Veritas Literary and Arts Folio 2014

Veritas | Opposites: A World of Contrasts 2014

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Opposites: A World of Contrasts Cover Artwork by Francis Ryan O. Avellana Photo by Jigo L. Racaza Layout by Jericho B. Montellano Circulation 3,000 copies www.thecrusaderpublication.com

Veritas | Opposites: A World of Contrasts 2014

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FOREWORD A wise man once said, “Life is a daily struggle because there are two forces within us: forces of good and forces of evil.”

This man versus man conflict is only one example of contrasts which bombard us every day. Opposites range from disparity between the rich and poor, wide spectrum of emotions, to differences defined by time.

In grade school, we were taught about antonyms: beautiful is the opposite of ugly, yes the opposite of no, and always the reverse of never. We learn, however, that a black and white thinking barely works in a world made of a million colors.

Man is, in the same way, too complex to be classified simply as bad and good. Too often, we hear people say that opposites attract: perhaps it is less of ‘attract’ and more of ‘complement’. The intricacies of a human being which bring about a myriad of differences are to be celebrated--not tolerated or disdained.

Veritas Literary and Arts Folio shows how opposites can not only be experienced but also seen as words, photos, and illustrations. Veritas is a menagerie of the XU community’s literary and visual works which highlight the contrasts of our world.

L i t e r a ry a n d A rt s Fo l i o 2 0 1 4

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The Smoker

by April Joy Laurente

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Ellipsis You look for phantom faces under cups of cold coffee, in missing pages of a diary or fading pictures of youth.

In love letters tucked under stacks of sealed postcards or beyond doors of abandoned houses.

Yet, you find no one.

Not anywhere. But

right before you sleep, for instance,

only in ordinary

when the mind

moments,

tries to remember and forget.

- Summer Daffodil M. Paguia

by Dennis Dave Benigno

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All the Brands, For Your Glory Fleeting

by Adeva Jane H. Esparrago

All the brands for your glory, Costly prices write your story.

Posting and boasting to some, The feeling of almighty, thy kingdom come!

Hard-earned green wasted on coffee, doughnut, and milk-tea tasted.

Include the linings and designs for clothing, All that shine, shimmer for personal styling.

Desiring an advanced modernized phone; The rugged, the homeless live on streets alone.

Pushing for the latest model; Cease the pain, Juan sniffs a Rugby bottle.

Fretting over an “out of order”; The innocent in the prison needs a just lawyer.

All the brands for your glory?

The world is full of foolhardy.

Costly prices write your story?

Share the greens to the needy!

How is it on top of everyone when the rest weep for they have none?

- Jose Angelo Lorenzo S. Gomos

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Today, Tomorrow Today I say goodbye to the days we could borrow Today I say hello to a future without you.

Today I say goodbye to the uncertainty of tomorrow Today I say hello to the nightmares that are due.

Today I walk alone in the memory of your embrace the smiles, kisses, the dreams that we have once set Tomorrow, I face reality and the things I must erase The life of us together, I must change - I must forget Tonight I sleep soundly in the pillow that we shared Tomorrow I live haunted by the love that I covet Tonight I imagine the soul that was spared From four years of pain and endless regret Today I wear a smile for those who know me not Tonight I cry my tears that I know refuse to halt Tomorrow I drown in this endless stream of thought Tomorrow I surrender to my guilt, to my fault Today I say goodbye to the curse we could not mend Today I say hello to a future without you Today I say goodbye to the mother that you were While wishing I could send all my kisses to you.

Life’s Paradox

by Lynette L. Tuvilla

- Herabelle Villanueva

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Coffee and Heart There she is, in the cafe Sitting by the window alone.

Mindlessly contemplating on why he disregards her.

9198 It’s rather sad how beautiful things Or places Or people Could transform into Something truly horrifying Once tinted by the memory of a love That is long gone -

Fatima Roqaya A. Datu-Ramos

The coffee on the table turns bitterly cold.

And so does the warmth in her heart.

Poem 4

- Jose Angelo Lorenzo S. Gomos

I have been staring at maps on the walls for hours,

Trying to remember All the places you have been

without me.

- Martina Jugador

Silence

by Celeste Obias

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by Jennifer T. Vaquilar www.thecrusaderpublication.com

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Loose Fits It came in early today I thought he’d send it later in the afternoon.

Yesterday, he said he was too busy to look for it.

“It’s somewhere in those boxes of ragged clothes, old toys, dusty books.

