The
Crusader
The official student publication of Xavier University - Ateneo de Cagayan
Cover design by Rizalyka Joanne Waminal Layout by Lynette Tuvilla Circulation: 2,000 copies
Foreword
Lumalalim na ang gabi. Anong iniisip mo?
This year’s Veritas Folio dedicates itself to those fleeting moments as we drift off into temporary oblivion. What is it about the state that lies in between two modes of consciousness that captures the imagination? Is it the ethereal feeling of floating, as if transgressing from reality into a world that belongs only to you? Or perhaps it is the proverbial key that opens the locked doors of your subconscious – the contents of which no one knows, not even you. Scientists describe sleep as “a natural periodic state of rest for the mind and body, in which the eyes usually close and consciousness is completely or partially lost, so that there is a decrease in bodily movement and responsiveness to external stimuli”. The works contained in this folio reflect these three qualities of falling asleep. The balak “Laylay” and the short story “Antukin” talk about finding rest in the arms of other people. The creative non
fiction piece “Intimations of Sleep” talks about losing consciousness, along with this is the work “A fragment of an interpretation of a dream (pour S.F.)” a work channelling Freud’s dream analysis. The artworks “My name is Wilt but I remember being called Bloom once” and “Pills” show the decrease of responsiveness to external stimuli. On the other hand, there is also a prevailing theme of sleeplessness in the works, as reflected in the essay “The Silence”, the poem “Dilat”, and the artwork “Gising.” Along with sleep will always be the presence or haunting of dreams, whether haunting such as in the story “Chased” or the poem “The Dream is Shattered”, or dreams of people once known such as in the poem “Obituary.” Many of the artworks in this folio explore the subconscious tales of our minds; “In My Dreams” and “Deepdark” being choice examples. This year’s folio marks the 2nd Veritas Writers Workshop, a project continued from last year. Six fellows were chosen to have their literary works critiqued by a panel from Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro (NAGMAC). The Veritas Writers Workshop remains the sole campus-based writers workshop in CDO, born from the ongoing mission to support the literary community of Xavier University. Now TheCrusader Publication invites every reader to become our bedfellows as we take the silent journey into a world of reveries.
The Editors 2018 Veritas Folio: ‘Antukin’
PO ET RY
In My Dreams by Rizalyka Joanne Waminal
Obituary
by Ena Jessa Kristine R. Jarales
She was but one of your number, one out of the one thousand, two hundred and sixty-eight; and I knew how her name ought to have been spelled; I knew her face well, knew the table where she sat every night for dinner, knew the name of the person she left behind — But I recognize every single one of you, too. Years ago Your coins mixed with my fare; We grumbled together in long lines at Ororama; Veritastook 2018 my spot in the moYou torela after I disembarked; Your tables were bussed so I could take your place after you had eaten your dinner. Once We met on the spit-stained sidewalk; I ignored you. I get out of it by saying You ignored me, too.
Veritas 2018
We did not drown in the same streetlights at night Nor drown in the same darkness that night When the blackouts came I was safe from its reach While I inhaled the wintry December air you breathed in something far colder There will be nights of wondering where your souls have gone. I only know one name out of the hundreds and hundreds now etched in stone and it is not yours. We were never kindred, not by gold nor by water nor by blood. You will be missing from me nonetheless.
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No one I know reads obituaries in the newspaper but forgetting is not an option now. Requiescat in pace.  
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Deep Dark
by Deciri Beione Tharyn A. BraĂąa
Light by Michael Banjo A. Poblete
Dilat
by Therese Mole Sa madilim na kalawakan, Maliwanag ang buwan. Hating-gabi ngunit gising. Sa oras ng pagtulog, Kumikinang, dilat pa rin. Bakit ‘di natutulog ang buwan? Ano ba’ng nilalabanan nito? Ang antok O ang damdamin? Saksi ang buwan Sa mga emosyong kumakawala sa oras ng pagtulog. Sa pagsayaw ng mga tala, Mata’y lumuluha. Tahimik ang gabi, Ngunit nag-iingay ang pusong nababasag. Dilat ang mata, Ngunit bulag sa iba. Siguro Sa gabi dumarating ang buwan, Sa mga oras na ika’y nakapikit, Nang sa hindi mo makita Ang paglisan nito Pagdating ng araw.
Calmness by Jean Abarquez
Laylay by Mark Anthony Daposala sa dili pa ka maduka ayaw na paghago og paabot nako wala kay angay ikabaka, day basta ipakang-a lang ang pulta sa imong damgo sa kasamtangan busog na ko sa mga hinog nga pasumbingay nga gatubo gikan sa lungsod sa imong pusod natagbaw na ko sa atabay nga puno sa imong talidhay ug bisan tuod taas-taas pa ang akong pagbaktas niining malamaton nga nataran subayon ko lang ang mapa nga gigama sa pipila nimong panghupaw kon ugaling masaag latason ko ang lasang sa imong buhok ug ang kahabog
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sa imong dughan aron makadangat sa utlanan sa imong ngabil busa langga ipakang-a lang ang pulta sa dili pa ka mopiyong kay sa higayong maalimungawan ka wala kay laing madunggan gawas sa akong hagok nga hagbay ra makigduyog sa imong paghinanok
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Geography of the Soul by Michael Angelo Estillore
Gising by Benedict Laplana
Do Not Wake Me Up by Herabelle Villanueva
Let me be honest: Do not wake me up I don’t need your demands or your hands around my neck. I don’t need your voices telling me what I must do what I must share what is important what is black, what is white, what is offensive, what is not.
Since when did ‘thought’ become an abyss to the many? Since when did media become the only source of fact? What happened to passion? What happened to youth? Are they now determined by the number of clicks and exploited accounts? Or are those abstract thoughts numerical algorithms Computer Applications that still need to be hacked?
