Veritas Literary and Arts Folio 2019: Timepiece

Crusader

The

The official student publication of Xavier University - Ateneo de Cagayan

Cover design by Melvin Villacote Art Direction by Derrick Kean Auxterro, Karla Mae Romero

& Jayson Elvie Ty Circulation: 2,000 copies

Foreword Time is relative.

Einstein figured it out. Time is experienced differently depending on how fast you’re going or the amount of gravity present. That’s a watered down version for you. We all know e=mc2 at least on a surface level.

Many novels, documentaries, TV series, and movies have covered the scientific intricacies of time (or at least tried to). But that’s not what “time piece” is about. The literary pieces featured in this year’s Veritas Folio talk about time in a different more personal, perhaps even a more painful way.

This year’s call for literary pieces found a chilling pattern: many entries dealt with dark issues that are hard to confront, yet the writers of these works chose to do so. Perhaps there is truly a fight or flight situation when one decides to confront time. It is never a friend that embraces, it is always running out when you wish it to stay longer. Alternatively, it seems to drag out cruelly in our darkest moments, making us wonder if the clocks have actually stopped. There’s another reason why we can connect it with sand: time is abrasive.

We see this in the works “I Refused” and “A Parley”. Two people standing up to the weight of an inner darkness that threatens to end their times on earth. Depression can make anyone feel like each second is too excruciating to bear any further. Yet there is hope contained within their words; accepting each day to give themselves another chance.

Time is not linear.

Or at least we can’t really say it is. Memories haunt us. We get pangs of déjà vu that are almost unexplainable.

That moment when you decide not to cross the street and a truck comes barreling down the road, almost intent on murder. Humans are so obsessed with knowing time that we assigned it specific names: past, present, future. As if this would make it any easier to determine which one actually influences the others.

We wish we could stop time and move freely. We look back on how things have changed, because of course, hindsight is 20/20.

The works “It is Time. Goodbye” and “I Marvel” explore our attempts at making sense of how time can influence us in ways we cannot change. Perhaps it’s just easier to accept what has happened or wonder what will happen next (time-travelling robots be damned).

“The past is obdurate. It does not want to be changed.”1 Time can also be measured in memories; in people who were there at one point and gone the next (“This Room Has Died”). Or in people that have marked us in the past which reverberates into our presents and makes us hopeful or scared of the future (“Battered Person Syndrome”, “Scorpios”, “Mga Panabot”).

Or time has a demarcation of before and after because of an event that cannot be erased no matter how hard we try (“The Rain is Different Now”, “Of Trees and Paper”, and “Home”). What is especially haunting about time is how we use our memories to tell when was then, before that, the beginning despite the complete inability to be aware of such moments. Equally maddening is we also never know when something is truly The End, so we try to emboss memories into our skulls (“Right at this innocent second”).

Even though we constantly consume narratives of going back in time and changing the future, at present (let’s say, January 2019) there is still no actual proof that humans will ever discover time travelling. But we constantly look back, wishing we had enough foresight to make the necessary decisions that would make our futures (the present?) the most ideal. There is the age old pageant question “If you could change anything in your past, what would it be?” And we, along with wannabe beauty-queens, look back on our regrets and wishes. We activate the RAMs of our brains and then imagine an alternate universe as if we are living in the darkest timeline. But honestly, we could never know. Maybe we should be grateful for that ignorance.

“I wish there was a way to know you’re in the good old days before you’ve actually left them.”2 This year’s Veritas Folio features works from the fellows of the 3rd Veritas Writers Workshop. Good things come in threes, and the Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro (NAGMAC) continues to appreciate the fresh talent that has landed in the Xavier Ateneo Community. Celebrating its third run (since we’re talking about time) is especially momentous as it continues to be the only student publication run writers workshop in Northern Mindanao. Tradition is also about time.

Thus, we hope you, dear reader, enjoy the literary works present in this small time-capsule of a book. May time be on your side.

Abigail C James Workshop Director Veritas Writers Workshop 1 2

Stephen King, 11/22/63 Andy Bernard, The Office

POETRY 1

Rush Hour

by Khristine Marjorie Quiblat

2

Apple mangoes

by Gwyneth Sarah Marie C. Bengzon

When we were once kids my cousins and I would travel Rooftops to harvest sweet treasures Our journey began at the bottom of their castle Cement walls and spare ledges We would climb up and up Away Dangling close to the edge Hands gripping on tightly Sweat trickling down Heads following hearts An uphill battle towards the tip - top Twelve feet above Stiff peaks and Downward slopes were the bridge The between is one and a half meters apart I thought gravity would pull us down But we flew

When we reached the treasures all we could do is stare The sky was so close Colors blending together in the mid-afternoon heat The marigold yellow and sky blue plane We could taste the soft sweet ripeness Tender and full of life As were we once Before

3

A Poet’ s Curse

by Arvin Narvaza

is his gift to write— to recess time and motion by etching pauses, on papers or in the eyes that were trained to read lines between stanzas and letters.

On those lines would be images of parentheses on each side of his lips and yours; the first cut; the first pinch of salt on his open wound; the first sight of himself imprisoned willfully in your eyes; the last drop that never held upon his lashes when he thought of sleeping you away.

A poet’s curse is his gift to write... memories.

He will never forget, but he shall get used to.

4

Highways and Byways

by Louise Miguel Obaob

Life

by Khristine Marjorie Quiblat

5

Deeper

by Karla Mae H. Romero 6

growing up

by Dawn Pearl C. Amante

lilies spread on a stagnant pond one day as your parents made up their minds to create something as magical and angelic as a little girl with eyes full of wonders everyday gets better like the gumamela flowers it was indeed a beautiful 2nd day of october clueless as you were, you won’t ever remember how happy you’ve made your mother and father

sunflowers looked happy as June came bright and yellow as the window pane ecstatic as the first time you have entered a class full of strangers as a 7th grader

three morning glories shown on tv like brilliant rays of sun come what may you don’t have any idea that your sisters are giving you three little wishes of forever

8 steps from the door’s a december flower As red and merry as a christmas day but not as much as your cheeks displayed the hint of attraction that crept up your face

moonflowers woke up as the night arrives staying beautiful just before the sun will rise just as your parents did when you started to cry at 4 AM after a new year had passed

roses from your house is 9 blocks to the river blooming endlessly beside the calm waves heart is pounding with every word given you went for it and you came out broken

the grasses grew a mere 5 inch 5 months old where you lay awake in the arms of your hero who haven’t had enough sleep for trying so hard to give you a night of peace

trees that grow more than 10 meters high as experienced as all the years that passed by you knew you were old enough as the trees out there but in the end you still needed a touch of care

dandelions got jealous of orchids since they colored beautifully on the 6th week 6 by now and you’re whining all around the toys your friends bragged about

7

Right at this innocent second

by Arlene Yandug

Stay in the bottom you’re scrubbing hard.

