#3rd issue

The 3rd issue of The Loud House comics was everything I could ask for and more thank you Loud Crew. 

Here’s a sneak peek of our upcoming Futurisms issue. We’re very excited to share it with you soon! 

priscilla

the tsismis         queen relays             a message you are not                   easy to        deal with

grimace              close your eyes small wrinkles                perpetuate

child hood in to adult hood

a          relayed message is         replied: gusto mo kaibigan      lalo ng pamilya mo her mouth is true                as time

the tsismis queen dubs thee drama queen even in the church even in the grave

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The Clovis Cemetery, 2:24PM on a Wednesday 

Sitting on the earth instead of standing on                it is a seemingly simple act Your hands feel the sun on the grass                and the moisture flowing in the dirt A lady bug crawls on your forearm and announces                               Same same. Same same. You are a man and now a woman and confidently                the lady bug, the calla lily, and the water too Silences bring you here                The lily wishes it was still rooted and the water wants to flow                into the San Joaquin and I want to say                I love you I forgive you I’m sorry I need help A delivery from the dirt reaches your ears                Huwag matakot do not be afraid

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Thin streams of sweat trickled from my body and a slight pain hammered within my head. My eyes glimpsed the reddish brown rail, the one I was holding right now. It must have been exposed from heat and cold a long time, for the corrosion eating the metal was beyond help.

Between intervals, the rocking motion of the ferry boat intensified as it pushed through the currents. Nothing mattered this moment except to bend down and brace against the pitching ride.

My work as a columnist has taken a toll on me. This assignment would be a feature story for the Halloween edition, due in a few days. Susan, my colleague who was a frequent island hopper, discouraged my intent to travel. There would be no mercy, Susan said, when the October winds would play their mischief upon every sailing boat. But, strong-willed as this October, I found it rather challenging.

The swaying and tossing stopped. The island’s greenery could now be seen from a distance. I headed towards the bin to throw the disposable bag filled with food, I belched out earlier. When I returned to my seat, the man beside me said, “How about you, ma’am? You’re so quiet, are you from here?” He adjusted his sitting position. His looks complimented his sporty attire of polo shirt, trousers, and Nike shoes.

I replied, “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t speak Cebuano.”

The man shifted his conversation to Tagalog.

“Visiting somebody?” he questioned.

“No.”

“So, what are you going to do in there?” he asked again.

“I’m a journalist and I’m supposed to write a story.”

“On what?” He was curious about what I would say.

“Voodoo practices.”

The other passengers laughed in chorus. “You shouldn’t come. It’s only a superstition.” The man tapped my shoulder, then left.

“You better tap back. The mysterious tap, pikpik may bring something unfortunate.” The advice came from an elderly woman beside me who didn’t laugh. I sensed urgency from her voice, but as I searched for the man, he was already in the exit door and going there to tap back would make me a fool.

Cling! Cling! Cling! The tolling was preceded by the last roar of the engine. I moved towards the side rail to observe the strong wind hopping the water’s surface and swaying the shaggy heads of trees along the shoreline. I estimated the vessel must be thirty feet away from the rusty harbor. Twenty men down the coastline came splashing speedily toward us. Drenched to their navels, they negotiated the water until, pretty soon, each of the passengers had been carried by the waders.

Reaching the shore on this windy afternoon, I sighted the hotel representative, Arnold, who was holding a paperboard with my name on it. He led me to the mini bus painted “Salagdoon Beach Resort.”

Leafless trees outlined the roadside as the vehicle traveled to a hidden paradise. A high bridge spanned the distance from the sand to the glistening water. Its wooden path linked twenty native shelters.

I fell asleep and lost track of time; I was too exhausted.

The next morning, my ride sped down the winding roads of the San Antonio ridge. Arnold, who kept me company, busily narrated the island’s historical heritage, the old churches, and offered an explanation about every unguarded home from which no one would dare to steal. As Arnold said, “Honestly, it’s a shame to say, but old folks here believe this is the place of the mystic.”

