Veritas Literary and Arts Folio 2021: Nightlight

Crusader

The

The official student publication of Xavier University - Ateneo de Cagayan

Cover Design by Ashley Bruas Art Direction by Melvin Villacote Circulation 1,000 copies

FORE WORD Sometimes, the things that keep us up at night don’t lie in wait beneath our beds— they don’t linger in darkened corners, nor stalk with silent, weightless steps.

Sometimes, the true monsters gaze from mirrors, hate pouring from within— they are unwanted thoughts that come, dark, unbridled; that whisper, not scream.

Sometimes, what keeps us up at night are the things we already know: the things we’ve said, the things we’ve seen— they come, but never go.

What then, can you do, a tortured soul like me?

Why, we flicker on the nightlight and let the monsters be.

For all children, throughout all time, there was little to do about the boogeyman in the closet but to strike a match and light a candle, or plug in a nightlight to keep the man at bay. These lights were tiny soldiers standing at attention until daybreak, unyielding in their duty to provide us a full night’s sleep free from fear. They provided the illusion of safety—a tiny ball of fire casting a halo of light against the darkness. But as we grew older, we learned that growing kids had no use for nightlights. They made us check our closets to show us the boogeyman wasn’t real, but the truth is, the boogeyman had only moved out to make home in our heads. He has no need for sleep, so he makes sure we never get any either.

This year, the Veritas Literary and Arts Folio of 2021 forces you to take a dive into the dark recesses of your nightmares and discover the fears and secrets kept within. The only true monsters we have to face are our inner demons. And we need to face them as they are, in the hopes that we may find peace.

Crusader Publication has collected the XU community’s most inspired pieces reliving this theme. From poems and prose, to art and photography, Veritas 2021 offers you the chance to defeat your boogeyman and meet your darkest side. As you traverse our writers and artists’ dreamscapes with a nightlight in one hand and this book in another, ask yourself this: The

What shadows do you cast under the “Nightlight”?

Abdel Rafi Lim Associate Editor The Crusader Publication

POE TRY

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SA PAGTATAPOS NG DAPITHAPON Danica Ela P. Armendarez

Habang binabalot ang bawat sulok ng kadiliman Tayo ay unti uniting niyayakap ng kalamigan Ang kapalit sa pagtatapos ng dapithapon Ay panganib na tila nanghahamon Sa iyong hakbang na pa unti unti May nakasunod ngunit hindi mga binti Ito ay mga matang nakamasid Naglalaway, nang-aakit sa hiwaga mong binabatid Balat mo sa kanila’y halimuyak Tindig mo sa kanila’y tila bulaklak Sa ilalim ng impluwensiya ng alak Kaligtasan mo’y nadadamay, napapahamak

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SECLUSION Melvin P. Villacote Photography

NIGHTS I REMEMBER Maureen Lee

I remember being high on caffeine.

Tossing and turning, I was wondering, Bothered by memories.

I remember waking up.

It was the middle of the night.

I was anxious, bothered and in fright.

I was alone, maybe.

I remembered the lights flickering, Along the scent of lemons, Nights so random, I have lit my candles.

I remember staring At things or anything.

With nothing in my mind, I’ve never got to cry.

I remember waiting For the day to end And begin again Troubled and restless.

I remember praying, Asking to close my eyes, falling into sleep, Finding my peace.

MONSTER Xyna Sagrado

monsters aren’t born, they’re made, of anger and broken promises, of lost love, and its consequences, of regrets and words never said, of melancholy and sheer loneliness, of a painful touch or its deficit, of too many things and of too less, just waiting for someone to love them, never mind the mess.

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LAMP Celisha Tigasaw Too dark, The night reminds me of my loss.

Created a void that I fill with tears.

Lost a light that loved me more than I could ever possibly do.

As a child, he sang me lullabies.

What should I do?

Can’t sleep in pitch black, I’m drowning in thoughts As this darkness swallows me.

INCANDESCENT Rafhael L. Jabonnga Photography

FLEUR FANÉE Jivi Roy D. Rizaldo Photography

Peace in Solitude

by Caryll Apostol

FRUSTRATION Sumayyah G. Caris Photography 8

INTERNAL MONOLOGUE Levina Eunice O. Palarca

There is a steady humming coming from my bedroom There is a crackling and ticking in measure of the bonfire that still burns and the clock on my bedside table that marks the fourth hour of my tiring lone.

Yet, with every brazen breath, a bliss comes from the silence of a mouth that shuts to speak of a body that daren’t move, in the fear of waking up the killer of the mood.