Stay in the brown crust that has stuck stubbornly.

Don’t let the mind, its obsession with the future, stray from this -- this yellow sponge, the green polymer fiber corroding the hardening rice, the faucet water trickling and browning at the bottom.

Outside, the silent stirring of leaves. Stay in the warm coral light brightening the treetops – when was the last time you looked at the sun dying? – the invisible wind, stay in this, the window, the tumble of green beyond it, the rice pot between your hands, the water slithering down your elbows, dampening your sleeves. Stare at the bottom now clearing, showing the pot’s dull

8

metal for the first time. Follow the light sludge sliding down into the drain; hear its exquisite trickle now slowly fading, the sound of water pirouetting into the invisible ground beneath the stone tiles where it slides around a red jasper veined by quarts.

Stay right at this innocent second, this very second of still life when the wind forgets the leaves and you live fully in a small canvas beyond which lies a whole life dying to move on.

Stay.

On the Giant’ s Shoulder

by Brean Meg A. Walag

9

10

Spontaneous Adventure

by Via Panal 11

On the Bridge

by Gene Gerard G. Verona

Amidst the Crowd

by Louise Miguel Obaob

12

Longing

by Karla Mae H. Romero

13

14

A Woman’ s Body

by Ma. Angela E. Autor

a woman’ s dissent

by Alessandro Kennz Nioda we keep on fighting and protesting the same thing in a different century ever since the people like us before us raised up “votes for women” we’re the granddaughters of the witches you weren’t able to burn our place is in the resistance but as we resist our hands become fists we fold our sleeves and tie our hair and shout, “we can!”

men, you better remember this: that we’re a somebody not some body, that hell has no fury like a woman scorned, that history has its eyes on you in this very stage we call earth we will strive to be on fire that your precious little water won’t die us out. ever.

15

Stillness

by Louise Antoinette Marie Acac

Regret Nothing

by Alhakim Palanggalan

16

Home

by Gwyneth Bengzon

I want go home wherever that may be Whether it be to a lullaby that plays on a guitar With your heartstrings Golden, silver, and bronze tucked tightly between her fingertips Or to cassettes pocketed in walkmans’ way To tender presents on the table Stalling to keep place but moved To where I must go To sworn secrecy friendship Hand in hand with milk tea and poetry Fear of the next leap Whether it be to a hill edge engulfed with trees In the city’s breath beneath milky skies Limitless worlds for me to travel Night after night of explosions outside My door My portal blocked No escape Outside the dogs dance freely Houses and shops guiding their way

Whether it be to a forgotten treasure Halls filled with memories I can’t seem to remember Baby steps I haven’t took in a long time Ghosts seeking faces long missed Businesses up and gone Watched by strangers long remembered I want go home wherever that may be Wherever Whenever Whatever

Whether that be in an old Chinese strip Filled with antique memories and fading dreams Issues boxed and sealed away Sent to Anew unwrapped house A baby crawling its way up Time, in its place

17

Away

by June Benedict Laplana

18

19

Aurum Aeternam

by Derrick Kean A. Auxtero

20

Time Paradox

by Rizalyka JoanneWaminal 21

Poem #13

by Jan Austin P. de Guzman I find myself reading rereading rereading our old conversations.

And I’m still hoping screaming from the inside, swallowed by toxic desperation.

Let’s go back to that beerhouse where you held my hand under our table, smiles hidden.

You’re the hardest pill I had to ingest.

A steady place where I can be vulnerable, defenseless.

But then it faded faded faded because I wasn’t good enough.

22

by Ena Jessa Kristine R. Jarales

23

Veritas 2018

Bugsay

by Gene Gerard G. Verona 23

Scorpios

by Ella Nadela

By the time your hand reached mine with a snow-cold whisper and your non-existent musical side met my silent Screamos, I had already fallen in love.

I had fallen in love with how our zodiacs carry the same name and how your fire is as blue as mine, our passion swallowing the whole of our minds like clouds masking out the shine of the common rocks piecing up that scorpion in the night sky.

I had fallen in love with the competition blazing in your eyes that matches my every teeth clenches and trained fists.

I have fallen in love with our gradual fall, your mysteries slowly sinking into my palms and I traced them with words like attraction and destiny.

I traced them with my burns and scars and we stayed connected, our roots finding the same substrate down the bedrock, drowning on the same flood source.

24

And then my extreme lows started timing with your extreme highs.

Our little labyrinth started becoming a tug-of-war between our passions, between our reservations.

Our fires ashed what we built with our tiny differences and our magnets started pointing to the same direction that they repelled and crashed on opposite sides.

Maybe constellations do not really make magic on mere humans because no matter our stellar rendezvous, we still crashed, we still didn’t come true.

HEBE

by Derrick Kean A. Auxtero 25

25

Out

by Jayson Elvie G. Ty

26

I Marvel

by Aember Pauleeni T. Gica From the open garage of my house I look over to the enormous dome of blue; to the orange tinges from the waking sun ascending from the horizon above the rows of houses in my line of sight at this third-world suburbia.

It is daybreak.

With it, a dewy clutch to the skin.

And, as if to imitate the creeping chill, It dawns over me: how I used to wonder of the majesty of trees, of jungle vines and the abundance of green, about what we now only see in children’s books and electronic screens.

As I watch the tall light posts, the electric wires, this gray urban scape, the crisp albeit faint avian ringing hovers in the air.

