Crusader
The
P U B L I C A T I O N
Cover Photo by Yvette Ann A. Ramas Cover Design by Obed Ruiz Layout by Jericho B. Montellano Circulation 3,000 copies
F
ancy tag lines. Non-conforming fashion. Glitter, glamour, and noise, and all the other phrases that people associate with exciting, interesting, and eye-catching things. Meanwhile, all those that do not fit the aformentioned descriptions are deemed boring, nondescript, and uninspiring. Besides, what is the morning breeze compared to a majestic shooting star streaking across the night sky? Or the sound of muffled footsteps in the sidewalk alongside some grand musical? Or the random shade of your shirt against the works of Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci? Though we might not realize it at first glance, if we just look through a different perspective, we would see that ordinary things are just as inspiring as those considered extraordinary. We take no heed at the unremarkable sight of the canteen but have you ever wondered how many lost souls have met the love of their life at the same unremarkable place? How about the stories of successes and failures that has transpired in an empty hallway that you pass by every day? Or the bronze monument in Divisoria that might inspire a young street child to be like the hero it represents? The routinary brushing of your teeth, the blur of people in the sidewalk, the smiles you see when your classmates pass a test – there will always be stories behind the most common things. Veritas Literary and Arts Folio shows how the overlooked things, the in-between spaces, and the commonplace of day-to-day existence can become remarkable in their own ways. You do not need to look hard to see the extraordinary in the ordinary. Look around. They are there.
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Sun Jam
Vague Notions by Celeste Obias
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Laugh Lines
by Martina Aurea M. Jugador
People are so proud of their battle scars. But you, I’ve found, take pride in the multitude of laugh lines that deepen like faults when you smile.
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Unreachable
by Alexa Kim Bacong 4
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Gardening
by Abigail C. James He waters the weeds Unaware of the rose Withering nearby.
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The Farmer’s Rifle
by Jose Angelo Lorenzo S. Gomos
The sun rises as the farmer begins his harvest. A carabao grazes on the vast green field. Across the sky, an eagle of golden plumage soars high until it sees the carabao and dives towards it. The farmer carries his rifle and aims it at the eagle; with his left hand and not his right, he pulls the trigger. The eagle flies away before it reaches its target, but as the sudden burst echoes, the field turns red as the carabao welcomes the bullet.
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Nemophilist Veritas 2016 | There.
by Celeste Obias 7
There is Something Spectacular Beyond the Line by Erah Balindong
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Your Extraordinary Spaces by Emmanuel M. Dano
There’s a spot in your body that I’ll always remember. It’s the curvature space just above your collarbone, adjacent to your lovely neck. It formed a triangle of sunken skin that is way more perfect than isosceles triangles we study in geometry. It’s the part of your body where I want to rest my head on And listen to the prairie winds and thumping of your heart. It’s the puddle of your leaked dreams, The place of your sunburnt summer stories And one of the certain spaces you have that I want to be part of. You never liked the word close or clasp or boxed And maybe that’s the reason why you always loved Earhart, Or why you never put your Sharpies in a case Or why you always created a gap just like before the whites of pedestrian when we held hands. You said you have sweaty palms and I have chalky ones from the use of graphite, And we can create mud when we keep it tight. While I said “I don’t care”, you replied that you just want grains of my sand And never the earth, never our mud. Commitment has always been an apple of discord in your mouth. We are not star-crossed lovers. We’re both just tragedies of our own. You’re point W and I’m point X. And no matter how close we are next to each other, We can only craft a hundred and seventy-six words, not enough to decrease the space between us. Because you’re a part-time escapist that hid rabbit holes in your pockets, The indecisive distance between the sky and the sea, The random summer rain that tap half-heartedly And I’m just, well, this wide-eyed boy drawn by these extraordinary spaces.
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Rorrim
by Jo Marie Claire B. Balase
You woke up from this bed, at dawn in days of yore. I saw another tear falling from your eye; was it because of what you’ve left behind? I saw you walking through the hallway. You paused for a while and looked at me in the eye. You asked, “Is it worth living this life?” But I wasn’t able to speak in your presence, and so, you walked away. I saw you at the backstage. You grabbed my hand and stared at me. You asked, “Am I the one to blame?” But I wasn’t able to feel you, and so, you broke me into pieces. You tried to run away. You buried yourself from what is real, Not knowing that I never despised you, even in the days of my absence. This is not about a story of affection. I can never be a human – just like the way you are living. At least, you will never stop looking at me wherever you go. Know that I will always be your reflection. The opposite of your sadness. I am rorrim, reminding your lost soul – I am you, and you are beautiful.
