VOICESCHANGELITERARY FOLIO
VOICESofCHANGELITERARY FOLIOJULY 2026
INTRODUCTIONLook out past the shoreline, where the horizon bends and dissolves into the sky. We are navigating a restless, fathomless sea—a shared expanse of deep currents, sudden storms, and hidden depths. To look upon these waters is to look upon ourselves, feeling the constant push and pull of a tide that connects every distant shore. Here, the surface sparkles with our potential, but beneath, the currents carry our deepest struggles and our most desperate hopes.Peer first into the dark, cold trenches. It is here that the crushing pressure of poverty and hunger threatens to swallow those who slip beneath the surface. In these same turbulent waters, we encounter the violent undertows—the heavy drifts that demand our relentless dedication to drug abuse prevention, and the jagged, invisible reefs of digital cruelty where we must stand firm in our commitment to anti-cyberbullying. Even the youngest among us are sometimes swept away, caught in the rigid, unforgiving waves of juvenile justice, reminding us that they need a safe harbor to rebuild, rather than to be lost to the storm.
To survive this voyage, we cannot merely drift. We must look to quality education as our compass, cutting through the fog of uncertainty. We must build our lighthouses through volunteerism and community service, throwing out lifelines to those caught in the swell. When the waters grow wild and the coordinates are hard to find, cast your anchor in responsible citizenship. Stand watch at the bow, hold steady at the wheel, and let these pages guide you to sail forward— not to conquer the sea, but to ensure we all reach the shore together. Yet, look at how this vast ecosystem sustains itself. The ocean thrives on the rich, warm currents of cultural diversity, proving that our collective survival depends on the vastness of our differences. The surface remains clear and breathable when the winds of freedom of speech and expression blow freely, driving away the stagnant fog of silence. Across the waves, we see the rising, unstoppable tides of gender equality and women’s empowerment, lifting every vessel to the exact same horizon, while the deep, stabilizing undercurrent of human rights holds the ocean's delicate balance in place.-Jaiwooz
VOICES OF CHANGE LITERARY FOLIO Volume I, Issue 1 Voices of Change Literary Folio is the official literary publication of the Bachelor of Secondary Education students of Southern Leyte State University – Hinunangan Campus. It showcases original literary and artistic works created by students in celebration of creativity, expression, and social awareness. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the editorial board and the respective authors and artists. THIS FOLIO IS NOT FOR SALE. It is created solely for educational purposes. Editorial Office: Bachelor of Secondary Education – English Southern Leyte State University – Hinunangan Campus Hinunangan, Southern Leyte, Philippines Email: jyrossolis29@gmail.com Copyright © 2026 The layout and design of this literary folio were created by Geizelyn Mae Malaki. The folio cover features the original artwork “Voices of Change”, illustrated by Glaizel Anne Cunanan. Unless otherwise stated, all photographs featured in this publication are original works captured by the contributing members of the editorial team. Copyright of each photograph remains with its respective photographer.
VOICESofCHANGELITERARY FOLIO
VOICES of CHANGE digital art
Table of ContentsPoetry“The Truth We Told”“Five Fingers, One Voice”“Beyond the Bias”“Her Power, Her Voice”“The Valley Where We Rise”“Every Child Deserves To learn”“When the Bells Fell Silent”“Unbroken Horizons”“Working For Crumbs”“Citizens of Hope”“Helping Hands, Stronger Community”“Behind the wall”3510111318192332373327
Personal EssayInvisible CapesTurning Pages, Changing My LifeDrama WritingShort SoryThe Bridge of Broken PromisesSpeechless41516084
"Every revolution begins as a whisper that refuses to be silenced." -Layang
“The Truth We Told” by: Yena When to shout, when to whisper? When to sing, when to shiver? Does a chorus carry farther simply because it’s many? Must the verse of the few best left empty? To speak for ourselves is a right To speak for the mute is a fight. The tunes that will break the silence Are those whose choice defied absence Do we stand or do we cry? Do we weep or do we try? Does freedom cost too much to be heard? Do they just listen to what they prefer? The phrases in our eyes are full and complete As we stand on a firm ground beneath our feet Our thoughts will echo, our thoughts will shine The steps we’ll take will sound divine The call of our hearts should be brought to light, A melody that is louder when we unite The world needs stories that are brave and bold But does freedom lie in the truth we told?
The thumb is for the peasanton the hill,the index for the writer inthe town,the middle for thefactory’sironwill,theringfort h o s e w h o s evoicestheyw o u l d d r o w n ,t h e p i n k y f o rthe childrenlooking down.Separately,w e b e n dwe break,we yield—but fold us tight againstt h e t y r a n t ’ sfrown,and web e c o m ea hammer anda s h i e l d .Againstthedark, weraisetheknuckles high:a human wall beneath the sky.t h e s h a p e o f fi g h t w i t h ti m e,
“Five Fingers, One Voice” by: Jaiwooz
Hands That Refuse to Fall. Human Rights
“Beyond the Bias” As time passes and trees grow high, Our human roles should never divide. Created with love from the same source above, we stand equally, hands extended to one another. Society tries to shape what nature intended, but we cannot deny what makes us whole. With our shared voices, let strength unfold— together we stand, young and old. Let the walls of bias crumble to the ground. Here, every voice finds space to speak. We are no longer bound by what was found, but forging paths we choose to seek, roots deep, branches reaching, one forest, one sky. by: Yuʒe
“Her Power, Her Voice” A woman stands with strength and grace, Ready to conquer any place. With dreams to chase and goals in sight, She moves ahead with courage and might. Her voice is strong, her heart is kind, She inspires others with her mind. No challenge can make her fall, For she believes she can do it all. Equal rights and opportunities, too, Help women achieve what they want to pursue. Empowered women shine so bright, Making the world a better sight. by: F.J. Salazar Let us support and let them lead, For their talents are what we need. When women rise and reach their goal, They help uplift the world as a whole.