I can only think about how it could

have sounded out in the ambient wild now replaced by the noise of traffic.

The gentle burble of creeks in channels of water have been overtaken by networks of streets reverberating with streams of machines and drifting passersby each with their own busyness.

Intricate mechanisms all to amplify civilization.

I marvel at the massive kingdom of concrete and towering skyscrapers we now inhabit.

These I conceive as I look forward and up.

For ages and ages past, the sky was the limit.

Now the sky is all that we have.

27

Zenith

by Louise Miguel Obaob

28

Time Flow

by James Patrick B. Pabonita

Laborat

by James Patrick B. Pabonita

29

This Room Has Died

by Mark Acero

This room has died.

Clothes and books And trash strangled Like snakes tangled.

Walls and ceiling Patched with Thinning woodboards Festered by termites, Time and weather.

And the bed Stuck snugly on The far side Of the room, Blanketed by a bedsheet Of cream, dirty cream, And scented by dead Mites and the piss of Our bastardly dog.

Yet — This room feels warm Like her embrace Calming me when The sky flashes And cracks.

30

Yet — This rooms feels silent Like the hours She spent kneeling, The bible opened On her lap, Her forehead wrinkling And her mouth moving With no sound escaping.

Yet — This room feels welcoming Like the sheets Neatly spread, smelling Like her ointment

Shadows

by Karla Mae H. Romero

31

Judgement Day

by Patricia Cang

32

The Rain is Different Now

by Adeva Jane Esparrago When I was young, the roofs would sing in jubilation when downpours graced its hollowness.

We baptized our heads with water from the gutters along with leaves and dirt.

The clumsier ones slip in the mud, but we would present our wounds gapingwounds would drink from it and be healed.

The harder it poured, the louder we’d sing until our mouths would fill with coldness, then it would be time to go home.

The skin on our fingers made creases. we liked that.

We dripped on the doorway, shivering. teeth clattering.

We made noises to match the teeth-song.

But times have changed.

The rain is different now.

The roofs no longer sing but sigh.

The rain brings different sounds, different memories.

The rain still fills the hollow spaces in our bones, until they leak, until our eyes fill with rain to the brim and spill over.

33

Na Naman

by Lysandra S. Binayao

Heto na naman, nakatitig sa orasan Sinusubaybayan bawat galaw ng kamay Ninanais na sana oras ay bilisan Kahit anong pilit ay hindi mapalagay Heto na naman, nakatanaw sa orasan Magpapakawala malalim na buntong hininga Titingin sa kawalan, mag-iisip ng paraan Hindi na kaya manatiling nakatunganga Heto na naman, nakatingin sa orasan Magkukunwaring ayos lang ang lahat Di makikita sa mukha ang pinagdadaanan Dumaraang oras, ‘di kayang isukat Kung bakit ba kasi palagi na lang ganito Hindi mapigilan kahit palaging kumakain Gutom na naman ako!

Buong araw naman kasi ay oras ng pagkain

34

Decaying

by Rizalyka Joanne M. Waminal

35

36

PROSE

37

Life After Death

by Melvin P. Villacote

38

Chasing Sunsets

by Freshelle May L. Tilanduca

A Parley

by Maejelou Morales

It was on the first month of the year that I found myself sitting on the corner of my living room, feeling my heart pound to the sounds of screaming silence. I have isolated myself and life has left me with two things: a knife on my right hand and a left wrist evident with scars, expecting to soon feel ache sear through wounds. This moment is where I is most desperate to find the panacea to all my dilemmas, where I badly wanted to destroy the pain that has embraced me. A sight broke the emptiness, vaguely familiar but familiar regardless. I saw shadows escaping my scars like black ink flowing, spreading itself onto the floor, leading up to my bedroom. Reluctant, I followed the path those shadows have led me. I entered my room, walls slightly cracked, dust seen in every furniture, unclean clothes piling up everywhere. It was in its usual state, a dumpsite representing my lack of motivation, smelling like death. The shadows flowing from my scars lead to her – my nemesis, an entity I host without ever meaning to. Often my friends would describe her as my character flaw, an unwelcome guest I bring to every event, to every party that is said to make me seem less fun. They were wrong, she never was my character flaw. She was an entire character herself.

In my room she stood, a woman who looked quite a lot like me. There were days when I thought that she and I were one, but comparing who I see when I stand opposite a mirror and how she is, I have come to realize that she and I are not entirely alike. She was skinnier, more beautiful and she had ways to present herself. She wore the uniform of a university I never got into. She had sharp, young eyes, and I have witnessed nothing greater than the smile carved into her face. She was a well-known companion, a recurring reminder of how sunken my eyes were from blaming the stars the previous night for not aligning the way I wished that they had. She looked like the daughter my mother would brag about, she looked like the child wondrous enough to make her father stay. She looked like me, only different. Entirely different.

She locked the door, never welcoming the hands of the people that wanted to save me, trapped behind and never being powerful enough to take over her dominion. As 39

soon as she shut it, darkness took over the room. I was not terrified of the dark, and the fact that I was not was maybe part of the problem. I am well-accustomed to the predicaments she constantly brought about. Stuck in this room, with the knife on my hand still, I wanted to end her. Considering the depth of the grudges I had against her, to loathe her was a poor understatement. She had an inconsistency in leaving me alone. She found ways to reappear at the expense of my inconvenience. On some days, she would hold me hostage, pinning me down the mattress, making me feel pained and apathetic, all at once. She has seen me jot down poetry countless times, took my pen away and convinced me that I no longer feel ecstatic doing the things I thought I was passionate about. She is the reason I never feared death, she made me fear living instead.

Where she stood, I saw her speak inaudibly. She then put one foot after the other, making the distance that has separated us shorter and shorter each time. The closer she was to me, the clearer her murmurs were. She kept feeding me lies and whenever she did, she always looked honest. I remember vividly how she crawled her way to me whenever she saw how my fingers caressed the terraces of high buildings, encouraging me to jump. She told me about the assurance of her immediate disappearance that happens only when body hits the ground, and how liberating the rush of falling would have felt like. She made sudden escapes sound sweet. Whenever she visits, she never asked for favors that were many, just those that were much. The type of too much that would cost me everything.