Do not dictate what my life should be when you’re so confined to the universe that’s in your hand. That makeshift world is squeezing you dry till you’re nothing but a shell that’s caught in the trend of giving gray hearts that don’t know how to beat and don’t know how to love.
Please, don’t wake me up to the dawn you think you own. I might be a millennial whose sanity is always questioned but I’m comfortable with what I know. This darkness is colorful, the silence isn’t stifling. The shadows are my friends and ideas are my medicine.
Do not wake me up and chain me to that black metallic box hitting keys, writing ‘answers’ even when shallow lies and outbursts are more attractive, more acceptable than the truth. The words mean nothing and ears are sewn close. Mouths are wide open consuming fabrications from a news feed not knowing that the unexamined life is a healthier gourmet to explore.
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So don’t wake me up there really is no need when your eyes are down cast fingers scrolling down to infinity. But if you say you’re awake then I’d rather stay in bed be a dreamer live for truth say everything that should be said.
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Pills
by Deciri Beione Tharyn BraĂąa
More than five by Jayson Elvie Ty
I Used to Build (Ode to the Bottom of the Bottle) by Adeva Jane Esparrago
I used to build pillow fortresses Because the monsters under my bed Were hard to fight. I had to be ready. With my fearless steed— The stuffed bear of victory At my side, I swore no monster Would leave unscathed. I knew the monster was there. Bringing with him The stench of the hordes Rising from the underbelly. But from puffs of smoke emerged, Not a monster, But my hero— My father. Did he conquer the beast? Why were his eyes drooping? Is he tired? He swings side to side when he walks— Did the monster hurt him? As a child, I learned that night That monsters are inside The hearts of men. I learned, That when doors slammed shut, Hands which push them Aren’t clawed or scary. When pots and pans Hit the ground,
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There isn’t always A bad guy Laying unconscious on the ground. Or that when shadows Form at the side of my bed, Breathing heavily, It isn’t always there to get me. Monsters are inside The hearts of men. I learned that More battles are fought In life, And they’re much more Violent, Not as noble— Than the epics I come up with In my mind. Monsters are inside The hearts of men. He finds his monster After almost half a case. Now, I know My pillow fortresses won’t protect me From the scent of his cigarettes And Red Horse. So I’ve simply stopped building them. Not enough pillows, Not enough imagination, The memories too heavy. So please, dad. When the monster comes scraping At the back of your head, Or if you find whatever it is you’re looking for At the bottom of the bottle, Talk to me. I still have the stuffed bear of victory And you still can help me build fortresses. I’ll get it right this time. Maybe we can make the monster go away. **Previously published in ‘Do Not Fall in Love With a Poet’ (Bulawan Books).
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On the Coastline by Therese Mole
You are my ocean. You set me adrift With every gaze, Every stare from your crystalline eyes. Sparkling yet piercing Like your body of waves at night, Glittering in the cold. Your breeze stroking my skin, Bleak, not gentle. But I embrace the chill. Your tides are strong, Washing me away– Away from your shore. But I am a sailor, With no chance of smooth sailing with you. Yet I claim, You are my ocean. The depth of your waters Carries a beauty I cannot grasp. Underneath your surface Lies a splendor you hide from me. The heart of you, my ocean, Is a place I’ve never been; Nor will I ever be in. Your body of water Does not fit in my arms widespread.
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You take all of me as I submerge into you, Yet I can only take a piece of you as I emerge. You are so much more, And I am just a mere lover of saltwater Basking in my dry skin. I am missing out the truth that Oceans aren’t oceans if they belong to someone. Oceans aren’t oceans if they don’t flow free. Your tides can’t kiss me forever on the shoreline. You are made to drift away. Now, I will be on the coastline, Watching you cast your waves, Hurl your tides, Strengthen your currents. I will only be on the coastline, Watching an ocean I can never call mine.
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The Dream is Shattered by Samantha Isabelle Bagayas It was the dark hours, the lonely hours that made memory seem so real. Next to her is an undeniable mess of nothing. There is a ghost of a boy, a hint of a lover, a twinge of sadness— in her head, there will always be this name somewhere lurking in a memory pushed down to nothingness. She’ll reach out and find her fist close on bedsheets; it was your hand here in mine once, twice, many more times to count, often in shadow, in a nondescript place, always in secret. Always mine, for a second, as if tagging territory: “here”. Here, as if it had any semblance of intangibility, as if it accepted any excuse to be absent. Here, where you had to have perfect attendance, no excuses, and you were the rebel that hardly ever stayed to learn. In the darkness, all sense of reality crawls to a stop. In the world’s slow waking, I will still hear echoes of your voice ringing somewhere in this room. Somehow there is a timeline that even reality
can’t touch, where we are still trying to remember that this is real, and I would have cupped your face in my hands just to keep you here. Some nights are spent caught up in a dream where we will have closed our eyes, and for a moment, glimpsed what was, only to open our eyes to what is. What is: in the aftermath, there are songs I can no longer listen to. But this feels like some kind of inescapable hell: the way my heart sings to the tune of your name like a favorite lullaby, like a theme song in the rolling credits, calming everything down for the final ending. And I’m the fool who can’t quite get the notes right. Tugging at the corners of a dying memory is a voice lulling the fool back to the deepest pits of love, still etched in a boy always itching to create. The sky sploshes with gentle swishes of purple, yellow, and blue; and the light comes, the truth dawns — The dream is shattered.