It is the absence of the moon that lights my musings, that calms my tides.

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ALONE John Ian G. Bradshaw Photography

DEFYING DARKNESS Jivi Roy D. Rizaldo Photography

UNCERTAINTIES Claire Ivy T. Vanguardia

Under the stars, I memorize every bit of you.

Your angelic eyes that would melt even god himself; your whimsical whisper of words; your lips that bespoke nothing but enticement; your very being, every ounce of your soul, I want to thread into a scroll, and keep it safe like how you’ve left my longings unscathed.

I like this very much—you and me, only, seemingly wandering around the depths of yearning, itching for one another, to say the pinnacle of warmth.

For these small bites of dreamy serenity and repose, I am bewitched by your beauty.

With all the starry nights hanging above us, only you—I could stare for glorious days.

I wonder though, will you stay with me?

Despite the hurtling of my introspection, and for all the air of my despondency, will you walk me through the lows?

It terrifies me, for my own uncertainties, the wrongs of my life could befall before you and me.

I know it is untrue, for you have given hues into my dull realm, and for you to have sung to me the songs of affinity; but the thoughts persist and linger, defining the paragon of ache and sting.

Even so, this repulsive way of thinking, these burdened layers of fear, I cannot put an end to them.

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WEEPING WILLOW Melvin P. Villacote Photography

MISÉRIA Jean Mika M. Aporillo Photography

I DON’T MAKE THE RULES Melrein John D. Viado

It’s 10 in the evening, so I thought it’s the perfect time to point you to my marrow and say here’s where you should shoot.

But I’m not holding the gun, dear, you are.

Yes, but it’s my hands that are tied and your lipstick burning the side of my neck, so I could only assume it’s my absence you want to paint your lips with, next.

But this isn’t a stick up. You can keep whatever you want.

Yes, but you know I’m more than glad to give you whatever it is in my hand.

The shaking; these cards; this gun, my parting gift.

But who’s leaving who? Do you want to go?

Honestly, if it were up to me, none of us have to go, but, then, this won’t be a love poem anymore.

This wouldn’t be a confession

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AGATHOKAKOLOGICAL JM Aporillo & Sumayyah Caris Photography, Digital Art

SWALLOWING DUST Ray B. Yaneza

Your heart burns As your mind freezes In the deep heart Of a dusty night Your body demands soothing Water, medicine, patience—but nothing The burning ceases not The pain ceases not Up from your belly Into your chest Dust is within Rising in intensity And that is what you swallow Rising in duration The flames spread and spread The trembling starts As your throat shrinks and The fear returns shrinks Is this it?

Walk out the room Is this really it?

Climb down the stairs Nervous sweat breaks Desiring water Over dried skin Aiming for the fridge You seek water Push the gates open And find none Swing the door shut Rush through the corridor And into the front Only to stop And fall to the ground Body crumpled like paper Under the light of night

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UNLIT Celisha Tigasaw Between the time that the sun sets and rises, Appears a familiar gleam of darkness.

Along with it was the disappearance Of a light who suddenly lost its existence.

No matter how many matches I sparked, It was still too dark.

No matter how many candles I lit, It wasn’t vivid enough.

No matter how many switches were on, It was as black as pitch.

You should’ve just lost that brightness, But instead, you went with the light.

At least you feel no pain anymore, So, rest well while willingly I try to be brighter than before.

NIGHTLIGHT John Ian G. Bradshaw Photography

TODAY Caryl Trishia E. Yapac Today is my nineteenth birthday.

You light the candle on top of the cake.

The flame dances in the rhythm of happiness.

It smells like memories and I feel sleepy When you started singing a song That only our love recognizes.

Today is Monday.

I wake up seeing your face And filling my plate with some meat.

You gave me your share Because you knew it is my favorite.

Today is Tuesday.

I wake up with your weak hands Slowly knocking on my room.

You are excited to let me try the dress That you have been saving for too long.

Today is Wednesday.

I wake up with your eyes Scanning the columns of the newspaper, While I am busy shading numbers With hopes that we would be victorious.

Today is Thursday I wake with your arms Carrying my bag for school.

Of all my first days of school, You never fail to send me to my classroom.

I saw how your eyes cheered for me on the window.

Today is Friday.

I wake up holding your hands While we cross the street.

I wonder if you should hold me Or I should hold you with all my strength.

Today is Saturday I wake up feeling your embrace As the sun starts to set at the beach.

I feel safe when I lie on your chest.

I feel loved when you kiss my head.

Today is Sunday.

I wake up with a sweet nightmare.

