Foreword Dearest Passenger, The station waits for your presence, traveler. Alongside you waits an ensemble of seekers and their lips long for the sound of comfort. Home is where the heart rests. You came aboard, as a heart yearning for respite. May this train become your temporary haven. Within its steady cadence, I saw you find a measure of peace. The gentle rocking, the rhythmic clatter, seemed to soothe the edges of your weariness, to lull you into a quiet contemplation. Should the cathedral welcome you with open arms, embrace its fervor by finding the purpose of which you owe to the train. The train whose corridors listen to the upbringing of your faith. Turn then, passenger, so that the smell of orchards you’ll soon pass reminds you of the ambition that linger on the other side of the track. Like its flowers, hold true to those that accompany you so that in times that they depart from your grasps, the faint colors of their petals remind you of their swift stay. Once the time ticks it’s last, and you have soon stepped foot in the land of destiny. May the voices value every lesson and relationship built during this journey. Appreciate this short escape fondly and allow its imprint to aid you even when your travel has ended. For it is time to pick up your quill, and journal the story of Clementine. Best regards, The Conductor
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TABLE OF CONTENTS Foreword
1
CHAPTER I: PROLOGUE Prologue The Announcement New Beginnings Fated Resolution The Cathedral Whispers Driver and Conductor
3 4 5 6 7 8
CHAPTER II: DEPARTURE The Welcoming The Passenger to Nowhere The Curious Quest The Storytelling
9 10 11 12
CHAPTER III: TRAVEL Whispers on the Rail Tracks Through Time Borrowed Light
2
14 16 18
No Truce with the Furies The Scholar’s vows Relic of the Unknown Resonance The Sanctified Path to the Relic The Price of Freedom A Poet’s Nightmare
20 22 24 28 30 32 34
CHAPTER IV: ARRIVAL The Dream I The Dream II A Forest’’s Lament Lost on the Tracks The Conversation 40
36 37 38 39
CHAPTER V: STEP OFF The Familiar Season of Bloom The Exit Kabalaslan Onto the last Train
41 42 43 44
Visuals by Vincent Vhon Adrian Casona
Prologue
By Christal Kaye Dinglasan
a carriage crammed with things unseen, all packed away in forfeited dreams, no one knows where each has been, when everyone rushes into their seats a mystery walked far off the rails, clouded in shadows, no clue prevails, a distant train chimes, its engines crying,
the station far hustling and bustling and calling in dissimilar pace, figures pervaded the road, with purpose or to flight, all yearning to go home, but their path points to somewhere far from the abode, as if to cross, to journey, to wander what has been
as if to follow a crowd to an unknown land, to a sought destination none understands, but if the conductor heeds the call to Wonderland, would you turn to hear and take their hand? they knew a place, t’was called Clementine, a familiar unknown, a truth untold, would you dare to ride?
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Visuals by Mhaxienne Whelm Ibañez
T he Announcement By Precious Aumela Tanaleon
“All Aboard for St. Clementine! Get your tickets here! Get your tickets!”
are made as time passes in silent
“My love, finally we’re free”
suspense. Many stories can be gathered
“Care to share the seat, sir?”
In the station where many
in a place where passengers are
hearts are unsure, the sight of a
intertwined in one road, perhaps
mere paper embedded with a fixed
going back to the place they’ve
Clementine. The train will soon
location will make you assume one
known or to a new place they’ll
arrive and be ready for boarding.
should know where to find home.
soon explore but alas! Only a sole
Prepare your tickets and luggage as
Strangers gathered, looking around
conclusion can be formed, and that
your wonderful journey awaits!”
and listening to each sound. The
is, just like how spring welcomes
Perhaps this is it, the end and
pitter patter of boots and shoes
us after a cruel winter, there’s a
the beginning of a new life, a new
going in and out, the quiet whistle
garden somewhere where there is
version of everyone. As the railway
of a train that had gone a mile, the
no judgement passed unto them as
stayed still patiently for the rustle
mixtures of voices and whispers of
all wanderers have only one sight
of life, the people too stood still for
goodbyes.
to see and that is the solace in the
anticipation, now they wait and
St. Clementine they’ll soon be.
perhaps dream for the path’s elated
Such tranquility can be made
destiny.
in a scene where one just waits, as another buys a ticket while the other sits across, conversations
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“Be prepared passengers of St.
“Where are we headed, sisters?”
New Beginnings By Dane Monirah Manguera
In the heart of the train station, a symphony of movement and emotion played out. Passengers rushed to board their trains, while others lingered, savoring the moments before parting ways. The air vibrated with the collective energy of dreams, hopes, and uncertainties. Her eyes fixed on the departure board, and her heart skipped a beat as she saw her destination: St. Clementine’s. Memories flooded her mind as she waited. She recalled the comfort of a life lived in the sheltered hills of her County. Lessons learned, love shared, and laughter echoed within those familiar walls. But now, she felt the gentle stirrings of restlessness, a sense that she had outgrown the safety of her haven. It was time to step into the unknown, to explore the world beyond the boundaries of her childhood home. As she waited, a gentle voice interrupted her reverie. “Excuse me, is this the platform for the St. Clementine’s train?” A soft-spoken woman with a warm smile, her face hidden by a veil, stood beside her, clutching a worn leather suitcase. She nodded, and the woman’s lips smiled even wider. “I’m so glad I’m not the only one heading there. By the way, I’m from London.” “I’m from Ravenswood County,” she replied, her eyes drifting back to the departure board. The veiled woman’s smile never wavered. “Well, perhaps our paths will cross again in St. Clementine’s.” The sound of approaching wheels and the murmur of the crowd signaled the train’s arrival. The stationmaster’s voice boomed through the loudspeakers, “Now arriving on Platform 3, the St. Clementine’s Express. All aboard, please.” As the train’s doors slid open, the woman turned to her and said, “Shall we?” And with that, they stepped into the unknown, leaving the familiar world behind.
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Visuals by Jaime Joaquin Katipunan
Fated Resolution
By Charmel Olita
A steel serpent slithers through twilight’s breath, Hissing whispers of journeys kissed by death. Its iron lungs exhale smoke, a shroud, A preacher’s hymn, neither soft nor loud.
Its heartbeats thunder, a pulsing hymn, Promising truths buried deep within. A resolution wrapped in steam and fire, A final answer to the soul’s desire.
But as the serpent halts, it seems alive, Its belly full of what must arrive. A destination, a whispered decree, The promise of clarity, fierce and free.
Tracks hum with purpose, a solemn vow, Guiding the beast through then and now. The sky, a canvas bruised by night, Bleeds amber tears in fading light.
At the station waits a shadowed door, A portal to what was, and something more. The air is thick with unsaid prayers, A quiet pact between past and heirs.
The train exhales and takes its leave, A fleeting hope for hearts that grieve. And in its wake, the echoes remain, A serpent’s vow to end the pain.
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Visuals by Ilyasviel Ryine Sotocinal
T he Cathedral Whispers By Allian Riz Torrecampo
you see inside. In the eyes of
diverse as the stars in the night
The insistent rhythm of the
every passenger, visitor, even
sky. Some, lost and desperate,
jeepneys, a cacophony that mingled
the homeless, their eyes reflect
sought a beacon of hope in the
with the cathedral bells painted
the cathedral’s vibrant hues — a
face of despair. Others, like sailors
a vibrant picture of city life. But
flicker of something, a yearning
adrift on a stormy sea, yearned for
amidst the chaos, there was a
for peace, a search for purpose, a
guidance, a compass to navigate
quieter beat – a sense of hope, a
whisper of a better tomorrow.
the uncertainties of life. But the
“Beep, beep, beep”
truth, like a secret shared between
whisper carried on the wind, a
But was it the cathedral itself
promise of better things woven
that offered this comfort? Or was
into the city’s vibrant pulse. The
it something deeper — the human
The Saint Clementine Cathedral
people from all corners converge
spirit’s innate longing for meaning,
isn’t just a building; it’s a symbol. A
upon its hallowed ground, drawn
finding a temporary home within
symbol of resilience, of the human
by the siren song of architectural
these sacred walls? Was it the
spirit’s enduring capacity for faith.
splendor and the whispered
answers the church provided, or
Within its hallowed walls, the
promises of spiritual solace.
the profound questions it stirred
echoes of countless prayers mingle
within each of us that truly
with the quiet whispers of the soul.
resonated?
It’s a place to surrender the weight
Within these hallowed walls, an ethereal aura hangs heavy in the air. Hope; a fragile butterfly,
The reasons people sought
flutters in the eyes of every soul
refuge within its walls were as
old friends, ran deeper.
of the world, to find solace in the quiet embrace of the divine.