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The Sad Sea Waves by Pamelo Lois Cahucom
Gaulan pod kaha dira? by Christian Baldomero
sa akong huna-huna naa ka diri o naa ko dira ipiyong ko akong mga mata og gigunitan mo akong kamot o gigunitan ko imoha imong mata ang naa sa ako og akong mata naa sa imo sa pag halok imoha akong ngabil og akoa ang imoha laway nimo laway nako og laway nako laway nimo panit sa panit liog sa liog singot sa singot dugos sa dugos atoa ang gabii tanang basa kahilom kasaba kaitom kahayag kaalisngaw kainit sa gabii atoa pero diay naa ko diri og naa ka dira ibuka ko akong mga mata og maminaw sa kamingaw sa ulan bugnaw akong gabie og akong kwarto og akong katre og akong habol og akong unlan og akong singot og akong panit og akong kamot og akong ngabil bugnaw og sa kangitngit sa akong pag inusara ako makapangutana gaulan pod kaha dira? 26
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The One Where I Become Ross From FRIENDS by Melrein Viado
“You have too much gel on your hair”, you said, barely not laughing. I would have laughed too, but then, I realized that the joke was on you. Fact: Research shows dinosaurs attract mates with their horns and stylish head crests. I’m no dinosaur but my bones are just as ready to become dust to join the nightsky as stars – Extinct but still out there rearranging themselves just outside your window to tell you: Look here, there are mirrors where my ribs are supposed to be. It would be rude of you to stare at my insides but then, you would only end up having a staring contest with yourself. Know that my spine is a constellation of wishes. I’ll hand you a part of it for every time your lashes touch your cheeks in prayer. Falling on my back wouldn’t be that hard for me because I’ve become an expert at that – falling – just now, when you said that I have too much gel on my hair and I look like that guy from FRIENDS. Veritas 2018
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Day Dreamer by Matthew Alaba
Sa lahat ng hirap na aking pinagdaanan, Wari ako ngayo’y nasa isang paraisong lubos kong kinagigiliwan. Sa paligid ko’y di mabilang na mikbato na itinurin kong kayamanan, Na s’yang sumisimbolo sa marangyang buhay na aking tinatamasa. Walang araw at gabi na ako’y ‘di nagdidiwang. Sa masasarap na handaang lagi kong nilalantakan. Hindi ko akalain na ako’y lubos na masisiyahan, ‘Pagkat ito’y hindi ang buhay sa dalawampung taon, Na aking kinalakihan. Walang kasiguraduhan, Kung anong mangyayari sa hinaharap. Ako ba ay dapat matakot kung mawawalan? O ako ba ay dapat masaya sa sandaling ako’y tumawa. Sa kabilang banda, napagtanto kong nakakasawa rin pala. Sa ligayang ‘yon na aking nadama, nakalimutan ko kung sa’n ako nagsimula. Marapat na gumising na ako sa katotohanan, Upang ang kasalukuyan ay malampasan ko patungo sa hinaharap.
Let Me
by Kirby James Jagape
18-1-6-6-9 by Benedict Laplana
Sa tulang ‘to, nasa bahay ako by Melrein Viado nakahubad, hinihele ng bentilador papalayo sa apat na sulok nitong nanlilimahid na imbakan ng buntong hininga. mabagal lang ang oras kapag naghihintay ka ng text na hindi darating. naaalala ko pa rin kung paano mo ako tanungin ng “mukha ba kong walang tulog?”. “hindi” – kahit na para kang nakipagsuntukan tapos natalo. kaso mahal pa kita no’n at ‘di ko pa nalalamang ang pag-ibig ay pwedeng mag-anyong pangako sa paningin ng mapanuring maasahin, na walang butal kung magtiwala. gusto sana kitang tawagan para lang sabihin sa’yong pinakikinggan ko na ulit ang “tadhana” ng up dharma down, kaso ‘di na kita mahal at sinungaling pa rin ako.
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A fragment of an interpretation of a dream (pour S.F.) by Tyrone Sabal I. I was told a story once, it was in a dream; there was only a voice, speaking no louder than the sound of a drop of water in a vessel half-filled with the same. The vessel was in the middle of an empty room; it was the only sound there was, a voice telling me a story in a dream. ‘Stay’ is the only word I remember from the story; either it began or ended the story the details escape my memory. Now I am awake, for how long I forget; I stopped counting, preoccupied with the burden of recollecting fragments of what comes before or after the word that demands that I should have not awaken; or, does it? I am awake, and I know for certain that I should have stayed; but where? Stayed in the dream; the dream empty except for the word that is no better than a gravestone marking the place of eternity? The dead reigns eternal, a story that was and no more; marked with a gravestone that is not unlike the word ‘stay’ which can also mean ‘remain where you are’ or, ‘you are buried where you fall’; a reminder of what one is not: living. Is to stay a command to remain where I was, in the dream that carries with it the uncertainty not unlike that of the cat inside a box? Or, is it not like the bitter aftertaste of a pill that is forced down one’s throat, the body wanting to rid itself of it; is it not a command to remain where I currently am, in the land of no-dream? II. Sleeps. End of sleep; stay. Wakes up. _leeps. awake. _ _ eeps. stay. _ _ _ eps. sta_. _ _ _ _ ps. st_ _. _ _ _ _ _s _ _ _.
