Wishing for a Little Cherubim

by Polaroid

I dream of auburn scenarios and fluffy white clouds and the thought of being able to see a cherubim or a full-grown angel emerging from behind the canopy of clouds. I fancy the saccharine smile and the kindness in gentle eyes that reflect a soft-spoken personality. I love taking pictures of sunsets and running waters and of beauty in its sincerity and truth.

Quite mushy, aren’t they? Just a little. These are the thoughts of a 15-year-old who seems to have become a little girl once more.

I could be dreamy, a little to wistful for my age, and yet, I must admit that I have met an angel—an angel on earth, that’s what I’m talking about, and I suppose you know what I mean.

I remember having a little chat with the angel when I was twelve, but right then I didn’t see him for what he truly was. What I saw was another twelve-year-old with a conventional camera dangling from his neck and talked about the inclination of laying down his own life for the welfare of other people. I had been taken aback by the precise desires of this young person, opposite myself at the coffee table, for he had been as sensitive as he had never seemed to be, while I was as cavalier as I have pretended not to be.

For once, I heard the clicking of the camera and the soft chuckle of the angel as I looked at the serene face, happy to have an addition to his collection of photos. I rolled my eyes, thinking about the stack of pictures piled up in his bedroom or else plastered on his walls. He was a good one. He had been better than any other photographer I’ve ever known, what with his knack of capturing beauty and splendor so perfectly with the skillful look at every angle to shoot.

What is comical to note is that while he was the photographer, the prominent one who loved to capture beautiful things, his face had been more captivating than the faces of those he captured with his camera. I’m guessing he hadn’t realized that thought as much as I did.

He also had this real talent of tossing pebbles into the river and making them bounce a few times before they vanished underwater. I tried for a few times, under his scrutiny, and found myself admitting resentfully that I couldn’t do it. My pebbles just disappeared without bouncing even for once. He just laughed, and I got amused for it had always been better to look intently at him than try any other gibberish that I might as well forget. It seemed to me that while he didn’t just waste the pebbles by the riverbank, he was showing a way in which to let out one’s sentiments and chucking the pebbles into the river like one is flipping away one’s problems in life.

He loved art. And by all means, it loved him back. He twiddled the paintbrush with his hands and surprisingly, any canvas he ever dealt with captured the radiance of whatever he wanted to showcase.

He believed so much in fate, trusting in another pair of artistic hands designing the tapestry of our lives. He had so much faith—so much more than what one can aspire to have and work for.

Unfortunately, my angel couldn’t make it long enough to fulfill each and every one of his dreams.

He struggled to carry on, but as he did so, he made himself compliant to whatever has been laid for him to endure. He was so frail and he suffered much misery.

And it hurt me so much to give him a hug and tell him to hold on when all I really wanted was for him to let go, so that he won’t be hard up anymore.

Each day made it harder for him to breathe, and while I still saw the same saccharine smile and still adored it, it made me shed tears to see him in pain. I still saw the audacious twelve-year-old and I certainly wished that he was never that brave. I wished that he would be cowardly and that he would let go.

I couldn’t say that he lost, though, for he fought long enough, not for himself but for those people who seemed not to be able to move along if he were to fade away.

For the last time, I wiped tears from my eyes and whispered to his ears that I was willing to let him go. After all, I always knew that he would be an angel. Even with his eyes closed, I knew that he heard me. For that was what he did.

He let go and went away into a place where he truly belonged, among flutters of wings and radiant smiles, perhaps of a little cherubim or archangels welcoming him as one of them.

I remember that fateful day, in my chat with the angel, what he said to me…”It’s not wrong to hold on to a glimmer of hope but sometimes, it’s better to just let go and move along. So you, you move along even if I fall.”

I know that he looks down upon me as I make this loving memoir. But it just hurts me to remember that I told him to let go, when all I ever wanted was for him to hold on…

Unheard

by Patalipat

I look at her and she does not look back. I have been eyeing her for almost an hour now. She stands there, proud and confident, motivated and driven. And I stand here, motionless and yet aware of every movement she makes. Her eyes do not flicker a bit though tiny drops of sweat are starting to form on her forehead and down the back of her neck. She is sweating from the heat of the sun right above us and yet, she still looks immaculate. She is beautiful in every way I can imagine-- her jet black hair tied by a scarf, her dark and bushy eyebrows, her sharp and round black eyes with long black lashes, her pudgy nose and her full pinkish lips. She has a very distinct Filipina beauty and she captured my attention since the moment I first saw her.

