his cheeks or poke his belly, which bulged ostentatiously with health. People never complained about sharp and pointy bones whenever Angelo sat on their laps. They also indulged his blabbering, while Tony’s reserve was often mistaken for rudeness or lack of spirit. Tony remembered to whip his brother. He did it harder this time, it made Angelo yelp. “Not too hard now,” Uncle Junior warned him. They finally arrived at the mango tree, which everyone despised because it yielded only sour mangoes. It stood apart from the congregation of mahoganies that crowded toward the 23

the center of the backyard. Angelo propped the bamboo cross against the tree’s trunk, and instead of being nailed to it, Uncle Junior and Gina tied his wrists to the crossbeam so that his arms were stretched out to the sides. For one fleeting moment it appeared to Tony that his brother had become almost inextricable from the tree—a sacred figure carved expertly into the wood. Everyone was laughing uncontrollably now except for Tony, who had suddenly become somber. Uncle Junior had brought along his Kodak. He pointed it at the crucified Angelo, and when it flashed Tony had a vision that dissolved almost as quickly as it blazed. In the hazy aftermath all he could think about was how good Angelo’s portrait would look on the altar in their living room. Tony began to wonder what would happen if Angelo died right then. Would his sin of accidentally killing his mother’s sunflower be washed away by his brother’s sacrifice? If Angelo died under its shade, would the accursed tree begin to bear sweet mangoes, or would it wither away? If their mother was here to bear witness she would probably fall on her knees and weep for her delicately begotten Son, pray at His feet the way she would pray at the foot of His bed every time He came down with the flu. She would take the muslin that girded His loins and keep it as a relic. The family would divide His clothes amongst themselves; some would be given away and some would be handed down to Tony if he ever grew up to be his brother’s 24

brother’s size. Angelo would watch over Uncle Junior from heaven so that their grandmother could finally stop making up excuses for the unspeakable patterns in his behavior. Gina’s bad French toast will be remembered as Angelo’s last breakfast, and people will preach as gospel the words He never learned how to pronounce. When the camera flashed a second time, Tony became convinced that Angelo would die soon. But how? A car would run Him over perhaps. Maybe He would succumb to an incurable disease. An image flitted across Tony’s mind of Angelo burning up with dengue fever, bleeding from the nose. Or maybe He would be killed in a housefire, one that Angelo Himself would start accidentally. Another flash. Tony, who remained unsmiling in the middle of all the laughter, turned to face Angelo and stood in front of Him in the shape of the letter T, contemplating the different ways his older brother could die. “You’re one of the thieves,” Uncle Junior told him teasingly. Tony couldn’t decide if he wanted to be the one who was good or the one who was bad. 25

Tubo Noel Diaz Lucas hid behind the tall grass that grew on the side of the road. Armed with the old knife his father gave him, he waited on the signal that Jose would give once the truck carrying the sugarcane would pass by. One long whistle followed by three short stops that would give Lucas enough time to jump from the tall grass, give short chase to the truck, and cut off pieces of sugarcane he hoped would be enough of a treat not only for him and Jose but for their little sister who had just begun to teeth. He felt the need to remain as still as possible, ignoring the trails of sweat that had begun to fall on his back under the relentless sun of the plains. Not that the truck drivers cared, of course, their minds remained on making their stock of cigarettes last until the next pay and the long list of truck repairs that the company had given them the responsibility of looking after. No, Lucas wanted to remain still because that was what the heroes in those Sunday afternoon movies did in order to sneak up on their enemies. This was more than securing a sweet treat for Lucas. This was serious business. It was hero training. A cool northern breeze blew behind his back as Lucas relished in the momentary comfort it gave him before, on the very same breeze, he heard the signal from Jose that a truck had just passed and he would have a few moments before it would elude him — forcing them to wait until the next one passed by in a couple of hours. He felt the rumbling of the baked asphalt road that led from the sugarcane fields to the azucarera to be turned into sugar, rum, and various other treats. He took a deep breath and c 26