Childhood
by Rizalyka Joanne Waminal
Innocence
by Rizalyka Joanne Waminal
C I FI T N O
Chasing Sunsets by Freshelle May L. Tilanduca
Chased by Abigail James
She was researching ‘recurring dreams’ on Google. There were the regular articles from online news outlets picking up a seemingly interesting story, one from a popular psychology site, and others claiming to be dream interpretation websites. She had heard from her boyfriend, Jobert that these sites couldn’t be trusted and only a trained psychologist could accurately interpret the dreams she was having. It seemed like he wanted to give it a try but she only agreed with him since it had not disturbed her so much when they first started returning. From the articles, she could tell the nature of her recurring dreams was pretty standard. It was your typical being chased by some terrifying entity. It had varied throughout her life; sometimes it was a rabid dog, the local vagrant whose pants always had holes exposing his genitals, a sinister clown (but she attributed this to having just seen IT). Despite Bert’s adamant advice to see a professional, she relied on the general consensus of the internet which was she seemed to be trying to get away from something. She was still trying to wrap her head around how dreams were supposed to reflect something else in her life. She had always thought they were arbitrary, like her brain had switched on a random TV channel and that was what she would be watching for the night. Dating someone like Bert had changed that. He connected everything she did to some event in her past she had shared. She didn’t like the taste of crab because she was chased by one as a little kid. She acted like a child with him because she had to take care of her younger brother and wasn’t allowed to have a real childhood. She was projecting her abandonment issues on him when she complained he was too busy (this was apparently due to her mother’s many years abroad). Everything she did or said was objected to Bert’s so-called ‘psychoanalysis’. She just thought she was living her life. She was someone with a flair for numbers. Numbers, at least, she did not have to wonder why, just how. But the return of disturbing chase dreams was unsettling. In her deliberate way, it did not occur to her that she might have asked Bert about it. Instead she chose to rely on Google, the impersonal know-it-all. She had learned enough to satisfy her low curiosity and promptly exited the window. It was getting late. Just before settling into her cushion strewn bed (Bert claiming she did this
because she craved comfort), her mind uncharacteristically lingered on the idea of being chased. Before, her dreams had never hidden the one who was relentlessly coming after her. As terrifying as having the clown from IT on her heels was, she would just wake up, wipe off the cold sweat, have a glass of water and go back to sleep. Her mind did not dwell on what it could mean because to her, everything was pretty much straightforward. But her latest dreams, she could not remember who was chasing her. Whoever or whatever it was, all she could recall as she woke was a dark shadow in the form of something with legs creeping up on her. She did not even seem particularly afraid, yet it haunted her. This was totally unlike the time she had dreamt of the pulubi she had seen on the way to school, his balls ten times the normal size swinging like a pendulum as he chased her down a sidewalk. In her recent bout of dreams, the shadow person seemed to get close enough to her until she noticed their hands were already on her neck, and that was only when she decided to run. It seemed like the face of this being would reveal itself just before his hands clasped around her throat yet whenever she woke up, she could never remember. She ended up drifting to sleep as she strained to recall the face of her imaginary assailant. Like a script, she was in the now-familiar dreamscape, what Bert said was her subconscious. The figure was there but she did not feel scared; not yet. She waited as he – yes, it was a “he” – approached her. There was an inexplicable familiarity in the way he moved and the way she responded. He reached out to her. She opened her arms. He wanted to hug her. It must be that. Just as she felt his hands move up her body towards her neck, she looked at him, determined to see his face and remember it. There Bert was, eyes fixed on her neck as his fingers began to tighten. Like every time before, she ran. She ran and ran until finally she woke up. She was covered in sweat. A glass of water was waiting on her bedside table and she drank it. Already the face was fading, fading. But the familiarity remained. The next day she mentioned her dream about being chased and again she refused to give Bert all the details. She could not remember.
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Cotton Candy Clouds by Freshelle May L. Tilanduca
Antukin
by Lorenzo Botavara If this were any other rainy night, the hard, steady pattering on the window would’ve ushered me easily into sleep, but how could I with the things that have happened over the past few hours? I also wasn’t able to stock up on food if the storm was indeed as strong as it was touted to be. This wouldn’t have been much of a problem if Ara wasn’t here too. She half consciously leaned in and tucked her head in the crook of my shoulder, her hair voluminous and heavy, still retaining its softness despite its now considerable length. The last time we saw each other personally a year ago, it was almost exactly at her shoulders. She had cut it then, anticipating the heat of Manila. Warmth was a very welcome sensation for me at that moment, though, and I couldn’t help but smile as she breathed warm air on the side of my neck at predictable intervals – the first time in a long time I felt some stability. The past few weeks have been turbulent and particularly unfortunate for our relationship and it seemed the typhoon, strong as it was, came late to the party. We had made plans to date at least thrice since she flew back from Manila for Christmas break, each time we ended up postponing. It seemed as if the universe was hellbent on keeping us from seeing each other, and it seemed a lot of things had to go right for us to be successful. Funnily enough, I hadn’t exactly believed in the concept of fate until I started dating Ara. I found my refuge in science, and the first time we made plans had to stay in school for the first week of the break for laboratory work on my thesis but by Wednesday a small clearing in my schedule allowed us some time together. A few hours before our arranged time, however, my adviser called me up for an emergency appointment and told me I had used the wrong reagents for the batch of specimens I had worked on the day before – work I had to redo immediately. With slumped shoulders and a very upset girlfriend I did so. I did video call her later in the lab and she laughed at how, in my misery, I’d talk trash at the test tubes and other equipment I was handling. “You better make it all worth it and graduate this March,” she asserted. I ignored the subject and replied with a simple “It’s okay, we’ll have nothing to do after Christmas. See you then?” Talking about graduation at one of the lowest points of my thesis life would only lead to more anxiety. It was her turn to upset me the second time, when she either did not pay attention to the date, or simply forgot that she had a family reunion on the 26th on which we were set to meet up. We had been very eager to see each other especially after spending Christmas in the same city without having seen each other. It was torturing, the awareness of proximity. She hadn’t been home since last January and I was sure her family missed her as much as I 42
