TheCrusader
The official student publication of Xavier University - Ateneo de Cagayan
Cover Design by
Art Direction by
Kevin Matthew N. Pacana
Kevin Matthew N. Pacana & Ymmanuelle B. Quiros
Illustrations by Shaun Arthur O. Pao & Chloe Alexandra T. Orteza
Circulation: 1, 500 copies
foreword
They say that there is no place like home—may it be the warmth of a family, the chunks of childhood, and even the homemade meals, the list goes on. Wherever one may be, they return to their place of comfort and long for the embrace of those they left behind. With a nostalgic feeling of where love resides, those who wander always find themselves bringing something with them upon their return home—a pasalubong.
The concept of receiving and giving away presents does not necessarily make one materialistic. Such beautiful things symbolize the memory you have of a particular loved one. May it be from family, friends, or a lover—they come home from their journey with the thought of you. After all, home is where the heart is.
Known as a Pasalubong, the culture of the Filipinos integrates gifts with special layers of meaning. The souvenir is more than just a tangible item; it reunites people together, bringing a sense of relief of being safe once again in their presence. A traveler reminisces about their trip and shares it with those who await for their return. The moment, the feeling, and their entire experience are placed on a bunch of trinkets. Whether it comes in a big package or a small one, the idea remains: you have been in my thoughts throughout my journey. As we connect from afar, may the worthwhile present that awaits permeate us with hope.
This year, the Veritas Literary and Arts Folio brings forth traces of sentiment. TheCrusader Publication has collected the University community’s most inspiring journeys with each piece aspiring to gently embrace the void of your longing. Underneath these crafts, there are remnants of longing and belonging. And after a bewildering journey, these pasalubongs will evoke recollections owing to the way it resembles home.
Alyssa Chantal P. Moreno
Associate Editor
TheCrusader Publication
filipina
Zle M. Yee C Photography
I did not know what I was looking for
Kenneth Wallace G. Melendez C
I did not know what I was looking for
I just knew, I longed for that distant feeling
That feeling of warmth and gentleness
Of autumn air, and summer breeze
Gushing, bringing with them, memories
Memories of a past, I hold dear
I do not know what I am looking for
I just knew, I longed for more
A more I cannot describe
For it is something I do not know yet
Yet I feel like I have known, and have missed it
All of my life
Then came sunny days and cloudless skies
Of moments we try to immortalize
Of instances we break into cheeky smiles
Of picnics and midnight drives
Of that summer rain and nostalgic surge
I long for that warm fuzzy feeling
I now know what I was looking for I am looking for love and home
I look for happiness and kindness in life For
I was looking for its magic and calmness I now know, I longed for life
A fruit filled with tartness
A color mirrored in sunsets
For once, she liked oranges
Till then, love kept coming home through a box of tartness
Orange is what she looks forward to everyday
Though not in the box one has brought home,
But in receiving the warmth of an embrace
To others it signifies that the day has ended
To her it spells that the heart will be mended
Henniequel Shayne G. Acobo C
hiclousia
Trisha Isabel C. Maniquiz
I’ve only ever met this soul from my screen before.
The hi’s and hello’s, goodnight’s and goodbye’s, have always been just dispensable one’s and zero’s.
Just a distant face, just a familiar voice.
For a country only three hours and forty-five minutes, with a distance of about 1,599 miles away, space and time become irrelevant.
It’s an impatient plane ride, if only one can set anxiety and tension aside.
How do you expect to give a gift to someone You haven’t quite met before?
But then I arrive in this strange, strange land, and all my worries about how alien it feels disappears when I hear that familiar voice calling, that distinct face heading straight towards me.
One’s and zero’s become flesh and bone, and the present I’ve been carrying long forgotten, when the presence of this someone was the far more greater gift.
ALL EYES ON ME
Kevin Matthew N. Pacana
And, really, all I could do was smile with much content, Because, at last , beautiful stranger,
DigitalArt
It’s nice to finally meet you.
ghost town
A decaying fragment
Of a wandering soul,
Old and weary,
Sitting at the corner of what used to be
A town filled with busy lanes,
Downpour sweeping streets,
And smiling faces now left astray,
Vanquished by the night’s terror
The fields where we used to play
Have grown sparse and gray,
The skies where we used to gaze
Have become dull and haze
But fragments remain
Of broken dreams
And shattered realms
I hear the deafening silence
The beating of my sunken heart
Pierced by unsheathed daggers
Of walking bystanders
I glanced at my roots
Young and fragile
Intertwined into loops
Held firmly attached
As I gaze at the image in the puddle
I see the face of a smiling child
Now destroyed by a truck carrying loads of old furniture and stuffed toys
I hear the spirits of our ancestors
Boarding the houses at the end of the street
Seeing these feels different now that I’m older
But I still return to the same old familiar places— like nothing has changed,
As if nothing ever will.
Now what remains is a ghost town
–and buried underneath it lies the time capsule we made as kids.
Izabella Alamban
beach house
Nedshla Acebes C
There is a small house near the beach
It’s quaint with a pitter-patter of paws
Running around our feet
The crashing waves
Is the music that moves the house
With the setting sun’s warm light
Bathing it inside out
I would be sitting in a large chair
A book in hand, with hot chocolate in the other
And I would smile, as I can picture your mutter
“You are a total sap.”
To which I reply,
“I am, as you are too.”
You shake your head
As your hands softly type
Another romance story
One I shall once again enjoy reading
And share my thoughts on it all evening
I would ramble
And you would listen well
Applaud the passion in my voice
As I adore the way you paint a picture
Using nothing but your words
Where others called me names
Obsessed and weird
You used your words to paint me
Passionate, bright, and kind
Where others found me obnoxious
You found me endearing
I once thought I was simply part of the whole
When I am my own person
With you, I like being me
The peace I feel
With the beach house I saw in my dreams
Where the setting sun’s light
Illuminated the space
And the sound of waves is the music
You make me feel all of it
You make me feel like home
And I will carry with me
This feeling
Till the beach house in my dreams
Becomes a reality
“I would frame your words, if I could”
And I would put this feeling you gave me
As a centerpiece, if I could.
Christianne D. Cabrera
pauli
Christian Legaspi
Sketch on Paper
lugar lang
Kelly Camille G. Alair C
Down the asphalt street
You shall be welcomed By the murderous slits of a cat’s injured eyes
And to the pungent smell of sweat and sweetness
From the sun’s harsh tickle; Makes your senses wrinkle
In front of the twinkle from a metallic red sedan that deceives a bystander to thinking we own much
Beware of rust and rubble beneath the caramel door Fluffed with dust and trouble
As you see the olive walls
Inside, the avocado curtains hide the impaired furniture from the blaze and gaze of every month’s haze
But the breeze rush to and fro owed to the whirring of a celadon ceiling fan; the faint air of another one.