Today is a gloomy day And you are waiting for me.

I light the candle And arrange the roses.

You smile and I cry, because today, Today is your third death anniversary.

What a good dream it was, to never― To never wake up from my nightmares.

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NYCTOPHILE Sumayyah G. Caris Photography

TRUE SHADOW C. Tigasaw

After a draining day mimicking every move the figure has made, Finally, the darkness of the night has hidden my existence.

I cannot be my own even in this dark shade, But the figure acted more like me.

With lesser luminescence, It acted differently.

In the presence of few friendly figures during the day, It had a lot of happy things to say.

In the presence of the figure which it calls mother, It smiles and never once shed a tear.

As the night lamp draws a faint image of me I saw liquid fall freely in the figure’s eyes Does the night make it sad?

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SMUG James Patrick B. Pabonita Photography

LIFE IS FUNNY Xyna Sagrado

Life plays funny tricks on people.

Life hand paints roads on walls, then hides in the bushes and waits for two unsuspecting fools to fall straight into their trap.

Fools like usdriving a hundred miles an hour, no seatbelts, no insurance, in a car faster than it should be going.

Two unsuspecting fools crashing straight into the painted wallheads flying back, tires screeching, shattering glass, inflated airbags.

Life watches us from the bushes and laughs.

FOOL OF HEARTS Levina Eunice O. Palarca

I’ve mistaken you for the fool in a deck of old, dusty cards you hold your palms down-side-up to present your aces sans hearts.

In this fantasy, you are the pope and you bring my daily bread I can sense you in the sidelines demanding me to turn where you fumble but as if you were god, you disappear.

As little as a drop of your dose, makes me full for a month beyond quickened pulse and anchored cold, you make me a fool for a while.

I tip the boat just to touch your waters, have I been chasing a makeshift tail, like a cat who doesn’t know better?

The Knave of Hearts never had power so did the ink of a black or red number, and I was always just the fool all along.

PASO James Patrick B. Pabonita Photography

TOSKA Mailyn Armeñon

she took a knife under the drawer of her hopelessness the cold hard metal gripped upon the hands of an already lifeless soul the familiar stinging edges of darkness tainting on her pale skin her blood dispersing over the ground she used to stand every drop of blood is as the every drop of hope fading into her system

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slowly as the metal touches her skin again – the knife burn so much it engulfed her being could there be someone willing to save her this time? reflection from the knife scruples her decision – a face of a woman who’s eyes are tired; and heart is ripped but it’s the same face that made it this far it’s the same face that conquered the pain of the thousands of different knives falling under her fragile skin

could there be someone save her this time?

she is her own saviour and she is strong – stronger than the world could ever imagine

her legs began to shudder – it’s the cold hard floor whispering her to break

she took a knife under the drawer of once of a person that she was

she took a knife under the drawer of her fucked up sanity

she threw it out deeper than the depths of her depression

one hew left and the longing of end is seen

farther than the demons she hopefully would not dwell anymore

GIRL FROM NOWHERE Rafhael Jabongga Digital Illustration

A GHOST’S WHISPER Gabriel Ching

Mom, even when l was young, all I dreamed was to see you proud – a face without a frown, a brow with no shame, a pair of jubilant eyes, so I tried my best – at home, school, and work What they said after l was shot was a cruel deception of the savage men who mistook my looks for someone’s; the cardboard they hung around my neck was to justify the lethal error that ended me and sullied my innocence I complained to you about Dad’s nicotine circles before he decided to quit to appease my sulking; I told you about my ex who dragged and puffed; asthmatic, why would l play with soot and smoke?

Oh Mommy, wake up – do not allow them of another kill; please stop weeping for me – l am somewhere, tranquil

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PASSING BY Melvin P. Villacote Photography

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CHAOS John Ian G. Bradshaw Photography

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TURISTICA Jean Mika M. Aporillo Photography

A HOUSE THAT BREATHES Jessa S. Cahulogan

My eyes are the lights that open in the darkness.

My ears are the walls that echo back their thoughts.

I can feel, though I’m full, all the little ones inside me; hear the quiet, muffled cries, and the tune of slamming doors.

I am sick, a brewing headache.

A loud, hushed pain shoot across.

After vomiting clothes and packed bags, windows closed like gasping lungs.

Now, the last lonely butterfly cleaned up my littered thoughts.

One last dress was unfolded From my spine, with flesh, now hangs.