counted down. Three. Two. One. Action. Lucas sprang as quickly as he could with all his childlike energy, knife in hand, and sprinted towards the truck. He was careful not to scream or shout even as he believed that it would give him a boost of energy. Heroes did not scream. They carried on in quiet dignity and belief in the righteousness of their cause. He grabbed the side of the truck and used its momentum to lift him up to the side before mercilessly thwacking a protruding edge of a tall stalk of sugarcane with all his might to create a notch before methodically sawing at it — tearing the fibers of the sugarcane to make them fall on the road. He sawed past the stinging sweat making their way into his eyes as he cursed himself for forgetting his bandana at home. For a moment, he looked up and saw Jose running as well to pick up the sugarcane that would fall off the truck as Lucas sawed wildly, one after the other before the driver would notice, at the freshly harvested sugarcane that grew endlessly in all the plains — the only world the brothers knew. The truck began to slow and Lucas took it as his signal to hop off and hide in the tall grass once again until the truck sped away. Lucas gave three short whistles and Jose ducked to the side and hid at the side of the road. After placing the knife back in its wooden sheath, Lucas timed his jump as perfectly as he could but failed 27

failed to notice a jagged piece of rusted metal jutting out of the truck. Biting his lip to ignore the pain as the metal sliced into his skin, Lucas rolled roughly into the grass cursing himself once again for being unable to get the pieces of sugarcane Jose was unable to get. The truck stops and the drivers pick up the loose stalks as they laugh at each other — knowing the games that children like to play. The engine starts once again and the truck speeds off into the azucarera. Jose found Lucas wincing in pain as the blood flowed from the fresh wound into the hard ground of the plains. Jose rips off a part of his shirt and wipes the wound of blood before tying it around the wounded calf. Jose helps his brother up and begin their journey home, enjoying their hard- won bounty of five short stalks of sugarcane. The sun began to set as the two brothers limped into the lonely barangay in the middle of the plantation. They stopped at the karinderya to ask for water so as to clean the wound and redress it. The manangs asked what happened more out of curiosity than care and, while the brothers explained that he had been wounded in the nearby creek, the bundle of sugarcane stalks betrayed the truth of their mission that afternoon. Lucas reveled in the stinging pain of his new wound as he was excited to see the scar that would form in its wake. He was eager to show it off to his friends at the barrio and make wild and outlandish stories as to how he got it. Jose took a cup of water and cleaned the wound of his little brother, afraid of the punishment he would get when he got back home. 28

he got back home. After a few cups of water to quench the thirst that they had not yet noticed, Jose asked for any food that the karinderya might be able to spare. The manangs explained, however, that the food that would soon turn sour had been thrown in the trash just as they arrived in the establishment. Jose smiled weakly and thanked them anyway. Leaving his brother to recover and drink the tepid water, Jose took a plastic bag and went around the corner, opening trash bags to look for the freshest spoiled food that he hoped would not give the family fits of vomiting and diarrhea as it did the last time. He filled it to the brim with discarded noodles, tough rice, and a concoction of that day’s food that would soon turn sour. He gave another whistle and repeated it to make sure Lucas would hear it. It was their signal to go home and Lucas knew that he would have to limp out of the karinderya to save his older brother the indignity of walking back in with a plastic bag full of discarded food. Lucas marveled at their secret language, the complicity in which he and his brother moved around in the world. It was simple. A language composed of long and short whistles that gave the other an idea of what was needed to be done. He limped back to the house, that bric-a-brac mishmash of galvanized metal sheets, nipa, and bamboo stalks that they called home, and found Jose nursing the punches that their father gave him after confessing that Lucas had been wounded. Lucas felt his heart drop and approached his brother to apologize. It was his idea to go 29

after the truck, after all. Jose gave his brother a weak smile and rustled his hair before informing him that there was food on the table and to eat quick before their father ate it all. Annie cooed softly in her makeshift bed as Lucas placed a pot of carabao milk to boil and cool before bottling it up. Lucas called for his mother but the silence merely returned his grief. The force of habit still had not left him. Three months of struggle had passed but Lucas still took great care to bottle- feed his mother’s killer. A bundle of sugarcane lay on the bed and Lucas chopped them up to chew on — the only sweetness he would know for a while. 30