Out of nowhere, the vehicle suddenly stopped, and both of us set foot in a man-made forest. Upon reaching the small bamboo hut, I saw a skull surrounded by faint candle lights. A long table displayed jars of varying sizes filled with medicines, and on the far end was a black cat lazily sleeping.

I handed a white envelope to Tatang, who claimed to perform black magic. It became a town whisper, as Arnold said in our earlier talk. “There goes the mamamarang, and yet the island people keep guessing Tatang’s age.” Looking at the mamamarang now made me wonder the secret of Tatang’s youthful appearance. In a little while, I mounted my video camera on the tripod to document the interview. The sorcerer swung the metal chain of the container where faint smoke appeared through the tiny openings. The fragrance of incense filled the room. Tatang required the petitioners to tell the truth when they would request him to do something harmful. The petitioners would choose from four deadly ways to avenge their enemies. He cautioned that if petitioners were found guilty, the curse would go back to them.

Tatang demonstrated the powers of the barang by bringing a big, transparent container with crawling beetles feasting on a large, raw ginger. The old man picked the largest bug and tied a long thread along the insect’s neck. I looked sadly at the bug dragging its body on the floor with the thread trailing along. During the ritual, he explained, he would recite Latin prayers, only stopping until the beetle bled, smearing the thread. Barang would create pain and swelling of the victim’s stomach.

My eyes turned wide and I even found it funny when he uttered, “the haplit represented by this...” He paused and took something unusual from his drawer in the shape of a human figure. “The haplit represented by this voodoo doll makes a victim twitch in unending pain during the waning of the moon.”

“How’s that possible?”

“The haplit will take another soul for its dark force to work. Possession of the haplit is difficult, so seldom will any voodoo doctor use such practice. During the holy week, roots from the Kamandag tree, where the sun has set, will be collected and formed into a human shape.”

“…and then?” I interrupted. “The mamamarang waits for an opportunity for any unwed mother to baptize her baby boy. Pretending to be one of the god parents, the mamamarang secretly hides the voodoo doll inside the baby’s clothes. After the christening, the voodoo doctor takes the haplit, where a mysterious illness snatches the boy’s life.”

The old man searched for a needle and pierced it through the haplit’s body. “Transferring the infant’s soul and name, the haplit will be ready to unleash its misfortune. By then, the mamamarang will be forced to sacrifice a member of the family to test the haplit’s power.”

My uneasiness doubled. I hesitated to believe everything the old man said. Not only this, but as soon as the sleeping cat moved, I became goosey. Those eyes made me shiver – those big, luminous cat’s eyes staring intensely at me.

My thoughts played tricks on me once more. “Am I the only one having this feeling?” I glanced at Arnold, who hadn’t spoken at all. I pretended to check the battery level of the video camera, and thirty minutes had already passed.

Then Tatang beckoned, “Come closer, both of you, and look at this skull. Paktul allows the spirit of the skull to avenge the enemy, similar to the amyao commanding the spirits of the environment to perform the petitioner’s request.”

“Tatang, if one suffers from such a plague, what is the chance of survival?”

The old man shook his head. “The victim’s fate lies with the mananambal, or healer, who has the gift of putting away the curse.”

Going back to the resort, I planned to take the afternoon to make notes on Tatang’s stories. I thanked Arnold and paid him for his services. It seemed to be quite a tiring day. When dusk came, I watched the seascape from the cottage veranda. While darkness enveloped the horizon, a glimmering light touched the sea’s brim. The moon ascended, changing magnitude until it almost looked a coin in the sky.

Tonight, I felt the tingling needles piercing my bones. I went inside to open the medical bag. Now that I was rested, my pillow was wet with tears after each spasm of grinding pain. I had to wait for the pain reliever to take effect, for who could withstand such anguish?

I remembered everything. “The results showed that you have primary bone cancer in your right limb,” were words I’d heard four years ago from my oncologist. It was necessary for me to have surgery, scraping away the cancer cells prior to chemotherapy and radiation. I would convulse with fever after each medication. I sought blanket after blanket to comfort my trembling body. I needed no shaving device for my bald scalp; it was like plucking feathers from a boiled chicken.