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KAYOD Jivi Roy D. Rizaldo Photography

PRO SE

LADY OF THE NIGHT Sumayyah G. Caris Digital Illustration

THE RED DRAGON AGAINST A BLACK SKY Ray B. Yaneza

A red dragon rose in the east. He had won a great war against his rival, casting him out onto an island. He forced him to abandon a great deal of his brood, humiliating the blue dragon, driving him to rely on the protection of a mighty eagle so that he may keep his freedom.

The victorious red dragon wanted to consolidate his gains, to secure himself and his domain. He dreamed of a great future, one forged with the blood of volunteers, that was exclusively for himself and for a world beyond the boundaries of his own, a world united for the happiness of all things.

Yet, he would soon grow to despise the great bear who lived to the north of his land, despite their earlier alliance against the eagle and the blue dragon and their allies to the west and to the east. And as the years went by, the world around him thought that he was a fool because of what he was doing to his own domain.

They watched him lay waste to the earth. And they laughed at him when he smashed his own past. They looked on with skeptical curiosity as he attempted to take a great leap forward and they mocked him when he failed. They would think him a great fool, dangerous, but still a fool. He went hungry, became diseased, and mad. So mad that he turned on himself, almost causing those around him to wonder if he would become weak enough that the blue dragon may seize the chance to return and take revenge. But miraculously, it seemed, the red dragon did not worsen and instead recovered.

The world around him marveled at his growth, at his stability, and at his increasing happiness. They had their mouths drop at the numbers he would share for all the world to see. And they came closer to him, making deals with him, and investing in him. They profited from him as he would profit from them, adding more and more good to himself.

But when his domain demanded freedoms and rights, the red dragon turned upon it and crushed it with iron, washing away the blood as the night fell upon the square of his capital. And despite the greatest horror of the world around him, despite the most terrible disapproval of the mighty eagle who held the most power over all, the red dragon did not bow. It did not apologize nor did it dare to give in. The red dragon - with

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eyes sharp, nose flaring, and mouth flowing with smoke - remained strong, unwilling to surrender it to anyone or anything. And his domain became silent, continuing instead to obey, fearing his renewed wrath.

And the march of time went on. The mighty eagle became a better partner to the red dragon, adding to himself more and more good just as the latter had done for himself.

Even the great bear to the north came close to the serpent, doing business with him as he had done so in the past. Even the blue dragon, who was no longer recognized by much of the world as the one who had the rights to the domain it was forced to flee from, did more and more business with the red dragon. But the red dragon would not be content, not with prosperity and certainly not with remaining in its own sphere of influence. Just as the blue dragon had sought to gain influence it had once lost to the eagle and the other mighty beings of the world, and just as the yellow dragon in the far east once attempted to conquer all he could to form a greater co-prosperity sphere, the red dragon sought to enjoy what one powerful being used to enjoy in the past long lost to history.

In this new age, the red dragon, ambitious and confident, made full with treasure and influence, dared to spread his wings and fly out from his domain. And one by one, he gained connections. And one by one, he placed his claws into the hearts of his neighbors and upon the flesh of his rivals and of his allies. He looked to the south, beyond the realm of the blue dragon, and let his eyes rest upon the islands of a joyful carabao. In the past, he was once hated by the carabao. And despite his attempts at making friends with him, the carabao would not accept him. The carabao would not approve of his ambitions, of his ideals, nor of his offenses. But as the past turned into the present, the carabao began to soften. And taking advantage of that, the red dragon made plans.

He offered the carabao a share of his wealth. And he offered to him a great deal of power, of freedom from the mighty eagle in the west, and of a better future should he consider establishing a friendship. And that was what the carabao did, despite the fears and worries of his own domain. The eagle noticed this, as did his allies. And they protested, just as many within the domain of the carabao had, but the red dragon had seized a measure of victory.

Even as the carabao tried to complain to the red dragon about the seizure of the waters to the west of his islands, he was silenced with threats and ignorance and wealth. And when the carabao spoke out about other things, the red dragon distracted him with promises and non-apologies and other meaningless gestures. The carabao’s domain grew more restless, but he would set his own hooves upon them, even as the world shifted their disapproval toward him just as it returned their own disapproval toward the red dragon. And though the carabao could not simply ignore his friends and neighbors, the red dragon could, even as it now upset the other dragons and the great tiger to the west.

Then a great disease emerged within the domain of the red dragon. The mighty serpent tried his best to silence as many voices as he could, to disappear as many as he could, and to keep down as many as he could. And he tried to fight off the disease, but it spread and spread, eventually coming out of his domain and into the rest of the world. And the world hated him for it just as it suffered. Over the years, many within the domains of

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the other beings perished. The eagle challenged the red dragon, the bear weakened, the other dragons became angry with him, and the tiger was provoked by the insults and intrusions he made. The world once again seemed to become alive with strife and hatred and many other negative things.