Do the honor of slumping on the hickory, creaking couch
While greeting the uneven piles of paperbacks, hardcovers;
The jagged arrangements of souvenir magnets on the worn-out fridge Resting like a far ridge
All of them radiating shades of wonder: a cacophony of hues and an uninvited siesta
The jeepney shall halt to a stop at the aroma of spit-roasted chickens
If you cry to the driver, “Lugar lang!”
a dance
Claire
Ivy T. Vanguardia C
It began with the faint glimpses shared by two puzzled eyes, then it was the shared moments in between words and spaces.
The start of an intimate dance that bestowed minuscule hints of one another’s fear and fortitude.
In perfect and flawless rhythm, performed by a pair of tangled lives, a connection was forged.
Each step a precious offering, as if trying to reveal something more; a new passion to be stirred and a rare feeling to be brought in.
one afternoonfebruary
An enticing feeling to remember, a reminder of wonder and thrill and of touch that made two hearts sing.
A dance so pure and sweet, a cherished gift of intimacy wrapped in moments, old and new— a memory that will always be.
Baculio
If I could store the moment where the sky jumps from blue to pink Richer than a carnival cotton candy where the thin power lines above perfectly intersect bare branches of a tree that’s seen far more decades than me
Balanced by fleeting silhouettes of birds I’d save it to remind myself of beautiful magic in the mundane
Maria Sonja A.
Shaun Arthur O. Pao
Marichell Aliah Amor S. Langreo C
Digital Art
many towns ago
Kelly Camille G. Alair C
I penned the sky, traced the night Wrote a city of stars in permanent ink Sketched the museum that displays splinters of skin, fragments of faces I once knew and touched and loved.
I visited the library of souls, erased the shelves filled with melancholy Rendered next door is a bakery Pastries that taste like sweet nothing; discounted the way rumors are.
Two blocks from there is a park remarkable for its fossilized life Behind stood tall the town hall my eyes enthralled by strife— I rushed to the market of time.
Vendors said they were running out of it, so I went out lamenting Composed a scene in the cinema, I imagine the seats empty save for the tourist I met many towns ago.
happy birthday!
Reina Margaret Gwynette T. Villamor C
There’s a birthday card with your name on it.
Last year, we spent your entire day together. Now, we’re not even talking. I’m sorry… happy birthday.
There’s a box of empanadas with your name on it.
Will this make up for the months of silence?
Did you hear I came back home? I miss you… happy birthday.
Words unsaid and gifts to give, all with your name on it. Are pasalubongs given to homes now unfamiliar?
Are you okay? Are we okay?
Delete delete delete. Happy birthday!
little worlds
Kelly Camille G. Alair C
It must have been miraculous to witness a piece of their world, allow it to orbit around yours and, in time, become a part of you.
From the vapor above the black brew they took at midnight, to the new haircut after a decade of sticking to a customary style; the files on their device named after a mood; and the scrapes of food left on the plate.
You wonder if their resolve kept them awake more than caffeine did
Or if the hair’s growth stunted theirs;
Perhaps kapoy sums up the entirety of the endeavor, and the finality of it.
But then it could be that the crumbs of empanada meant no more than a full stomach and an empty talk.
Among other things, you think of what’s beyond the picture and underneath the mixture of their little worlds.
And with every world exposed you see them differently but more beautifully.
for five
We sat a table for five today.
Five chairs for four people.
“Are we waiting for one more?”
“Yes, he is on his way.”
We waited at five pm today. You used to come home at five pm every day. I check the clock—it is always past five now. You’re late. You should be home.
We ordered in for five today.
Five burgers for four people.
I stare at the front door and wait.
I’ll reheat your dinner while you’re on your way.
We still stay in a house for five today.
Five rooms for four people.
I am the last to sleep.
I’ll open the door when you come in.
We sat at a table for five today.
Five chairs around one table.
“Are we waiting for one more?”
“Yes, he is on his way.”
Reina Margaret Gwynette T. Villamor C table
tableya
Antonio Miguel T. Ladra C Photography
commitment
Norman S. Wooton Jr.
Digital Art
amalgamation
Nedshla Acebes C
I am a product of love
As is constantly reminded
By prints inside the caves
Bearing marks
An evidence
From how far I came
I am loved
By the thousands
Who came before me
Through the features I hold
Which has been passed along
From time so old
Of the numerous faces of lovers
They tenderly use to hold
And when I look into a mirror
I see a long line of people
That were loved
And have loved
Through the curve of my eyes
The slope of my nose
And the crookedness of my teeth
I see an amalgamation
Of love persevering
And humanity withstanding
With hopes and dreams continuing
Not just surviving
But living
voice
Sol Sigrid
The child awakens and the birds toll over forgotten streams. The chickens cluck with the morning at its seams. Draped curtains, swift brooms now quickens; dawn submits, splitting itself —succumbing to its frequent overshoot on the Eagle’s nest.
The child now stirs with a grin arising, seeping into corners of the room. This grin expands, such eyes wish to witness the expanse. Of the present. Of the familiar. A voice nears, a scent boosts the child’s stirs. Now the child reaches, hears.
“My favorite,” he whispers, he giggles. He grabs, he squeezes, and then he releases the long-held cheer. “My forever favorite, are you a dream? Are you my blood? My rib?” Pinched cheeks. Sensational buzzing. It was real. “I’m home, anak, ” a sweetened phrase, an easing tone that can never be replaced.
“Gimingaw kaayo ko ninyo, ania na ako.”
love; in daughter form
Aliyah Francine G. Salan C
my bed creaks under the weight of all my tears it screams for you and it screams at you love was hard
you taught me it was the sound of your hand hitting when my knees gushed blood but you also taught me it was tying my hair after crying so much, you taught me it was the rage after the rowdiness of my room but you also taught me it was the caress of your hand after a tiring day each day we grew apart yet each day we try urging ourselves to tell things but fearful of the rejection you and i, alike but god forbid someone dare say it a quest to be nothing like you but to be known by many because of you i was so complicated but you were there, you were complicated but you were mom and deep in an angry little girl’s heart, a daughter longs for you
the souvenir
Frances Philline D. Beltran
I extended my arms through the metal bars, Missing the way they glided through the winds at any hour, My eyes saw the vast land, But my soul losing hope to see again the sky so grand, And that thought made me painfully sad.
My life was so different before, Now is something I wished to ignore, But I see no chances of being free anymore.
Despairing silently as I await “something” to knock at my door.
I have been living in this curved house for so long,
But I never thought in here I belong, Through this poem you’ll read my experiences, Living to be for some other’s entertainment. And while I am grateful for the lady’s treatment, I am still unhappy for the rest of my moments.
I still remember the day I lost my everything, I was looking for some food that morning, When I met a tall tree moving, Curious I landed near to its being, Not knowing that would be my last memory of flying.
A rope tied at my feet that made painful wounds,
In that dark place I could only see through the hole many moons,
A predator kept on reaching for me, But in the end, it was removed by the tall tree.
The place felt up and down the entire time but no sign of me being free.
I missed my children, Tears flowed out of my eyes as I wondered how they’ve been.
This mother only wishes they’re still living. I love them with all my being.