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Driver and Conductor By Kate Dianne Caseria
INT. TRAIN CABIN – NIGHT The train glides through the darkness, its steady rhythm an unspoken chant. The DRIVER, his face a map of age and experience, grips the controls with a knowing touch. The CONDUCTOR, leaning on the doorway, gazes into the distance as if
DRIVER: (cryptically)
CONDUCTOR:
The rails don’t lead, they follow.
But do we not wonder?
It’s the seekers who draw the line, whether they know it or not.
Wondering changes nothing. The train CONDUCTOR:
The rhythmic CLATTER-
CONDUCTOR: (looking out into the darkness) The clock turns, yet they come as if time owes them answers. DRIVER: (gruff, without turning) Time owes no one. It only collects. And these tracks... they’ve carried debts longer than we’ve been here. CONDUCTOR: (smiling faintly) And yet, they tread with such
A whistle, long and low, as the
too?
faint outline of a cathedral rises in the distance, its spire cutting The DRIVER exhales sharply, as
through the mist like a dagger. The
if the question unsettles him. He flicks
CONDUCTOR’s gaze lingers on it, his
a switch, and the cabin light flickers
expression unreadable.
once before steadying, casting deep shadows over the worn controls.
know? DRIVER: Know what? That the station waits for no one? Or that the journey ends where it begins? CONDUCTOR: (tilting his head, intrigued) Perhaps neither. Perhaps they believe the cathedral holds a promise. DRIVER: Promises are fragile things. Like leaves clinging to autumn trees. They fall,
CONDUCTOR: Until it doesn’t.
DRIVER: (eyes narrowing)
DRIVER: (a long pause) Yes. Until it
Seekers? No. We’re the watchers. The guardians of passages they dare not
doesn’t.
question. EXT. CATHEDRAL-NIGHT CONDUCTOR:
The train hisses to a stop, steam
Guardians... or keepers? Perhaps it is
rising from the tracks like ghosts.
we who lock the doors they knock
Outside, passengers step off, their
upon.
figures barely visible in the faint glow of lanterns. They drift toward the
certainty. Bags in hand, hearts heavy with whispers. Do you think they
moves forward. Always forward.
And what of us? Are we not seekers
searching for something unseen. CLATTER of the train fills the air.
DRIVER:
cathedral, their movements deliberate DRIVER:
but dreamlike.
Perhaps. Or maybe we hold the key. But tell me, would you ever unlock
CONDUCTOR:
a door without knowing what waits
(softly, almost to himself)
behind it?
Perhaps the answer was never at the station. Perhaps it was always with
CONDUCTOR:
them.
(smiling enigmatically) I might. For curiosity’s sake.
DRIVER: Or perhaps there was never a question
DRIVER:
to begin with.
Curiosity is a flame, and some doors are meant to remain closed. CONDUCTOR:
INT. TRAIN CAB- NIGHT The CONDUCTOR exhales deeply,
and still, the roots remain.
And yet, they open. For every soul
leaning back in his seat as the
who steps aboard, a door creaks in
passengers disappear into the fog.
CONDUCTOR:
the distance.
The train begins to hum once more,
Roots… like the rails beneath us. Always stretching, never stopping. But tell me, do you think these rails lead to their answers?
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its engine alive with purpose. The DRIVER:
DRIVER steps back into the shadows,
Some doors lead to light. Others to
his face half-hidden, his smile faint but
shadow. It’s not our place to judge
knowing.
which is which.
Visuals by Gabriel Tamayo
T he Welcoming By Rhenicka Cabellero & Jillian Ashlee Diola Beneath the gilded glow of
A peaceful sentinel in the sunset’s
A fleeting pause beneath his
afternoon’s shroud,
glow
knowing eyes,
The train stood poised, a vision in
With knowing eyes, he gauged the
As if their very essence he could
the bright,
bustling pace,
hold.
Its carriages in whispered hums
And watched the tide of travelers
avowed,
boarding feeling snow.
the fading light.
He bowed, as if to gift each soul their peace,
A bridge of dreams that spanned With a steady gaze, he scanned
A fleeting god who shapes both
each traveler’s guise,
time and lease.
A refined man stood, his hat askew
Their burdens are borne in silence,
with grace,
tales untold
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9
Visuals by Jose Ryan Esquivel
T he Passenger to Nowhere By Sam Luigi Gumata
Restless is my soul as I search for
appeal
comfortably
answers
A dark and ill omen, just like a
Without even uttering a single
But I’ll do what I must to soothe
raven
word out his mouth Yet a quick glance revealed his
my ache And go to the cathedral that
With his hat shrouding his face he
wary eyes, filled with uncertainty
promises wonders
walked down the corridor
Unsure where the train will even
Yet deep within, a silent storm, this
I punched his ticket as I greeted
go, east, west, north, or south?
path I fear to take
him But I was met with silence and
A mystery waiting to be solved
Heavy footsteps interrupted the
ignored
No clear purpose and no clear goal
serene atmosphere
Just like his clothes, his personality
Why is he here, on this train that
As the man dressed for a funeral
was grim and dim
he rode? Would this sanctuary of comfort
entered the cabin His very presence brought no
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He settled down confidently and
finally console his soul?
Visuals by Paola Marie Gabrido
T he Curious Quest By Juliesa Marrice Secuelan & Oleah Capunong The train whistled sharp, slicing
calculated, had secrets to test
The thespian laughed, a dramatic scoff,
the gray, Through fog-cloaked hills, it rattled
The scholar glanced up from his
“Or a villain whose mask is about
away.
leather-bound book,
to fall off.”
A calm befell the leather-clad field
Eyes squinting through spectacles,
But was immediately stood, poised,
stealing a look.
Three holy sisters whispered a
and killed.
The merchant beside him, protec-
prayer,
tive of wares,
The widow clutched beads, her
Courtesy of the cryptic man on a
Grumbled softly, “He’s trouble. Who
grief laid bare.
quest
cares?”
The train pressed onward, to the cathedral ahead,
With crossed legs and a draping cloak of dark ivory,
The vagabond grinned with a
Where truth would unravel, and
Singlehandedly made the speckles
toothy display,
secrets be bled.
of the train look eerie
“Perhaps he’s a prophet, come to
His every move, uncertain yet
light the way.”
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Visuals by Yael Miguel Espellogo
The Storytelling By Rexie Stephanie Jolito
Engraved by the heavens, here
freedom is what he’s seeking
sisters seem annoyed Are these so-called sisters friends or
begins life’s tale
foes, a topic they avoid
A journey filled with purpose,
Then he came along, a merchant
riding over destined rails
dressed in luxury and gold
Inside its metal serpent, a silhouette
Wearing an expression of sadness,
Then she came in last, akin to a
roams the halls
something money can’t solve
raven’s shadow
A person there in charge, the
Is success equivalent to regret only
Dressed in all black, did she
“Conductor,” some might call
Saint Clementine could fix?
experience endless sorrow?
Can a man live without his family,
Unable to go back, can Saint
or can they forgive what he did?
Clementine heal this grieving
With fleeting chaos unraveling
widow?
life’s confession The conductor began to talk,
Then entered a beautiful lady,
Trapped in such a state, does home
asking his usual question
hiding her silent cries
feel like a cursed meadow?
“A lovely day, isn’t it?” He asked,
A thespian to many challenged by
waiting for a reply
time’s unwavering trial
As the conductor resumes to listen,
But the man’s stare of melancholy
Can this withering flower ever go
with his intentions unclear
radiate feelings of goodbye
back to who she once was?
They reveal the hidden tales of
Can this be the heaven signs,
sorrow, joy, hopes, and fears
building her once-fading trust?
May this train ride guide you,
Avoiding such silence, the
passengers, through transit-bound
vagabond suddenly spoke Expressing her inner secrets,
Peeking at the corner, the
A sacred place with destiny
leaving with the one she loves most
conductor sees them three
entwined, where truths will be
A scholar in the view of many, her
A symbol of holy service, the
found
siren calls broke his sacred being
conductor came to greet
In his world full of devotion,
Curious about their journey, the
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Visuals by Sharmaine Yalong
6th
lit 13
Poem 1st Place
Whispers on the Rail By Rezlyn Torreblanca
Oh, dearest Clementine, where shall I begin? With the hush of veils or the weight of sin? She stood where shadows kissed the track, A widow draped in midnight’s black. Shall she linger where the willows weep, A specter stitched to sorrow’s keep? Or follow the train, a silver thread, That hums of life where grief has fled? She stepped aboard, a wraith of bone, Not for love, but for her own. No ring, no vow, no tethered chain, Only the wind, and the whisper of rain. Yet still, they say she lingers there, A sigh dissolved in thinning air. Oh, Clementine, call back her name, Before she fades to ash and flame. The wheels cry out, the dusk unweaves, The night exhales, and sorrow leaves. No longer lost in echoes long, She hums anew—where she belongs.