It was when I figured out. She had first gotten into me when she pleaded for attention and succeeded. She made me feel misery at first, until I have completely forgotten what it was like to be not be miserable at all. I listened to her dishonesty, having her ignorant that I can now distinguish them from what I know to be truthful. She begged for my attention, ignorant that the moment I acknowledge her is the moment I start to see her not just as entity accountable for every emotion that had me breaking down midnight after midnight, but as the inevitable dilemma that was a part of me. And that opened the possibility of me triumphing. I became fully aware that I was hers to torment, and she was mine to address.

And so I directed my gaze towards her, dropped my knife and witnessed her frown at my refusal to give in to yet another one of her requests. I may not make her go away as quickly as I wish, or as easy as I would hope, but unceasingly refusing and taking even the smallest steps away from her was taking steps away from her nonetheless.

40

Heart to Heart

by Andrea Felice J. Abesamis

41

It is Time. Goodbye

by Tiffany Mae Uy

“The countdown has started!” Simon yelled.

Anna stepped back from the corpse of her brother and ran to the gigantic grandfather clock. An eerie, green cloud hovered at its dials, and smelled of magic, Anna thought.

Each second brought the doom of their clockwork world of time loops and time travels.

“You have to stop it.” Simon began, “I can’t.” Anna said bitterly, “Gideon made sure of that.” Gideon was her brother, and the creator of the clock. “I’ve run out of magic, Simon.”

At that moment V rushed to their side. He looked shaken at the sight of the corpse he just passed by.

“I may not be able to stop the clock, but you can.” Anna upon beholding him, red coat and all.

V stopped in his tracks. “But- ’’ “You’re the only one next to me who can manipulate time. Besides, I’ve run out of magic.”

V faced the giant clock. True, he had occassionaly stopped time before, but not on this scale where so many lives depended on him.

He strained with all his mind, reaching into the inner workings of the clock, but still it went right on ticking. He opened his eyes, and realized that Anna had moved to stand in front of him.

“Don’t think.” She said softly. “Use your heart. Not your mind.”

V could smell her perfumed hair, and hoped that she couldn’t hear the quickening

42

pace of his heart. He plucked at the strings of his beating heart, trying to still that infernal machine. His heart and the clock.

Anna saw the pucker of thought on his brow. She saw her entire life pass before her eyes, the things she longed to do, but never did: either out of fear, duty or simply because there was no time for it. So this time she reached out and pulled him into an embrace, pressing her head against his beating heart.

With a jolt V realized what she was doing, and when he did, the ticking of the clock halted.

“You did it,” Anna whispered after awhile. As her heart pounded in her chest, a sharp pain pierced her heart and she felt herself slipping.

V caught her when she did, thinking at first that she was exhausted, but to his horror she started coughing blood. Simon rushed to their side, and to him V cried “Do something!”

The older man shook his head. “When Gideon created the clock, he did it not only to end our world, but to stop the bullet that was lodged in Anna’s chest.” Simon said hollowly.

Anna gasped for the air that was now burning her lungs, and a sob shook her, yet she clung to V. He held her as though he could keep her out of the clutches of death.

“I love you,” he whispered brokenly.

Her mouth twitched, “I know,” was all she said. Her fingers lost their grip, and V knew she was gone. “The countdown has started!” Simon yelled.

43

Jar of cookies

by Mary Therese P. Mole

“Why is she crying?” I asked my mom when I saw my older sister sobbing in the corner of her room. I was only peeking at the door from outside her room when I saw her shedding tears on a photo of a boy.

“Your sister is heartbroken.” My mom told me and peeked as well to check on my sister. But I was only 5 then and didn’t understand what mama said. “Heartbroken? Will ate die? My teacher told me that when something bad happens to our heart, we might die.” I was really innocent and worried.

Mama chuckled a bit. “No, honey. She just loved a person who broke her heart. She is just sad right now.” In mom’s attempt to make me understand the situation, I only got more puzzled.

“But isn’t love supposed to make you happy? I love you and papa and I’m not sad. So why is ate sad?”

Mama bent down to cup my face and gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. “You will understand all of this soon, dear.”

“But I want to understand it now.”

“Time will come when you will experience that kind of love and you will understand what I’m talking about.” Mama said, patting my head. “For now, let’s just bake cookies to make your ate feel better.”

“So cookies are the cure?” I innocently asked, but mama just chuckled.

Fifteen years later and I’m in my room, munching on dozens of cookies while crying over a guy who left me.

I now know how loving can still make you sad. It sucks more than dying, because the heart still beats even if it’s broken; you’ll feel all the pain and wallow in it. It’s like dying alive— which is sadder than actual death.

I just wish I didn’t want to understand when I was younger. I wish time didn’t come when I had to experience heartbreaks because god knows how hard it is to feel better again— Not even a jar of cookies can save you from the pain. I wish mom answered when I asked if it were the cure.

44

Day One

by Karla Mae H. Romero

45

46

Taking Breaths

by Louise Antoinette Marie Acac

47

Battered Person Syndrome

by Alton Melvar Dapanas

You wait before you enter. You always do. Pausing briefly at the front door, you feel suspended in this space, between the coming and the going. The yellowed rug is tacky against the bottom of your feet, and the incandescent bulb in the ceiling brightens the pale of the bare walls so they tint yellow. You stand in the hallway that separates his bedroom from the rest of the small apartment, and it’s too bright, an overexposed negative.

He calls you, his voice strong and clear despite the closed door, his plea a lure: Istorya sa ta!, and you know what that means. If you wanted to, you could leave. The door behind you, with your favorite shirt hung to cover the window, leads outside to the stinging March evening air, to the sikad terminal. But this is what you came here for—this final talk.

Standing in his dark room again after a year apart, you feel as though you’ve come home to find an old house rearranged. The street lamps beyond the window leak an accordion of light through the slits in the blinds, and as your eyes adjust you find his vague outline, one knee bent as he sits propped up against a large pillow on the bed, his bare hairy chest, the disembodied ember of the cigarette he holds between two fingers. You stand back by the wall, hiding in shadows that might conceal this crescendo. His room is an escape from the harsh light of the empty hallway, from the bright awareness of your own quiet apartment, from what each day feels like now that he is gone.