Soon afterwards, they cut my wings by some sharp things,
I protested as much as I could expressively, hoping they give me mercy,
But I was still reduced to nothing like they cursed me.
I was taken to another place afterwards where I saw,
Another tree that looked like a female, smiling and hugging my jailer,
And once she saw me, she was in awe, It turns out, I was merely a souvenir, gifted for his dear.
I made the lady happy, It didn’t probably understand that this gave me a catastrophe, Taking me out of where I was supposed to be.
Years passed and I have functioned as a decor trophy,
Only seeing their babies,
Only seeing where I was allowed,
Nothing more to store.
My humans are no more to be seen since 3 moons ago.
But as I laid in the ground of this cage, nearing my last deep sleep,
I thought I saw a blue creature looking at me, The same color of my feathers but free,
It looked like my dear child, Happy.
May this be a reminder to you,
Not to overstep your limits of taking, Things just for your liking and giving,
For they have also reasons for living.
kape sa bukid
Antonio Miguel T. Ladra C
Digital Art
funny how sometimes, you just find things
Kiarra Dlahmane P. Lingating
There’s coffee on the counter
Take a sip, fly back in time
On Good Friday, you meet a guy
“This apartment’s the best you’ll find!”
There’s a key in your wallet
Take it out, open the door
There’s fries on your bedroom floor
“Welcome back!” he said, “I’ll go get more.”
There’s a bump on your cat’s back
Take a moment, pay the bill
A hand holds yours, you look up.
“He will heal, alright? I know he will.”
There’s a silence in the car
Take a breath, hold back your tears
Your mom asks you, you don’t lie
“He’s my best friend, more than anything else.”
There’s no words that do justice
Take neighbor, best friend, boyfriend
You love him, and he brings you dinner
“I’ll always be here for you. Now eat.”
There’s coffee on the counter
Take a sip, you’re back home
You’re smiling, he laughs, asks why. You answer.
“This apartment’s the best find of my life.”
home again
Levina Eunice O. Palarca C
the ambience of the storm ceases to linger in my tomb all’s left is dust and smoke from last night’s camp fire and a song that is sung first heard when we were young is sang again by the hearth. if it’s winter and it’s cold, i don’t feel such thing if the fire is too close, i do not burn still there is only an endless echo and in your eyes i see the cure with the march of little men down the paved roads of a silent city to a home that always was and to a scent of all familiarity. after all the chaos of intertwined moments, we find ourselves where we once stood; we are home again
my souvenirheart’s
Andrea Marie L. Tan C
My heart’s souvenir is a precious thing, A treasured keepsake that wants to cling, To the moments of joy and love it took in, And the memories that linger like an old friend.
It beats with a rhythm that’s all its own, An ode to the love that it has known, For every beat tells a story so true, Of a love once lost, but found anew.
at last
Alexxia Mariel P. Pasamonte
I forgot how a home feels like. I almost forgot the warmth it’s supposed to give and how secured you should feel in it.
It’s a precious gem that I hold so dear, A love so strong, it knows no fear, And though time may pass, and seasons may go, My heart’s souvenir will remain aglow.
Memories rush in like a rolling tide
Of blissful moments we had side by side The laughter we shared, the tears we shed, Every experience a precious memory in my head
My heart’s souvenir, so precious and true Reminds me of the moments I spent with you. Every beat echoes the love we shared, A bond so strong, it cannot be compared.
So let the winds of time sweep by, And let the years go passing by,
For as long as my heart’s souvenir remains, My love for you will forever remain.
But im glad your arms mended my broken memories of a home-that I finally found.
at last, at long, long last.
right where you are
Maria Sonja A. Baculio
There is nothing quite as intimate as realizing that someone has slowly quietly but ever so surely become a part of your life and knowing that when you see them you are home
John Ian G. Bradshaw C
paruparo
Marichell Aliah Amor S. Langreo C
Digital Art
while on a sleeper train
Jan Rupert Alfeche
I anchored my thoughts –as though they were ever wayward – on an evergreen her, her curls of hair and doe-eyed smile grounding me along the gentle locomotive’s sway. The displays of snow-capped peaks, orangecrimson canyons, and deer-speckled conifer trees were coupled with an intimate affection from distances more than double that of the route this train is taking. She made each term of endearment a digital package carefully bundled so every minute and hour that ticked by felt as though she was seated right across from me, all smiles and cheeky chatter. A smatter of desires to put feeling into material existence hounded my three days and two nights train (ride) of thought up until reaching Union Station, somewhere in the streetlights of Chicago, my own mother placed in my hands a nineties-esque clutch purse. She smirked and said, ‘This is for your girlfriend’ –because of course it is.
Pristine in its apparent age, vibrant in its kitsch appearance, it was the color of our relationship cradled in its pockets and kaleidoscopic dots. How my mother knew this was the perfect thing to acknowledge the one girl among the friends and family running through my thoughts as I wandered the vast American landscape, only other mothers would know. ‘Let this grow’, is what I heard when she placed this purse in my hands. So when I fly back to the Philippine motherland, I know that when I give her this to hold, it is not just my love, materialized, but the love we may yet have, in its folds.
a tapestry of childhood
Vic Danielle T. Magas C Photography
Christian Ervin Corsiga
pananabik
Photography
mi casa
Alliah Mizmoon S. Khu
My grandmother once told me our ancestral home was magical. It was wood.
Has a garden.
And it smelled like old paper pages from books dated when they were young.
My grandmother used to tell our ancestral home was alive.
The floor squeaks when we tiptoe.
The leaves hums when the wind passes by.
The bed and the pillows hugs comfort like you haven’t slept for ages and just melted right away.
My grandmother insists that our ancestral home has high value. It survived World War II.
It survived fire and flood.
It survived multiple heartbreaks and separations heard and witnessed for.
My grandmother said our ancestral home was magical, alive, and highly valuable because of all the things she said so.
But I, believe our ancestral home was magical, alive, and highly valuable because of the people that made a mark on it.
Because of the people who started their story there, and decided to end there.
Because of the people who stayed to rest for a vacation, and some others who never made it back home.
Because of the people who lived and outgrew. And people who lives, and decided not to grow.
11.967375, 121.924812
Angelica Marie A. Naelga
Aside from a raising blood pressure and an unquenchable thirst, the sweltering summer heat reminded me of the days I used to have as a kid in the island I consider my first home. It was equally hot and parching, but it was more eventful, more enthralling, and most of all, magical. For starters, I wasn’t woken by the relentless crowing of the roosters in the neighborhood, nor was I awakened by the whirring sound of chainsaws from the nearby sawmill. Back home, the rising sun would glance over the thick growth of trees atop our hill, where it’s rays of soft yellow hues seep through our closed curtains, gently caressing my sleepy eyes that still refuse to let go of the night’s enchanting dreams.