Serene John Paul David 31

Gentle Sunlight Kahlil Roque 32

Snake Tongue Mariel Ypil 33

Insight Alex Verano 34

Infernum Ridge Ross De Veyra 35

The Walker Ridge Ross De Veyra 36

La Familiar Ridge Ross De Veyra 37

Connect the Stars Leanne Waverly Sy 38

bridge house Iris H. Mauricio 1we rub dry knuckles against moonlit eyes, quiet rasping, little wishes plucked and free-falling against cheeks, our elbows colliding, teen wrists catching lamplight in the dark, pale blue veins running rivers under shadows and gold. we shared space like kindling, the cliffs of our shoulders touching, the runways of our necks warmed by duvet and body and shared breaths. we were white-teethed small smiles, talking until the birds came to perch on the fingertips of 6AM light that reached in through the window blinds, touching gentle against the late-night bruises under our eyes, our limping eyelids, the tired corners of mouths— all our vulnerable parts we only show when no one else is around. 39

TINIK: DIBUHO SA PALAD Judiel Alcober IIkaw si Tinik, kay tulis ng iyong mga kuko, Ako si Kamay, kayumangging balat, Nag-krus landas natin, ako’y napasaiyo. Damit mo’y nagdurugo, ako’y atat-na-atat, Na mahahalintulad sa mga telang nagkapatong-patong Na napakasopistikadong aklat na nakabuklat. Ako’y isang hamak na kamay, buhay parang pagong. Kaliwat’t kanan ay napakadumi, Timplahan pa ng aking palad na ay hugis gung-gong! Sa kulit ng aking kamay, ‘di ako makatimpi. Sa mga ningning mong iyan, ako’y kumarida Yinakap ko ikaw, OH TINIK! na walang pag-aatubili. Tayo’y maghagkan magdamagan, hanggang sa ito;y magdurugo, Gamit ang tinik mong iyan, malakulambo Na kay lambot pa kaysa sa bulak, Hanggang sa ito’y maisaksak. Idinibuho gamit ang kirot na ‘di mo naman talaga maidaramdam, Nang sa gayo’y mga linya’t sukat, hugis nito’y maging plano sa pagtayo ng Gusaling hangad. 40

At ako’y nagising. AHHHHH!!!! NAPAKASAKIT!! NAPAKAHAPDI! ‘DI KO MAIPINTA!!! Na ang nais ko lang naman ay maipadama ko sa iyo Na ika’y kaibig-ibig, gamit ang nag-durugo kong palad na magsisilbing MITSA! Ako’y galos-galos, nagdurugo, durog: sa kakahintay, sa paghihinagpis, ako’y batong-bato. Sa pagnanais ko ika’y mahagkan, lumipad, Hanggang sa ikaw ay kanais-nais ng lahat, diwa ko’y iyong-iyo. Mula sa katas ng dalawang naghagkan, tumambad. Katas reenkarnasyon na kulay karnasyon na nagbibigay buhay at sigla Sa bawat kwartong kalakip sa kanilang bagong hugis-anyo na nakatewang-wang, ugo-ugod, pagkalosyang, sagad! Iniluwal mula sa bukal ang isang nilalang, kaiba-iba KAMAY na MALATINIK sa anumang uri nag paglikha’t sinning, kagila-gilalas! 41