"The Valley Where We Rise" Every voice here has its own song, in the vale. Roots buried underground, intertwined — forever. Different paths we walk, Yet out heart tied as one While the whispers of our ancestor dance in wind above. Stories come to life, coursing through the land streams of stories; Extend a hand of support to unknown souls. And the world will turn and turn, but our hearts are still bright. by: Colayy
Hence let us rise together, not by fading away the shades, But honoring every color, every story, every truth. And for every shape, the forest fends off its power. And from our roots we stretch toward the light. Wandering gaze gathers memories across the terrain. Have compassion for strangers Through this valley we climb like vines entwined but souls. Two souls entwined in love and bravery along the paths of space and age. Humanity is a long thing and tightly woven Together forever, with open hearts.
The Beauty Between Boarders Cultural Diversity
“Every Child deserves to Learn” by: Kido Every child can learn, Every dream deserves to live, Hope belongs to all.
“When the Bells Fell Silent” Students rushed as the school bell tolled, Carrying bags with dreams yet to unfold. S ky so bright and blue, not a trace of gray, Yet fate would steal three precious lives away. The morning bells once welcomed dreams to bloom, Now silence haunts the cold and empty room. Their cries still echo where laughter used to play, While empty chairs keep watch from day to day. by: Mana Meday
The law looked gently on the young today, And says age should wash all guilt away. It calls them victims, shaped by circumstance, Yet grieving hearts still wait for justice's chance. Can time erase the pain they feel today, Or take the tears their families hide away? Though mercy has a place in every heart, Can justice and compassion stand apart? May every child be held with care, And every parent teach what's fair. For the morals we forget to instill the most, May this tragedy remind us what we've lost.
At the Crossroads Juvenile Justice
“Unbroken Horizons” A whisper comes softly, "Just once." But the body remembers every choice, and the mind slowly trades tomorrow for a moment that quickly fades. by: Mirai Prevention begins with compassion, a hand that reaches instead of judges, a question asked with care: "How are you, really?" It reminds us that pain is not forever and that healing is stronger than escape.
Their stories are not meant to shame us, but to warn us before it's too late. Choose courage over temptation, hope over despair, and people who lift you instead of pulling you down. Some lose their laughter, others lose their dreams, until they no longer recognize the person in the mirror. Stay. Breathe deeply. The world is still waiting beautiful, imperfect, and still yours to claim.
The Thread of Hope Drug Abuse Prevention
“Behind the Wall ” by: Layang
Technology evolves and revolvesN e t w o r k that s p e e d s f a s t ,A string that connects people,In a vast online world.People are watching,P e o p l e a r e r e a d i n g ,Words heal, words break,Words are capable,Words areWords are powerful.u n s t o p p a b l e ,J u s t i c e i s n ' t s e r v e dJustice is limited, Justice has choices,To enter is to live,A quite harmless word,Capable of breaking apart,banging in mind,WordsBut, yet jeopardizing,Even the strongest mighty soldier.Is this online bullying a crime?A question that refeats!If it will take lives?Distinct opinions vast,No to cyberbullying,No to online abuse,No to online killing.Words could leave a scar,C h o o s e w o r d s ,C h o o s e r e s p e c t ,28
Invisible Bruises Anti-Cyberbullyng
“Working for Crumbs” Papa works from early morning till late at night, Mama washes clothes with all her might They bring home what their wages can only buy, With tearful eyes and helpless cry Children wait beside the open door, To greet tired parents home once more. They run to hug them as the walk inside, with joyful smiles that they cannot hide Mama set the table neat, With divided bread and small pieces of meat. Child still hungry, wants to, but wont ask for more. To spare the heart of parents who are poor. by: Yrang They tuck tuck their blankets and blows the candle die, And hold back tears with gentle, heavy sigh. Letting the cold night pass by, And close their eyes not wanting to cry.
“Helping Hands, Stronger Community” Helping others is a simple way To make someone's brighter day. It doesn't cost a lot to care, Just kindness that we choose to share. Volunteerism teaches us to give, And helps us learn the way to live. By offering our time and lending a hand, We help improve our community and land. by: Clarang
Community service shows us that We can make a change where we're at. Working together, side by side, Fills our hearts with love and pride. Sometimes people need support, Even in ways we never thought. A listening ear, a helping hand, Can help someone take a stand. So I will help whenever I can, Because every person has a plan. With hope, respect, and unity, We can build a stronger community.