Before, private cars were rarely seen while bikes and trikes were the kings of the road. As such, I always felt cool riding behind my father on his trail bike (my mother abhorred it) which he often used to send me to school, to go to the local Korean store to buy kimchi, or to tour around the island where we visited the beach up North. When it poured and a raincoat was nowhere to be found, I enjoyed the way the raindrops and the wind felt on my face as my father raced home. It was chilling, piercing even, but I imagined I had the power to control the rain by tightening my fist and twirling the fingers of my one hand as if to stop the downpour while the other clenched tight onto my father’s soaked shirt. The road was slippery and the bike skidded a couple of times, but what’s a badass without a pinch of danger?
Nevertheless, when the adrenaline’s all used up; it was time for calm and peace to ensue. My mother would fetch us from school, buy some snacks at the towering supermarket painted in green, then take a stroll on the beach of white powdered sand. My sisters and I would walk along the shore, finding shells both buried and on the surface. There were a lot of people of different shades of skin, but everyone seemed to understand that once the sky was painted with tinges of orange and pink, it was customary to sit by the beach and bask in the beauty of the setting sun over the horizon. To the many foreigners who visited, it was just another sunset at the
famed white island, a sight they can always witness so long as their stay permits. But for me, the vision was mesmerizing and tranquil, almost like a ritual in which the sun had to kiss and become one with the sea to allow the ocean of stars to light the night sky.
Truly, the island was a blissful paradise for a child of seven years, but the winds of change so often come and blow. What I knew was only a trip to my father’s birthland, surprisingly turned out to be a permanent stay. On the day of our departure, I watched how the crystal waters that reflected corals and fishes turn to a shade of blue green then sooner into a color of deep blue. As the pambot sailed farther away and closer to the port of Caticlan, the image of the island grew smaller than I ever knew was possible. When I stepped foot on the beginning of my new journey, I wasn’t sure when I could come back. Even so, the spell that the island cast on me continues to linger even after sixteen years.
Now, every time I get a chance to look at the vast dark sky at night when returning from a long day at school, I am taken back to a memory of the dusk my family spent by walking on the shore lit not only by fired torches lined across the beachfront but as well as the ocean of stars overhead. On times I spent all-nighters to study for a major exam, the tiredness I feel just seem to vanish at the mere sight of soft yellow hues emanating from outside my room’s window. A sense of familiarity imbues within me, almost like I am being welcomed by the same gentle sunrays that awakened me into a morning of pristine joy and warmth back at the morn of my early years. It’s as if I don’t have to physically be there on the island to feel it. Instead, it finds its way to me from the sun to the stars; from the soft and gentle breeze that displaces a strand or two from the hair I tucked behind my ears; even the sun-kissed skin on my mother’s face strangely reminds me of Willy’s Rock—shielding us steadfast, unwavering, even through the near gales and the changing tides. And contentedly enough, every reminder brings along with it a distinct memory I would treasure and share with my siblings who were probably too young to even remember the magic that transpired there.
pasalubong sa gabi
John Ian G. Bradshaw C
Photography
riptide
Kiarra Dlahmane P. Lingating
The night before, I dreamt I was washed away by a Tsunami.
I dreamt I had a house by the coastline. It wasn’t too big or small, but it had that hazy dreamlike incandescence that, I guess, gave me the illusion that it was a perfect home. Too perfect a home actually, and I can barely even remember what it looked like now. But in the dream I knew it was everything I ever wanted. All the furniture I wanted, all the decorations I only ever dreamt (ironically) of having, all the pictures of a life I knew I loved hung everywhere in sight. I was happy, and so, so wonderfully content. I never wanted to leave.
There’s three things I already knew about Tsunamis. The first thing I knew was that Tsunamis were huge, obviously. But no adjective could ever hope to describe how a Tsunami could be a thousand times bigger than the average person, and the dream felt lucid enough for me to feel this overwhelming, insurmountable amount of fear as I watched the waves rise up to full height from inside the house. It was high enough to cover up the light of the sun, and that’s when it happened–the waves crashed through.
The second thing I knew about Tsunamis was that it was almost impossible to survive one. If you’re not blasted to oblivion upon the first hit, you’re bound to have your body swirled around until it crashes into an endless onslaught of dirt and debris. But there is that “almost” before “impossible”, that zero point zero one percent, the rare exceptions that have graced the headlines of countless news articles from time to time. And all they had to do was hold on to something; to a tree, to an unmovable street pole–anything. As long as you held on, stayed put, and never let go. No matter what.
So, with this thought, I grabbed onto the house’s windowpane. Realistically, this never would have worked, but in this dream it did. My fists wrapped around the wooden sills and gripped it so tightly that I could almost feel my knuckles bleed.
It felt like forever. There didn’t seem to be an end in sight to the rush of water that engulfed my surroundings. One thing I did notice was that the house stayed intact. The furniture, the lights, the walls–none of it budged. Through the surge of underwater chaos the only cracks I could make out were the ones stemming from where my hands clung to the sills, spreading to the walls with each struggle and each doubt I had of being able to hold on. I was drowning, and I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t even see clearly anymore after a few seconds, but I held on. I had to.
But there was one last thing I knew about Tsunamis—there was never only just one wave.
As soon as the first wave cleared out, I coughed and heaved so hard that I fell to the floor in pain. My hands stayed put, holding on to the windowpane, as I cried and anguished over the cracks in the walls. My walls, in my perfect little home, were stained with broken lines and a promise to fall apart. I was devastated, and in so, so much pain, but the floor rumbled,
and the walls shook, and the light disappeared from the sky once again. I knew it was only a matter of time before the second wave hit. And when it did it was the same song and dance—only cracks grew bigger, the lights finally busted shut, and the furniture finally gave in to the pressure; chairs, tables, decorations and ornaments and a thousand pictures swirled throughout the house at once. Crashing against each other, ripping each other to shreds as water held no mercy against them. And through it all my arms stayed put, clutching the sills, clinging on to that zero point zero one percent. I was going to be the exception, the person who held on and survived. Who made a plan, who made things work. No matter what. No matter what.
And as I clung to the sills, to the idea of ever making out of this with my home intact, my vision suddenly cleared up, and I could see my hands through the water.
There were cracks there, too.
I don’t remember at which point of the dream I woke up, or if I ever had another one after that. But I do remember staring intently at my cracked hands as the second wave cleared. The furniture, decorations, and pictures laid scattered all throughout the floor in broken, unrecognizable heaps. The walls were rumbling with the density of cracks that finally covered the whole house. But it stayed intact, which I thought I wanted, but all I could see was the same broken lines, the same promise of falling, of breaking apart, decorated across my own arms. I was on the verge of shattering, right from where my hands still held on to that goddamned windowsill.
The third wave was coming, but I knew at that moment I was already done for. My perfect home was gone. But then again, maybe it was never that perfect to begin with.
I let go just as the waves finally crashed through for the last time.
I woke up peacefully. No more waves, no more cracks. Sitting up in my bed, all I could see was the home I did have. Furniture in their place, walls intact, my cat sleeping by the window where the early morning light shone through with the promise of a new day, the only indication of having had a dream so turbulent and real being the heavy weight I still felt on my chest. And in my hand, my phone lit up with a notification. A scheduled reminder to eat breakfast, and below it, a message from the night before.
