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Dugo’t laman ang kanilang pamahid sa lupa. Nakakapit sa salaping tanda ng panunumpa sa sinasantong maysala. Nakaluhod sa harapan ng panginoong maylupa, sa altar na gawa sa luha’t pawis ng maralita.

All eyes glued on the scoreboard. Hidiliyn steps forward, grasping the bar with all strength left in her body. She submits in a rack position, exploding the barbell overhead then dropping the weight in an outcry—snatching off the clean and jerk by one point over her opponent. The crowd erupts.

Anne squeezes the polystyrene chips on her grip, jamming it on their karton crammed with plastic bags, bubble wraps, and even juice packs. Our house is like a junkyard! Her mother muttered from behind. I don’t want to throw these plastics but I have nowhere else to place them, she sighed, picking up the box as she places it by the road, awaiting the garbage truck.

...the camera pans along Malacañang’s fervent facade; an ivory fortress that muffles the Filipinos’ cries as peso rates plummet to more than P57 per US dollar, jeepney fare hike, inflation of basic necessities, and the shortage of agricultural commodities. Meanwhile, the President struts at a red carpet to dangle his nonexistent accomplishments. His negligence of the country’s recession is furthered as he prioritizes the erasure of his father’s atrocities, declaring he was “never a dictator.”

The witch on the stake cackled. Her laugh rang in a chorus. Startled, he casts a gibberish rage the mob swooned over, like tasting honey from his lips. Her pitch crawled into his skin, gripping on his limbs and puppeteering him to move. The strongman stumbled and wept over his scratched knees. Blood of unnamed others spilled on his hands. Before him were planks of a thousand bodies- decaying, drowning, and in despair - but he did not shiver.