You flick your eyes toward shapes which can only be understood in the dark— the square of the television, the trapezoid of the old lamp, the wide rectangle of the cabinet. These are the things that are still familiar. But there is an acute hollowing that grows deep within your spine and spreads itself through your bones as your eyes try to make sense of what else has become familiar—the small boxes on the dresser now hold his new boyfriend’s photograph where yours used to be.

48

You walk to the edge of his bed and bang your shin hard against the sharp frame, bone to metal. You wince, a pierced inhale, and he pulls the cigarette from his lips and hands it to you. When you breathe in, it tastes of burning. Then you’re surrounded by the thin smoke, by the merge of whys and why nots, and it smells like a few minutes from now it will begin to rain. You can taste defiance on your tongue, a solid two letters: no, he can’t have both of you; no, you are worth more than this. But then there is his voice: Gusto ko makigbalik, and you know that he means this because of how quietly he’s speaking, how you have to struggle to take in the words.

Finally, he touches you. When he cups your hips in his palms and squeezes his fingers deep into you, you can feel the darkness begin to consume you in great waves, and you are not afraid. You are not afraid. You let yourself stop wondering where his new boyfriend might be tonight as his body teases up from the bed beneath you, the tension coiling his body like an animal that’s ready now to go in for the kill. His movement begs you to pant low and steady, like a machine; begs to spark electricity between the circuit of his teeth to your collarbone, the only way you like it. And you can’t stop now. He’s conned you into commitment with these careful illusions, his words like paper birds rising suddenly into the air, each delicate wing creating its own tiny, violent wind.

Once he’s filled the inside of you, he moves his body to a rhythm you can’t find, something aggressive and unbridled, and for a moment you look back over your shoulder, toward the door you can no longer see in the dark. He takes two fingers and turns your chin so you are face to face again, and his eyes glitter like little ghostly windows in the black. He pulls your shoulders down against his body, your mouth to his ear, and you find your own voice startling, the whisper of a stranger: I love you, but even that is now a lie.

Previously published in “Not Here: A Queer Anthology of Loneliness” (London, UK: Pilot Press, 2017), reprinted in Issue 4: “Mental Disorders” of the Bulawan Literary Journal of Northern Mindanao (Cagayan de Oro, PH: Bulawan Books, 2018)

49

After

by Francisco III Sulita The first hour after you committed suicide, you noticed your body swinging around like a pendulum on the ceiling of your room, wrapped with nothing but the scars that embody your hate, piercing your very existence, and you smile.

The second hour, you saw your brother drop his glass of water as he unlocked the door to your room, wanting to greet you on your birthday. You watched as his hero, his inspiration crumble before his eyes, becoming nothing more than a lifeless being, and you covered your eyes and ears as he shouts for your mother, his voice filled with sadness and anger.

The third hour, you saw your body being brought in an ambulance and your mother, pale from crying, hoarse from shouting, screaming at the skies, asking what has she done wrong. Your heart breaks as you see your mother kneel and weep and scream, and then you understand she loved you more than anything. It was you who never saw. You tried to hug and say you loved her, but it was too late.

The fourth hour, you run. You run away, hoping to never see any of the living again, but then you see your father hugging your mother tightly and for the first time, you see your father cry. You see your father stammer as he consoles your brother, as he apologizes to him as he blames himself for everything. You see him panic as he sees your mother faint, the message clear in his eyes saying “I don’t want to lose you too.”

Your father blames himself. Your mother blames herself. This is what you wanted, but why is your chest tightening?

The fifth hour after you committed, you begin to wish you hadn’t.

50

Holy Hour

by Amiemon C. Godmalin

51

52

Battus philenor

by Jean Mika M. Aporillo

53

I Refused

by Aga Mari Nulo

On a cold night when the dogs have rested without their supper for the second time, my gaze was fixed aimlessly at the pale blue walls again. It was quiet, serene even; though never felt the same since. Even as I was laying on my old bed, the loving comfort from its aging fabric lost its reprieving touch. Or maybe it had something to do with me having bony flesh underneath my clothes.

The walls, my personal audience; on the edges of their seats, were waiting for my usual triumphant exclamation of joy – my proof of graduation before me sealed in a brown envelope; my diploma. For a time, it was. But soon ran dry when we ran out of money prior to my graduation; majority was spent for me and my brother’s education. That was the main plan: for me to graduate.

I can recall the graduation ceremony as pristine as the luminescent moon on a deep black night. I donned my black university toga, both my parents in complete attendance. Despite coming from a broken family, its events like these that brings us together...most of the time.

After that, we’d go our separate ways.

My dad, the cranky one – he was either looking for a spot to sit down alone after having a conversation or two with me or staying away from my mom whenever she tried to get close to him; he finds her annoying even before they split up. My mom, the superwoman – always looked for every opportunity to take pictures of me with my dad, and finding ways to portray just how much she was proud of me; often requesting – nay, demanding – that I do the “finger heart” gesture with her and my dad. She was the ham spread; me and my dad were the bread loaves – we make the standard sandwich. A pity my brother could not make it that day; he would have been the assorted vegetables slices.

My heart – a symbol of life and love – gracefully danced along with my elated emotions each time I recall the memory.

As I left the bedroom, I happened to glance upon the silver refrigerator stationed at the living room. Oddly enough, it was placed in the center of the house; exactly opposite to the main entrance.

54

Street Poetry

by James Patrick Pabonita

Vetus

by James Patrick B. Pabonita

55

Though its primary function is to house food, it held a different effect on everyone. Every first week of a new month, a man from the electric company would greet us with a new bill; and I would place it on the front side of the refrigerator. We always had to worry about two sets of bills in one paper; the fear of disconnection was a prevalent choking thought, sending bolts of anxiety and stress to everyone.

And all of us would see the bill immediately every time we go home; if we were Kryptonians, the designated species of Superman, then, the electric bill served as our Kryptonite – we writhed in silence, a burning agony shaped like Death’s hand tugging our already weakened hearts.