“Thank you for everything”
I almost cried, but I didn’t. Instead, I breathed. With the ghost of a feeling, an almost distant memory of that third wave as it crashed over me. As it tore the rest of the house down, as it finally swept away everything that I ever thought I had. But more than anything else, I remembered one thing, as clearly as the day before me.
I stayed intact.
And as far as dreams go in the realm of sending messages, this one was a gift. Because that’s when I knew.
I was all that mattered.
uwi na tayo
Zsarlette Alanne Cabana
Digital Art
how much of me have you built
anonymous
I have migraines often. Quite often, and no one else in my family has them except for my mother. I think they’re genetic, see. A tradition of pain passed down from mother to daughter, mother to daughter. A regular old form of suffering alongside all the broken hearts and the cramps and the terror of knowing how to love so fiercely you can’t help but give bits of yourself away like useless 2 for 1 coupons.
I curse my migraines often. Everytime I can feel them coming on, I curse the image of my mother - was a uterus not enough? The ache of being a woman, the ache of a spasming brain. Left on the outskirts of the world and surrendered to this agony, barely coherent. Was existence not enough?
On special days, I curse god too.
But my mother, here she is, earthly and easier to blame. With heavy hands that frightened me as a child, slammed down on the table as I did my math homework, peeled onions and garlic so quick I worried she would cut herself, my mother with her blunt fingers, she’d come to me in a darkened room and we’d make peace. Recognise each other, bitter twin creatures that we were. And she’d smear her heavy hands with mint oil that stung - cleansed, as much as it burned.
‘Your Lola did this for me when I was in highschool, you know, because I always had migraines,’ she’d say quietly as she pressed new pressure points into my temples and scared aches away with her touch.
And she’d make me breathe in mint vapors so strong they brought tears to my eyes, except there was this magic to it too, truly old magic. Nothing but sharp wind over my raw and ragged throat, no medicine, no science - and yet somehow I would feel better. Always better.
This despicable woman, this unknowable entity I’d never learned not to be frightened of, who disciplined with abundance and knew exactly how to make me cry. This gentle, malevolent being, who passed down her migraines and her pain alongside her expectations and her rules.
A tradition of suffering,
A tradition of care. Of hands greasy with ointment. Knowing not to make a sound in a quiet dark room, of soft touches and pain pills, a glass of water just a step away. A tradition of love, so much love, savage households full of it, words and actions so saturated in it it might as well be violence - a constant see-saw of balance between suffering and full-blooded love. The well-worn tradition of knowing how to live with both, but not without either.
anesthesia
As a kid, I was very judgemental. I would pass judgement on literally anyone who buys something at our sari-sari store. There was none I judged harder than the nurses who bought cigarettes. I scrunch my nose in disgust, ‘there they go again, buying things they tell us to avoid.’ I thought they were hypocrites.
Soon I would eat my own words.
I watched as the hazy smoke formed rings as they left my lips. I chuckled to myself, ‘atleast I’m good at that’, the test paper remained crumpled in my hands, the big red F mocking me. And here I am, in this quaint little corner, hiding away from the sun’s judgemental glare, with a bunch of nursing students sharing a pack of cigarettes. Hoping the rising smoke takes with them all the self-doubts we had.
13 year old me would have been disgusted.
After many sleepless nights, I now have a cute little add-on to my name, RN. Registered Nurse. In the throes of my despair, I often ask the cigarette in my hand ‘were those nights worth it? Or will they ever be worth it? The smoke twirls and swirls in the air leaving me with questions I have no answers for.
The cigarette burns away in my hand as surely as my passion shrivels up.
Its never easy losing a patient. It was always as painful as the first time. As I sat alone in the parking lot, sorrow descends upon me with a vengeance. Grief has sunk its claws so deep in me that my hands shake as I light my cigarette. My tears were like a never-ending stream, for which I don’t have any outlet for other than the stick of poison balancing lightly between my pointer and middle finger. Its a sorrow I need and have to bear alone for the sake of the patients who rely on me.
The smoke I puff out takes the form of a ghostly apparition.
On my day off, I found myself in the same spot all those years ago, that quaint little corner, where I tried to dispel my self-doubt with each puff I took. Not much has changed, the trees remain strong, the pack of cigarettes is the same brand as the one I shared with my fellows and still for each patient I have discharged home safely, the shadows of those I have lost still cling to me like a cloak of sorrow. I light a cigarette once again, hoping this time the nicotine filling my lungs numbs me to the pain as surely as the sun rises on the east.
As the smoke dissipates into the morning light, it leaves me with a lingering reminder of the transcience of life and the ephemeral nature of pleasure.
viva sa grasya
Zee Baxter M. Correos C Photography
graduation
Reina Margaret Gwynette T. Villamor C
Harry loved to run. He did it whenever he could—early in the morning, on the way to school, going back to his dorm, and during the weekends. He enjoyed the energy and serotonin it brought him. But today, during his final day on campus, he decided to walk.
He was graduating college tomorrow, and he thought it was proper to stop running for a while. He slowed his pace as he, for the last time, admired the halls he would never walk through again and bid goodbye to the streets he would never pass by anymore. And as melancholic as it may be, Harry decided he was okay with it. As he remembered all the people, places, and experiences of college, he realized that he graduated from this part of his life.
But the underlying reason he walked was because he didn’t want to reach his dorm. Compared to his classmates who were coming home to parents and relatives, he would be greeted by air. Just a few minutes ago, he learned that no one was coming to his graduation. His mom and dad had to work all day at the hospital, and he didn’t really have that many relatives. Even his best friend Charlie couldn’t come, as she had graduation preparations of her own—a thousand miles away.
Like everything in life, there is a beginning and a graduation. And his walk graduated as he reached his dorm room. As he fiddled his key against the old doorknob (another thing he has definitely graduated from and wouldn’t miss), he remembered he had nothing to eat. He stopped fiddling and stepped away. Maybe he could eat at a nearby karinderya or in their canteen. But as he stepped away from the door, he heard footsteps from inside. Great. A lonely graduation and an attempted burglary. A perfect way to end senior—
The door swung open. “You took so long you ruined the surprise!”
It was Charlie. He started running.
Harry loved to run. Even towards loved ones. And he did just that as he crashed towards Charlie and wrapped her in a big, warm hug. She lost her footing a bit, but of course, she hugged him back.
“I thought you were busy,” Harry said, pulling away. “And miss your graduation? Give me a little credit!” Charlie replied with a smile, her dimples showing.
As they broke away from their hug, he noticed his dorm was decorated with fairy lights and streamers. And on his study table was a box of his favorite ensaymadas from back home. It has a note that read, ‘Happy Graduation Day!’. Leave it to Charlie to make him a blubbering mess right before his big day.
They sat down, ate the cheesy ensaymada goodness, and caught up on the stories they missed in each other’s lives. She told him her book was still doing well (he knew this, he always checked) and that her parents were sorry they couldn’t come celebrate with him (they called him to say the same thing). She also caught him up on all their friends back in Cagayan de Oro. Maybe it was all the pasalubongs or her innate ability to light up any room, space, or conversation, but talking to Charlie made Harry feel right at home.