Regeneration Elizabeth Wilson Davies Like nuns in purple cowls the violets bloom’ (Rabe’eh) Come Candlemas I rinse my silvered vase veils of tarnish growing on its swirls I polish it with care, as did my mother, not to damage the brittle glass or further wear away the pattern, sensing I might rub my own skin away. Drifts of double snowdrops return to their old haunts, heralding hope or sorrow. They are fragile enough to please me, the first flowers I pick for her vase, white enamelled pearls over petticoats of apple green, while the ones outside surrender to grey mould, collapse, their heads hanging towards the mud. Precocious spikes of finger-high crocuses flaunt themselves, egg yolk gold all too glossy for this vase. I prefer less thrusting flowers, the watchful pale yellow primroses and unscented dog violets. I wait for a pot of my mother’s violets to bloom, roots transported from house to house. Her viola oderata, the powdery scent of violet creams, their perfumed grace notes rise then fade, then rise again. The vase has longed all year for this embrace. 42

as the light Bryan Salazar “did you whistle, my child, like the wind? i barely see you, save a drying tear; all the light reduced to holes up there pinned rays astray that never wished to be here. come a little closer to me, come try, there is a path, a hope, past the rubble; but i did promise you then, didn’t i, that it would come and go a mere whistle? can you say a word, or open your eyes? my child, come gaze at all these stars i see, please, never have i seen such clearer skies, please, come to me, here with me, beside me—” somewhere a song is sung to the calm night a lullaby to souls lost as the light. 43

In Our Slavery R. W. Haynes In our slavery we stack the bricks That will record what strength we had When liberty drove us forward, blind and mad, Believing heart immune to evil tricks. These dogs bark at each other in the night, Necessary music for the nightmarish suite, Companion counterpoint the clocks repeat, Signaling dissonance, bark, bark, and bite. If Poe were here, surely Poe would know, The dark dominion’s threats must now be faced As half-mad horror jostles for place And half-crazed Hell moans terribly below. In this dark-bricked churchyard we grip knives And pray somehow some goodness survives. 44

Once In A Brownout Eric Abalajon Contrary to popular notion, I never heard scary stories or myths from my grandmother. She detested it, usually by saying so but mostly by omission. Once, during a brownout, all of us were seated outside on the terrace when we asked for some. You can see the creases of disgust in her face in the candle light. After a few nudges, it turns out she did have some up her sleeve. An aunt awoken by growling outside, and while peeping at the window saw a massive black dog with blood red eyes and a long tongue with the same color, dangling and reaching the road. A cousin walking home on a moonlit evening and a large flapping shadow on the street keeping pace with him, he never looked up and convinced himself to sleep that it was just a bird. A young woman invited to a fiesta at her best friend’s rural hometown, intended to be the main course by the community of aswang. She was wearing a bracelet, and switched it with her best friend before sleeping. They killed and cooked one of their own. When I was older I learned that it was the plot of the final episode of Shake, Rattle, and Roll II, a movie that came out two years before I was born. I’m not sure if my grandmother was passing it on as her own, but that franchise is also known to adapt or revise already popular horror stories. Considering her sentiments towards the genre, I would presume my grandmother only heard about it, inadvertently passing down the wonder of prior knowledge when I first saw that story about death come alive. 45

Complex Silence Eric Hansen Dreams hazy, unwind a stirring mind. Hearts lazy, soothed by words refined For clouded eyes will a tempest part, seen not with eyes but with liminal heart Respite for those who pave their ways, eyes turned blind, penurious days Heart path knows when logic falters. Hands hold stories for sons and daughters. Moonlight brushes flowing hair, nape of neck enchanted bare. Souls mate melting dreams in layers. A complex silence will answer prayers. 46