Together We Mend Community Service & Volunteerism
“Citizens of Hope” Hands serve with respect, Voices build a stronger land, Hope grows through our deeds. by: Selah Grace
"The future is written by those who dare to question the present." -Mana Meday
“Invisible Capes" by: Selah Grace Someone once said, "Not all heroes wear capes." As a child, I didn't understand what that meant because whenever I heard the word heroes, I always imagined people wearing capes—the ones with supernatural powers who could leap over mountains as if gravity were only a gentle suggestion, command fire, water, lightning, or even time as though the universe itself were listening to their whispers, or split the sky open and arrive just in time to save the day. I believed heroes were giants who walked without trembling, laughed in the face of danger, and carried the kind of glory that time could never erase.
As I was growing up, one morning, I watched my teacher erase the blackboard after another long lesson. White chalk dust clung to her fingertips like tiny stars refusing to let go. At first, it looked ordinary. But as I watched her prepare another lesson with the same patience she had shown the day before, I realized that every piece of chalk she wore down was also a piece of herself she willingly gave away. She was not merely writing words on a board; she was sketching dreams onto the hearts of young dreamers. It took me years to realize that some heroes never arrive with thunder. Instead, they come quietly— like the first ray of sunlight slipping through a window, gentle enough to awaken hope without making a sound.
I found it deeply inspiring. I admired not only her but also every dedicated teacher who quietly stands behind countless dreams. They are gardeners who patiently nurture seeds they may never see bloom, sculptors who carve confidence from uncertainty, and lighthouses whose steady glow guides wandering minds through storms of doubt. Their words are not merely lessons—they are gentle sparks that kindle curiosity and courage. Even when exhaustion settles upon their shoulders like the weight of an endless winter, they continue to smile, knowing that every sacrifice they make today may become someone else's brighter tomorrow. If teachers taught me that changing a life could begin with a single lesson, another experience soon revealed that saving a life could begin with a single act of compassion.
As I continued to encounter people whose lives were devoted to serving others, I realized that the classroom was not the only place where quiet heroism existed. There were other spaces where hope was nurtured just as faithfully—not with chalk and blackboards, but with stethoscopes, steady hands, and unwavering hearts. It was during my Senior High School work immersion at the Rural Health Unit (RHU) that this truth became even clearer. I entered expecting to witness medicine. Instead, I witnessed humanity. Every morning, the halls filled with quiet footsteps and familiar faces. Mothers cradled feverish children, elderly patients waited patiently with weary smiles, and worried families held tightly to hope they could not put into words.
In the middle of it all moved the doctors, nurses, and healthcare workers—not with dramatic speeches or grand entrances, but with calm voices, gentle hands, and hearts that never seemed to grow tired. As I observed them from one patient to another, I began to notice the things that no textbook could ever teach. They listened to stories that stretched far beyond illnesses. They comforted anxious hearts before treating aching bodies. They skipped meals, stood for hours, and carried the weight of countless lives without ever asking for recognition. Even after long and exhausting days, they still greeted every patient with kindness, as though compassion itself had become part of their uniform. It was during those ordinary days at the RHU that I realized healing is not measured only by prescriptions written or injections given. Sometimes, healing begins with a reassuring smile, a patient ear, or a simple reminder that someone genuinely cares.
That experience changed the way I saw healthcare workers forever. They do not wear flowing capes or possess extraordinary powers, yet every single day they quietly stand between fear and hope, pain and comfort, despair and healing. They may never appear in headlines or be celebrated before crowds, but in the grateful hearts of the people whose lives they touch, they are heroes whose courage speaks louder than any applause. Beyond the classroom and the hospital, I began to notice another kind of poetry. Before the sun painted the sky with gold, farmers were already speaking to the earth with their calloused hands. The soil answered with harvests that found their way onto our tables. Firefighters rushed toward flames while others ran away. Parents quietly folded their own dreams into smaller pieces so their children could unfold bigger ones.
Beyond the classroom and the hospital, I began to notice another kind of poetry. Before the sun painted the sky with gold, farmers were already speaking to the earth with their calloused hands. The soil answered with harvests that found their way onto our tables. Firefighters rushed toward flames while others ran away. Parents quietly folded their own dreams into smaller pieces so their children could unfold bigger ones. Their sacrifices were invisible threads, weaving together the fabric of everyday life. We rarely notice those threads until they begin to unravel. The world often celebrates the brightest fireworks, but it forgets the candle that burns through the night. Fireworks sparkle for only a moment. A candle quietly gives away its light until nothing remains. Our silent heroes are those candles. They do not ask for applause. They do not wait for medals. They simply continue shining because someone, somewhere, needs their light.
Perhaps that is what true heroism has always been —not the roar of victory, but the whisper of service; not standing above everyone else, but kneeling beside those who have fallen; not being remembered by history, but being remembered by the hearts they helped heal. Today, I no longer search for heroes in comic books or on television screens. I find them in classrooms where voices inspire futures, in hospitals where hope refuses to surrender, in fields where hands turn seeds into blessings, and in homes where love quietly sacrifices itself every single day. Their capes are invisible. But if you look closely enough, you will see them fluttering in every act of kindness, every silent sacrifice, and every ordinary day made extraordinary by people who choose to serve. And perhaps the greatest lesson they have ever taught me is this:
The strongest heroes are not the ones who make the most noise. They are the ones whose quiet courage echoes long after they are gone. Now, I completely understand what that person meant when it said, "Not all heroes wear capes." Held Before They HealModern Heroes
“Turning Pages, Changing My Life”by: Kido There was a time when I believed that books were my greatest enemy. Every page seemed filled with unfamiliar words that looked like an endless maze, and every sentence reminded me of how difficult reading English was. Little did I know that those very books would one day become the bridge that led me to confidence, knowledge, and hope. When I was in Grade 2, reading English was one of my greatest struggles. Every sentence felt like walking through a forest covered in thick fog. The words seemed to hide from me, refusing to reveal their meaning no matter how many times I looked at them. While my classmates confidently read aloud, I remained silent, carrying the quiet fear of not being good enough.