I’ll look for it when I have time.” he said.

I offered a hand in the search, but he shrugged it off, said he didn’t need it.

He always does that.

I took it out from the tattered box.

It has patches all over its dusty carcass.

The laces can’t be tangled together: too short.

But, aside from the little damages, it was okay, till I turned it upside down; spikes all worn out.

They look more like miniature humps on an ancient road.

But, again, spikes are spikes. Even if they’d probably not hold my feet firm on the ground.

And then it came to me, was it too big, again, for my size.

“You need not buy a new one.

It’ll suffice. Just use it.” he said, while carrying Tita’s bag one Sunday afternoon.

Sun Jam

by Stephanie Baz

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He’s always like that; passing hand-me-down shoes to me.

I’d accept it though. And use them during playoffs.

I’d run in marathons, play in ball games, wear ing shoes twice the size of my feet.

And as always, I’d fall short.

“Your shoes are too big,” they said, “try these on.

I think we’re of the same size.”

I’d shrug them off. “I don’t need it.” I’d say.

And continue with what I was doing, in my dad’s shoes.

But this time, I didn’t like the idea of running around the diamond, with loose pair of studs. So I decided to try it on. If it didn’t fit, I’d buy a new one. That simple.

I slid my right foot in, same goes with the other.

And surprisingly, they fit perfectly.

- Summer Daffodil M. Paguia

Luzviminda

by Star E. Tolentino

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Liberty and Captivity

by Kimberly Mae V. Llano

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Flesh and Bone

by Jericho B. Montellano

(Photo Courtesy: Time Magazine)

1978 There are sunsets in my mother’s collarbone but for her feet, she still wore Skyscrapers.

And in an afternoon stripped from her makeup and pencil skirt --a decade after she stopped telling me bedtime stories-she told me of a world that was once our own.

Where people walked with sunshine on their trails instead of exhaust and haste and uneaten breakfast.

Where conversations grew like flowers on the ground instead of asphalt and plastic and clogged drainage.

In a world where my father still held her hand instead of a ghostly white line around her ring finger.

A world splashed in sepia and kindness and ‘real’ people.

A place where prayers and love meant something.

A time when I still believed that knives are for cutting apples and that everyone always deserved a chance to redeem themselves.

And as my mother ended her reminiscing (like slipping the last page of a book through your fingers), I saw that the sunsets have moved in her eyes with wrinkles like the last fading rays of orange light.

With a faraway look, a sigh, and two tablespoons of nostalgia, I caught a glimpse of my mother in her youth when life was still hard but someone held her hand; a maiden who still hoped and dreamed and suffered quietly with the same hazel almond-shaped eyes.

I have my mother’s eyes.

- Sidlakan Therezza S Baluyos

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Pygmalion I will fall all over again on your artful hands that pluck the thorns from my flesh, and pinch my unrestful body like clay shaping my muted lips into a loud, deafening pucker— (you beckon me with your mad loneliness, Galatea, bittersweet like the fall of rain on the galvanized iron ceiling) I will fall all over again then feel your artful hands on the cold, marble bust of my skin unrestful, you mastered me.

- Maria Karlene Shawn I. Cabaraban

Maling Huli

by Christian Loui S. Gamolo www.thecrusaderpublication.com

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Education “Get educated”, I say, at the front of the classroom, before a dull-eyed full house of sleep deprived students.

Their notes are scribbles and scrawls, more sketches than pieces of academic thought laid out before them on the chalkboard.

The hour seems to drag on, frustration mounting as my spoken tomes slam into walls.

Their hands slow to a crawl, the faint scritch-scratch of pen to paper lost to the drone of the slow ticking clock.

Their hands stop altogether.

What are we doing wrong?

Or is their education only ever complete in the sea of society, unconfined by the seeming cage of the academe?

What a curious sight to see, an education attained where no classroom is needed.

Curious indeed.

- Jan Rupert Alfeche

Nothing I can do reaches them.

The bell tolls – sweet symphony! – and we both gather ourselves from our respective dissatisfaction.

Once inert, now in action, here in the midst of the nearest tea shop, I see shining, inquisitive eyes.

It may be due in part of the liquid adrenaline, but more so from the freedom among friends.

There is chatter chock full of thoughts, yet not a single one of these words were spoken in the classroom.