I can still vividly remember the first time I saw her, she was standing where she is right now. She was dressed in her strong red shirt and black pants with her blue scarf tied to her hair, just like what she is wearing now. She had the same expression on her face, the air of determination around her. She always looked beautiful when I try to remember that day, but now that I look at her again, she is even more eye-catching. Every time I come here, it is her I always want to see first, until it came to the point that she was the only reason I come here.

Her name is Felipa. We call her Fe.

With 50 people, I stand here under the scorching heat of the sun, shouting the same words all over again. We want justice, equality, integrity and all the righteous deeds for the country. We all want change and I was one of them. Yes, I was one of them. Right, I am still wearing a red shirt like all of them, I still shout the same words they want to voice out, I am still waving banners that read “Our country deserves better. WE WANT CHANGE!” or “OUST the PRESIDENT!” for everyone else to see and to understand what we want. I have always believed in saying what I have to say that is why I join rallies because I believed that there is hope that someone might actually be listening to us.

But after some months of doing the same thing, shouting the same words but hearing nothing and feeling no change at all, I wanted to give up. I wanted to back out from the movement and live at peace without having to sacrifice my academics by attending rallies and meetings instead of attending classes. I wanted to choose lying on my bed than burning my skin and losing my voice at these rallies. I wanted to but I did not.

I did not because Fe looked at me when I was about to give up. She did not say anything, but she looked right at me. She was beckoning me to shout louder with her, she wanted me to show more support. With that one look, I stayed and never did it hit me to leave again. Yes, I wanted change, I wanted to let the government know that I am grieving to have better governance, I wanted justice, equality and integrity. But what really glued me into place was the hope that someday, she would look at me again.

Believe me, I have tried. After some meetings, I tried approaching her and I was planning to ask random questions just to have an excuse to talk to her but I always failed. Once she asked us to come to her house and of course I came with the group. But just like I am used to, I sat there motionless but aware of every movement she made. She does not even know my name. She never looked at me except that one time I told you. So now, every time she is around, I look at her intently, not wanting to miss the moment she looks at me. And then maybe, the moment she decides to talk to me.

Now, with 50 people around me, I look at her as if we were the only people in this place, shouts and cries of people for justice were suppressed in my mind. I see her beauty that always crossed my mind every day since I first saw her. I see her expression that drives me more madly in love with her. She talks with passion and sincerity. She moves with dedication and confidence. All for the love of this crying and dying country. I know that because I stand here motionless but aware of every movement she makes. She is all I can see and hear.

Suddenly, a loud bang ensued. Through instinct, I consider my body, looking for possible injuries. No, I was not shot. I am still alive and breathing. I look around me, people were running from every corner, shouting and frantically escaping from the bullets that fly around us. But I still stand here motionless and for the first time, I have never been more aware of Fe. She helplessly lay on the ground with blood staining her already red shirt. She lay there on the uneven ground, her face distorted with pain, her hair all over her face. She was shot.

How could I not see this? I was supposed to be aware of her every movement. I look at her. She is hurting. I can see it on her face. Determination wiped out and replaced with hurt. I want to run to her and hug her. I want to tell her that it is going to be okay. I want to steal the pain away from her. But I still stand here motionless just plainly staring at her. Maybe I was still hoping that she will look at me just like how I get used to hoping.

I am now being pushed and pushed around by people running but I still look at her. She opens her eyes and searches the surrounding. She is looking for help. No one sees her, no one but me. She is still not looking at me. I did not wait for that. I run to her side and face her. She closes her eyes then opens them again. She looks at me with sad eyes. I want to cry. But I have to depict her face of determination, of hope and dedication, the face of a leader that she always showed us, the expression that always kept me going. I tell her it is going to be okay though I fear that it might not turn out to be. I lift her to one corner and shout for help. I held her hand, never wanting to let go when I see the amount of blood that she lost.

I want to shout. Shout as hard as I can and scream to the pain that she is feeling to go away. I want to tell all the lost blood to go back into her. I want to carry banners saying “NO ONE SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN HURT!” or “REWIND THE TIME! THIS IS ALL WRONG!” But I can’t. The bullet won’t hear me. The bullet won’t listen.