For the great beings not only fought with one another but also themselves. The lions of the west clawed and bit at one another. The dolphins wrestled with one another just as the mighty elephants clashed with the cheetahs, the hyenas, and the others. And the once mighty eagle weakened, pecking at itself with its beak and talons. Even the snakes hissed at themselves and buried their fangs deep within their scales. And just like them, the carabao suffered. He beat himself and starved and became sick. And so many within his domain wished to leave in greater numbers, while others fought with themselves. A war which he started does not seem to end, as his own domain perpetuated it for their own benefit at the cost of everyone else.

When the world began to search for cures to stop the disease, the carabao pleaded with the red dragon to supply it with its own. But the red dragon would not grant it unless the carabao agreed to a few things. And so the carabao surrendered the waters to the west of his islands, much to the displeasure of his domain. The carabao drove away his friends and defied the mighty eagle. And later, the carabao turned a blind eye to the cries of the crane, for the red dragon was sinking its teeth into its feathers.

Until now, the once happy carabao remains under the watchful eyes of the red dragon, who has grown more and more mighty over the lands and seas of Asia. He has set his feet deep upon the ground. And his large snout hovers over the waters, boiling the surface with his nostrils, adding filth to the sky with smoke out of his mouth, the fires deep within his throat threatening to come out against anyone and anything which offends him.

And he dares anyone, anything to try him. After so long a century of humiliation, and after so long a past of pained growth and development, of an unending rivalry with a world that seemed only to profit from it, the red dragon, perhaps, no longer cares for anything else but his own sake and for the future of his domain. Though the mighty eagle has risen up again, and though the lions of Europe begin to slowly pick themselves up, Asia is no longer their playing field. The eagle has withdrawn himself, and the lions have been too busy with themselves, especially as they fear the return of the bear.

And though the beings of Asia too begin to rise against him, uniting slowly, too slowly, fear continues to grip them just as misery and discontent would hold them back. And against a sky made black by the disease, by the smoke of the flames of war, and by the worsening conditions of the great earth and the vast seas, the red dragon does not seem to care about stopping. Nor does he want to. For the red dragon has taken the place of the mighty Soviet bear and his hammer and sickle. And he seems to seek now a place for himself just as the old dragon before him sought to make himself The Middle Kingdom, the very center of the world.

The red dragon has set himself against the black sky.

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FLASH OF MIDNIGHT Tiffany Mae D. Uy Watercolor

HIDE AND SEEK Melrein John D. Viado You turn the lights off and, sure enough, your reflection disappears and the mirror tells you you’re not here. Your mind, now in the street, three blocks away where a vendor shouts “balut”, thinks about tomorrow; doesn’t want to come home. It asks your feet, still inside your socks, to go find somewhere there’s music to tap to, although your ears, still perched by your temple - your temple still mindless - hears nothing but “balut” fading where your eyes aren’t. Your tongue remembers balut. It remembers everything.

It remembers names, other tongues, mouths. You try to swirl it around your mouth to check if it’s still there and, sure enough, it gets stuck on a word – a name. Suddenly, all of your parts appear, reconstructs somewhere else. In a past you thought was completely forgotten.

You turn the lights on.

ANDRE ON HIGH Paula Elaine D. Francisco Gouache on Paper

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KAYOD THE DEAD MEN OF THE NIGHT Jivi D. Rizaldo RayRoy B. Yaneza Photography

It’s become a dead horse to try and tell a friend, “The night is dark and full of terrors.”

They’ve probably heard that line so many times. From memes and from the show from which it came, they’ve probably gotten so used to it, that they would probably look at you funny and tell you off with a tired smile and a dismissive gesture before they’d ask you to come up with something better. And you would.

And you’d forget the line as you moved from day to day, from night to night. You’ve lived from month to month, your memories adding to previous ones, some of them good and some of them bad and some of them complicated.

Life then, despite the changing atmosphere in politics, seemed simpler.

And you’d at least seem all right with how things are in the city. For all the imperfections and the misfortunes - the frustrating traffic during the later parts of the day and the earlier parts of the night, the unbearable heat, the long wait for a jeepney or a taxi, the long rains, the grind of schoolwork, the stress of thinking about doing other important things, and so on - they all, to you, seem manageable.

And at least you did not seem to worry so much. You hoped that things would continue on like that. You look forward to the next time you’d come to school for the lectures, you’d get excited still for the next time you’d hang out with your friends at the restaurants and the bars (or at karaokes and their houses), and you’d intensely wait for the next time you’d see that person you really love so you could get lost in time and space speaking with them.