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Artwork by Jesus Caña III
Art 1st Place
lit 15
Short Story 1st Place
Tracks T hrough T ime By Rheena Mae Robles
The whistle blew, slicing through the early evening fog. The train awaited its passengers like a predator with jaws open wide. Among those who climbed aboard was Elias Hargrove, a man whose presence seemed as deliberate as the turning of a clock’s gears. He carried no luggage, just a weathered journal clutched under his arm—for one never travels light unless one is running from something or to something. Elias settled into a corner seat, his dark coat blending into the muted tones of the carriage. He was a man who preferred the background, though his sharp eyes betrayed a mind that observed all. Across from him sat a woman cradling a child, her countenance one of practiced calm. Her name, as he would later learn, was Lila Harrow, though there was a flicker in her eyes that suggested she had once gone by another. The train shuddered as it lurched forward, the rhythmic clatter of wheels setting the stage for a journey both ordinary and extraordinary. Elias opened his journal, his pen poised to write, but the page stared back at him, blank and unyielding. This, he thought, was unusual. He had always been able to conjure words, to spin the tales of others as easily as a spider weaves its web. But tonight, his mind was as empty as the space between stars. “You’re a writer,” Lila said suddenly, her voice low but steady. Elias glanced up, startled. “What makes you think that?” She tilted her head, her lips curling into a faint smile. “You have the look of someone who observes more than he speaks. And that journal, it’s practically begging to be filled.” Before he could reply, the door at the far end of the carriage creaked open, and in stepped the conductor. He was an older man, his uniform immaculate but oddly antiquated, as though he had stepped out of a different time altogether. His eyes, however, were sharp, too sharp, Elias thought as the man scanned the passengers. “Tickets, please,” the conductor announced, though he made no effort to collect them. Instead, he paused before Elias, his gaze narrowing. “Every journey has a purpose. Have you found yours yet?” Elias frowned, unsure whether to respond. The conductor’s question seemed less of an inquiry and more of a challenge, a riddle wrapped in a polite facade. “I’m still working on that,” Elias said cautiously. The conductor smiled faintly, the kind of smile one might offer to a child attempting to solve a puzzle. “Well, best not to waste time. The tracks only run forward.”
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Elias frowned, unsure whether to respond. The conductor’s question seemed less of an inquiry and more of a challenge, a riddle wrapped in a polite facade. “I’m still working on that,” Elias said cautiously. The conductor smiled faintly, the kind of smile one might offer to a child attempting to solve a puzzle. “Well, best not to waste time. The tracks only run forward.” The conductor smiled faintly, the kind of smile one might offer to a child attempting to solve a puzzle. “Well, best not to waste time. The tracks only run forward.” With that, he moved on, his presence dissipating like smoke in the wind. The night deepened, and the train pressed on, its passengers sinking into quiet contemplation. Elias watched as Lila gently rocked her child to sleep, her movements mechanical but tender. She seemed, he thought, like a woman carrying a burden heavier than the child in her arms. “Do you believe,” Lila asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper, “that people board trains to escape or to arrive?” Elias considered the question. “Perhaps both. Or perhaps it’s the journey itself that matters.” She nodded, though her expression remained distant. “I hope you’re right.” The train plunged into a tunnel, the world outside vanishing into darkness. For a moment, the carriage was bathed in shadows, and Elias felt a peculiar sense of disorientation, as though the train were traveling not through space but through time—or something else entirely. When they emerged, dawn was breaking, and the train began to slow. Lila stood, her child still asleep in her arms. “This is my stop,” she said, her tone final but not unkind. Elias hesitated. “Will you be all right?” She offered him a small, enigmatic smile. “I will be. And so will you.” As she stepped off the train, Elias opened his journal once more. This time, the words came easily, flowing like water over stones. He wrote of a woman with secrets in her eyes, a child who dreamed through the night, and a conductor who seemed to know more than he let on. The train pressed onward, its whistle piercing the morning air. Elias leaned back in his seat, the journal warm in his hands, and wondered what story awaited him at the next station.
lit 17
Poem 2nd Place
Borrowed Light By Catherine Anne Doblar
Stone in my hands, pirouetting uphill. Claimed my chance, living for the thrill. I was the brightest sun you’d ever see. Relished in darkened hearts of jealousy. Skin gilded with unstained gold like a king, Oh, I did covet for more, I truly did cling. Foaming at the mouth like a dog. Didn’t see the world engulf in fog. I offered the faceless crowd clementine, And fleeting then was the time. Blinding, I was brilliant and luminous. Now, I am faceless and forgotten. Clementine in my hand, rotten. Solemn grandeur, humble yet great. Reverence comprehended only by faith. Shafts of golden ethereal light. Sweet aromas of incense. Sacred space of stillness. Prayers said long ago, echoing. And all my weariness flowing. Unworthy to welcome You under my roof. One word is enough, my soul shall be soothed. I am not the sun, but Your moon. My shine is borrowed light from You. Silver thrones and bronze crown perish. And only one is worth to cherish. Y our sky adorned with stars, The treasure of Your heart unmarred. Holy sanctuary, in You I may only find. So, I offer You this one final clementine.
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Artwork by Jerrymae Belleza
Art 2nd Place
lit 19
Short Story 2nd Place
No Truce with the Furies By Jose Gerardo Alegada II
The train surged through the idyllic countryside, leaving the city’s chaos behind. Thick black smoke billowed from the chimney, its churning fumes the unmistakable scent of coal. The carriages swayed from side to side, their lacquered wood and brass fittings reflecting faint glimmers from the dim gas lamps. Inside one of them was Gregor, staring at his gold pocket watch. Gregor’s coat, once a fine wool garment, hung loosely on his frame with its edges frayed and patched. His shirt, now wrinkled and yellowed at the collar, would have been rolled up haphazardly over his sleeves. The scuffed leather shoes he wore showed better days, their soles uneven and tarred to keep damp away. A battered bowler hat sat askew on his head, once a symbol of pride, given to him by the chief of police. It was now old, dirty, and weathered by time and neglect. His eyes, half-lidded and tired, were framed by the mess of unshaven stubble that had become his permanent companion. “Why are you even here, Gregor?” Drama purred, its voice laced with mockery. “You’re no detective; you can’t even hold your coat together, let alone solve a murder.” Gregor glanced at his coat, thinking it wasn’t that bad, but the voice in his head was right. “You should stop,” His Volition whispered, soft and intrusive. “Get off at the next station. No one would blame you.” Gregor stared at his reflection in the window, dim light casting harsh lines on his tired eyes. This wasn’t the man he once was. What had he become? “SMASH THE WINDOW!” Half Light growled, Gregor’s primal rage igniting in his gut. “What are you waiting for? You know you want to pummel the lonely old man. Just do it!” Gregor clenched his fist; the heat in his chest was overwhelming—an ache that had been building ever since he stepped onto this train. The voices inside his head raged, all of them clawing for control, urging him to act. It would feel so good to shatter something. To let that brief moment of power sweep away the helplessness. It would feel so good to break something. To let that burst of strength overpower his own patheticness. Then, cutting through the static of rage, a voice rasped from deep within. “Don’t embarrass yourself,” The Pain Threshold warned him. “Look at you, Gregor. Weak fists, stringy arms—this body can’t handle smashing anything.” Gregor’s hand shook, and his anger sputtered. “You’ll hurt yourself, plain and simple; our fists can’t take it. You’ll hurt more than the glass.” Gregor wavered, unclenched his fists, and sighed. He slumped his back to his seat, turning away from the window. He glanced around the train, looking for something to distract himself from, well, himself. “The chair beside you! The material here is torn.” Perception whispered softly, its voice full of silent curiosity. “That guy to the right, two seats away, is tapping his fingers. His face is scrunched
20
up with effort. He has a nervous habit. The drapes close to the window? They are crooked. Someone must have attempted to open it at some point.”. It was strange how real and vivid everything seemed, yet none of it mattered. The voices within him seemed to home in on the mundane stuff and turned trite observations into points of interest. “Focus, Gregor,” said Esprit de Corps, its tone firm and steady, like an older figure leaning in and fixing you with an unyielding stare. “You’ve gone through worse than this. Remember what you’re supposed to do. The criminal. The case. There is something here; don’t let them slip through your grasp.”. Gregor filtered out unnecessary thoughts and started looking for possible leads, focusing again on the passengers. Gregor scanned the other passengers, and to his right were three nuns huddled together, the smallest fidgeting nervously in her seat, avoiding eye contact. “Innocent,” Empathy said with conviction, its voice full of concern. “But why is she so anxious? She’s troubled, deep down, hiding something behind that pious exterior.” The merchant sat by the window, his fingers jerking with the case glued to him. “A liar, sire.” Drama snarled. “Look at his hands. He shakes. What has he to conceal?” Perception continued on, “The case, Gregor. He holds onto it too firmly. What’s in there?”. Beside him, the thespian’s smile seemed rehearsed, hands clasped tightly together as if warding off something. “She’s acting, “ Rhetoric commented dryly. “That smile is a mask. What is she hiding under the façade? Fear?”. The vagabond’s beauty was undeniable. Her angel-like eyes captivated Gregor. “She’s irresistible,” Electrochemistry urged. “One little moment, one little sniff, one little puff, one little taste—what could it hurt?” But Volition snapped, “Don’t. Focus on what matters.” Lastly, a scholar, engrossed in his book, muttered softly to himself, his brows furrowed in concentration. “Did you know?” The Encyclopedia of the Mind chimed in an oddly cheerful tone. “That the average human brain processes about 70,000 thoughts per day? its fascinating, isn’t it? But then again, he’s probably too wrapped up in his own head to notice anything around him. He’s too busy with facts to see what’s really going on.” . Gregor’s instincts flared. Something tied all of them with each other and himself, but not so sure yet. Still, he could sense the tension building—something was hidden in the air, waiting to break. “Clementine.” The Inland Empire seeped into Gregor’s head, its voice low and eerie. “Not a place. Not a destination. It’s the question you’ve always asked but never answered. The cathedral waits for you, Gregor. But the answer... the answer is already inside.”. The voices inside him stirred restlessly, offering their fragmented wisdom and warnings. There were no answers yet, only questions. The truth remained elusive, just out of reach. The train rumbled on, the countryside slipping past the window. Clementine was ahead, but so was something far greater, something Gregor couldn’t yet name.