Then one day, our teacher said something that shook my young heart. She told us that students who could not read English properly might not be allowed to proceed to Grade 3. Those words struck me like dark clouds covering a bright afternoon. Fear settled inside me, and countless questions echoed through my mind. What if I am left behind? What if my classmates continue their journey while I remain standing in the same place? At that moment, my dreams felt like fragile paper boats drifting through a storm. But my teacher refused to let us drown in our fears. Instead of giving up on us, she became the lighthouse that guided us toward the shore. Every afternoon from 3:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m., she patiently stayed with us, encouraging us to read again and again. Every word we pronounced, every sentence we completed, and every mistake we corrected became another small step toward the future. Like a gardener patiently watering young plants every single day, she understood that growth could never be rushed.
As the weeks passed, I realized that those two hours were not enough for me. I wanted to keep learning even after the classroom had grown quiet. One afternoon, I gathered all my courage and approached my teacher. I politely asked if I could borrow a simple English storybook so I could continue reading at home. With a warm smile, she handed me a book and reminded me that every page I read would make me stronger than the day before. That simple book became more than paper and ink. It became my companion during quiet evenings, my teacher when no one else was around, and the tiny key that slowly unlocked a door I once believed was forever closed.
Night after night, I read beneath the light in our home. Sometimes I stumbled over unfamiliar words. Sometimes I had to read the same paragraph over and over before I understood it. There were evenings when frustration whispered, "Just stop." But hope always whispered a little louder, "Read one more page." For many months, I continued reading without giving up. Whenever I finished a book, my teacher gladly lent me another. Slowly, the mountains I once feared became gentle hills. The fog that once surrounded every sentence slowly disappeared. The words that had once frightened me became familiar friends, and the stories I once struggled to understand began to paint colorful pictures inside my imagination
Looking back, I realized that I did not become a better reader because the journey was easy. I became a better reader because I chose to keep turning the page, even when every page felt difficult. That experience taught me that reading is like planting a seed. At first, nothing seems to happen. Day after day, the soil looks unchanged. But beneath the surface, roots are quietly growing. One day, that tiny seed becomes a strong tree, standing tall because someone patiently cared for it. In the same way, every hour I spent reading, every unfamiliar word I learned, and every story I finished quietly built the person I am today. Today, reading is no longer something I fear. It has become the window through which I see a bigger world. Every book is a new journey. Every story is another teacher. Every page reminds me that knowledge is a light no darkness can ever completely extinguish.
To every student who feels discouraged because reading seems impossible, remember this: the person you are today is not the person you will always be. Do not let one difficult chapter convince you that your story cannot have a beautiful ending. Keep reading. Keep learning. Keep believing. Every page you turn is another step toward the person you are becoming. And to every parent, never underestimate the power of your encouragement. Sit beside your child. Read with them. Celebrate every new word they learn and every small improvement they make. Your patience is like sunlight to a growing plant—it gives children the strength to continue reaching higher. Today, whenever I hold a book, I remember the little Grade 2 child who once feared being left behind. I smile because I now understand that the pages I once feared became the wings that taught me how to fly. Sometimes, the greatest transformations do not begin with loud victories or extraordinary talents.
The Ink That Remembers Preserving Knowledge
VOICESofCHANGELITERARY FOLIO
The Bridge of Broken Promises A Play in Three Acts CHARACTERS MAYOR VICTOR – Charismatic Mayor GOMEZ - Contractor BONG – Owner of a Fruit Stand ALENA – Bong’s Friend Maria – Bong’s Wife Police Chief Santos - Pragmatic police chiefBy: Yena
ACT I Scene 1 Bright sunshine. Colorful banners flutter in the wind. A massive red ribbon stretches across the entrance of a gleaming, brand-new concrete bridge. A crowd of townspeople cheers, waving small flags. Children sit on their parents' shoulders. On a temporary wooden stage, Mayor Victor (sharp suit, booming voice, charismatic smile) stands behind a podium. Beside him stands Contractor Gomez (looking slightly nervous, sweating in his linen suit) MAYOR VICTOR: (Beaming, arms spread wide) Look at this, my people! Look at what we built together! For decades, our town was cut off, isolated by the river, left behind by progress. But today, we cross over into a new era!