contributors Eric Abalajon’s works have appeared in Plumwood Mountain Journal, Tripwire: a journal of poetics, Stonecoast Review, Modern Poetry in Translation, Asymptote, and Copihue Poetry. His debut poetry collection is forthcoming from Flowersong Press. He lives near Iloilo City, Philippines. Judiel Alcober from Palo, Leyte, is a self-proclaimed collage artist. He is new to the literary platform and uses themes that are relevant to day- to-day life events. His hobbies are hugging his teddy bear every night, waking up at 4 am, and playing offline google dino run. Angela Salma Lou Andal is an artist/author/outsider hybridizing works in cyberspace. She is a fan of lush romantic poetry and bizarro fiction. Born and raised in Quezon City, Miguel Arroyo is a graduate of the Ateneo De Manila University's creative writing program. He currently resides in Cordoba, Spain, and is working on his first poetry collection. Mikael de Lara Co has won Palanca and Maningning Miclat Awards for his poetry, and has been named a finalist for the National Book Awards for his poems and translations. He runs a small communications consultancy firm, and lives in Cagayan de Oro City. John Paul David is an emerging artist based in Bataan. He predominantly works with graphite and is currently working as a full- time artist/illustrator. He attended a portrait workshop back in 2013 and was eventually hired as a portrait artist at the age of 16 before becoming more interested in idealistic representational art, which now occupies his creative focus.

contributors Elizabeth Wilson Davies (@LizWilsonDavies) lives in a coastal village in west Wales, UK, and has a PhD in Post-colonial Literatures specialising in Caribbean women’s poetry and orality. She started to write poetry, following the completion of an MA in Creative Writing, and has been fortunate to receive mentoring support and a New Writer’s Bursary through the Literature Wales scheme to develop her first collection. Ridge Ross De Veyra is currently residing in Makati where he spend most nights photographing the sleepless lights of the city. Some of his literary works and photos have been published in Novice Magazine, Docu Magazine, and The Manila Magnolia. Some of his photographs, as well, have also been included in exhibitions organized by Fotomoto PH, Folk and Function as well as an online exhibit by Decagon Gallery. Lawrence Diasnes is from the Province of Iloilo. He is currently finishing his BA in English Studies: Literature at the University of the Philippines Diliman. In 2022, he was among the grand winners of Life UPdates, a literary contest held by Likhaan: UP Institute of Creative Writing. Noel Mozart B. Diaz is a writer currently residing in Tuba, Benguet. He is a graduate of the University of the Philippines Baguio with the degree of Bachelor of Arts in Social Sciences, Major in History, Minor in Political Science. His work has been featured in multiple online publications and can be found on his blog in Medium. His short story, Iskwater, published in the 2021 National Commission for the Culture and the Arts – UP Baguio publication Kimata, placed as a finalist for the Jury Prize for Literature.

contributors Niko Dolar studies comparative literature at the University of the Philippines Diliman. His poem "Some Bodies" won first place in the Likhaan: University of the Philippines Institute of Creative Writing''s Life UPdates last July 2022. He has two poetry zines, namely in & exits and for quiet boys. When he's not surfing the tides of his readings, he's either finding stray cats to pet or battling an online game addiction. Eric Hansen is Cree & Danish. His poems have been accepted for publication, hear his lyrics on the album Trip Doctor by Sheepskin Sound Reduction or see him read his work at Planet Earth Poetry and The Victoria Poetry Project. He lives in Victoria, Canada. R. W. Haynes is Regents Professor of Humanities at Texas A&M International University, Laredo, Texas, where he teaches early British literature and Shakespeare. His academic degrees include the M. A. (Literature) from the University of Dallas and the B. A. (Classics) from Macalester College. His recent publications include studies of playwright/screenwriter Horton Foote and of Renaissance dialogue. Four collections of his poems, Laredo Light (2019), Let the Whales Escape (2019), Heidegger Looks at the Moon (2021), and The Deadly Shadow of the Wall (2022), have been published, as have many poems in American and international journals. In 2016, Haynes received the SCMLA Poetry prize at the Dallas conference of the South Central Modern Language Association. He also writes plays and fiction. Iris H. Mauricio is a graduate of Brunel University London’s BA Creative Writing degree with a First, and achieved an MA Creative Writing with Distinction degree. She has been mentored by notable writers such as Booker Prize 2019 winner and President of the Royal Society of Literature, Dr. Bernardine Evaristo, British poet and Chair of