He told her he was excited for graduation, and that he felt he had ‘graduated’ from so many things in his life now (to which she rolled her eyes and called him dramatic). Afterwards, she told him to put on his cap and gown for a few pictures. As Harry posed for the camera, he soaked it all in—the decors, the food, and his best friend. Graduation didn’t feel so sad anymore, he didn’t need to run. He was home.
And as he gazed at Charlie, laughing and smiling, his heart skipped an all-toofamiliar beat. Maybe there are some things he will never graduate from.
takipsilim
Frances Ryle R. Tan C
Photography
Margaux Lynz L. Peña
You think you still know me. I hate to sound ungrateful but it’s been 10 years since you’ve been sending me the same damn things. It’s always dolls and clothes four sizes too small. I’m no longer eight. I’m no longer “your princess” nor your “baby girl.” But you wouldn’t know that. You haven’t been calling. You haven’t been replying to any of mom’s emails.
It’s always the same in your yearly balikbayan box. Irish Spring soap, dolls, bargain bin pajamas, fluffy towels, pink clothes for kids, Marks & Spencer underwear, canned goods. Your pasalubong is starting to feel like relief goods. What disaster are you relieving us from? The other family you’ve already started where you’re working? I already know.
conversations in fast-food chains
“Four Chicken McBurgers please.”
“Huy, naa man ta sa Jollibee.”
We looked at each other with sly mischief in our eyes. That shaky pause did not even last a second before we erupted with laughter, earning us the stares of old people we had disturbed. It was a long long day at school and I needed that little laugh with my little friends that late late sepia-colored afternoon. It was the glaring present but it already felt like a picture from an old photobook—a memento of the past. Was it the laughter that sounded like it had never known sadness? Or perhaps the cloudy sky that dispersed the yellow hues of the golden hour, painting your eyes yellow? Looking back, I’m now pretty sure what it was: it was the conversation that ensued when we had finally gotten our orders right and sat at the table by the glass pane. It was a fleeting moment easily forgotten between the folds of the silky sheets of years fluttering by so whenever we have conversations in fast-food chains, I relish it in its present moment.
Some days are not even fast-food chain days. When the sky is pleasant, the sun shining bright behind a big cloud, we go out on a picnic. We take out our chips and sandwiches as we watch the world pass by our own little time capsule. We paint, we read a book. Sometimes, we bask in the silence of each other’s company but once we talk, it is to gloat at our stick figure-paintings or exchange observations on that certain passerby.
Some days are coffee shop days. There is now a high chance of rain yet we still order our coffees iced. By then, we were in college and it was one of those rare times when we were free and in the same city. Past conversations had crossed my mind less and less, the past
Levina Eunice O. Palarca C
in itself blurred to the edges. But I have learned to make the most of the present moment which will be another fading memory in record time. But there will be remnants and mementos; The matching keychains we bought to commemorate the times we have spent together as they become rarer and rarer. The wooden coaster in our favorite coffee shop that I have found an exact copy of in a thrift store. The smell of coffee that will always remind me of love as I have always known it, of the conversations that have clung to soothe the burns I cannot cool with ice. They have followed me as I chase the future.
Sooner or later, as we find our own places in this big world, it will be almost impossible to be in the same city. Picnic and coffee shop days will become wedding reception days, high school reunion days, and fancy buffet days. Yet, they would still be filled with the same mischief in our eyes and the same burst of laughter. But we have grown so much, wrinkles start to form beneath our eyes and our laughter had been tainted by loneliness and sorrow. We had carried the burden of our hopes and dreams, of the conversations made in picnics, coffee shops, and fast-food chains.
On that late sepia-colored afternoon that had always felt like the past, I still remember how our conversation went. We were on the last year of high school—hopeful graduating students who were both excited and scared for our future. We wanted to be many things but then we’d worry about ourselves and we’d worry about the world around us. We’d worry about the future: Will we be okay by then?
“I’ll write down this day,” One of my friends says as he opens his notes app. “Today marks the day when we are all full of hope and when a day like this comes by, we must still have that hope filled to the brim,” another friend adds.
Looking back, I don’t even remember the date of that day anymore. Just that, one day we’d meet again with years’ worth of stories to tell within an afternoon’s worth of conversations. Someday, it will be fast-food chain day again.
ama ( self portrait )
Digital Art
Zsarlette Alanne Cabana C
dear inez
Reina Margaret Gwynette T. Villamor C
Dear Inez,
On our first date, you made me sit through a musical.
“I hope you like music,” her eyes gleamed.
“Why?” I asked suspiciously.
“I have two tickets to Waitress!”
“I hate musicals,”
I shouldn’t have agreed to this blind date. Who even goes on blind dates?
“Who cares what you’re listening to—it’s who you’re listening with,”
“And who am I with?”
“Inez.” She gave me a wide smile and extended her hand.
Okay. Maybe one musical won’t hurt. I shook it. Two hours later, the soundtrack was stuck in my head. And so were you.
Dear Inez,
During our marriage, you took me to dance class.
“You’ll be fine,” she assured me.
“I hate dancing,” I admitted begrudgingly. I drew a breath as the song began. And my heart started pounding.
“See, you’re a natural!” she said as we began our waltz.
“Libiamo? Really?” I deadpanned. We shouldn’t have started with ballroom dancing.
What is this, the 1800s?
“Who cares what you’re dancing to—”
Dear Inez,
By your death, you broke my heart.
“I hope He’ll go easy on me,” she attempted to joke.
“Stop,” I pleaded, holding her hand tight.
“What’s on your mind?”
“I hate cancer,”
We shouldn’t be talking about this, like this. Yet what do you talk about on your wife’s last night?
“Who cares what you’re dying to…” she said, reclining on her bed.
“It’s who you’re experiencing it with,” she broke into a smile.
It was the last one you’d ever give me.
Dear Inez,
In our life together, you made me do many things I hated.
I hated the musicals, the dancing, the cancer. And yet, in doing these very things, I learned something:
I would gladly do them all over again.
Just to be with you again.
Because Inez, I never cared for whatever I would do—
For as long as I did it with you.
ALL EYES ON ME
“It’s who you’re dancing with. Yeah yeah,” I rolled my eyes jokingly.
Kevin Matthew N. Pacana
“And you’re lucky with me.” She grinned. I really was.
DigitalArt
gio
Chantilly Kerschienne I. Jimenez
It was pitch black for a moment, but as soon as I opened my eyes, the sight of my uncle lit the candle inside me. Uncle Gio has arrived home. He hadn’t been home since he landed a job in the United States. I hadn’t seen him since he came for a short visit six years ago. It had been a long time since I saw those chubby cheeks and his incomparable mustache. I miss him.
His face greeted me as soon as I woke up. From one look, you’d know it was him. His face was still as handsome as ever. His cheeks had grown big, and I wanted nothing more than to poke these. His chest was larger than before, but I wanted nothing more than to hug him. I poked his face and reached out for a hug. It had been so long, Tito.