From the living room, I gathered my resume copies and letters and brought them back to the bedroom. Being in a small house, there wasn’t much room to choose where to read. I scanned my application letter like a hawk in search of prey; sharp, focused, and restless. After receiving rejections from over thirty or more companies, I thought for sure that I failed in an area or two or three, which might have dampened my chances of getting hired; or my resume wasn’t attractive enough.

Instinctively, I felt my bony flesh; I felt so hungry. Some nights like tonight, we weren’t so lucky. Food was limited because of the lack of money, and sometimes we’d have more air and misery than crackers and breads in our body. Cravings are more pronounced; it was an especially difficult roadblock for my mom. We lacked proper nutrition, and it showed when one day we felt tired of just walking around the house.

I kept glancing at my phone; hoping that the next notification I see is about my job application or my girlfriend. I received none. It was at that point that I started to notice that she hasn’t returned my silly “I love yous” or any of my other messages. Long distance relationships are extremely difficult, and I needed her words the most. Alas, I feared that I was slowly losing her; the very thought of it brought me paralysis seasoned with fear After crumpling a few papers, I threw everything away, including my patience. A frustrated groan followed and…

Tears fell. Actual tears fell without my permission; it trickled, unobstructed, warm and lost.

At the edge of my bed, I sat, head down with both palms covering my eyes. The sadistic laughter of my dark thoughts were booming loud as it danced along the cold chains around my neck; the fewer money we had, the shorter and tighter the chained collar would be. I couldn’t go out to see my friends because I lack money; I’m a prisoner in my own house and my thoughts are the jailers.

For eleven months, even after graduation, this was the everyday life.

Then the sadistic laughter stopped; replaced by the echoes of a single instruction. I rose from my bed.

56

I saw my mother using my laptop in the dining area next to the kitchen, laughing delightfully to her Korean dramas; reading glasses present. Truth be told, we just leeched on my aunt’s WiFi. That’s all I want to see and hear from her; no sad lines to crumple her beauty, nor the weight of the world on her shoulders. If I can, I never want to hear her whimpers and silent aches again. I love her so much.

In a tiny room, I hear my younger brother yelling in triumph at beating an online game. He and I may not get along, but that’s also what I want to hear from him: a triumph in his voice as he reaches his dreams. I love him dearly.

Every attempt to change the situation was rewarded with no victory; the dark thoughts have shown me truth. So why should I still be alive? I… wanted to die.

I picked up the knife just as I reached the kitchen. I rattled, the instructions in my head laughing in unison. The handle felt like it was destined to be wielded by me that night; my eyes never left the point of the blade.

My mom saw me; she rose from her seat, frozen by fear – fear for my life – but determined to prevent it. Her reading glasses fog up as her tears fell down, face turned sorrowfully scarlet.

Her mouth moved, but I hear nothing. I rattled even more; as the corners of my vision began to darken, the pale blue walls lifeless.

“Don’t worry, Ma.” I managed to say, giggling and rattling. “This can solve all our problems.

At least they’ll be one less mouth to feed; one less disappointment to acknowledge. I don’t do anything right!”

The edge of the knife was now at my neck; I could feel its jagged tip; just one good push and the peace I hungered will make its way to me at last. The blade beckoned me; whispered dark incantations so seductively that I was pulled by its sweet-sounding lullaby: promises of freedom; promises of release. The laughter and the echoes of instruction growled in a menacing unison.

The heart, my heart – a symbol of life and love – has been shattered into two from the raging onslaught from these eleven months. Hunger, hopelessness, fear – they have all roosted inside.

I finally believed what they were saying; and I couldn’t handle it anymore.

I can’t do it… Failure… I deserve death for being useless… Everything I do is a pointless endeavor…

I… I…

57

Flowers on January

by Amiemon C. Godmalin

58

Wedding Day

by Angelic Mae P. Jumadla

It’s your wedding day, the day you’ve been waiting for ever since you first realized you wanted to get married. You held the beautiful bouquet and smelled the scent of the blue roses you especially favoured. You took three steps forward, and the church doors slowly opened.

You looked straight ahead and saw the love of your life waiting for you at the altar. You smile at the sight of him, so dashing and handsome in his suit. Happily, you started walking towards him, but then, you looked around for a second – and then you halted.

“Why is he here?” was the first thought that came into your mind, because there and then, standing among the crowd of people with tears in his eyes, was the first man you loved; and the first man who broke your heart too. Your thoughts took you back to that fateful day. You remembered how hard you cried and begged him to stay. “Please stay. Please don’t leave,” you still remember saying those words, and you still hear the sound of your heart breaking when he left as if he never heard your plea.

The soft whispers of the people brought you back to reality. You realized that they were all wondering why you stopped walking. You straightened up and continued walking to the altar – a bit disoriented. Every step forward makes you want to step back and run into the arms of the man you first loved. You wanted to, but you couldn’t and you didn’t.

After the words of love were said, the vows were exchanged, and the promise of forever was sealed with a fervent kiss, you and your husband faced the crowd with the most beautiful smiles on your faces. However, your eyes – they spoke of a different emotion: Pain. But most of all, your eyes spoke of longing. You looked around the crowd and saw the man preparing to leave. He turned his back and headed towards the door. You fought against going after him, but when you saw that he was already outside, you didn’t care about the people around you anymore; you just went after the man you first loved, the man who first broke your heart.

You ran so you could catch up to him, and luckily, you did. You hugged him from the back tightly while crying hard, and you still managed to say, “Please don’t leave me. Not again, dad.”

59

MGA PANABOT

by Alton Melvar Dapanas alang kay M

I. Milili kas bintana kon asa nimo nakita ang dakbayang nabuhi. Gikan diras ikadoseng andana sa sidlakang bahin niining siyudad, nahinulong imong mga mata sa pagbusikad sa mga suga, ang mga sinyas sa gabie misubang sama sa tukar.