The crowd roars. A woman wipes a tear of pride. MAYOR VICTOR: (Pointing to the concrete arches) They told me it couldn’t be done. They told me the budget was too small. But I promised you a lifeline, and I deliver on my promises! This bridge isn’t just concrete and steel. This bridge is the foundation of our future! It is built to stand the test of time, to weather any storm, and to carry our children into a safer, wealthier tomorrow! Contractor Gomez shifts his weight, avoiding eye contact with the crowd. Mayor Victor grabs a pair of oversized golden scissors. MAYOR VICTOR: To the future of our town! The Mayor snips the ribbon. The crowd erupts into thunderous applause. Marching band music kicks in. Victor turns to Gomez, shaking his hand warmly for the flashing cameras. Through his mega-watt smile, Victor speaks out of the side of his mouth.
MAYOR VICTOR: (Low voice) Beautiful, isn’t it, Gomez? And the best part? It looks like a million bucks, but left us both with a very comfortable retirement fund. GOMEZ: (Whispering, anxious) Victor, the structural supports… we cut a lot of corners on the cement mix. If a heavy load— MAYOR VICTOR: (Slapping Gomez on the back, laughing loudly for the crowd) Relax, my friend! It’s a beautiful day. Smile for the voters. ACT II Scene 1 (ONE MONTH LATER) The sky is overcast, a dull gray replacing the bright sunshine of the grand opening. The colorful banners from last month are gone, leaving only the concrete bridge, looking slightly stained from recent rain. Two locals, Alena and Bong stand near a fruit stall, packing groceries.
ALENA: Did you hear about old man Lito yesterday? BONG: (Shaking his head, laughing lightly) Yeah, my cousin told me. Poor guy. He’s seventy-five, he shouldn't be leaning his whole weight on a railing anyway. ALENA: Bong, he didn't just lean on it. He told the doctor he just touched it to tie his shoe, and the whole steel bar snapped right off! He almost fell into the river. If he hadn't grabbed the edge, he’d be dead. BONG: (Waving it off) Ah, Lito exaggerates. You know how he is. It was probably just a loose screw from the construction crew rushing to finish for the opening. The city council will patch it up next week. ALENA: (Looking toward the bridge, uneasy) I don't know... I walked past the broken spot this morning. The concrete underneath looks like sand. It’s crumbling, Bong. Someone needs to report this to the Mayor. BONG: (Sighs, grabbing his grocery bags) Don't make a fuss over a loose screw, Alena. The bridge is fine. It saves us twenty minutes on the commute. Let the government do their job.
RADIO ANNOUNCER: ...repeating the flash warning from the weather bureau. Super Typhoon Maring has made landfall. We are expecting unprecedented rainfall over the next twelve hours. Flash floods are imminent. All residents in low- lying areas are urged to evacuate immediately to the high grounds across the river... The radio cuts to loud static, then goes dead. ACT II Scene 2 (ONE WEEK LATER) Heavy rain beats violently against the glass windowpane. The wind howls outside. Bong is at the kitchen table, taping the edges of a window frame. On the counter, a small battery- powered Transistor Radio crackles through heavy static. Bong looks out the window. The street outside is already a foot deep in swirling, muddy water.
BONG: (Calling out, panicked) Maria! Pack the bags! We have to leave, now! The river is rising! Absolute chaos. The rain is blinding, coming down in sheets. The wind howls like a siren. The streets are a raging river of muddy, waist-deep water. Dozens of Townspeople are wading through the flood, clutching children, trash bags of belongings, and pets. They are all screaming, pushing toward the bright floodlights of the new bridge—their only way out. Bong pushes through the crowd, holding his wife Maria’s hand tightly with one arm and clutching a backpack with the other. ACT II Scene 3 (AT NIGHT) BONG: (Screaming over the wind) Keep moving! Stay close to me!
ALENA: (Looking down at her feet, terrified) What was that?! Suddenly, a deep, vibrating “thud” echoes from beneath the concrete. The ground trembles. Up ahead, Alena is helping an elderly neighbor walk through the current. They reach the concrete ramp of the bridge. The bridge is choked with people. Hundreds of panicked citizens are jammed shoulder-to-shoulder, trying to cross to the high grounds on the other side. The crowd freezes for a split second. BONG: (Shouting from a few yards behind) It’s just the river hitting the pillars! Keep moving! Then, a horrific, metallic screech tears through the air. The main concrete span in the middle of the bridge suddenly sags two feet.
Panic erupts. People scream, pushing forward wildly, crushing each other to get to the other side. MARIA: (Crying, clutching Bong) Bong! The bridge is moving! It’s breaking! Underneath them, the cheap cement mix disintegrates. The lack of rebar means there is nothing holding the structure together against the violent pressure of the river. A massive crack rips down the center of the walkway, separating Bong and Maria from Alena. ALENA: (Screaming) BONG!! BONG: (Eyes wide with realization, looking at the crumbling joints) Run! Maria, run! With a deafening roar of twisting metal and exploding concrete, the center span of the bridge completely snaps.