I wanted change for the country so I joined movements. Now, I want this change for her and for me. I have always shouted for the country, letting the higher officials and the government know what I have to say. But I cannot just shout at them right now and ask them to rewind time and to not shoot. I want to cry out even louder than when I did for the country. But I won’t because I thought about the times I fought for justice, for freedom and equality for the country and haven’t got anything as a result. I did not shout this time because I knew no one was listening.

Fifty people shouted for the country and no one dared to listen and to understand them. Now, I am just one guy, tired, weary and hungry. No matter how hard I shout, no one would help Fe because no one is listening and no one would ever listen.

So I just sit here motionless, holding Fe’s hand, never been so aware of her movement. She looks right at me then closes her eyes. That was probably the second and the last time she would ever look at me again.

If only someone would look at her, then someone would understand and help Fe. But one else is, but me, trying to keep the hope alive for her just like I always had for this country.

Mistaken

by akosiart

i had a dream about you once

though i knew i shouldn't have

obsessed is such a strong word

for what i felt inside

aware that you were there somehow

didn't make me feel better

confused and curious was more suited

in best describing my plight

need is too much

want doesn't do it justice

i wish i knew the word

that would put my mind to rest

i lived my days with you

and miss you when you're gone

trying to find you

sometimes hoping you'll come find me too

i still think about you

beating myself up over it all

and i still think about it

that thing we shared once in a dream

i used to wonder, was my mind mistaken

by dreaming such a dream

or was it my heart

for locking me up, never letting go

A Filipino Mask

by sulatkamay

Government corruptions, economic downfall, American customs, Spanish beliefs, and a pessimistic mindset – these are masks worn by the Filipino people. Costumes that prevent people to know what a Filipino really is. The Philippine society has experienced so many things in the past that it lost its identity in the midst of survival. Influenced by so many elements, we were and are unconsciously covering our being by layers and layers of other cultures. We are all blinded by imaginary lights of "true-living" and "the right-way" which caused us to change the way we live. Therefore, to distinguish a real Filipino, one must look beyond the complicated façade that history and fate has imposed.

When I was going home from school, I saw things that made me say that I really was living in the Philippines. I saw two ladies chatting at the terrace of a house, families coming out of the church after hearing mass, children and adolescents playing basketball, people gathering on vast fields protesting, adults crossing the streets without using the pedestrian lanes, but what struck me most was when I saw a family sitting in the streets – the boy was covering her mother with cloth because it was raining. This scenario made me realize that a person may take away anything but the love of a family from a Filipino. Some may deny it, but in one way or another, going home to a complete and safe family is what makes a day for a Filipino. No great discovery or huge accomplishment can compare with the comfort of laughing with a family.

Some may say that Filipinos are aggressive, stubborn and very outspoken. But I think that this description is derived from observations on the masks, not on the person wearing it. Look behind the cover that Filipinos wear, because I think when the masks are removed, one can only see a smile. Beyond the colorful play of masquerades lies no more than the beauty of simplicity. Content in what they have, yearning no more than to live an average everyday life and going home to a complete family – that is what a Filipino really is.

Mario

by sabaw

Mario still remembers the bitter past.

The Spanish regime may be over but memories of the bitter past are still haunting him. One of the most painful things to witness for a son is probably the death of his father. The Spanish whipped his father which caused that death. His brother Jose was there with him when that happened, Jose was there to hold his brother’s hand… but nonetheless the pain is undivided. They cannot share the pain among themselves. It was whole, excruciating, painful.

Mario still remains in San Diego. He is older now, and the Spanish are no longer around. Finally, after 333 years, the country can claim independence. Well, not really. A new group of foreigners which we now call as Americans have invaded the country after a mock battle that happened between the Spanish and the Americans. We were made to believe that the Americans are the liberators of the country.

Well, for some sort, they are. They introduced education with a system that is different from that of Spain’s. Everyone has the right to be educated. They also introduced different forms of entertainment, brought other technological advances.

Not everyone believes that Americans are liberators or icons of our freedom though. Jose is one of those people. And when the conflict arose between an American soldier and a Filipino he shot in some bridge, Jose was among those who fought against the Americans. However, Mario can no longer afford another death in his family.

Jose was held captive by the Americans for his “rebellion” and Mario was summoned at his brother’s expense. The Americans came to know of what happened to their father and did the same to Jose. Mario no longer had Jose’s hand to hold unlike when he first saw a scene like this. He only had the wall to hold on to.

After several beatings, Jose dropped to the floor. Mario couldn’t make himself approach Jose. He just wept… beside the wall.

What he just saw proves that no foreigner should colonize the country, ever again.