But the dream was too short. I rubbed my eyes, and my room was dark and quiet. I checked the time, and it’s after sunset. I had taken a long, sweet five-hour nap in what used to be Uncle Gio’s room.
I went out of the room and–wait–what a sight to behold! It’s the last day of my university’s semestral break, and I saw what I came here for. Here, in my grandmother’s house, were two Balikbayan boxes.
It was only me, Ate Shay (my cousin), and Mama (my grandmother) in the house. Imagine the heaps of chaos dwelling in this peaceful home if my parents and Ate Shay’s mother had been here. There’d be “Chada lagi na, ako nana!” here and “Imo na, dili ko ganahan ana!” there. And on the corner would be my young cousins and my brother playing games. But, despite the chaos, if my parents and Ate Shay’s mother were around, it would be full of hilarious moments. This time, I’d really like some peace and quiet from the stress of everything else, and with only the three of us around, I can say, “Hm, how will it turn out? After all, it’s the first time of opening a Balikbayan box with only the three of us.”
Ate Shay and I non-verbally agreed that we can each open a box. It was her first time opening a Balikbayan box, too, and I wonder what hers was in store. Shampoos (and I mean a LOT of shampoos from hotels), chocolates (the assorted ones), and gadgets (it’s either my mom asked for these or he bought these for the nieces and nephews). But what really struck the strings of my heart were the things that had notes attached and written with my name on it.
It was time to open mine. Ate Shay passed me the cutter. I stabbed the duct tape and dragged it – wait – a ray of light pierced through the cut. What in the name of all things holy?
With every slash, more light beamed the features of our curious faces. W hat did Uncle Gio give us?
We flipped the flaps of the box, and the light was too bright for our eyes. It was like Uncle Gio grabbed the sun and delivered it to us for us to keep. But the light dimmed down a bit and I noticed something within change. The edges of the box were warm and what seemed like nothing inside but pure brightness was actually some kind of door to another world.
I squinted and tried to decipher what I’m seeing. Rows and rows of small brown hills? Seems like something we’d see in Bohol.
“Look! A remote on the flap!” Ate Shay found a loosely taped remote on the right flap of the box with a note attached to it. It said, “Chen-Chen.” Me!
I grabbed the weird-looking, functional rectangle, investigated it, and being the professional detective that I am, I clicked on the big red button at the center. The scenery changed to… a lighthouse by the cliff? That is terribly alike with the Sabtang lighthouse in Bataan and the place where I’d really like to go to. I clicked it again and it changed to… the Cloud 9 Baywalk! I want to go there!
I reached for the beautiful sight. But I took my hand back because it felt the warm wind. Ate Shay and Mama tried to feel the warmth, too.
“Adto ta!” Before I knew it, Mama dived into the box, and I saw her from the other side, waving back at me. It was safe. I figured this box was a door to all the wonders of the Philippines, and it showed me the places I went to and the places I wanted to go to. With this gift from Uncle Gio, I’m going to places.
Thank you for the gift, Tito.
second button
Jysel Ashley Ayop
“You’re leaving for Europe?!”
“Surprise?” I scratch the back of my head awkwardly. “It’s still after we graduate, you know. I’ll be around here for three more long months.”
“I can’t believe you,” he starts pacing around the room in a panic. “I don’t have anything to give you right at this moment.” He exasperatedly runs his hands through his hair in an attempt to soothe the adrenaline rush.
“Hey, don’t worry about it—“
“Aha, not on my watch. Give me five minutes.” He sternly declared as he stood then dashed toward the door, giving me a mock salute on his way out.
“O-Oh okay…” I’m taken aback at his seriousness. “I’ll wait here then.”
“Took you long enough,” I smirk as I see a tall figure jogging his way back toward me.
“Close your eyes and let out your hand.” He instructs.
“Okay.” I can’t help but chuckle lightly at his antics. It’s usually me doing all the gimmicks.
I feel a light plop at the base of my palm, it’s something smaller than a thimble and almost as light as a feather.
“Alright, you can open your eyes again, smart girl.” He says nonchalantly.
As I register the object in my hand, my eyes widen in surprise. My mind begins to ponder on what exactly this gift means. Is this really what I think it is?
He smirks triumphantly. “What do you think?” He points at the now empty spot on his polo, where his second button is supposed to be.
“I can’t believe you…” I mumble to no one in particular.
“That’s supposed to be my line, buddy.” He wiggles his eyebrows playfully in defiance.
I can’t help but look away and keep quiet.
He began to catch on when I didn’t dare retort nor meet his gaze from the intensity of it all.
“Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend—“
I scoff and offer a nimble smile instead.
“You’re precious to me, too, idiot.”
what I bring home
Leann Roshe L. Zuson
I don’t bring much home.
I don’t bring home my slumped shoulders, carrying the burden and want of academic validation. The heavy need to ace every quiz, every task like an anchor making me drag my feet across the paved pathway.
I do bring home the banter of my blockmates. The playful jabs and yelling that are loud and obnoxious. The clamoring of note comparison and contests of who is right and who is wrong. Like a tavern late at night, full of adventurers who have seen hell and back but enjoy their ales and stories, nonetheless. A sight that never fail to make me smile. Even if I tried not to.
I don’t bring home the tears that I held in when you looked away like I was the needle you put back in the haystack. The bump in your road you chose to go around, not over and through. The coffee you wanted but returned upon the scalding temperature. Leaving it stale and bitter.
I do bring home the hugs of my friends. The Study Buddies that I have the deepest conversations with over iced coffee. The Samwell Gamgee and Aragorn aiding in my journey. The warmth of their laughter and company they give me that you never could. Not even if you tried.
I don’t bring home the dread of tomorrow. The feeling I left another forum on eLearn unseen and untouched. That I may have forgotten a deadline lurking like the shadows in the deep dark woods of my mind.
I do bring home the accomplishments of today. The things I have done in due time. The memories of the day’s adventures that shall turn into stories when I return to the Shire. Where my mother is waiting to hear everything about them.
I don’t bring much home. Things that don’t matter anyway.
ALL EYES ON ME
I do bring home the things of every single day that made me like I was. That is enough for me.
Kevin Matthew N. Pacana
DigitalArt
two dozen doughnuts
Ricci Jilliane Bangis C
Digital Art
the red shirt
Anthony Joseph A. Borres
It was a long night right after my tenth birthday when you decided to wrap a red cloth around my left foot onto yours because our ancestors believed that evil spirits would no longer have the power to take me away if a red cloth was placed on me. It was a long night when I alerted the whole village because a little boy had been missing for four continuous hours, believing I was kidnapped or taken hostage by evil spirits. I remember the very first hour when I woke up in the morning, and my sisters told me that a longhaired old woman came to you and asked to throw salt to the old rotting tamarind tree right beside your brother’s parking lot, saying that the tree was responsible for my missing. It was a long night when father decided to call the police and check every taxi cab that passed by because it was when the cases of kidnappings had been increasing, and children were being hidden inside the trunk, but I wasn’t found in any taxi cabs that were on the go. The night was long and weird. Although things got out of control, which I didn’t intend, but the truth is told, I slept.