contributors of the RSL, Daljit Nagra, and British novelist and screenwriter, Max Kinnings. She mainlines poetry, short fiction, and screenwriting, with her works often exploring themes of relationships, mental health, history, mythology, and pop culture. She has been published in various literary zines, pamphlets, and anthologies since 2010, and currently works as a copywriter. Elijah Aaron Molina is from Quezon City taking his second year on the Creative Writing program at University of Santo Tomas. Three of his poems were also published in Magkasintahan Volume XV last year. He also won first place for the Bachelor-of-Arts-wide Literary Competition “Stories of those Who Survived” organized by his faculty in his freshman year. His dream is to contribute to the Philippines’s queer art with the unapologetic queer sensualities, mysticism, and folklore. His favorite hobby is reading books, reading his friends’ fortunes with tarot cards, and daydreaming. Kahlil Roque is a Bulacan based artist whose works are mainly in watercolor yet also explores other mediums like oil. Her love for art started when she was young but her only formal training was when she had her pen and ink exercises during a semester of schooling in the University of San Carlos, Cebu City. She holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Civil Engineering from Silliman University, Dumaguete City, Negros Oriental, and is currently practicing her profession. Kahlil has participated in Kulay sa Tubig, the Philippines’ most prestigious invitational watercolor competition by gallery genesis last 2021 & 2022. She is also a current member of the Philippine Guild of Watercolorists. Most of her works are inspired by nature and still life, but her favorites are flowers, leaves and water.

contributors Bryan G. Salazar is a long-time resident of Cebu City, and has a degree in Mathematics from the University of the Philippines in Cebu. He has two self-published books under his name: "People in Dark Places," a collection of short stories, and a short novel titled "The Dying." Leanne Waverly Sy is a Chinese Filipino writer based in Quezon City. She is currently pursuing a degree in Creative Writing, with a specialization in Fiction. Her work has been published in Yuzu Press, Aster Lit, Honeyguide Literary Magazine, and other publications. Taki is a poet from Japan. He writes haiku and senryu, traditional Japanese poetry forms. Gretta Trafficante (they/them) currently resides in New York City, studying English and psychology at Columbia University. You can read more of their creative work in Blacklist Journal and Quarto Magazine. Alex Verano, a passionate artist currently residing in Cebu City, emerged in the creative scene at a young age, actively participating in campus activities and winning art contests at division and regional levels. Studying arts and design, she sought to expand her creative horizons. Alex has left her mark in the literary world as a guest illustrator for the Poetry Book "Heart Talks: Healing Through Poetry" and as a poetry writer in "Metaphorphosis: Speaking in Tanka." With a work for editorial cartooning, she contributed to her school newspaper. Currently, she is immersed in her manga and webcomic project titled "Voices of the Ocean," showcasing her work as a digital artist and writer.

contributors Mariel Ypil draws inspiration from nature, folklore, whimsical things and the inner universes of the mind. She graduated Cum Laude with a degree of Fine Arts at St. Scholastica's College Manila and briefly worked as an Art Director at an advertising agency. She is currently creating her own art from her cozy yellow studio at home, experimenting with various media such as traditional, digital and embroidery techniques, keeping the spirit of curious creative play at heart. Mariel self-published her first zine in 2017 titled 'Tea & Spells', a compendium of illustrations and stories featuring witches and wizards with an affinity not just for magic but for nature as well as tea. In 2018, she participated in a month-long artist in residence program and group exhibition at Studio Kura, an independent run art studio and residency program located at Itoshima, Japan, where she spent her time creating art with stories and interacting with fellow international artists and locals alike.

masthead Editors-in-Chief Beatriz Nakpil Celine Dabao Poetry Editor Beatriz Nakpil Fiction Editor Celine Dabao Translation & Amanda Collantes Visual Arts Editor Essays Editor Julianna Cabili Photography Editor Nicasio Tuason cover art “One flew over” by Maria Murphy