Flashlights spin wildly in the dark. Shouts for help are drowned out by the roar of the water and the relentless rain. The middle section of the bridge plunges into the raging, black river below. Dozens of people go down with it, swallowed instantly by the roaring rapids. Bong and Maria scramble backward, falling onto the remaining concrete slope as the section right in front of them vanishes into the dark waters. Bong sits in the pouring rain, clutching Maria, staring blankly at the massive, empty gap where the bridge used to be. The realization of what he dismissed just a week ago hits him like a physical blow. ACT III Scene 1 (THE NEXT MORNING)
The rain has finally stopped. The morning sun breaks through pale gray clouds, casting a harsh, unforgiving light on the destruction. The floodwaters have receded slightly, leaving behind thick mud, debris, and ruined belongings tangled in the brush. The bridge stands as a jagged, broken monument. The middle section is completely gone, leaving two raw concrete stumps jutting out over the muddy, rushing river. The riverbank is a scene of absolute heartbreak. A woman collapses into the mud, wailing hysterically as a rescue worker zips open a bag to let her identify a body. Rescue Workers in mud-stained vests carry heavy, bright orange body bags up the bank. A makeshift triage station has been set up with blue tarps. A Few Yards Away... Alena sits on a piece of debris. Her face is scratched, her clothes caked in dried mud. She is staring blankly at the river, completely numb.
BONG: (Voice hoarse, barely a whisper) They... they found Lito. Downstream. Bong walks up to her, his arm wrapped in a makeshift bandage. He holds two paper cups of water. He sits down heavily next to her, handing her a cup. She doesn't take it. He sets it on the ground. BONG: (Choking back a sob, putting his head in his hands) I know. I know. I thought... I thought the government wouldn't lie about something like that. I thought they cared if we lived or died. Alena doesn't look at him. A tear cuts a clean line through the dried mud on her cheek. ALENA: He told us, Bong. He told us the concrete looked like sand. ALENA: (Turning to him, her numbness turning into a cold, hard anger) They don't. Victor didn't build a bridge. He built a trap. And he’s going to answer for every single person we lost last night.
She stands up, ignoring her exhaustion. She looks toward the center of town. Other townspeople are grieving, angry, covered in mud. They all begun to gather, all looking in the same direction. ALENA: Come on. We're going to Town Hall. The blinds are drawn tight. The room is dim, lit only by a desk lamp. Outside the heavy mahogany doors, the muffled sound of a chanting crowd grows louder and louder. Mayor Victor stands near the window, peeking through a crack in the blinds. He is sweating, his tie loosened, a far cry from the immaculate politician. TOWNSPEOPLE: “WE WANT ANSWERS! JUSTICE FOR THE DEAD! COWARD!” Across the room stands Police Chief Santos (sharp uniform, calm demeanor). On the desk between them sits a heavy, black leather duffel bag, revealing stacks of neat hundred-peso bills.
CHIEF SANTOS: (Calmly looking at the duffel bag, then at Victor) They’re angry, Victor. They lost their families. They have a right to be loud. MAYOR VICTOR: (Voice shaking, pointing at the window) Look at them! They’re animals out there, Santos! They’re talking about building inspections, missing funds, murder charges! If they get in here, they’ll tear me apart! MAYOR VICTOR: (Slamming his hand on the desk) I don't care about their rights! I care about my neck! And your career! If I go down, I'm taking the whole council with me. I'm taking you with me. That bag on the desk? That's just the down payment. There’s a lifetime of safety in there for you and your family. Just... control them. Clean this up. Chief Santos walks over to the desk. He zips the leather bag shut, lifts it, and places it gently into a bottom drawer, locking it. His face hardens as he turns back to the Mayor.
CHIEF SANTOS: Stay away from the windows. Don't say a word. I’ll handle the crowd. A massive crowd of Townspeople fills the plaza. Alena and Bong are at the very front, holding a hand-painted banner dripping with mud: JUSTICE FOR THE BRIDGE. BONG: (Shouting, voice cracking) My neighbors are dead because of your cheap cement! Show your face! ALENA: (Screaming at the building) Come out, Victor! Look us in the eye! The heavy wooden doors click open. The crowd surges forward, but the riot police push back firmly. Two dozen Police Officers in riot gear form a human wall, shields locked, blocking the heavy wooden doors of Town Hall. The crowd pushes against them. Chief Santos steps out onto the balcony, holding a megaphone. The crowd boos loudly, throwing mud and plastic bottles. Santos raises his hand for silence.
ALENA: (Screaming) He’s a liar! He stole the construction funds! The bridge was a death trap! CHIEF SANTOS: (Through the megaphone) Citizens! Please! I urge you to maintain order! The Mayor is not in the building. He is currently coordinating with national relief agencies to bring aid to our town. CHIEF SANTOS: (Looking directly at Alena, his voice cold and official) We hear your pain. And I promise you here and now: the Police Department is launching a full, independent, thorough investigation into the collapse. We will look at the blueprints, the materials, and the contractors. Anyone found guilty of criminal negligence will face the full weight of the law. But you must let us do our job. Go home. Take care of your families. Let the law work. The crowd quietens slightly, desperately wanting to believe him. Bong looks at Alena, a flicker of hope in his eyes. Alena, however, looks at the line of riot police, noticing how tightly they are guarding the doors. She remains deeply uneasy.