You never thought that things would change so much.

At first, you only see things happen on the television. You hear about them on the radios.

And you listen to your relatives, your friends, your teachers, and everyone else around you talk about them.

You carry on, sometimes engaging in the discussions but never really contributing much because you didn’t know what to say or because you couldn’t decide on a position to take.

You sometimes just chose to ignore it so you could focus on your schoolwork. You distract yourself with conversations late into the night with your friends or with the person you love. And you try to tell yourself, “This is fine.:” When, in fact, deep within you, it is not.

For nothing seems to strike you so fiercely as fear. And from within you, provoked by events all around you, by the ideas of others, and by many other things, fear begins to claw out of you, biting through your nerves, setting your hair alight with dark flames, licking at your mind with intrusive thoughts, filling your eyes with smoke, clouding your judgment.

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Then the changes come. Rapidly. Suddenly. Violently.

Checkpoints are set up. Police officers come out in force. People look over their shoulders. They stop talking so much in public. Curfews are established, then torn down. And every few hours, the ambulances scream, their engines running wild as their wheels tear through streets, the traffic parting before them.

Drugs, they say, are the big reason why things have changed. The pandemic, they say, is another reason why things have changed. And then they say there’s another thing that’s become another reason why things have changed. On and on and on, they add to the list. And that confuses you. So you ask them, “How come?” And they shrug. That, or they can’t seem to give you a straight answer. And when they do, they seem too simple, too radical, too biased, or too far out. Or, to your fears, too accurate, perhaps too realistic that it seems so unrealistic.

You move through the days. And you get into the nights. But unlike the days, where you content yourself with classes or some work online or a few hours of rest or a bit of time with your family, the nights seem to have transformed into the nights you never wished yourself to experience.

Crime scene investigators everywhere. Before them, the night comes alive with sharp, painful cracks and booms. They seem like firecrackers, but the people around you do not seem to smile and cheer. Then come running people. Someone yells. Others take cover.

Then a tense silence.

Screams, cries, and the moans of dying men. Vanished neighbors, busted doors, and officers lingering by road blocks in SWAT vests on and rifles in their arms. They cradle them like babies. And as you ride or drive past the blocks, you cannot fail to glimpse at the white, sterile lights of funeral parlors. And at their entrances, vehicles line up, delivering weeping women and men along with shocked children. And as you turn around the blocks, perhaps you have caught a glimpse of wagons emptying corpses out upon gurneys.

The nights do not spare you at home. Arguments in the streets. Whispers in the hallways. Ambulances and police cars rush past your street. And then you fall asleep. But in your dreams, you are not left alone.

The drums of war beat so much. The television keeps playing them. The radio seems to shout. The newspapers and the magazines scream at your eyes. And the news on the Internet blast you with video clips and images. They blur the faces, censor the bodies, hide the blood, and rid the material of all of its colors except for black and white. But that doesn’t stop you. Nor the drums. They keep beating and beating. Just as your heart does. But it beats again, reminding you that life still resides within you. The only thing that has changed about your life is the way your heart beats. And it beats with the anxiety of an animal desperate to not come into the sights of a hunter. Then the dead

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men come. They come not alive but dead. Dead men. Dead men. By voice or by image, by touch or by smell, you just know it, and you hate it. You get used to it or you don’t, but the dead men will not leave your mind. Your senses, upon any reminder, strike you viciously with their rawness.

And then you wake up. You pick yourself off the bed. You brush your teeth after having some breakfast. You get out, if you can, if you have some errands. Then you come home and stay there and do what you have to do, busying yourself in the day until the night comes. Then you go out again, probably to get some fish for a late night barbecue with your cousins or to fetch some snacks at a 7/11 nearby. You ride along with them and pass through a checkpoint.

The dancing lights of ambulances and police vehicles do not bring you comfort, no, they do not assure you. Neither do the presence of the police, for they seem too eager, too heavily armed, their eyes and their expressions often betraying some sense of justice perverted for their benefit, but not for others. There are other things that seem to bring you through a gauntlet of discomfort, but you don’t seem to know them all, so you try to keep your tongue still. You are just uncertain. There was always safety in that silence, even when it bothers you, even when that too seems so discomforting.

But, eventually, you leave those thoughts and feelings behind as you return home with the good stuff and spend the night away until you are too tired to stay up and collapse into a pillow and a mattress.