I’d be lying if I said it was the only recollection I had because, for some reason, even though I convinced myself it was the only memory I had after that night, I can still recall how I felt during those four hours alone. I sat beside an old gate behind a curved wall, hugging my knees. My hair was full of cobwebs, and worms were all over the place because there was a dead rat beside me, but I didn’t mind the awful smell. My hands were fidgeting with fear since I decided to pull a prank on my sister and my cousin when I threw a diaper on them and hid, thinking that I would be scolded. Blurry memories yet still vivid, dark yet very bright, confused but somehow lucid—I was only a mere freshly turned ten-year-old boy who didn’t know anything. Regardless of how hidden I thought I was, I was found by a neighbor when he flashed his light on me. I remember I was covering my face since the light was immensely bright that it blinded my sight, but as luck would have it, thinking I still could get scolded by my cousin’s mother, he walked away and turned his light off as if he didn’t see me at all. God knows how big my smile was as I saw his retreating figure walking toward you.
Sleeping in that dark space wasn’t that scary for me. Although I’ve been a coward in the dark, I have never felt any fear at that time. What I felt was a pure adrenaline rush: to be hidden from my cousin’s mom. Waiting for the time to move swiftly, I tried fighting my eyes as they began to fall. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to sleep. It was because, at that time, I was already thinking of coming out since I thought it was already an hour of hiding.
I slept, unknowingly, of how long it took me to come out finally. I slept for four hours on a tiny placid spot on my neighbor’s lawn. I came out with a slight smile printed on my face. The blue shirt that you gave me earlier was filled with dirt; it was ragged, and it didn’t look new at all. My shorts that you bought from the mall before my birthday were covered with mud because I didn’t realize that I slept on the muddy ground.
I looked filthy.
Everyone rushed toward me.
You were the first one to carry me and cry on my neck. I remember I wasn’t paying attention to the reaction of everyone but the mother of my cousin, who I thought was angry for throwing a used diaper at her daughter. I didn’t mind their queries at all. I was silent, mute, shivering from the chilly night. They were bombarding me with questions about my whereabouts. Father was also furious, his eyes were raging in fire, and not even a sense of concern was evident in it. You were the only person I could remember who covered me from being too overwhelmed by the coming of people in our direction. You rushed to get inside the house as you carried me in your arms and made me feel like the night was about to fold so a new day would begin to rise again. I remember the clear black sky as the stars were spreading over on a summer night and were about to change into hues of blue. You cut an unused shirt that is color red and tied it from my foot onto yours. It was uncomfortable, but I felt comforted. I closed my eyes to sleep, with the red cloth tied together.
Now that everything is okay. I come home wearing a red shirt I bought from New Year’s and pair it with my faded blue jeans I thrifted last month, still believing that wearing a cloth of red scares the spirits away; I no longer wear shorts because I grew skinny. As I walk my way toward you, I bring the memory from that night as my gift that I will forever care very much for, while placing the warm pizza and a liter of an orange soda that you loved, on a marble stone with your name sculpted on it, as I read the line: “Always in our hearts.”
salubong pagsubongsa sa adlaw
Arrantxa Ibale Quipanes
I’ve been gone for a while. I was gone afar not because I chose not to return but because I got lost for a moment. Nanghináut ko nga ang paggahin sa akong panahon ug pagbati sa huyúhoy sa dagat makapakalma sa akong kadagatan—kini nga kasílag ug kining nagkasagol nga mga emosyon nga akong gihambin—apan wala. Gisundan ko ang kaháyag, wala makaamgo nga layo na kaayo ang akong naagian. Nakalimot ko asa ang dalan pabalik sa akong gigikanan. I felt hopeful for a brief moment and hoped that at the end of this road, this never-ending pursuit of light, I’d find the answers I was looking for.
I’ve been gone for a while. I was gone afar not because I chose not to return but because I got lost for a moment. I hoped that taking my time and feeling the sea breeze would calm my waters—this hatred and these mixed emotions I’d been harboring—but it didn’t. I followed the light, not realizing I’d gone so far. I’d forgotten where home was. I felt hopeful for a brief moment and hoped that at the end of this road, this neverending pursuit of light, I’d find the answers I was looking for.
I’ve been to fjords and myriad dead ends, as well as every cliff and place where the sun shone. I was trying so hard to get back on track, pushing myself until I couldn’t anymore. I was so exhausted that even getting up was difficult. I used to believe that giving up was better than trying when I knew all of my efforts would be futile. Gigúgol nako ang akong tibuok kinabuhi nga nagkinabuhi alang sa uban nga dili gani ako makahimo sa akong kaugalingong kalayo gamit ang mga bato o makahukom kung asa nga dalan ang akong agian sa matag interseksyon nga akong maagian. It wasn’t an hour or two, I had been lost for far too long.
I’ve been to fjords and myriad dead ends, as well as every cliff and place where the sun shone. I was trying so hard to get back on track, pushing myself until I couldn’t anymore. I was so exhausted that even getting up was difficult. I used to believe that giving up was better than trying when I knew all of my efforts would be futile. I’ve spent my entire life living for others that I can’t even make my own fire with stones or decide which path to take at every intersection I’ve come across. It wasn’t an hour or two, I had been lost for far too long.
But I’m finally starting to see the way home. Though fading in my memory, akong makita ang mga timailhan sa akong kagahapon nga nabulit sa kahadlok ug kabaláka. Even though I did not find everything I was looking for, I am now happy and content. Even though I can’t see the doors yet, I can feel a hug of warmth within me. Ug hinaut nga inig-abot nako sa imong pultahan, naa ka aron sa pagtimbayâ kanako uban sa bukas nga mga kamot, tungod kay mianhi ako aron sa paghatud sa daghang mga pasalubong alang kanimo.
But I’m finally starting to see the way home. Though fading in my memory, I can see traces of my past tainted with fear and anxiety. Even though I did not find everything I was looking for, I am now happy and content. Even though I can’t see the doors, I can feel a hug of warmth within me. And hopefully, when the time comes for me to arrive at your door, you’ll be there to greet me with open arms, because I’ve come to deliver so many pasalubong for you.
short biography
Trisha Isabel C. Maniquiz (BS Psychology)
TheCrusader Editors’ Choice for Poetry
Trisha is interested in crafting original stories and fanfiction. Now, she starts to practice more on different writing styles to broaden her skills.
Leann Roshe L. Zuson (AB Philosophy)
TheCrusader Editors’ Choice for Prose
Leann enjoys overthinking as a Philosophy student and as a pastime writer. If not, she plays video games like Dungeons and Dragons with her friends.
Norman S. Wooton Jr. (BS EMC)
TheCrusader Editors’ Choice for Art
Norman is an aspiring game artist who is interested in doing 3D animation, but he is mostly invested in doing concept art.
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5TH VERITAS WRITERS’ WORKSHOP