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do, so I had no choice but let it slide. Besides, this wasn’t the first time Ara had lost track of the date or forgotten an appointment. It’s just one of the things that happened when your girlfriend had three orgs in the Ateneo. I was irritated, of course, but this just evened things out between the two of us. She called me up to apologize. I couldn’t make out some of her words because an uncle of hers was belting out “My Way” on a karaoke machine. He sounded really drunk. “We have the days before New Year’s eve. That’s more than enough time,” I reassured her. I spoke too soon. The next morning I woke up to a series of messages explaining the entire family had to fly to Cebu immediately to return the remains of her uncle who actually died last night after the reunion. He had a heart attack in his sleep. She added, “There’s no timetable yet for when we’re coming back, I might spend the New Year there. Uncle Jimbo ate so much lechon before going to bed.” I chuckled, half out of entertainment that she felt the need to add that information and half out of frustration as well. We didn’t talk that much that day, only a few messages to update each other. I only knew later on that she was settled down when she wrote a new entry on the astrology blog she maintains (it had quite a following): “All THREE of the tarots’ predictions have come true!” with “THREE” hyperlinked to a previous blog post of hers 2 months ago, where she had a tarot reader give insight on her future at an exotic shop in Quezon City just for fun. The cards implied disconnection, death, and distance. I knew exactly what she meant: our schedules, her uncle, and now the sea that has once more separated us geographically before we could even get together. Ara was an astrology enthusiast and ever since I met her, she has always been fascinated by the zodiac, the circulation of energy within the universe, and how the movement of celestial bodies affected our behavior. She only recently tried tarot reading out of curiosity. A quick Google search on it made my scientifically inclined mind feel uneasy. Whenever things that are out of our power would happen, she would refer to water and fire signs to explain them and I wouldn’t say anything even though I honestly objected. When meeting new friends, she would interact with them based on their zodiac signs to get on their good sides as well, and she was practically friends with everyone. I had always been skeptical of this and once told her it was because she was a Psychology major that she handled people well. After seeing the look on her face, I learned to never say that to her that again. Now she was into tarot reading, which in my opinion was an entire notch creepier. Even worse, the tarot predictions, which even she practically dismissed two months ago, had come true. Veritas 2018
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Her replies were particularly short after I messaged her about the blog entry. It was an extremely busy day for the family, who went back and forth between the house of the deceased and the funeral homes for the first night of the wake. Ara called me the day after: “Jerome, I won’t go back to CdO after the burial. I’ll spend the rest of the break here then fly straight to Manila. I guess we weren’t meant to see each other this time.” I wasn’t willing to give up just yet. In a moment of uncharacteristic bravado, I rushed out a crazy plan. “Let’s take control of our own fate, Ara. I’ll use the money I saved up for Sinulog and go to you after New Year.” “But my flight’s on January 2, 7PM.” “Pack your bags early, then. We’ll spend half a day together then I’ll send you off. I’m sure your parents won’t object to that.” I wasn’t sure if she could hear the desperation in my voice. Maybe she did because she finally relented. I would be in Cebu for two days and come home right before classes would resume. I rushed to get a boat ticket. At first the agent said all seats were sold out. I felt the push of the universe as if it were a challenge. I pleaded at the woman behind the counter to find something. It seems desperation was taking me places because after a call, she finally discovered a vacancy that would get me on the midnight boat to Cebu. But still fate was trying to screw me over. The sea was turbulent and strong winds came from the east. According to the news on an on-board TV, a tropical depression was causing heavy rains in Leyte. We had to slow down gradually as we got closer to Cebu as the waves got higher. When we neared the mainland, the sky was overcast but the waves died down a little (the open seas were hard to cross by then) and I arrived 4 hours later than my ETA. Ara texted me: “At the airport now. We have three hours.” I was about to go crazy, it was quite a distance from the pier to Mactan, and the Cebu rush-hour traffic would mean that the airport would be at least two hours away. The taxi ride gave me ample time to reflect on things. I felt defeated. There certainly was nothing that we could have done to prevent any of this from happening. It genuinely felt like we like we were being conspired against from seeing each other. In the taxi, the radio was blasting Antukin by Rico Blanco, as if the universe was enjoying its final gloat at my misery. Outside the window, two motorcycles almost ran into each other. Immediately after, the first drops of rain fall on the glass I almost forgot was there. I checked my watch, it was six in the evening. The dark blue was taking over the Cebu skyline as the multitude of street lights flashed on. A few minutes later, Ara called: “What’s number and franchise name of the cab you’re in?” I told her the name and plate number based on the indoor stickers. “Where are you?” Her voice seemed panicked. I asked the driver, “Centro, corner of PJ Burgos. Ara, can I still-” She hung up before I could finish, probably knowing I couldn’t make it on time.
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Resignedly, I told the driver to take me to the hotel in Mactan at which I had a reservation. Ten minutes later, I saw what looked like a familiar face on the side of the road, hailing the cab. I could barely believe my eyes as I recognized her favorite ‘I heart CDO’ pambalay and the large trolley I gave her before she went back to school last year. I asked the driver to pull up and as she eased herself in the backseat beside me. All I could do was gape. I must have had the most dumbfounded reaction as she laughed so hard at this and gave me a big side hug. “My flight was cancelled, Jom! Amarillo is passing over Cebu and there’s zero visibility!” It felt peculiar to be so absolutely gleeful over a (now) tropical storm. “Asa naman ta, Migo?” the driver promptly asked. “Didto ra gihapon, Bai.” Her parents were so relieved she was safe that they let her stay the night with me. As Ara took off her soaked sneakers she remarked, “I’m reconsidering how true the tarot reading was.” I took in the sight of her, barely able to comprehend how our fate had actually changed. Perhaps there was some merit to being relentless. Perhaps there was more to the ‘forces’ that influence us than I thought. Instead of replying to her, I pursued Ara into a startling hug. She seemed surprised at first, but I could feel her body soon relax; the fatigue of the past few days weighing heavy on her shoulders. I gladly took her tiredness in my arms. The droplets had turned into torrents against the windows of our room on the 15th floor, but we barely heard a thing.