ALENA: (Voice flat, devoid of hope) You still trust them, Bong? BONG: (Adjusting the antenna) They said the official report drops at noon. The Chief said it would be broadcast live from the capital. The passionate, angry protests have faded, replaced by exhaustion. A month has passed. The mud has dried into a dull, cracked crust over the riverbank. The jagged, broken ends of the bridge still loom over the water, already starting to rust. Alena and Bong sit on the trunk of an overturned car near the water's edge. Bong is carefully cleaning a small, battery-powered transistor radio, trying to clear the static. Alena is staring at the river, her eyes hollow. ACT III Scene 3 (WEEKS LATER)
The radio suddenly crackles to life, a crisp, clear signal cutting through the static. BONG: I have to, Alena. If I don't believe the law can fix this... then what was the point of all those people dying? We have the blueprints. The evidence was right there in the mud. NEWS REPORTER: ...and we are going live now to the Department of Public Works and Highways for the final investigative report on the tragic collapse of the Victor Memorial Bridge. Bong turns the volume up. He leans in, holding his breath. A politician’s voice takes over the broadcast. OFFICIAL VOICE: After a rigorous, multi-week independent forensic investigation, our team of structural experts has concluded their findings. The bridge collapse was entirely an Act of God. The unprecedented volume of rainfall from Super Typhoon Maring created a flash flood velocity that no standard civil engineering project could survive.
Alena doesn't cry. Her face is carved from stone. She slowly stands up and looks across the river. BONG: (Whispering, tears welling up) No... no, that’s a lie. We saw the concrete. We saw it crumble like sand. Bong freezes. The radio seems to grow louder in the heavy silence. Bong’s hand begins to shake. He stares at the little plastic radio as the voice continues to drone on about "climate anomalies" and "unavoidable tragedies." OFFICIAL VOICE: We found absolutely no evidence of substandard materials or criminal negligence. Mayor Victor and his administration are completely exonerated of all wrongdoing. Furthermore, we commend the Mayor’s swift cooperation with local police to maintain peace and order during this climate crisis... In the distance, on the high grounds of the other side of the river, a sleek black SUV pulls up. The door opens.
Alena looks back at the broken bridge, the crushing weight of reality finally settling in. The world is messed up, the game is rigged, and the fight is far from over. Mayor Victor steps out. He is wearing a fresh, expensive suit. Beside him, Police Chief Santos nods, shaking his hand firmly in front of a small group of reporters. Victor looks across the river, his eyes scanning the ruined town, completely untouchable. Bong drops his head into his hands, letting out a broken, defeated sob. The radio continues to chatter cheerfully in the background. ALENA: (Staring at the Mayor, her voice cold and hollow) They never intended to look at the evidence, Bong. The system doesn't investigate itself. She reaches down and turns the radio off. The sudden silence is deafening. THE END.
Where Tomorrow LaughsChildren of tomorrow
"The loudest lie can never outlive a quiet truth." -Colayy
Speechless By: Yena In the city, words were more valuable than gold. The wealthy spoke freely in the upper districts, but in the Mire — the poor, muddy alleys below — silence was survival. A greeting could cost a day's food. An argument could ruin a family. The city believed language was scarce. When someone fell into debt, the Lexicon came to collect. Morph knew this system well. At nineteen, he worked as a janitor in the Lexicon's Debt Collection Department, cleaning the marble floors while Archivists recorded debts and Curators watched from above. He knew what happened when debts went unpaid. He had been seven when Collectors broke down his door. They cornered his widowed mother over unpaid taxes. Morph hid in a wardrobe and watched them force a copper funnel over her mouth. They drew out her words — vowels and consonants — until her skin turned gray and her eyes went empty. They took more than she could give.
She collapsed on the floor. The Collector uncapped his pen and wrote across her file: Debt Cleared. From that day on, Morph vowed to take back what was stolen. By night, the janitor disappeared. In his place was the Whisper Thief. Morph moved across rooftops and slipped through skylights into the homes of wealthy officials. He did not steal silver or silk. He used a glass vial lined with compressed velvet to capture the glowing wisps of vocabulary that drifted through their rooms. The next morning, poor families found folded papers under their doors. A single stolen word would dissolve into their skin, restoring a grandfather's ability to say goodnight, or a mother's ability to soothe a child. To the Mire, he was a savior. But one person cannot stop a burning city.
The turning point came on a rainy Tuesday. Morph crouched behind a mahogany desk in a Collector's office, his vial half-full of stolen phrases, when the door opened. Morph froze, ready to run. But the figure was not a guard. It was Lucien, a young Archivist whose white uniform hung loose on his thin frame. Lucien stopped. He looked at Morph's masked face, then at the vial. He did not scream. He did not reach for the alarm. "You're stealing the wrong thing," he said quietly. Morph's hand went to his dagger. "Move aside." "Even if you return every word in that jar," Lucien said, stepping closer, "they'll take them again tomorrow. The ledger always demands its balance." Heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor — the Sentinels were coming. Morph's heart raced.
Before he could decide, Lucien pressed a hidden latch on the wall paneling. A narrow maintenance shaft opened. "Go," he whispered. Morph dropped into the dark. The next day at the Lexicon was painful. Morph swept the halls, waiting for security to grab him. When Lucien walked past, he did not look at Morph. But as his sleeve brushed Morph's arm, a small folded note slipped into Morph's pocket. Tonight. Old Bell Tower. Come alone. The bell tower stood abandoned at the city's edge, its iron bell silent since the Lexicon banned public assembly. Morph arrived with his hood low and found Lucien waiting among the rotting timbers. "Why are you helping me?" Morph demanded. "You're one of them."