lit 21
Poem 3rd Place
T he Scholar’s vows By Ahnieszka Shem Aligarbes
A scholar hears a melody as sweet as honey, Stopping him in his tracks amid his scurry, He pondered where this harmonious tune is from, A siren’s voice made this scholar listen to the hums. A look of exchange between a scholar with a written path, And a fateful glance from the vagabond with an instrument in her hands, With two beating hearts and a conflicted mind, This encounter is both cruel and kind. In between cracks within the walls of the church, Blossomed Irises threatening to besmirch, It seems the scholar who is always faithful, Has been allured by this love so youthful. His love is now divided for his calling and a fair maiden, Conflicting his mind and burdening him laden. Will he answer the calling of his path written out? Remain true to his first love and be as devout? Or shall he pick up his quill to write a chapter anew, Alter the train’s destination, this freeing love he’ll pursue. Voyage through the waves of blissful oblivion, Follow the sync of beating hearts for a passionate union, Devil may dare, for this scholar has fallen, This love is worth more than the life written for him.
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Artwork by Sean Mykel Andre Gegato
Art 3rd Place
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Short Story 3rd Place
Relic of the Unknown By Jellian Gonzaga
In the midst of this world’s ongoing civilization, a train station is a part of everyone’s lives, witnessing many stories that can fill empty pages of a book. The place is cold, dust collected in the corners, and the once-bright signs were now faded, their letters barely legible. The station looked like a forgotten relic stuck in time, trying to find ways to be noticed. Soon enough, the station was filled again with the echoes of footsteps, passengers flung through the old and rusty gates of the station one by one. No announcements, no signs, no schedules—just completely silenced that vastness through the thin, cold air. “Chuff-Chug-Chuff-Chug-Chuff-Chug” The rumbling sound of an engine approaching, passengers stood on the station’s platform observing their surroundings and familiarizing themselves with whom they’ll board with. A world-renowned surgeon adjusted his coat, sweat trickled down his forehead, fingers trembling as if it were his first operation. His usually steady hands betrayed him, haunted by a decision he could never undo. A wife, with a tear running down her cheek, stared at the horizon. She had just escaped—fleeing from a home with every corner filled with love but now only echoed with silence and bitterness. The tear traced the curve of her cheek, carrying with it years of quiet suffering and a single, desperate decision to break free. An adolescent, with her wired earphones, scrolled aimlessly on her phone, her music turned up to drown out the silence the station offered to each one of them. Beside her is a student, clutching his project tightly, both hands shaking. The edges of his paper were worn, as if it carried more than just ink and ideas—it carried his fears. He looked down at it, trying to steady his breath, but the weight of doubt was too much to bear. The expectations, his own and others’, felt like they were crushing him, yet he couldn’t escape the fear that it wouldn’t be enough. Each person stood alone, yet somehow connected by a force towards the train. They had arrived with burdens too heavy to carry and questions they couldn’t answer. “Choo-choo!” The whistle of the train blows harder as it is fastly approaching, with its steam curled in the cold air, and its warmth could be felt from miles away, like pilgrims of hope seeking something beyond. At last, the train was coming, and with it, the chance to face what had been stored and left behind. Upon the train’s arrival, steam filled the entire station, swirling around the passengers as they prepared to board. The air was thick with anticipation, each person taking a slow breath, feeling the weight of the moment. The hiss of the engine seemed to echo their own heartbeat, quickening as the doors opened wide, inviting them in. One by one, they stepped into each compartment of the train; some were hesitant and scared, yet they stepped in. 24
“Choo-choo!!” All passengers were now settled as the last blow of the train’s whistle blew hard, signaling that it was about to leave, its doors shut tight, and the train started moving towards the unknown.
COMPARTMENT 1 The surgeon sat in silence, still dripping in sweat no matter how cold the train’s compartment was. His trembling hands clutching the armrest, knuckles turning white as his breathing slowed. The rhythm of the train matched the pounding of his heart as his mind replayed the one mistake he couldn’t undo. The scenario was so vivid, it carved into his mind; he couldn’t believe it. In all his years serving others, he had never failed like this. The patient’s eyes, the final breath, the moment when he knew he couldn’t save his patient. Then, the patient’s family—tear-streaked faces, the unspoken weight of their grief. Although he knew his oath—to do no harm, to save lives—there were moments when even his skill couldn’t change the inevitable. The weight of that truth had crushed him, and the guilt had been unbearable, but in the quiet of the train, something shifted; a soft, comforting presence lingered in the air, like a whisper that carried across time. “Let go,” said the voice. The words weren’t spoken aloud, but he felt them, as if they came from the family he had failed, the very souls who had silently forgiven him even when he couldn’t forgive himself. With every mile, he sat silently, reflecting on everything that had happened; the motion rocked him, and the guilt slowly began to fade. He whispered, “I’m sorry,” for the life he couldn’t save. COMPARTMENT 2 The wife stared out the window, the endless landscape a reminder of what she had left behind. The ache in her chest was sharp, like a wound that wouldn’t heal. Each passing mile carries the weight of years lost in silence. She had fled, but the pain still clung to her, a constant reminder of what she was running from. Although she had made the choice to break free, the guilt still weighed heavily on her heart. The sound of the engine cracked through the air, sharp like the glass shattered by her husband’s anger. Yet as the train moved on, she felt something shift. She felt comfort seep through the misty air for the first time in a while; a soft, comforting presence lingered in the air, like a whisper that carried across time. “Let go,” said the voice. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but she felt it, as though it came from the very essence of her decision to leave, telling her that the pain could be healed, the burden could be set down. The more the train moved, the more she understood—she wasn’t just leaving. She was finding a new beginning, and with that, the weight on her heart began to ease. lit 25
heavily on her heart. The sound of the engine cracked through the air, sharp like the glass shattered by her husband’s anger. Yet as the train moved on, she felt something shift. She felt comfort seep through the misty air for the first time in a while; a soft, comforting presence lingered in the air, like a whisper that carried across time. “Let go,” said the voice. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but she felt it, as though it came from the very essence of her decision to leave, telling her that the pain could be healed, the burden could be set down. The more the train moved, the more she understood—she wasn’t just leaving. She was finding a new beginning, and with that, the weight on her heart began to ease.