Skins

by Maria Gladys B. Labis www.thecrusaderpublication.com

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Just a Position

by Hensell Hebaya

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A vior Peur

The Bus Ride

by Adeva Jane H. Esparrago

The bus pulls away from the terminal; my sister softly sinks into the splitting silence of metal lullabies.

The vastness of the vehicle narrows in my restlessness, my slippers tap, tap, tap on the floor as, lurching, we embrace the journey to Medina.

How do we measure distance?

When it rains in Cagayan but my fingers feel dry in Balingoan, that is how I feel your absence and the roads stretching into dust and memories

past silent bungalows painted in the colors of your tasteful laugh.

I hear Medina from a distance, The gentle waves brushing against the shore, and I, tempestuous being, hear your absence resonate across the sands: The bus ride carries me away but where you are I stay.

- Maria Karlene Shawn I. Cabaraban

of afternoons that listen to the tap, tap, tap of rain on your Toyota and taste the wgrayness of lips crying for closure.

But this bus it drives past canopies of leafy arms reaching toward a blank canvas of skin,

Pamalandong

by Marlon R. Boro

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Youth is Wasted on the Young

by Marcelino Cahig Jr.

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The Cosmology of Our Love There are pieces of stars embedded on our bones that lay proof as to why we are both broken and whole and that was how we decided who stays and who goes.

Between my love for literature and your enthusiasm for sports there is a bridge to be crossed and a hand to hold formed in handwritten letters and time-outs for dates.

You say I walk in starlight. I see the galaxies in your eyes.

This is what makes us whole.

Yet there are some storms that cannot leave on Tuesday afternoons and 2Â A.M. muffled screams brewed from my tendency for self-destruction and your inclination towards temporary happiness.

This is what makes us broken.

This is the whole piece in us that reasons sweaty palms.

This way we can make flowers if we hold against each other.

This is the broken piece in me that calls the sky.

This is the broken piece in you that makes up the earth.

This way we can make trees out of my tears and your chest.

Maybe our brokenness is a perfect fit against each other.

Maybe this is our stars being drawn towards what loves and destroys them.

Maybe this was how the Bang was heard.

Maybe, someday, we can make another Universe with this love.

- Sidlakan Therezza S. Baluyos

Scarlet

by Amiemon C.Godmalin

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Isang tagpo sa fast food restaurant Bawat yugto ng paghihintay, bawat kamalayan ng walang katiyakan ay isang pagtupad sa pangako, o, hindi kaya, ang posibilidad ng katuparan nito. Ang pagpapaliban ay ang mismong katuparan.

Pesca

by Francis Ryan O. Avellana

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“Are you willing to wait…?”

Tanong niya sa akin.

Parang ginising, mula sa isang magandang panaginip, sa pamamagitan ng pagbuhos ng tubig na binabaran ng yelo.

Malamig. Gusto kong sumigaw, pero hindi ko magawa, hindi puede.

Nagising, hindi mula, kundi tungo sa isang bangungut. Mga salita ng wala ang lumabas mula sa aking bibig, walang pilit, buong kusa.

Di ako nakasagot, wala akong maisagot.

Nakatitig sa kanya, pilit inaalala, kung bakit umabot sa punto na kailangang pumili kung ako ba ay maghihintay o titigil, aalis, at kakalimutan na lang?

Bakit nga ba? Hindi ko maalala.

“Are you willing to wait…?”

Tanong niya ulit sa akin.

Eh ikaw, how long do you want me to wait? Tinanong ko siya.

Sagot niya “… .”

Hindi ko narinig. Nakabibingi

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pala ang ganito. Basta hindi ko alam kung ano.

Pero tiyak ko, hindi “forever” ang sagot niya. Hindi ko kaya ang maghintay ng forever. Hindi rin naman puwede. Wala namang ganun.

Forever, kung meron man, ito ay isang parusa. Parusa na piniling ipataw sa sarili para sa kasalanang hindi ko alam kung sino ang may gawa: siya ba o ako?

Ah basta, ayaw kong maghintay. Ayaw kong dalhin ang bigat ng pakiramdam na sa bawat araw ay tatak sa kamalayan ko na ang susunod ay isa na namang paglundag sa balon ng walang katiyakan: malalim, madilim; na ang bawat bukas ay maaaring maging isang pagbali sa pangako.

Ngunit kailangang magtaya, magtaya sa isang akala, naalala ko. Pero bakit, hindi ba pwedeng magkamali, ang magkamali ng akala?

No, I cannot wait. Ito ang naging sagot ko.