"I thought I was," Lucien said. He looked out over the dark city. "My mother grew up in the Mire. My father joined the Lexicon to build a life for them. But as he rose, he learned the truth. The truth that keeps the Curators in power." Lucien turned to face Morph. "Words are not scarce, Morph. They never were. The Lexicon hoards them because a quiet population is obedient. And worse — they transform the stolen language of the poor into a concentrated essence. The elite consume it. It extends their lives. It fuels their power." Morph felt the air leave his lungs. "They eat our voices." "When my mother found out, she begged him to expose them," Lucien continued, a tear on his cheek. "But my father chose the Lexicon. He chose his status. To keep her quiet, he used his own pen to draw the words from her throat. I watched from the closet." He swallowed. "She survived. But she has not spoken a word since I was ten. I cannot do this alone, Whisper Thief." Your paragraph text
Morph looked at his calloused hands. For years, he had been applying bandages one at a time. "We are not going to steal words anymore," he said softly. "No," Lucien agreed. "We are going to steal the truth." The plan was built on chaos. They did not target the guarded word-vaults. Using Morph's knowledge of the Lexicon's infrastructure, they went to the sub-basement. With a heavy iron wrench, Morph shattered the main pressure valves of the city's steam and water pipes beneath the Archives. Scalding water and steam flooded the lower levels. Alarms rang through the stone complex. "The records!" voices shouted. "Save the ledgers!" In the fog, panic spread. Archivists scrambled to move leather volumes away from the water. Security diverted to guard the exits, leaving the heart of the Archives exposed.
Working together, Lucien used his clearance to access the central vault, swapping the high- priority citizen ledgers with blank volumes he had smuggled in over weeks. Meanwhile, Morph entered the inner sanctum and took the heavy, brass-bound Master Index — the single document that proved every debt in the city was fabricated. As they turned to flee toward the eastern maintenance docks, a flashlight cut through the steam, pinning them to the wall. "Who's there?" shouted a senior guard, reaching for a copper funnel. Morph braced to fight, but an elderly janitor stepped from the mist, dragging a large, rusty dumpster. With a sharp twist, he jammed the dumpster into the track of the closing security doors. The metal groaned and sparked, blocking the gate and the guard's view.
The old man caught Morph's eye through the smoke. He did not speak. He gave a single nod. Morph recognized him — a man whose voice Morph had restored three months earlier so he could sing to his dying wife. "Go!" the old man shouted, his voice rough. Morph and Lucien dove through the gap before the emergency valves shut. Two days later, the city woke to total silence. But it was not the silence of fear. It was the silence of a population reading. During the night, a network of Mire volunteers had worked tirelessly, using the stolen Master Index to copy and distribute individual records. Every household in the city woke to a sealed white envelope on their doorstep. Inside lay their personal ledger.
Citizens read the ink with their own eyes. They saw the fabricated interest rates. They saw the words violently stripped from their parents, siblings, children. They saw the systematic theft of their futures. The Curators sent Collectors to confiscate the papers, but for the first time, the people stood their ground. They did not throw stones. They did not light fires. They held the pages up to the light. When lower-ranking Archivists were called to verify the documents, they recognized the official seals, the handwriting, the institutional ink. They looked at the silent, staring crowds, then looked at their own hands. The truth spread like an infection the Lexicon could not contain. The collapse happened from the inside. It began when a young Collector removed his copper badge, dropped it on the cobblestones, and walked away. Within hours, entire divisions followed. The false records were abandoned.
The Great Archives were not burned in anger. They were reclaimed. The iron locks were melted down, and the vaulted ceilings that once echoed with scratching pens became public libraries. Lucien walked through the grand doors of his childhood home. His father, the high-ranking Archivist, sat alone in a darkened dining room. On the polished table between them sat the heavy, silver-plated fountain pen he had used to silence his own wife. The older man did not look up. "I do not deserve forgiveness." Lucien looked at the pen, then toward the hallway where his mother sat by the window, watching the sunlight. "No," Lucien said quietly. "But everyone deserves the truth."
A few miles away, inside the newly opened public library, a little girl sat at a long oak table, running her fingers over the crisp page of a blank notebook. She looked up at the librarian shelving books nearby. "Are words really free now?" she asked, her voice small. At the edge of the Mire, Morph stood in the quiet cemetery, looking at his mother's headstone. For twelve years, a weight had pressed on his chest, driven by a need for vengeance. But as he stood there, listening to the distant hum of the city below, the weight lifted. His revenge no longer defined him. The librarian paused, looking out the grand windows at a city vibrating with life. Neighbors talked across balconies. Merchants shouted prices. Young poets recited verses on street corners. The librarian smiled. "They always were."
The little girl dipped a pen into ink and began to write her first story. The Lexicon was not defeated by a stronger army or a weapon of terror. It crumbled because the truth became impossible to hide. And the greatest revolution was not that the people had finally found their voices — it was that they finally realized those voices had always belonged to them. THE END
From Ashes, We BeginFire of Change
The AuthorsYena Geizelyn Mae Malaki Jaiwooz Jyros Solis Mana Meday Melody Monderin KidoMelchor Pakig Selah Grace Hannah Reas Yuʒe Vince Jonje Cahutoc
F.J. Salazar Francis Jean Salazar Mirai Ai Dellosa Colayy Niel Colas Clarang Clariza Lucero Yrang Gijie Yra Roquero Layang Joan Apad