COMPARTMENT 3 The adolescent kept her eyes on her phone, drowning out the world, ignoring her responsibilities. The weight seemed far away, muffled by the noise of her escape. Each moment she spent in the artificial world she created felt like a quiet denial of what she was avoiding. The train hummed beneath her, but she was lost in the noise of her own escape. She then hears a calming voice seeping in her wired earphones. “Let go,” said the voice. It wasn’t loud, but it was clear, like a gentle reminder. For the first time, she lowered her phone, pulled out her earphones, and started to listen to the silence around her, and in that stillness, she felt a shift, as if the world had paused, waiting for her to face what she had been running from. It was in the silence that she asked herself, “Who am I?” And for the first time, she felt the courage to find out. COMPARTMENT 4 The student gripped his project tightly, fear squeezing his chest. The thought of failure loomed over him, like a dark cloud ready to swallow him whole. His hands shook as he stared at the edges of the paper, worn and creased from his constant anxiety. Each word, each figure on the page felt like a burden too heavy to bear. The train’s steady rhythm seemed to mock him, reminding him of the presentation that awaited, of the expectations he could never meet. His heartbeat quickened as his breath swallowed. Amidst those trains of thoughts that filled his mind, a calm voice whispered in his ear. “Let go,” said the voice. For a moment, everything paused; his train of thought paused. The fear didn’t disappear, but the weight of it lightened, as if the voice had lifted a burden he hadn’t known he was carrying. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, feeling the tension in his hands release. The journey wasn’t about perfection—it was about showing up, about doing his best, and in that moment, he learned to trust himself.
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The train journeyed on, each passenger lost in their own thoughts, yet all united in the quiet realm of self-discovery. The unknown no longer felt daunting. It was the start of something new, and they were ready to begin. “Choo-choo!” The train finally stopped, its whistle blowing hard, signaling the passengers that they had arrived at their destination. The doors flung open as the passengers stepped out of their compartments one by one: the surgeon, who finally accepted his fate; the wife, who heaved a sigh, no longer carrying the guilt on her heart; the adolescent, who stepped out with her head held up high, ready to face the unknown; and the student, now confident and no longer burdened by the fear of failure. Each of them, having faced their own struggles, took their first steps into a world full of new possibilities. The journey had been long, filled with moments of doubt and fear, but it was only the beginning of a new chapter. With every step, they left behind the weight of the past and moved toward a future they could now shape for themselves. The train had brought them here, but their own courage would guide them forward. Who knows what awaits these passengers?
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Poem Editor’s Choice
Resonance By Elmer Kent Eupalan
I was a son of devotion, a life measured in prayer, where silence wasn’t empty but sacred. The seminary was a world unto itself, walls thick enough to hold God’s voice. Then she came— a girl with a red-stringed guitar, her melody wasn’t just music, it was something alive, something that pulled me out of the stillness. Every note she played unraveled me, each string cutting through the binds of duty. Her voice, soft but unrelenting, drowned out the psalms I once recited. They called it sin, called her a temptation, but to me, she was a hymn the world couldn’t understand. We left under the cover of night, no farewell, no prayers—just us. In her arms, I found something holy, a love unspoken, but felt, a faith not built on scripture, but on the rhythm of her heartbeat.
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Artwork by Louise Austienne Juarez
Art Editor’s Choice
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T he Sanctified Path to the Relic
Short Story Editor’s Choice
By Jeoff Mula
In the town of Blessed Muria, there lies a precious relic within the castle walls. Townfolks lived up to the tales of St. Maurice; the sword had its clash experienced during the Theban–Spartan War until the persecution of St. Maurice and the Theban Spirits. Nora, a local scholar, devotee, and researcher, has been captivated by these relics since childhood. Inside the grand palace, scholars and clergies were called in a grand commemoration of knights occurring for a successful infiltration of an enemy fort in trailing a lost artifact. The King proclaims, “As I bid for all of your presence, my dear scholars, I humbly beseech you to lend your hands in examining the relics during the forthcoming infiltration with the soldiers.” With this request, the scholars are rewarded with wealth to comply with the King. “My apologies for I object this request; these sacred artifacts may fall into desecration if permitted to be prying under the scholar’s hands,” the clergy said. Nora argued that the sanctity of the artifacts is honored and will not be diminished under the hands of the scholars. “We scholars are tasked to seek the purpose of the divine, and are we allowed to let these fall under the wrong hands after the righteous missions the soldiers have achieved?” Nora rebuked. A heavy atmosphere enters as the scholars agree on Nora, infuriating other clergies. The preceding discord is put to an end by the King as he entrusts the task of letting the scholars pry their hands to examine the artifacts. Nora went home that night and spoke the King’s word to her Grandmother. “My dear Nora, I am proud you adhered to the King’s request for soldiers’ company. To that, I give you the old scholar amulet that I adored when I was your age. Your deed would bring honor to your Mother and Father,” Her grandma proudly said. Nora, with profound appreciation, grasped her hands in the amulet and donned it. The orange amulet bore a design of some sort of Cathedral, beaming with radiant sunlight and an inscribable ancient scripture on the other side. The next day, Nora bid farewell to her Grandma to come with the soldiers. She sought to return and vowed to spurn away from danger in any way. At the town’s center, the busy soldiers are preparing the carriage, calvaries mounting their well-fed horses, troops storing their arsenals. Nora entered the carriage along with five scholars. The esteemed contingent is traveling with vigilant guards, aware that they could be attacked anytime soon as they are aware that the previous castle is adept to their plan. Inside the carriage, Nora was asked by a fellow scholar with their eyes fixed on Nora’s amulet, “Ahhh… Saint Clement Cathedral. Does your amulet belong there? I heard that those were once held by the fallen guards to the divine passage. Pray, where did you get your hands on one?” Nora
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answered her grandmother was a former scholar, though her grandmother did not tell the origin of the possession. Once forth after days of travel, the group arrived at Castle Altros; confusion entered as it seemed there was no one inside nor vigilant guards. Half of the soldiers barged inside only to discover a wretched man holding a trumpet. With the man’s last breath, he blew into the trumpet, leading the soldiers into confusion. Little did they know that this mere act was a signal to the castle’s militant force. Shortly thereafter, they were ambushed, and outside the castle, the soldiers and the scholar were ruthlessly devastated and prosecuted by the Blackthorn Knights. Nora and several scholars were guarded by the soldiers and narrowly escaped the attack. The group fled into the forest, yet their foot was trailed by the Altros soldiers. They could hear them mocking that the lost artifact would never be found and for centuries to come, their kingdom would Wfind mystery and that it would only be a remnant of the past. Moments later, the soldiers found them. They desperately flee, but one by one, they are brought to their untimely end. With fortune on her side, only Nora was able to relentlessly escape the attack. Nora held a promise on her back; she vowed to her grandmother that she would return. The reflection of her commitment as a scholar, researcher, and devotee will always be a part of her growth. Despite the misfortune, Nora grasped her hands on the amulet as the echoes of the forest began to fade. She heard the sound of music, and each note resonated inside the forest. It was a bard. “Young lady, are you lost?” the bard concerningly asked. Nora explained that the people she was with got attacked, and she narrowly escaped. The bard locked eyes with the amulet, filled with joy, he recognized that the amulet belonged to the abandoned Saint Clement Cathedral. The bard assures Nora that he knows the path to the cathedral. Despite the harrowing event, Nora trusted the Bard, and they made their way to the Cathedral. Once they arrived, a divine beauty greeted Nora; she heard the echoes of the sanctified past and the blossoming faith she had in her. The bard found a hole in the door, exactly the shape of her. When she inserts the amulet, the door opens, and within is a sacred place brimming with Golden artifacts, each on their pedestal, yet one is missing. After she turned to celebrate with the bard, he was gone. Leaving no traces behind. On the absent spot of the artifact, she saw the scripture similar to her amulet. Shortly after, a loud voice echoed, “Nora, you are filled with kindness and passion towards the relics of the past. As you set foot within this cathedral, your soul is sanctified to keep this place sacred. Despite your destination, your growth will always be in your heart. Your journey starts here.” Nora is encouraged to keep on searching to keep the relic’s profound divine memories.
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Poem Editor’s Choice
T he Price of Freedom By Arianna Kristine Tijing
I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to recall. Right now, all I want to do is ride on this train. Traces of feelings I once knew began to fade. As memories of pain in my heart invade. On that certain day, my feet were glued to the ground. Fear, confusion, and guilt swirling around. “Bang!” I heard the dreadful sound. Where did it come from? Where did it resound? I guess I couldn’t take it any longer, the pain is too much. Bound by a vow that shattered my dreams. I longed to set myself free. However, I didn’t want it to be such a painful touch. It wasn’t his fault—he’s a kind man, I knew, But his love for me became a shackle that grew. This freedom, I gained, but through sorrow it came. I left the room as fast as I could, no longer the same. I had to accept this freedom, though sorrow it brought. Smiling through the veil, the pain I still fought. With lipstick on, I wear my disguise. Forcing a smile, though my soul still cries.