Thank you, dagdag ko.

“Okay,” sabi niya.

Tumalikod ako. Mabilis na naglakad papalayo sa kanya. Mabilis na tinungo ang nakangangang pinto.

At sa unang pagkakataon, ginusto ko ang makalimot.

by Stephanie Baz

- Tyron Keith Maru Varias Sabal

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by Haiko B. Magtrayo www.thecrusaderpublication.com

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Pain

by Rommel Opada

For Alana with Hugs and Coffee

by Abby Cabildo I notice a small flurry of movement at the corner of my eye and look up. At the desk outside our bedroom, Nana is waving her hands, trying to catch my attention. She must’ve been calling me in her soft voice, but I was listening to music with my earphones.

“What’s happening upstairs?” she asks.

I hit pause. The background noise I’ve been trying to ignore immediately registers as a great amount of yelling and crashing. “They’re fighting again,” I reply.

Nana frowns. As we both return to our laptops, I glance at Andy. She’s lying on her stomach, her eyes also glued to her computer screen with her earphones on. Probably watching Kyoukai no Kanata. Wait, nope, she has just updated her Facebook status. “Andy Cruz is feeling depressed: terrible christmas,” it says, with a despondent emoji. Only four minutes have passed and already the post has 96 likes. Sadists. A few scrolls ahead, Nana’s exchanging cheery comments with a friend who liked her Christmas anime artwork.

I’m notified of a new message. As far as I can tell from the thread preview, Tita Karen wants some help with taking care of Lolo Cesar. I don’t click on

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the thread lest my aunt sees that I’ve seen her message. It’s not like we’d fly all the way to Baguio on such short notice.

Nana is at the doorway. “Why are they fighting, Ate?” she asks. I’ve forgotten the sign for “misunderstanding” so I fingerspell it. M-i-s-u-n-d-e-r-s-t-an-d-i-n-g. She sighs and comes in to pet our dachshund who is cowering at the foot of my bed. She asks me if I’m okay. I smile at her and shrug.

Nana was born shortly after the beginning of the 1996 Summer Olympics which took place in the United States, in Atlanta, Georgia.

Mom took out the Ts to make “Alana.”

We call her Nana for short, but we have to do so at the top of our lungs since she’s severely deaf in her right ear and profoundly deaf in her left. Other kids whose mothers suffer German measles during pregnancy are not as fortunate.

At least Nana was spared her life.

I look up to see Mom going down the stairs, and Nana follows my gaze. She turns to me. “Mommy’s crying,” she says. I tell her that it’s always like that, that we should just leave everything be.

I tell her to go back to her desk before resuming my mindless stroll down my Tumblr dashboard. Everything usually just cleans itself up, spotless and ready for the next fight.

I can feel Nana staring at me. After a moment, she follows Mom to the living room. The sudden silence in the house is soon punctuated by soft, teary chuckles from Mom. A little while later, Nana goes into the kitchen and makes a cup of brewed coffee which she brings upstairs to Dad. When she returns to the bedroom, she gives Andy and me a hug each. She says she’s going to have some coffee too and asks if I’d like any.

“Maybe later,” I say. She smiles and leaves.

In the silence, I realize that sleepiness had been poised like a little coral snake that had found its way through my sheets, ready to strike me as soon as the fighting stopped. I put my laptop aside so I can lie down. My limbs are already heavy, and the wind from the oscillating wall fan feels like a summer breeze.

You’re really special, Alana. You’ve got enough com—enough c-o-m-p-a-s-s-io-n for all of us.

Night Life

by Rico M. Magallona

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Respire

by Paul Clinton B. Balase

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Living in a Bubble

by Mary Yvonne C. Alamban

Poem 3 I’ve seen it happen once.

A boy was stealing glances

at me on the commute

to school.

I was reading Murakami with

my earphones on.

It’s funny how you can feel the

weight of someone’s eyes on you.

It’s funny how you can almost

feel someone

falling in love with you.

I looked up right then.

He looked away.

I still see him sometimes:

in a crowded hallway,

a busy lunch hour,

in a rush of traffic.

I never looked back.

I never wasted a second glance.

But dear God, does he linger…

And then I realized,

maybe this is how

poets are made.

- Martina Jugador

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Fortunate Events

by Evan B. Aranas

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Midnight Blues The moon hides himself

behind the clouds of grey,

It was the brightest star

that lightened my way.