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Purpose
by Michael Banjo Poblete
Their Frayed Dance by Herabelle Villanueva Drowsy, sleep-deprived eyes greet him as he enters the dimly lit room. The female sitting on the small cramped bed shakes her head as if fighting the lethargy. The handwriting on the old magnetic sketch board is messy. Her hands are frail. She blames the lack of sun for the instability in her strokes. The light green walls of her room do nothing to make her look better. But she disagrees and says - writes - that the color helps people get “well”. He begs to disagree but utters no sound. Instead, he eyes the phone that had found its way to the wooden floor and notes that the number of cracks on the screen has increased - yet again. The lithe fingers that had gripped it are trembling because they had lost their strength. And fingers with no strength could only let go. Brown eyes tell him, beg him, to ignore the device. But he’s used to the pout on her lips, the furrow of her brows and the shallow rise and fall of her petite shoulders. He simply blinks at her and ruffles her hair. In a split second, the female explodes. Her mouth moves and spouts a hundred words per minute. Neither her poisonous tone nor her angered stomps make it past his eardrums. He hears nothing. He doesn’t mind. He knows that she’ll stop eventually. When she does, she’ll take his hand and pull him to the wide floor of her living room, raise her hands in a pose she had ingrained into her being, eyes beckoning him to come closer, dock with her, and pull her into his hold. This was their cycle. This was their daydream. Every day he would visit. Every day she would incessantly chatter. They fight. They dance. He leaves. She says goodbye. And it all started when they were both ten, when the song ‘Ang Huling El Bimbo’ came out. She was a girl who wore cheap rubber slippers and climbed trees in a Sunday dress. He was her tall, deaf, boring, reclusive neighbor-slash-friend who loved his stable and peaceful life and loathed everything else. She loved the song. He didn’t really care. But just as he couldn’t quite convince the young lady that flashing her middle finger wasn’t counted as sign language, she couldn’t quite convince the young lad that his gangly limbs were well suited for dance. So the girl decided to force him into it because the song needed two people and she had no one else to ask. She blackmailed the poor young male with something as ridiculous as having his manhood cut off since he was ten and he hadn’t been circumcised. And the impressionable boy, who had no idea what was going on, why her parents were halfcoughing-half-laughing at his misfortune, and why she had a magnetic sketch board when she couldn’t draw, had no choice but to agree.
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With that he was doomed to be the thread in her hands, to be strung through a needle she so wilfully controlled. They danced to the waltz and roughly everything she could think of. She wove through each figure too unpredictably it was madness. She pulled him around to wherever she wanted. He followed her lead and learned to feel the beat with the girl’s every step. And although he couldn’t hear the song, the rhythm became a part of him – moving him in ways he couldn’t understand. He wanted to hate it. He wanted to hate dancing. He wanted to hate her. But he couldn’t. The prank turned into a game. The game turned into a cycle. But with each year that passed he noticed something changing. He was still the thread. He was still being tugged around but the energy behind each movement was slipping away. Each push and pull seemed hurried or forced, and she slowly stopped caring if the ends were disconnected and frayed. Each stitch, each dance had become considerably shorter. Her ragged breaths took longer to calm down. Finally, her body decided to give up mid-step and at seventeen she was told that her normal life would have to stop. Her mother quit her job. Her father left the country to earn a higher pay. The female was asked to give up a lot more than she imagined. But she refused to let go of her thread. And he, the boy who believed that there was responsibility even in friendship, decided he would never leave her side. The cycle turned into a promise, one he knew he would keep for as long as he could. He just didn’t expect that in five years that promise would become a curse. The girl that loved that one Eraserheads song had disappeared and was replaced with a twenty-two year old woman who was broken and confused. The arms that had once climbed trees are now twig-like. Her sun-kissed skin is no longer tinted by the colors of the earth. Her face is now accentuated by angles of her cheekbones. Her words are scathing. Her blackouts are more frequent. Sign language adds gasoline to her burning anger. His silence only makes it worse. He’s long stopped reading the syllables that fell off her lips. He’s learned to wait for the spiteful woman to stop. He gets through her endless tirade by gazing at the brown orbs that used to look at him with so much life. But this time he doesn’t. This time, he makes the mistake of lowering his gaze from her eyes to her mouth. He tries to ignore the words that form on pallid lips, but he can’t – because lip reading had become as easy as breathing, and the words were an unforgivable taboo that should never have been spoken. ‘Damn you and your disability!’ He freezes. Blood curdles in his veins. After more than a decade, the thread snaps. The aged fibers that have held him for so long unravel with a surge of strength that washes through him. The words that were once tied to his silence are unleashed with the flurry of his hands. The thin woman faces him with equal fervor, more screaming, and for the first time in his life, he’s thankful that he can’t hear.
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They stop as soon as she’s out of breath. There’s color on her pale cheeks and glitter in her brown eyes. And although her chestnut orbs have long lost their luster, he still finds himself being pulled into her gaze and remembering the little girl who took him by the hand because of a song. He once told himself to hate her for mixing waltz with hip hop, for stepping on his feet, for forcing him to wear her shoes, for being the girl that she is. She no longer dances hip hop, no longer steps on his feet, no longer asks him to wear her stilettos – is no longer the girl she used to be. And yet he realizes, even when too much has been said, he still can’t hate her. He feels the floorboards creek from under his feet. He guesses that her mother is right by the door, waiting for him to leave – waiting for him to make his usual choice. He tries to ignore the lump that’s suddenly wedged in his throat and instead he muses about retreating to the peace and quiet of his room, about severing the thread, about tearing their cycle apart. The girl in front of him shoots him a glare filled with indignation, her lips pursed into a very thin line. He tries to pretend that the female isn’t quivering, that the sight of her doesn’t make his chest feel heavy, that brown eyes don’t draw him in, that her now-rare smiles don’t make his heart flutter. He runs a hand through his hair and for a moment it stays there as he tries to expel his irritation with each breath. He makes his choice. With two long strides, he’s beside her bed. He takes the discarded magnetic board, writes a few words he doesn’t try to hide from the girl staring up at him, and shows it to her mother. ‘Tita, can I stay for dinner?’ A mess of bone and muscle crash into his back, knocking the wind out of his chest. He coughs and tries not to release mangled choking noises as he struggles to breathe. Her entire weight is on his back. Her arms are around his waist in an awkward embrace. Her fingers are curled into his shirt. She refuses to let go. Her mother gives him a gentle but knowing smile before telling them to go to eat with her once they’ve both calmed down. After a few minutes, his childhood friend finally detaches herself from him, eyes red and nose runny. He vaguely notices that his back is slightly moist - from tears or mucus or a mixture of both, he doesn’t really know. She snatches the handkerchief he offers and uses it to blow her nose. And he thinks, realizes, that the ten-yearold girl in the Sunday dress would have done the same thing as her. She isn’t Paraluman. He isn’t the boy in the Eraserheads song. But if he’s cursed to live a life tangled to a musical piece, then he might as well re-write the ending. He doesn’t have to follow her lead. He doesn’t have to respond to each push and pull. There will be tears that he can’t mend. And he knows he’ll end up brittle and spent. But if his life is interwoven with hers, then he might as well be the thread that keeps her whole. He can bear to be her thread for a little while longer. At least until the time when she can finally let him go.