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Artwork by Shanley Adolfo
Art Editor’s Choice
lit 33
A Poet’s Nightmare
Short Story Editor’s Choice
By Fritz Ysabelle Doloso
Dust motes danced in a cold, gloomy, desolated room and a poet lies in the middle. Staring at its ceiling like an abyss of endless ideas. The one that has so many thoughts in its mind but somehow can’t put it into words. The pen that was once its solace is now its greatest nemesis–or maybe the poet was never that good. Born in a forgotten small city of Stygia, she was raised and was given the name Akela by the townsfolk. As a child, Akela had a strange habit—scratching her own skin, carving deep to her lifeline. The thick, crimson blood that flowed like a placid river became the tool for etching her misery to a piece of parchment. Birthing her passion for self expression from her very own demise, thus having the nickname the poet. That was the first and, tragically, the last time Akela experienced such passionate, creative fervor. In the present, Akela lived in the quiet solitude of her room, the echoes of the past her only company. She had grown used to being alone, minding her business—until she couldn’t, stirring a long-buried desire for connection. Ding dong. The doorbell rang, breaking the heavy silence in Akela’s world. The sudden sound sent a jolt through her, unfamiliar and unexpected. Her heart pounded like a trapped bird, each beat loud in the quiet. “Who could it be?” she whispered.. Her hands trembled as she opened it, mustering all her courage. Before her stood someone with long, flowing black hair, pale skin, and hazel eyes that seemed to pull her in. Akela couldn’t look away, her gaze locked on the mesmerizing figure—unsettling yet utterly captivating. “Help” The girl barely whispered lifelessly. A distorted look displayed on Akela’s face as she never got to socialize with someone before let alone help them. “What do you need-” Akela’s words were cut off as the girl barged her way through Akela’s house. She was trembling from the extreme cold from outside. Akela let out a loud sigh and asked again. “I’m Marabella” she gave a faint smile “I got lost” she added and offered a handshake which Akela was not accustomed to. Akela watched Mara in the room, a strange mix of amusement and irritation simmering within. Maybe because Akela was new to this, she found herself unable to turn her away. Mara, on the other hand, was a ball of energy, bringing life into Akela’s quiet home. Ignoring Akela’s protests, she busied herself with tasks. Akela watched from the sidelines, torn between amusement and exasperation. This swift, determined girl, with her clumsy yet earnest attempts at helpfulness, was an unexpected disruption to Akela’s solitude. Each morning, the same routine unfolded, these small moments repeating themselves like the ticking of a clock, until the days blurred into weeks, and the weeks into an indistinguishable expanse of time. “What’s that?” Mara asked slyly. Although Akela was taken aback by Mara’s unexpected presence, she responded with nothing. “Aww don’t be like that, Aki” Mara then stealthy grabbed the parchment on Akela’s hand while grinning and mischievously laughed. Akela sighs in defeat and lets Mara have her way.
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“It’s when you came to my life, In this coldness and loneliness of mine. You fitted so well Like the last piece I needed, For me to be complete.” The parchment slipped from Mara’s hands and fell to the floor. “Is this for me?” she wondered. A strange warmth filled her chest—exciting yet scary. She looked up and met Akela’s deep blue eyes, unable to look away. For once, Mara had no words. How had she not seen it before? Akela, with her short blonde hair, tall frame, and mesmerizing gaze. In that moment, Mara realized her feelings for Akela were stronger than she had ever admitted. Akela knelt to pick up the fallen parchment when Mara suddenly grabbed her hand. “Why do you have so many calluses? And… scars?” Mara asked, her voice filled with worry. Akela hesitated before answering. “Why did you start writing again? I thought you stopped-” Before she could finish, Akela gently took her hand and whispered, “Because of you, Mara.” “I’m someone that’s broken. A broken piece, but somehow you were the light that seeped through every crack of me” Akela’s eyes filled with tears as she spoke. Mara gently held her face, wiping the tears away. They were so close now. Akela gazed deeply into Mara’s hazel eyes and smiled. “How beautiful,” she said softly, tracing Mara’s face with her fingers. Mara gasped as Akela suddenly pulled her into a sweet, unexpected kiss. They broke apart, both smiling. Mara shyly whispered, “I love you, Akela.” Akela chuckled, her heart full. “Oh, how I love you more, Mara. That’s why I’m letting you go.” Akela smiles faintly while distancing herself from Mara. “What do you mean-” Mara’s words were cut off as someone forcefully barged into Akela’s house shouting frantically for Mara’s name. “Princess Marabella, where are you?!” A man’s voice shouted repeatedly until he reached the room where Mara and Akela were in. “You’re safe!” The man boldly claimed as he reached for Mara’s figure, hugging her tightly. “Herbert?” Mara asked in a frenzy. “After you ran away from our wedding, of course I’m here to pick you up” He said calmly as he ordered his guard to capture Akela, treating her like a criminal. “Leave her alone!!” Mara shouted as she was being carried by Herbert back to their carriage, tears flowing from her eyes as she repeatedly shouts to let go of Akela. Mara, the only daughter of the neighboring kingdom of Valia, was a runaway princess. Meeting Akela was both the best and the worst thing to ever happen to her. Henry eventually took Mara back, and they proceeded with their marriage. With no choice but to comply, Mara could only look back on her time with Akela. For a brief moment, Akela was imprisoned, accused of kidnapping the princess. What Mara never knew was that Akela had turned herself in to protect her, so she could be free and away from a life of misery. Perhaps Akela was afraid to let herself be happy. She had many thoughts, but the only thing that’s in her mind is Mara. The one who taught her to write again, her light, her inspiration, her beloved, her Mara. Before, I was only trying to survive. But you make me want to live, to the fullest, the happiest I’ve ever been. I sighed as I folded the parchment. Reliving these moments of my life was hard, but for our love story to remain, I must forget.
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Visuals by Zack Oraiz
T he Dream I
By Lianne Raeven Minor and Rcynize Leesayne Portugal Tahimik ang paligid, tanging ang ugong lamang ng makina ng dyip ang maririnig. May kaniya-kaniyang mundo ang bawat pasahero, iniinda ang maalinsangang panahon sa kanilang mga upuan. Sa isang dako, hindi alintana ang pawisang estado, banayad na nakatanaw sa mabilisang pagbago-bago ng tanawin ang Misteryosong Lalaki. Dala ng mapangheleng kapayapaan, siya’y unti-unting nahila ng antok.
mga pasahero ang nagkaroon ng ganiyang katanungan.
Naudlot ang kaniyang tulog nang masilaw sa sinag ng araw mula sa malabong bintana. Dahan-dahan niyang nilibot ang paningin, kumakalabog ang puso sa hindi pamilyar na kapaligiran. Mistulang palayan ang hanay ng mga nagtataasang gusali ang sumalubong na tanawin sa kaniya sa labas. May larawang gumagalaw mula sa maliit na kahon sa kaniyang harapan, tila sinadya para siya’y malibang sa mahabang byahe. Komportable rin ang kaniyang inuupuang kutson, malayo sa matigas na kahoy na unang nadatnan. Maaliwalas ang paligid dulot ng malamig na hangin na hindi niya alam kung saan nagmula.
“Nakalimutan mo ang iyong direksyon,” dagdag ng tagapagmaneho, na nasa daan na ngayon ang tingin. “Mas inaalala mo ang pagiging isang ganito o ganiyan na tumigil ka sa pag-alala kung ano ang nararapat nitong gawin, kung ano ang kaniyang kabuluhan.” Mariin silang tinitigan ng Misteryosong Lalaki, pilit niyang inuunawa ang kanilang sinasabi.
Napadako ang kaniyang paningin sa salamin sa unahan - na sana’y hindi niya ginawa. Tumigil ang kaniyang mundo, nabibingi ang kaniyang tainga sa katahimikan. Tumitindig ang kaniyang balahibo habang pinapasadahan ng tingin ang pamilyar na anyo ng tagapagmaneho - na nakatitig din pabalik sa kaniya. Hindi pa man siya nakabawi, mas lumakas pa ang pintig ng kaniyang dibdib nang napansin ang pigura sa malayong tabi ng tagapagmaneho, ang konduktor.
“Kaya ka nandirito ngayon,” kalmadong sagot ng konduktor na nagdulot ng pagkunot ng noo ng Misteryosong Lalaki. “Masyado kang nakatuon sa kung sino ka,” patuloy ng konduktor. ”Ngunit hindi ka nagtatanong kung saan ka patutungo.”