My temper consumed me, bringing a kind of madness. I was easily irritated over nonsensical details and became a hermit. I concealed my suffering from my colleagues, from my friends, but also from my own family. I was hesitant to share my troubles because fear gripped me as I confronted the possibility of losing my job. Even if I handled controversial issues, a writer’s fate is surrounded by political colors.

I knew my editor must have noticed my difficulty meeting deadlines, and so I assured her that I would catch up. I sent my articles by fax and e-mail, so the interrogators never saw my changing self.

My body underwent quarterly MRIs to track the progress of the devastating enemy. When the last tests were shown, what delight it gave me! I spent years of my life in solitude, with nothing to worry at all.

One morning, while changing my clothes, I noticed that my dress was a little bit large. When days turned into weeks, my suspicion grew; I found I could no longer sustain any strenuous activity. When evening fell, I became a helpless victim. My wailing was now deafening. The attacks were episodic and my bed squeaked as I squeezed anything I could hold on to.

The doctor told me the cancer was back and that nothing known to medical science would be of any use. I was going back to square one. To journey only with luck; a warrior left in the battlefield without weapons, only courage. I was now a woman possessed with the will to survive. My determination to live made me try a variety of traditional procedures. My attempts ranged from chicken bloodletting to drinking minced paper in bubbling hot water. I chewed herbs, and even tasted my midstream urine – believed to be a Chinese cure. I went to every healing session, to every assembly introducing ways to prolong life. However, everything I did was a failure. My intensive research only led to the mananambal of Isla Del Fuego – to the fact that my coming to this island alone was more than a writing assignment.

The morning rays peeked through the bamboo cracks and the screeches of sea birds broke the stillness, but on this beautiful day, I only saw my dark world. When twilight came, I instructed the driver to take me to the town square of Lazi. He would fetch me again the following day. I started walking until I saw the healer waiting for me. Around Tibay’s arms was a white cat, and she told me to lie inside the circle of fire while she chanted her prayers.

The ceremony continued. The chanting intensified and I began to lose touch with my physical surroundings. Dawn broke. I stirred. The early morning light revealed a white-haired woman methodically attending me. The cat was still in Tibay’s arms. “Go home,” she said.

On my way home, the waves tossed furiously, as if they would tear the boat apart. I moved the prayer beads between my fingers and closed my eyes, only to see flashes of those emerald-green eyes, the eyes of Tibay’s mystical cat.

---

In his younger years, it was ritual for my father to separate from his drinking companions with only the starlight guiding him through island hills. On one particularly bright evening, as the dart frogs droned a warning that had almost convinced him to return to the drinkery, he saw a shape of a man seated atop a carabao, a water buffalo, next to the aruyo tree that marked the halfway point of his evening sojourns. As is the custom of the Ivatan in Batan Island, my father greeted the shadows hello and would have been on his way, but the shape on the carabao began a discourse that my father only revisits when he hears the music of dart frogs or smells the sweet, tender leaves of the aruyo tree. “Always the sea,” said the shape. “The great confine converging on the limestone.”

“Yes, the sea,” my father answered, unable to discern the face or the voice of the shape.

“Even as she rests on fine days, she froths in anger. Can you hear? You can be easily consumed. But you, in you there sleeps an anin, a typhoon that holds the strength of the ocean; your wind powerful enough to suffocate a herd of cattle.”

The carabao looked up with dead eyes at my father and solemnly nodded.

“The Ivatan believe that when we die, we become the stars in the night,” the shape said.

My father, who followed a complicated, conflicted line of aristocrats and officials, of plebeian farmers and fishermen, felt the brilliance from the evening sky driving him into the soil. The faceless shape and the carabao he sat on ambled away, silently, the both of them swallowed by the dart frogs.

My father, captivated in part by the stillness, ran from the aruyo tree, the light guiding him in another direction.

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