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Matahako’s gugma by Russel Seth Sayson
CRE ATI VE
NON FIC
Intimations of Sleep by Alton Melvar Dapanas
After Carlomar Arcangel Daoana’s Questions of an Insomniac and Kristine Ong Muslim’s No Possibility of Waking Up The gable erected in the sky will collapse one day in the grass without making mystery. Gradually the void gnaws at the stones. The void is whitened without anyone being sure. And the dust of the stones is scattered like black bones when they threaten the steps of men. It is time to remember that one is not always right and that hiding underneath masks the virtues of comfort. Nobody knows by which side the sky begins. ● We welcome a silence in the form of a tree or a nudity I do not know. I write you in windows open at night waiting for the tree to fall so that a plain is unveiled. This night is too hot for a man who has been walking for a long time; too transparent for a naked man; too enveloping for a loner. No doubt it is so with all the hands and all the skins and all the bodies that have been brushed or caressed that there comes a time when they have not been brushed or caressed. Now it is as if I had never touched or caressed. The world is no longer the same. ● How can a body at the entrance of another conceal escape? At this depth, all trajectories are constantly contradicted. There is never again any spring in these ruins assembled in inaccurate canvases. I am silent. How long these hours of the secret where night confounds us, where sleeping bodies dilute. Night saves love, a little, he who knows that his lover is the one is lucky. ● The path that descends has a perfume of belief to scare the children. The smell of boxwood somewhere in the ruins turns out to be unbearable. Trees accumulate shadow on a point of buried misfortune. Nobody ever knows where. By necessity all the branches take refuge against the walls which they scratch like wavering candles. Understand this halfburied world dies every day without any compassion. ● The roads to the countryside end too quickly to this slot where life is short term. The proof is that stones outside remain to be contemplated in their desolation. In this set of dying perspectives it is always dark. The face implores and slips on the walls less and less hairless. He knows how to harden himself to the point of cutting off the fingers of the spirit who wants to rise by having nightmares in the middle of the afternoon. And this world is made up of flies paralyzed in the interstices by voices that only move once the bodies hurled to the ground. 54
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● On the sky lined with leaves between these four open walls the air only circulates if it is cold. It would be easy to stop there because no one is watching the slow work of death. To leave for the standing sky would require a little calm with the last hand buried in the shade. Already the doors of paradise are opened with a fleeting glance when the essential is to live in void. ● The windows fell with light between four walls lacking transparency. Ghosts had to get up to put them down. By the way they removed the light without lighting a fire. And now the body passes through the sturdy amounts of nettles. It flows in appearance in the dark waters. Inside he is a prisoner, always delaying the road. His steps are masked as if they belonged to a criminal who would have lost his face by rubbing against black mirrors. ● The body does not move. Covered, she dreamed of awakening the absolute. But prayers would have to be made to sleep standing upright with bad light in their eyes. If one feels the closed of innumerable flowers are to be spread like the minutes of a vegetative life. The face does not absorb its glitter but just asks for proof that the place it occupies can still vanish. On the other hand the smell of vomit takes refuge in the land of crucified anonymous. ● Hell seems to have moved on earth. Over there the black water disappears with its source at a distance as a sign of respect for an inconsistent deluge and there is even no water in the house with galleries surrounded by bricks. The rainy season has become a desert with dull alleys. The faucets flow from walls uninterrupted. The stones molded the faces of petrified workers. To take leave of these places is to leave his soul dragging away from the body. Nobody spoke. The thirst quickly resumes when the head surpasses the shadow of the elongated body. ● The illusions lull—that’s when sleep comes. But sometimes it comes only very late, long after the night has closed on itself. In the mauve hour. The hour that trembles. The hour in which you feel miserably naked, exposed. The hour that does not know itself whether it is the last of the night or the first of the day. But no matter, it is. It is the hour that speaks. Without a word, but in a loving voice. You can go to sleep as the day will rise, it seems to tell you, I offer you a fragment of night against an eclipse of memory. And with an ample and benevolent movement covers you with his purple mantle of disappearance and oblivion. Previously published in River Teeth: Journal of Nonfiction Narrative – Special Issue on the Segmented Essay (2016); reprinted in the Asia Literary Review (2017)
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Little Bright Lights by Sidlakan Therezza Baluyos
I’ve always loved rooftops and high places, especially at night. They say people show their purest form when the sun goes down, as if the darkness was a curtain to hide behind and undress their impressive clothes and fake smiles. And here you are, 2:43 AM, sitting cross-legged while the quiet stillness of the world shrinks the day’s cacophony orchestrated by those who want to shush the cries of their spirits. What are the little bright dots saying? They say: I am a tiny yellow light on the high-rise condo to the right. I am alone but my books keep me company. I listen to their words to fill my life with the friends I should have and could have had. Maybe I open books because I couldn’t find the courage to open myself up to people. They say: I am a fading white light against concrete in a lonely convenience store three blocks away. I shouldn’t be out this late but home left 4 months ago to a place 6 feet underground. Instead, I now have a can of warm beer to hold my hand and my 7th cigar to kiss my lips. If I drain myself enough, maybe I’ll find my way back.