“Natagpuan mo na ang mga piraso ng iyong sarili,” saad ng konduktor. “Panahon na para ipagtagpi-tagpi mo sila.” At sa muling pagbilis ng kaniyang sinasakyan, muling nagbago ang tanawin sa labas - ngunit ngayon, hindi mga puno’t palayan ang bumati sa kaniya kundi’y mga gunita, ala-ala, at ang iba’t ibang bersyon ng kaniyang sarili. Pinilas niya ang tingin sa labas at itinuon ito sa harapan. Walang malinaw na palatandaan, walang mapa, walang tuntunin.
Hindi naniniwala ang Misteryosong Lalaki sa mga multo ngunit sa sandaling ito, tila nakaharap siya sa salamin ng kaniyang sariling mga multo.
Tanging ang daan lamang, ang paglalakbay, at ang dalawang anyo ng kaniyang sariling ginagabayan siya sa mapaghamong byahe.
Nanghihina niyang nilapitan ang dalawang anyo at nagtanong, “Sino kayo?”
At sa hindi inaasahan, ang mga katanungang hindi niya kailanman isinatinig ay umugong at pilit na sinisigaw ng kaniyang isip.
Isang tanong na nakatibag sa mariin na tingin ng tagapgmaneho at ng koduktor sa kaniya. Nagsalubong ang kanilang mga kilay hindi dahil hindi nila alam ang sagot, kundi dahil siya lamang sa
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Saan ako patutungo? Saan ako dapat patutungo?
Visuals by Vincent Vhon Adrian Casona
T he Dream II By John Theo Emmanuel Par
Pilit ko na minumulat ang parehong mata mula sa pagkakatulog. Sa hindi maipaliwanag na dahilan, tila may humahadlang sa aking pag gising— may bumubulong sa aking puso na huwag imulat ang mga mata sa mundong ito. Nakakalito ang nararamdaman, tila ba na ang tanging nagsisilbing presensya ko lamang sa lugar na ito ay ang aking katawan at nasa ibang dimensyon naman ang aking isipan.
Sinampal ako ng katotohanan ng biglang nagsalita ang isa pang lalaki— “may dahilan ka ba upang bumaba rito?” Napaisip ako. Ano pa nga ba ang dahilan ng pagbaba ko? Kung sakali man na nakababa na ako, malalaman ko ba ang mga susunod kong hakbang? Ngunit hindi bale na, mas nanaisin kong tumayo sa isang gilid kaysa sa umupo at magpatangay na lamang sa kung saan walang katiyakan.
Subalit huli na ang lahat, dahil sa kabila ng malabong paningin ay may napansin akong mga anino. Dahan-dahan itong nagkaroon ng hugis— hugis ng dalawang lalaki. Hindi nagtagal, may mga boses na nanggagaling sa kanila. Hindi man malinaw sa aking pandinig ngunit may pakiramdam akong ako ang pinag uusapan nila. Pinilit kong pagalawin ang katawan, hanggang sa tuluyang naramdaman ko na ang pinagsamang mainit at malamig na buga ng hangin— bigla akong natauhan na ako’y nakasakay sa isang kakaibang transportasyon.
Sa kagustuhang magkaroon ng kalinawan, binuo ko ang aking isip at sumigaw— “kuya, para!” Dahan-dahang huminto ang sinasakyan ko sa isang misteryosong lugar. Tulad ng inaasahan ko, kahit sa pagbaba ay hindi pa rin mabibigyang sagot ang kalituhang nararamdaman. Wala ni isang gusali o kalye man lang ang pamilyar sa aking memorya.
Nakakabulag na liwanag ang bumungad ng tuluyan ko’ng maimulat ang mga mata. “Excuse me po, saan tayo bababa?” sambit ng isa sa dalawang lalaki na hindi ko maaninag ang mga mukha. Bigla akong natauhan. Binalot ng pagkalito ang katiting na kamalayan. Sa mga sandaling ito ay hindi ko maintindihan ang mga nangyayari. Naghahalo ang mga tanong at ingay ng paligid sa aking isipan. “Bakit ako nandito? Nasaan ako? Saan ako paparoon?” Patuloy pa rin ang pag-andar ng sinasakyan ko— patuloy din akong nahihirapang pagdugtungin ang mga salita sa aking isipan. Hindi ko na malayang magkatitigan pala kami ng isang lalaki. Ngunit hanggang sa puntong ito, wala akong mabuo na kahit anong ideya maliban sa bumaba. Hiling ko lang na magkaroon ng kaunting kasiguraduhan, sapagkat hindi ko alam kung saan ako dadalhin ng kapalaran.
Sa ikalawang pagkakataon, ginising ako sa pagkatulala ng dumampi sa akin ang magkahalong mainit at malamig na ihip ng hangin. Lumingon ako upang pagmasdan ang paligid— subalit, isang hindi inaasahang pangyayari ang naganap. Sa loob ng buong sandaling ito ay hindi ko napansin na nasa kalagitnaan pala ako ng daan. Agad na napuno ng takot at pangamba ang aking isip, na sya namang sanhi ng aking pagkabalisa. Dulot ng umaapaw na emosyong nararamdaman, hindi ko na ulit maigalaw ang mga kamay at paa. Tanging tibok nalang ng puso ang naririnig ng aking tenga. Ilang sandali pa at nagulat na lamang ako sa isang malakas na busina. Hindi na ako nakalingon sapagkat mabilis itong umaandar patungo sa aking direksyon. Alam kong wala na akong magagawa— tuluyan na akong nabangga.
lit 37
Visuals by Alessandra Grace Tejida
A Forest’’s Lament By Anika Kate Padios
In Slumber’s Hush, a Dream Did
The man’s eyes widened in a mix
The wind whispered secrets, of a
Fade
of fear and shame
time long past
Awakened, a man stood, his heart
As he beheld the devastation, the
When trees stood tall, and life did
dismayed
forest’s name
forever last
As the train rumbled by, a sight
Etched in his mind, a reminder of
But now, in silence, they stood as a
did unfold
his past
warning sign
A forest once proud, now worn
Decisions that led to this desolate
A reminder of the cost of human
and old.
cast.
design.
The trees, like sentinels of earth
He thought of all the choices he
The man’s heart heavy, with regret
and sky
had made
and pain
Now stood as skeletons, their
The paths he chose, the futures he
He vowed to change, to make
beauty dry
had played
amends in vain
Their limbs outstretched, as if in
And now, before him, a forest lay
For the trees, for the earth, for the
final prayer
in decay
future’s sake
Their leaves long gone, with no life
A testament to the price of
He promised to act, before the last
to spare.
progress’s way.
leaf did break.
38
Visuals by Maren Divine Magalona
Lost on the Tracks By Nicole Guboc
A loud clang. Choo Choo. The train’s whistle engulfed the whole cabin, signifying the arrival to the unknown. Chatters of passengers, a chaotic symphony of urgency and impatience, rose as they sought to escape the periphery of the train. Amidst the cacophony reverberating, my thoughts carried like smoke on the breeze, bringing me back to the remnants of a dream I left behind and the cryptic words coaxed by the trainman. “What brings you here?” —the four words which he rendered from his lips when I handed my ticket. My mind wandered back to the hastened murmurs and fragments of conversations of those who have spoken of this mysterious yet enigmatic train. I wondered: Do I dare to take the odds venturing on this long journey, a path yet to be written? Or do I just remain rooted in the same place, let the fear creep in and watch as everything falls into an abyss? With the ticking of the clock growing louder, each second felt like the final call— urging me to decide. With that, I seized the moment, stepping into the ceaseless realm of possibility that awaits before me as I board this train. My mind is still tangled with the fog of uncertainty, leaving me bereft of speech. I gazed at the passing landscape, the scenery slipping into oblivion as the train once again started its engine to carry on with its venture. Truly, there are moments in life where the weight of being lost feels unbearable and every path you take is shrouded with uncertainty. Then, there comes the train, its arrival seems to be more than a coincidence— an enticement. They say it holds the power to show every passenger what might have been, what could still be. I step aboard, not certain if I’m running towards something or away from it. The possibility of still being lost whilst taking the chance to rewrite my life’s narrative is excruciating. I dread that particular kind of heaviness that comes with being perpetually lost, because what if this is all there will ever
be? I have given everything yet I am not even close to being something. Every strength, every fleeting hope, every wish whispered into the air and yet the answers still refuse to come. What is even appalling is that it feels like a betrayal–by the world, by God’s will, perhaps even myself. I’ve done what they said I should and yet the map of my life remains scrawled. Another mile was reached and the scenery deliberately changed and it felt like something within me did too. I gazed at the passing landscape, a place where horizon stretches endlessly, brimming in fullness of life. In the distance, mountain peaks are covered with soft clouds, constantly shifting abundant colors. I lifted my eyes to the vast, endless blue above and, with a heart full of yearning, I prayed softly, “Tell me, can this future be something I can claim?” “You can, if you have the courage to step into the.” Lost in deep thoughts,I barely noticed the conductor’s steady approach until a voice, low and unexpected, broke through the silence. “Everyone boards this train with questions. But this train, like time itself, doesn’t stay still and wait for anyone. Will you be brave enough to move along it?” A challenge I feared the most:the uncertainty of my own future. “But what if this is all I’m meant to have? Will I be something? Am I something?” And then, at last, the answer that I have desperately sought come: “You already are. You always were. And you still have time to be.”
lit 39
T he Conversation By Marc Angelo Sumugat & Sophia Maris Lipalam
Did you not sleep well, traveller?