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2:00 AM
by Christian S. Baldomero
The clock beeped a little too loudly She opened her eyes 2:04, 4 minutes have passed She was still awake, staring deeply in the darkness and void 2:05, she wrapped her arms touching her elbows with her hands 2:06, she lied on her side 2:07, she was thinking of him 2:08, she was thinking of him 2:09, she was thinking of him She looked at the clock again it read 2:10, 4 minutes and she was still thinking of him 2:11, she imagines him breathing against the back of her neck She smiled but her eyes never did She wonders where he is, what he is doing. She wonders whose neck he's breathing to She knows he is happy and she is not She never was after he. 2:45, 45 minutes have gone and she's still awake In 15 minutes the clock will beep, She closed her eyes and forced herself to sleep The clock beeped, she was still awake.
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Vivid Utter by Kirby James Jagape
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Family by Jaymar Patana
Silence
by Celeste Obias
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Just like father
by Nitzschia Cassiopiea Beroe A. Lozarita I hated my father whose best friend was bitter alcohol whose shirt reeked of nicotine whose life seemed pathetic I hated my father who glanced at other girls who threw plates when he was angry who spewed harsh lectures at midnight But what I don’t understand is how pained I was when he suddenly died; was it possible to cry over someone you hated? Now I’m in my twenties, and I find myself liking the bitterness of alcohol and the stench of tobacco It’s been 82 rum bottles and 53 cigarette sticks since he left; and I’ve accepted the fact that there’s no one left to hate But I’m still hoping that when one day, he finds me lying drunk on the street or maybe when I’ve finished my 100th stick My father will rise from the dead and give me harsh lectures once again Veritas 2016 | There.
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Give me space by Celeste Obias
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Smoked Filled Room by John Andrew Bibal
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I tasted vomit
by Christian S. Baldomero In my own throat. I wonder how people Taste poison within themselves.
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Selective Amnesia by Mai Santillan
It’s the first night of the new year and I saw my city. Yes, I will claim it as my own as long as its streets are tattooed on the callouses of my feet sparkling with wispy LED lights hanging on mahoganies in the middle of Divisoria. I noticed how Basallo’s Watch Repair Shop along Velez-Neri Streets became an ukay-ukay joint. When did that happen? I could not say. I only noticed it was gone when I needed my watch fixed. They didn’t even leave a sketch to where they moved. I do not wear wristwatches anymore only because I can tell time by the number of songs played between my ears. When did that start? I do not remember. Cinnamon Bakeshop - on the corner of Tiano-Abejuela, near the monument of Justiniano Borja’s statue said to be the visionary of this city used to sell my favorite cinnamon rolls. Now, it’s an ukay-ukay joint. I’m noticing a trend here.
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Mindblown
by Christian S. Gamolo Veritas 2016 | There.
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Chance encounters
by Martina Aurea M. Jugador You spill the milk into your coffee And stir it with a spoon, Creating a force of gravity Drawing galaxies into A black hole. But then you smile up to me From across the room And for a moment it felt like Meeting you again For the first time.
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Juxtaphoria
by Circulo de Arte
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Shoreline
by Martina Aurea M. Jugador There are people who drift in and out of your life like waves, lapping at the edge of your shores, barely appearing into the picture of your life But one in a million chances, they crash into the picture like a surge— appearing out of nowhere, leaving you in ruins.
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Seefood
by Albert Gabriel S. Tapic Veritas 2016 | There.
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Alone
by Adeva Jane Hojas Esparrago
Skins
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Bad Habits
by Martina Aurea M. Jugador Most days I anticipate our small encounters and it seems like your good mornings are starting to become my bad habits and your friendly teasing is starting to gnaw on me, catching on like wildfire.
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Just a Position
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Big Fish
by Stephanie R. Go Veritas 2016 | There.
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Restraint
by Charissa D. Santiago I gave the signal for the curtains to fall I initiated the rift, I made the wall It's not what I want, but it is what we need, yet what hurts most at present is not where this distance will lead It's not the memory of your hand on my back as cars came our way, or the struggle of pushing thoughts of you away But I am guilty for my heart fell for each embrace I am guilty of hiding the heat that rushed to my face Yet the most crushing of all was not the fall Or the memories of the one-sided hugs my body refused Yet my heart failed to ignore It's the probability that what it had meant nothing to you at all
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Captain of the Little Ship
by Evan Aranas
Bon Voyage Veritas 2016 | There.
by Albert Gabriel S. Tapic 31
Dear Kagay-anon by Mai Santillan
The bones of your forefathers are kept under Bonifacio’s statue. Over a hundred years ago, they have fought and won gloriously in the Battle of Makahambus Cave. Carry their bravery with you. You are their heir.