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They say: I am a blinking, moving, red light in the sky. I have a suitcase full of clothes I haven’t worn and all the lies I told myself. I have never once looked back. On my left hand, I am a clean slate; on my right hand, I am running away. They say: I am one of the empty black spaces in many places at once. Lying on my bed with the day’s clothes on and a half-empty mug of coffee from yesterday on a small Monobloc table. The faucet is leaking—going drip drip drip for all the tears that have dried up on my eyes. My throat has gone dry and I’m having a headache from either hunger or insomnia or both. I am an empty space: a walking pile of bones stitched together with human skin but there is nothing inside. The badlands in my head have eaten everything that used to be me. You say: I am just a girl, sitting on the edge of the world, trying to make sense of all these stories. I am just a girl, realizing the world is greater and more beautiful than the sum of its parts. I am just a girl, hearing all the loneliness and dreams of everyone mix with her own. I am just a little girl—marked by the faint white light on her phone—just another dot in the endless stream of stories told by the moon.
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Between Light and Shade by Pamela Lois Cahucom
The Silence by Joshina Adalard
I can’t sleep. Something has been running in my mind for so many nights. My consciousness has been drifting between the short spans of time where I could actually close my eyes only for it to be rudely interrupted by my thoughts. I dread sleep; I dread that split second when all else is still. It usually happens during night time. When everyone is heading to their bed and turning in for the day, I would find myself trapped in the silence. It is a scary place where the tiniest noises would sound the loudest and the quietest voices scream the strongest. The creaky and leaking tap in the kusina starts to hammer like heavy drills trying to pry my skull open; the gentle wind from my decade-old electric fan blows typhoons onto my face; and the periodic ticking of the clock brings about an immense dread pooling at the bottom of my gut. Oftentimes, I hear noises that aren’t even in the tangible world – anger, hatred, disgust, discontent, and disappointment. All of these emotions in the form of voices that flood the insides of my head – but nobody else could hear them. The silence makes the sala appear more grim and unnerving. My mother’s crossstitched Mona Lisa stares at me with eyes of prejudice and lips curved into a sneer. The painting of horses that galloped in the woods which was hung near the television came to life with their eyes glinting red and their hooves held ready to attack me. The plastic roses that sat still on the coffee table suddenly grows large thorns that drips a viscous dark liquid and a thick prickly vine that bind me up into a human-sized marionette. The chants and songs of the crickets that surrounded the room turns into chants of profanities and expletives. The walls begin to cave in and the huge debris falls in my direction. The floor shatters and falls into the void that sits underneath. The vines on my arms push me deeper and deeper into the spiralling vortex of despair. In the midst of the darkness that covered me, I get mesmerized by a glinting object in the shape of a razor. Deceived by the promise of freedom, I hold on to it and cut myself free until the sala turns back to normal as soon as I see the crimson ropes that I’ve tied to myself. The silence lulls everyone to sleep while it hums a nightmare to my ears. As soon as my eyes close, I hear the demons whispering directly to my ear as its frozen fingers strangle me in my sleep. Breathing becomes difficult and shouting for help is impossible. My body feels disconnected as if I were merely composed of a decapitated head. Invisible hands bind me to my bed in a vice grip and the pillows suffocate me in my slumber. The blanket that gave me comfort and warmth during night time now traps me in its web and devours me into
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the darkness until there’s nothing left but my slipping sanity. The stuffed toys littering beside my bed that used to guard me from all the evil now serves for the enemy and I suddenly become their prisoner. I hear footsteps approaching me and the creaky floorboards croak angrily under its weight. Fear and desolation sits heavily on my stomach as I hear it getting nearer and nearer. Tears spring out of my eyes and sobs fill my lungs. Strong, manipulative hands lands on my shoulder all too quickly and I hear myself pleading for my life. The silence shatters into shards of crystalline tears when I hear my brother’s frantic ‘Ate! Mata na!’ ring loudly in my ears. However, the silence can also be a wonderful place. It can sometimes make the sala become a huge ball room; the CR into a stage; and my bedroom into my palace. The cranky electric fan in the sala makes me feel like I was Rose from Titanic. The paintings hung on the walls in the house dance merrily with me as I dance to a song that is silently played in my head. The quiet tapping of keys from my laptop is accompanied by the whispers from a battalion of writers suggesting endless storylines and plot twists behind me. The singing muses of the night hum melodies to my ear while I write hymns about love and life. The pillows on my head are my crown jewels and the blanket becomes my regal cape. It is where I feel power radiating from my fingertips. In the silence, my mind is my palace and I am its queen. The silence makes everything more beautiful. The stars that twinkle brightly in the night skies become fairies that cheer me up. The moon morphs into a loving mother’s face that smiles brightly at me. The croaking frogs and crickets at night serve as the night choir that brings calmness into my soul. The evening wind that caresses me softly is nature’s warm hugs in disguise. The almost budding flowers in my grandmother’s garden show me a promise of better day to come. The silence is where I feel nature reassuring me that everything will eventually turn out well. The silence is where I feel alone. It can be found where I can freely talk to the whispers of my brain; and as I serenely peruse through the vast kingdom of the silence, I have come to understand that the silence is everywhere. The silence is where nobody else can follow me. The silence is where my mind exists. The silence cannot disappear but I’ll learn to live with it.
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Tales of existence by Artemis Shaun Xena Labrador
My Name is Wilt but I remember being called Bloom once by Deciri Beione Tharyn BraĂąa
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