No.
Care for tea? It’s clementine. I’m good, thankyou anyways. The train waits for no one, traveller. You, however, were an exception. What made you say that? You’re lost. I know where I’m going just fine. And yet your soul remains restless. Tell me, traveller, where are you headed? The cathedral, where everyone is. Where everyone pretends to be. I can tell, traveller whose eyes are uncertain of ambition Whose eyes you do not know, conductor. I know where to go, where everyone wants to. If your mind compels,
Does your heart beat true aswell? What? Your eyes, shimmer differently unlike the rest For those eyes tell a story not of love, greed, or forgiveness but narrate the irises of belonging. One who leaves not out of volition. One who goes because they do. Noone is certain, conductor. I simply admire the cathedral for what it is Not for who’s within. I admit, I seek answers within it’s mystery but no man ever roams without a scent of doubt Not even you. Likewise to me, you are lost aswell. Tell me your story, conductor Why are you here? You’ll leave this train, and the cathedral will welcome your stay. While my eyes simply marvel at it as the carriage pulls me away. Not a scent of doubt lingers, however. But the scent of… Clementines.
Visuals by Angel Villarente 40
Visuals by Joseph Jerome Dolloso
T he Familiar Season of Bloom By Oleah Capunong & Loise Atasha Toledano
The familiar hum of voices and the sound of the train’s engine running is what the man could hear as he observed his surroundings. As the train wobbled along the tracks, the windows revealed the white landscape, where skeletal trees stood tall, their branches heavy with frost. “How beautiful… “ he whispered, his voice almost lost in the quiet rumble of the train. Then unexpectedly, a sight appeared— a vibrant field of clementine trees filled his gaze. Their white petals seemingly in full bloom despite the chill of the passing wind, foreshadowing the incoming breeze of spring. The blossom flourished defiantly, their delicate beauty alive even against the harsh winter. Along the train’s windows, an array of white petals swirled, dancing in the zephyr. The man leaned closer to the glass, his cold breath fogging up the window as he uttered to himself, “How is this possible? How can they bloom in such cold?” What an odd thing to see— the blossoming of the clementine trees. Taking a deep breath, realizations flooded his mind. A soft chuckle escaped his lips, he said “I suppose there’s always a way.... even in the harshest times.” He paused, tracing the blossoming sight of delicate clementines, “Maybe that’s what life is all about... finding your way to bloom even if you wither... no matter what season... and no matter what reason.” The train rattled on, resonating his mind, melding the thoughts swirling inside him. A seed of hope is now planted, assuring him that no matter the destination, he would not waver. He would remain grounded. He embraced the surreal beauty of uncertainty, the sense of wonder that may come in his way. He would not surrender despite the coldest of winters that may succumb him because he, too, would bloom again. Despite the snowfall, he would rediscover the comfort life once held. As the view of clementine stretched out before him, he spoke aloud, almost as if reassuring himself “There’s always a way forward, no matter how impossible it seems.” Venturing to a new chapter of life is always filled with various twists and turns. As he gazes into the vast field of blooming clementines, a flame of light flared inside. A profound feeling of warmth seeped through him. A smile flashed across his face, he knew in that moment, he would find his way back into his own spring.
lit 41
T he Exit By Lyka Pearl Vasquez
“Attention passengers. We have now reached our destination. We would like to ask our passengers to slowly disembark in an orderly manner and ensure that all your belongings are with you. Thank you for travelling with Starlight Station! We hope you had a pleasant journey, and we hope to serve you again!” As the train starts to stop slowly Passengers gradually leave the train You watch the mere passenger closely Its face showed the look of pain You walk towards them to ask if they’re okay Steps so gentle, only the wind can be heard Looking at their gloomy face that is so grey Words they speak so quiet, it sound like hushed Wasting no more time, you slowly asked them “ Are you ready to leave the train?” Watching the scenery like it’s a gem They turn their head away from the pane Standing up gently from it’s seat, they slowly said “Yes, I am. I’m very sorry for the wait” Walking away from their seat, they fled Mysteriously, you look at them walking straight
42
Visuals by Katherine Ibalobor
Kabalaslan
By Vincent Vhon Adrian Casona
as the train ravages its engines once again, I took the first leap unto the Cathedral with every footstep that echoes, justifying the burden that I carry The deeper I swallow — the fear of uncertainty. “Will this gothic structure give me answers? rather, will it truly be the answers that they will give? or mere bandages to my wound that still bleeds?” despite the weight of my thoughts, I carry on with my pace fastening as if in a hurry — to free thyself from this suffering. Now, I face this spiritual structure, Head first — I went through the entrance Eyes closed — I sat, expecting nothing to happen Heart pounding — but my body yells to yearn for something Hands clasping — I slowly opened my eyes and felt the warmth of which I traveled to find a warmth that made me remember — who I truly am. “Nakalimtan mo na bala?” Wala, syempre wala! Misan diin ko magtulok, Ginapadumdum gid sa akon ang sala!
Kung ano kadalom ang buno sang akon tinaga — nga ginbuy-an, nga tani mabawi pa! pero, wala na… Wala na ‘ko sing mahimo — kundi mangayo sing pasensya Sa isa ka bagay nga wala na sang baba Sa isa ka bagay nga ara na sa dalom sang duta. “Kung sabat man ang imo ginapangita, dara ka nagsala! Kay ang sabat nga ginapangita mo, halin sang sano mo pa ginadala!” Dali-dali man akon nga pagpangita, Sa akon bayo, pantalon, kag sa bulsa Pero didto ko lang nabatyagan— ang kamatuoran. “Ang kaugalingon mo lang ang maka-aban Sa hinanakit nga imo gakabatyagan, sa aga, ugto, kag gabi. Sugilanon ini nga ikaw ang gasulat! Patawara na ang kaugalingon mo… Hindi to imo sala!” Natapos na ang sabtanay, ginmuklat ko ang akon mata Manugtapos na gali ang misa. Kag didto natapos ang tanan, Makapauli na ako nga wala sing bug-at ang dughan. “Maglakat kita tanan sa paghidaet.”
lit 43
Visuals by Rane Ann Nalaunan
Onto the last Train By Nesha Nichole Salazar
The whistle blows, a hollow sigh
Where every path is divine
began to drop
As rusty wheel scraped through
Yet every step you take recalls the
Excited to take another journey like
the night
past,
a dewdrop
Grey smoke hugged the sky
A truth that lingers, meant to last
And, conductor smiled in each passengers full-stop
Ahead can be seen a faint station light.
The conductor speaks his final words,
Yet one of them looks at the win-
Through the fogged glass of the
“Every story has their own plot,
dow glass,
window pane,
And each has their own purpose,
For the last time, he saw his
Stories and letters unfolded
Do not be afraid to take the shot
reflection
Each dream, purpose, weakness
Because life is just like a circus”
Suddenly, he knew at last After a long journey, he found his
and pain Can be seen in every eye molded
The breaks exhales, the wheels suddenly stopped
The final stop− St. Clementine
44
Doors opened wide, and passengers
direction.
EDITORIAL BOARD CHRISTIAN GELOTIN Editor-in-Chief
CHRISTAL KAYE DINGLASAN Associate Editor
RCYNIZE LEESAYNE PORTUGAL Managing Editor
DESK EDITORS JULIESA MARRICE SECUELAN
BENJAMIN VALENCIANO IV
ILYASVIEL RYINE SOTOCINAL
NESHA NICHOLE SALAZAR
JOHN THEO EMMANUEL PAR
MARC ANGELO SUMUGAT
LIANNE RAEVEN MINOR
SOPHIA MARIS LIPALAM
ANGEL VILLARENTE
CLARK ESCLETO
ALLIAN RIZ TORRECAMPO
VINCENT VHON ADRIAN CASONA
ALESSANDRA GRACE TEJIDA
JAIME JOAQUIN KATIPUNAN
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