II. Mahanduraw mo kon unsaon paglakaw sa mga kadalanan sa ubos. Dugay mo nang gidamgo nga molakaw ug di na mobalik. Apan imong likod, nag-atubang gihapon sa talad kon asa naglaray ang usa ka tambak sa mga librong wa pa nimo mabasa. Kon buot mong mohaguros sa di tin-aw nga talan-awon, masaksihan mo kon giunsa pagtam-ak sa mga baso sa serbesa ngadtos mga nagsubong baba. O matubag kon nganong abay ning tulay sa rilis, o nganong ginsaangan ning rilis ang overpass. Mahimangno ba niini kanimo nga ang kahumot sa gugma nagpabilin: panag-uban.

III. Busa, katingala na lang sa mga angkon sa panggawas, samtang kini sila mosabwag niining dakbayan, ug molabang sa unsay naa dira ug sa unsay wala diri, hangtod sila mobalik nimo, baynte ka ang-ang gikan sa kapasikaran sama sa mga komplikado ug nagsumpay-sumpay nga mga lawa-lawa sa panghitabo.

IV. Ikaw gihangyo nga dimdimon ning lumalabay nga takna, kining kupot sa imong kaanyag, kining mga pagsugyot nga nagbitay sa tungang-gabiing huyuhoy sa Oktubre ug sa mga alisngaw sa mosunod nga kadlawon.

V. Ug ikaw matinguhaong motubag daw adunay naminaw taliwala sa tag-as nga gilayon sa kahilom, imong itakilid imong nawong ngadtos tanang milingkawas. Bisan asa karon, motungha ang mga hunahuna: ang paglubay sa mga kinabuhi niining dakbayan, sa malinawong pagsurop sa bugtong ug sa dugang.

VI.

60

Milamwas ka nas unsay naas sulod. Sukad pa sa una, buot mong mabuhian.

Rebirth

by Sheil Ann Ashley P. Bruas 61

The Vast Waves in Sydney

by Khristine Marjorie Quiblat

62

The best part(s) about living in a house on the beach:

by Francisco III Sulita

Sand is everywhere. You see it on your dilapidated bay walk you built the week after you moved in. It’s in your shoes, your shirt, sand is everywhere.

You’d hear the rhythm of the ocean in the middle of the night, waves knocking like lullabies that were clearly meant to keep you awake but failed. You smell and taste salty mist in your mouth whenever you’d strut outside every single day for the past 3 years.

It’s unlimited sand castles and sand kingdoms.

You’d see how the moon lends it light to the sea, creating a white walkway on the dark waters whenever you stay up late simply because you couldn’t sleep, and in the morning you’d see a canvass of colors as mother sun claims her domain, showing off shades of pink, orange and yellow scarves, God, I love living by the sea.

63

Most of all, you love waking up to the sound of her footsteps, how she’d open all the windows, let light into the room and sing goodmorning. You love the way she runs to that old bay walk and sits down, you love the way she dangles her feet and tease the waters with her touch. You love the fact that this is, has been, and will always be your dream. You and her.

Life often feels like that, but trust me, it isn’t always like that. You see, when someone tells you they live by the sea, it isn’t all that perfect.

No one tells you about the first time it rained so hard, the waters caved around, under and above your home that it shook. No one tells you how often the waves are loud and menacing, you dream about how they loom over your home, or how unnaturally silent they are that you can’t fall asleep without them whispering in your ears, singing to you in their rhythm.

No one tells you about the time some people get left behind with their dreams.

That of the two names carved on that bay walk, only one person was cursed to sit there and remember.

No one tells you about the time she slowly became sick of the sea and talked about moving back to the city. No one tells you about the time she took off in the middle of the night and you pretended to be asleep. No one tells you about the first time you opened your windows in the morning, felt the color was more grey than orange, and your mouth tasted like her strawberry flavored lip gloss even though you only smell salt.

It’s writing both your names in sand and leaving them to get swept by the sea or blown by the wind. It’s crying as you skinny dip so the sea can take away your sadness.

It’s shouting while the waves roar. It’s sand everywhere. Sand and sea she left you.

Sad how there’s been more storms in your heart and rain in your eyes than outside your home these past years.

64

Pink Skies

by Reham P. Macataman

Adieu

by Reham P. Macataman

65

One More

by Blayce Ann Malaya

At the age of 20, I was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. Since then, my will to live has slowly dissipated. Disregarding every plan I have made, both short and long-term—my remaining days were spent hardly functioning (thanks to the toxic cells inhibiting my body) day in and day out.

My parents beg me every single day to take whatever experimental treatment the modern doctors have in stored for me, but I chose to decline. Besides, I couldn’t be any happier when my weight starts dropping since I’ve always wanted to get skinny—but not too skinny. I’m barely recognizable with my skin tightly wrapping around my frame. That free-spirit, bubbly girl I have once become is now nothing but a melted candle, whose flames will soon frazzle.

“Sige na Nang, ayaw kawala ug paglaom,” the sadness in my father’s voice sliced through my already frail heart.

No, I’m not simply giving up. I just happened to embrace and accept my fate. Some people might think that the endgame of life is when you finally earn your college degree or marrying your high school sweetheart or finally living out your dream—it’s not. It is at the moment your soul leaves its dwelling place—death is everyone’s endgame. And so, after the consistent excruciating migraines, suspicious weight loss, and recurring nosebleeds—I’ve unexpectedly received my sentence of the inevitable endgame.

Besides, my father should be proud of me. He’s the one who taught me to accept fate even if it tastes sour and bitter. Before my diagnosis, my family and I were fighting against my sister’s chronic depression—except for my dad. No matter how thorough the explanation was, he never understood the graveness of her condition.

“Dawat naman nako, ana man gyud na,” he said one evening when I accidentally eavesdrop my parent’s argument. The tone of his voice was like venom that has crept into my bloodstream and the sight of my mother crying made me hate his principles. However, when he found out that his going to lose his eldest daughter due to an actual illness—not mental illness—the ACTUAL illness, his high and prideful walls came crumbling down.

Laying comfortably in these white clean sheets, staring softly into my father’s exhausted brown eyes, I whispered “Dawat na nako, ana man gyud na diba?” his eyes widens in shock. Perhaps, recalling what he had said months ago. “Dile lang ko gusto mu biya unya kamo magkalisod,” and no matter how he wanted to continue arguing, the room fell silent.