More days pass, just as more nights come and go. But sometimes you probably have to go through the alleys. And you dread going through them. They remain as dirty as they always are, so you get suspicious when they seem cleared out, cleaner than they were before, as you know they are hosts for bodies and blood. You see sandals or slippers or shoes. Perhaps duct tape is on the bodies, on their twisted and frozen faces, reminding you of the methods of the cartels in Mexico and the rest of Latin America.

And you just cannot get rid of the images. You cannot erase the flashes, the screams, the horrors you’ve witnessed through the screen. And now you’ve seen what you hoped not to see in reality. You’ve always thought it was stuff only for documentaries. And you’ve always told yourself that this was just for television shows with poor acting and movies with overblown budgets. But those thoughts no longer serve their purpose because of one thing that has changed.

Because the dead men keep coming to your mind. And they come at any time they please, at any place you are. They no longer intrude into your dreams alone. They’ve come over the boundaries. And they would probably never stop.

And you wish that you could scream and get them to leave you alone. But they do not.

Not even in the most peaceful of nights do they once leave you. But on some nights, you’re all right, and for once, you allow yourself to go alone to a store. You wanted to hang out with your friends for a while. And it was okay to wear just a mask so you bring it, wear it, and keep it on.

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You find them, sit with them, and talk. But something’s wrong.

The night is just full of tension. Every night adds to the stress in you, the tension you perceive, and it worsens your fears, fears of men. And that seemed more absurd to you than does the fear of what is beyond natural. And at this night, right now, you’re full of it.

Sweat breaks over your face. You tremble. You breathe faster. Your heart races, races, and races on. You dart your eyes left and right. Then you shake as you stand up. They ask you if you’re okay. You tell them you’re fine. They ask you again. Something irritates you. You tell them that you are fine. They offer you a hand. You swat it away and walk away. You feel it’s too slow, you’re too slow, so you pick up the pace and walk faster. You walk faster than you used to.

Traffic goes past you. Horns blow. You ignore them. Horns blow again. You ignore them.

But at least you step away. You step away from motorcycles and flee from strange people as they walk past you on the side of the road. You stutter, whisper quickly, then go away.

You hop on a jeep, fish out some change, hand it over, and wait. You hold on to whatever is in your hands, ignoring the way your knuckles turn white, and not realizing how much your knee is rocking up and down. The jeep stops, you get out, and you don’t turn around even as the driver screams at you to take your bloody change.

You walk down the street. You’re alone. You keep going. You remember to take a turn to the left. But just before you do, something drops on the street behind you. You turn your head. You stop.

A sharp crack.

You try to whip your head forward.

But you fall. You crumple.

Blood. Shock.

Then darkness.

The nightmares are gone. Forever. And out of you flows a river of blood, carrying your life down the gutter. And by your corpse, a gun is planted by your side just after someone brushes your fingerprints all over the trigger and the handle.

Then they make a phone call.

The sirens come.

The night continues.

But nothing else.

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ILLUME Melvin P. Villacote Photography

TONIGHT’S VISITOR Melvin Villacote Photography, Digital Art

FUGE James Patrick Pabonita Photography

ISLE James Patrick B. Pabonita Photography

X &Y Melrein John Viado She asked me what I was afraid of and I told her: heights,

distance,

depth.

All means of holding breath.

I could’ve easily uprooted the tile which framed her shadow against the burning red of the afternoon sky like the first “C” sitting atop a scrabble board that spells “couch”, and show her what I mean, but, then, all uprooting aches. All uprooting holds breath.

LAOM Aira May L. Plaga Photography, Digital Art

DIONYSUS. Reina Margaret Gwynette T. Villamor The god of wine was good for many things—laughter, dancing, and even drunken revelry. And for the better part of prom night, he was all of these. But for the likes of Este, he provided morose comfort.

Este was so excited for prom. It was a memory she knew would linger more than others. That’s why she took her best friend, Cam—because she was resolved in the idea that bringing a friend would be better than bringing a date. After all, friends don’t ever break up. They agreed to go to prom as friends. Este insisted on it.

And Cam said yes. He always said yes to her.

She wasn’t naïve though. Este knew Cam always wanted more than the friendship she could offer. She saw it in the way he’d walk her to class or watch her favorite movies or willingly take her to prom just as friends. She knew he wanted more, and for years she let him think he would.

Este always thought that he’d wait for her to feel the same. Wait for her to realize she felt the same way. Wait because their friendship was important. But tonight just proved that he was tired of waiting.

“I love you, Este.” Cam whispered as they danced their first dance. Este took a sharp intake of air and looked up at him. Just one look. Enough for him to figure out her response. She expected him to be frustrated. Or at least just sad. But he only smiled.