Walking as I go, thinking of you,

how it should be to start anew.

The Cool breeze of autumn air,

That tingles my skin so very rare.

How I long to feel your warm embrace

to say: “I’m sorry for my mistakes”.

Thinking of you as I go, needing of your love,

how I wish you were with me tonight.

The broken road along with my broken pieces

reminds me of how you left me empty in many places.

Your blood in my veins we live life as two.

Now, where were you in my midnight blues?

- Jo Marie Claire Balase

Contrast

by Mary Yvonne C. Alamban

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A Distant memory

by Paul Clinton B. Balase

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Kabaliktarang Kalayaan

Dearly Beloved Yin Yang

by Lynette L. Tuvilla

by Christian Loui S. Gamolo

And I will live forever wondering how the worst of me Could ever possibly be loved By the best of you - Fatima Roqaya A. Datu-Ramos

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by Haiko B. Magtrayo

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Kagabii Didto sa Lapyahan Gilantaw ko ang dagat nga gikusokuso sa hangin gikan sa layong dapit.

Mingyaka kos balas ug nagpadayon sa pagsud-ong.

Ang tinuasik sa balod mikab-ot ug mihalok sa akong tiil, paa, liog ug sa mga liki sa ngabil.

Apan wa ko igsapayan ang gibating kahapdos.

Gipalabi ko ang iyang kabugnaw.

Ug hinayhinay, sa di na maihap nga higayon, gibiyaan ko sa balod.

Gipili utro ang mokuyog sa bulan ngadto sa kapunawpunawan.

Glances “...falling in love could be achieved in a single word—a glance.”

- Ian McEwan, Atonement

You’d laugh in between shots as you make fun of virgins, then you’d say she’s an exception.

But

- Summer Daffodil M. Paguia your eyes tell me otherwise.

- Summer Daffodil M. Paguia

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Afro Tree

by Star E. Tolentino

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Chasing the Gold

by Jigo L. Racaza

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Innocence

by Mary Ivonne C. Alamban

The

Crusader

Publishers Subscribing students of Xavier University -Ateneo de Cagayan Editors Louren B. Aranas Editor in Chief Andrew Rey L. del Fierro Associate Editor Rico M. Magallona Design Editor Nitszchia Cassiopiea Beroe A. Lozarita Managing Editor Rezza Mae B. Tolinero News Editor Samantha Isabelle H. Bagayas Campus Features Editor Xian Louis Patrick R. Arcayera Local Features Editor Marina M. Garcia External Features Editor Ma. Isabella C. Agawin Sports Editor (OIC) Jericho B. Montellano Graphic Design and Layout Editor Paul Clinton B. Balase Photography Editor Marlon R. Boro Freehand Editor (Interim) Finance Officers Rochelle D. Barros Auditor Yoshabeth A. Valdehuesa Senior Finance Officer Maria Gladys B. Labis Junior Finance Officer Managers Ben Clark B. Balase Human Resource Manager Jigo L. Racaza Office Manager Marlon R. Borro Circulation Manager Keith Obed J. Ruiz Video Productions Manager Samantha Isabelle H. Bagayas Online Accounts Manager Mchael D. Poncadras Senior Computer Systems Manager Jo Marie Claire B. Balase Junior Computer Systems Manager

Staff Writers Romualdo Manuel C. Bacungan III (Trainee) Karl Patrick P. Bontanon (Trainee) Lorenzo A. Botavara (Trainee) Fatima Roqaya A. Datu-Ramos Daphne J. Dujali (Trainee) Mary Antoinette M. Magallanes (Trainee) Marvin N. Pamisa (Trainee) Charissa D.C. Santiago (Trainee) James Edgar T. Sia (Trainee) Staff Artists Evan B. Aranas Francis Ryan O. Avellana John Niccolo A. Aquino Ben Clark B. Balase Ian Kenneth O. Bicar (Trainee) Mirachelle L. Bronola (Trainee) Christian Loui S. Gamolo Kimberly Mae V. Llano (Trainee) Jigo L. Racaza Mark D. Rodriguez (Trainee) Kieth Obed J. Ruiz Jan Michael A. Sy Lynette L. Tuvilla Deanne Antoinette B. Yecyec (Trainee) Lorenzo B. Yecyec (Trainee) Venice Marie P. Villo Moderator Mrs. Ann Catherine Ticao-Acenas

Special thanks to Mr. Roger Garcia of the XU English Department for helping in the screening process.

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