Nevertheless, I’m just doing them a favor. Sooner or later I’ll be leaving and the last thing I want to happen is leaving them buried into the bottomless pit of financial debt.

66

Hence, the waiting game started.

It was excruciatingly slow, but I waited with my brave heart. Then, amidst the heartwrenching torture, fate decides to once again test the strength of my soul.

I met her.

Immediately capturing my lifeless soul with her adorable smile; her bright brown eyes oozes with optimism and hope; and that euphonious voice that made me want to fight this agonizing battle—with her heart out on her sleeves, despite the tragedy she knows she will soon face, awakens my determination to try and do everything just to stay here, with her.

She brought back my will to live and oh, how I beg the heavens every day to let me have one more day. To wake up one more morning just to see her incandescent smile; to spend one more day talking endlessly about anything; to witness her grow and become an eminent artist; to laugh, to cry, to be loved and able to reciprocate the love she deserves.

I just want one more day, one more week, one more month, one more year—to profess and show the world how I found the light inside this dark tunnel.

However, my frail body continues to disappoint me despite my willingness to live. Even with my persistence to beg for one more.

“Oh, God just one more day.”

And another one.

One more.

67

Great Heights

by Karla Mae H. Romero

68

69

Author’ s Note

by Maejelou Morales

The ink that flows from my pen spreads all over the sheets of paper I placed on my table, the only words decipherable are those that write of him. My feelings turn to letters, my thoughts turn to words. I free my mind and let the ballpoint trail through the first page of a thousandpaged book.

The introduction tells you how my mind perceives what he is. A becoming man. An exceptionally astounding creature. The epitome of how unfathomable perfection comes to life.

The next pages indicate how a naĂŻve young woman finally makes a single successful judgment after meeting the hero of the book. The pages also express stereotypical circumstances like how the world stops when I see him pass by, how many sleepless nights I have had are spent thinking of him, the overwhelming adrenaline rush I feel in my body whenever his name pops up in my caller ID, and all of those that would seem too long to disclose one after another. As one would read through, the desperation of the writer becomes more and more overpowering.

The story of how they finally involved themselves in a relationship and everything in between, the things every girl would dream of are established. This includes him throwing rocks outside her window, how he takes her to inexpensive yet very opulent places, the way his hands fit hers, how most of her smiles, laughter and emotions are exclusive to only him. As the story goes on, she fell deeper than her heart would care to let her and for the first time in a very long time, she gave someone the ability of destroying her, not minding the innumerable times of betrayal and weariness she had experienced. Their story eventually becomes more sentimental. She showed him the deepest of scars within her, the absence of light in her life, how she was stuck on the same page of over and over again, and how he changed all of these. To him, breaking her heart is now easier than it ever was.

Delinquency then kicks in. Denouement was nowhere to be found. The darkness he hid behind his light was now obvious. Her book changed context. The pages are now withering.

The words flowed, and so did the tears from her eyes. This is the part where source of her exuberance has left without any explanation, without any consolation. The only things left were a pile of depressing memories, the lies within his words, and a broken soul. Her greatest fear is now; this is when the evil twin of the happiness he causes her reveals itself. Time tried to heal the wounds present in her heart, and she convinced herself that she is over him, that the 70

memory of him will remain in the past and that her present and her future will be untouched by his lingering thoughts. And then she saw him with another girl. The sight was so excruciating she felt like a helpless piece of paper torn bits by bits. Being the writer she is, she came running home, completely allowing everything to be out of sight and just grabbed a pen and the book that stayed empty the day he left.

This writing is the product of the mischief of a man too deceptive to predict. He is no longer at my side, and he probably never will be again. That may seem too evident to point out, but it is not at all factual. He is not on my side, but he is on the deepest of my thoughts, my emotions, and everything there is. He stays here, he always will. He lives on the deepest parts of me.

I write because he exists.

Victor

by June Benedict Laplana 71

False Prophet

by Patricia Cang

72

The

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

Publishers Subscribing Students of Xavier University Editorial Board Mary Therese P. Mole Editor in Chief Winona Roselle Serra Associate Editor Jayson Elvie G. Ty Design Editor Tisha C. Abejo Managing Editor Merryane Rose S. Bacud Features Editor * Gene Gerard G. Verona Photography Editor* Karla Mae H. Romero Graphic Design and Layout Editor Rizalyka Joanne M. Waminal Freehand Editor Finance Officers Anna Jamela S. Balindong Auditor Tisha C. Abejo Senior Finance Manager Rafhael L. Jabongga Junior Finance Manager (Trainee) Managers Ar-Raffi C. Macaumbos Human Resource & Office Manager Khristine Marjorie L. Quiblat Circulations Manager Jayson Elvie G. Ty Online Accounts Manager*

Moderator Mr. Stephen Roy J. Pedroza

Staff Writers Maita Angelica S. Arenas (Contributor) Khalid M. Bashier (Contributor) Abdel Rafi M. Lim Blayce Ann P. Malaya (Trainee) Staff Artists Andrea Felice J. Abesamis (Trainee) Louise Antoinette Marie G. Acac (Trainee) Jean Mika M. Aporillo (Trainee) Derrick Kean A. Auxtero Sheil Ann Ashley P. Bruas Sumayyah G. Caris (Trainee) Juan Antonio T. Fernandez Paula Elaine D. Francisco (Trainee) Rafhael L. Jabongga (Trainee) NiĂąo Vincent B. King (Trainee) June Benedict C. Laplana (Contributor) Reham P. Macataman (Trainee) Jinky M. Mejica Louise Miguel P. Obaob (Trainee) James Patrick B. Pabonita (Trainee) Alhakim B. Palanggalan (Trainee) Prince John Samontina (Trainee) Aaron John N. Seno (Trainee) Melvin P. Villacote (Trainee)

*Interim

Panelists Ben Aguilar Hazel Aspera

Adeva Jane Esparrago Dennis Flores

Alton Melvar Dapanas Ton Daposala

Abigail C. James Raymond YbaĂąez