“Thank you,” he offered, enveloping her in a quick hug and pulling away just as fast.

“Thank you?”

“Thank you. Because now I know. And I’m done,” he finished.

Some memories linger more than others.

As Este watched Cam walk away, she could only hope that this was one of those others. Blinking away tears, she diverted her eyes to the sparkling glasses of champagne at the far end of the ballroom. She sighed.

Maybe a different date was destined to accompany her tonight.

And so there she was—on prom night—eyeing her classmates on the dance floor, sipping her third glass of champagne, and wallowing in the comfort of the god of wine.

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ANIMA James Patrick B. pabonita Photography

A GHOST Claire Ivy T. Vanguardia When I was young, I was told that I should be scared of waking up at 3 AM, or what others claim to be as the ‘witching hour.’ Such tales of apparition and superstition did not terrify me. However, just recently, I think I am starting to believe in this folklore that they call the devil’s hour.

The first time it happened, I was awoken by a strange ghostly figure of an old man sitting at my desk. He had the most pretty black hair I have ever seen and his beauty, his beauty was other-worldly. He almost seemed too perfect to be real.

The second time it happened, I was awoken by a strange yet melancholic humming of the old man. The murmurs of his tune were quite familiar; though, I could not remember where I have heard it from.

The third time it happened, I did not try to sleep for I waited for the man’s arrival. And there he was standing next to my bed, staring distantly at the quiet, darkened scenery outside the window.

I suppose this whole ordeal did not scare me as I thought it would. Rather, it’s almost as if that ghostly presence was comforting me, shielding me from the severity of my scrutiny. His random quiet and blurred melodies were a gift to my ears; helping me drown the sadness out of myself. Even his transcendent figure was enough to sink me into the depths of solace.

But, the more I stare at the old man, the more I am reminded of my late father. My late father whom I very much loved dearly. It sort of makes me feel emotional; a feeling I had already buried ages ago along with my regrets.

Perhaps the next thing that happened was what truly alarmed me—the old man began caressing my hair. It was strange, but it did not frighten me. For some reason, the soothing murmurs of his caress enveloped me into a sweet embrace. Then, he began humming. His voice was weak and suffused with the hymns of loneliness. But I finally deciphered its familiarity; it was the same tune that my late father sang to me to put me into sleep.

Blurred between the lines of reality and illusion, I began to cry. Bathed with his strange presence; the soft, gentle caress of his hands and the beautiful hums incited memories of my late father. All at once, I was reminded of my late father’s love, fondness, care, and tenderness. The intolerable grief I had so long suppressed; the grief I’ve always tried to mask with gaiety is slowly coming off.

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DOUX RÊVEUR Jean Mika M. Aporillo Photography

NIGHTTIME FRIEND Melvin P. Villacote Photography

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The

Crusader P U B L I C A T I O N

Publishers Subscribing Students of Xavier University Editorial Board Melvin Villacote Editor in Chief

Staff Writers

Abdel Rafi M. Lim Associate Editor

Danica Ela P. Armendarez (Trainee)

Derrick Kean A. Auxtero Design Editor

Alyssa Chantal P. Moreno (Trainee)

Rafhael L. Jabongga Managing Editor Nia Enrille R. Rabanes Features Editor Paula Elaine D. Francisco Photography Editor Jayson Elvie G. Ty Graphic Design & Layout Editor

Levina Eunice O. Palarca Leinarra L. Tumarong (Trainee) Claire Ivy T. Vanguardia (Trainee) Reina Margaret Gwynette T. Villamor

Sumayyah G. Caris Freehand Editor Jean Mika M. Aporillo Video Productions Director

Layout Artists Sheil Ann Ashley P. Bruas

Managers

Kevin Matthew N. Pacana (Trainee)

Edshera Mae R. Abella Human Resource Manager Catherine Marie C. Naldoza Office Manager

Photojournalists

James Patrick B. Pabonita Circulations Manager

Zenju P. Espinosa (Trainee)

Jivi Roy D. Rizaldo Online Accounts Manager

Aira May L. Plaga (Trainee) Kenneth Jhon D. Sanchez (Trainee)

Finance Officers Sumayyah G. Caris Auditor Rafhael L. Jabongga Senior Finance Manager Reyjean Marie S. Bacud Junior Finance Manager(Trainee)

Videographers John Ian G. Bradshaw (Trainee) Karl Mykell M. Tabbay (Trainee) Moderator Ms. Ann Catherine T. Acenas