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Under the sun Veritas 2016 | There.
by Rezza Tolinero 33
How Do Our Love Stories Play Out in a Parallel Universe? by Mark Anthony Jamis Stop crying. This third heartbreak isn’t the same. Change your tear-damped pillow covers and say aloud the name of the one that left you sprawled across the bed with chest heavy and soup for a head say the name again, and recall that Katy Perry song and sing it like a curse and interlace the name with the stanzas and refrain and I hope in between sobs and sheets when you’re singing that song halfway you’ll realize that this time around you are the one that got away
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Brimming
by Martina Aurea M. Jugador
I will never quite grasp how the metaphysics of your arms around me send me in a disillusioned rage of frustration; like there isn’t enough of me that you can contain. I am spilling at the seams, overflowing, like water and I am drowning of my own accord.
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In Confusion
by Adeva Jane H. Esparrago
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Proximity (For Mara) by Abigail C. James
I’m right here. Can’t you see? Waiting listlessly For you to look my way There. You pause. Perhaps Your ears have finally received The silent plea My heart repeats One that has ceased to beat And yet I’m right here. But what am I? An entity in your life As I was forced to give up mine Though others might not know To you I’m all too real Despite the boundaries of time and space I am ever present, but sectioned off Compartmentalized, however hard I try— Do you know the weight of the soul? Bound to this world Tendrils knotted around your consciousness Drift, drifting openness I reach out, there you are And I’m Right Here.
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Flesh and Bone
Escape by Marc Reyes Veritas 2016 | There.
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Simplicity is Beauty by Rizalyka Waminal
Life’s Paradox
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Breathe
by Martina Aurea M. Jugador
We were laughing, out of breath somewhere by a lonely road Your hair was soaked with the gently buttery gold of early morning sunlight You had a smile that crinkled your eyes and your cheeks And I don’t know what we were running from but the happiness I felt welled up, I thought my lungs would burst Somehow, someday this will be the best memory I have of you this will be the memory that will hurt the most if I lost you
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Over the Sea by Jinky Mejica
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Sunset
by Jon Michael S. Mercado
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The Sun’s Cycle
by Jose Angelo Lorenzo S. Gomos When the sun in the sky above me sets, I’d know that the sun in the sky above you rises. But we both know the world is round; it’s the same sky, it’s the same sun. And as I gaze at the golden sphere, I often wonder whether our hearts beat at the same time together.
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On The Tip Of My Tongue by Samantha Isabelle H. Bagayas
I. They say it feels like flames licking the salt of your skin, the fire selfish and unforgiving in its voyage to the curves and lines of your body, devouring the buoys that keep you afloat and the fishes that roamed your waters until you are the nothing that your sister said you were. They say it feels like you’re breathing in water instead of air, and all you see are the dark blots and shadows of the corals and the flurry of bubbles that escape your mouth as the salt water becomes you. Then darkness because here you are. Here you are: a part of the sea. Here they are: on the tip of my tongue, the words that’d say it is not destruction, it is not the killer of self. It is not the guide to being lost, not the notches on your wrist that reminded you were in pain and it’s too much, too much. I want to say it’s not too much. It’s never too much. I want to say: It feels like toes digging into white sand, the soft caress of the gentle breeze, the gentle kisses on the cheek that’d remind you of kids running wildly in open fields. It feels like falling with wings that’d let you fly but still falling ceaselessly into an abyss of light. You’ll want to be in that state of weightlessness forever. lt sounds like the lulling of the waves to your soul, the light tinkle of wind chimes at your grandmother’s house and the quiet whispering of,
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“I like you. I like you. I like you,” at 2 am, when you feel like turning back and going back to be enslaved by the sadness that has consumed you all your life. And sometimes, all I see is white. Not the blaring red that forces you to look at it, that screams, “I am the color of passion. I am the color of love. Now, look at me.” All I see is the innocence of white, the white flag of surrender as the captain says, “I can no longer do this alone. Come and be with me.” Sometimes, all I want to say is that. Darling, come and be with me. It doesn’t feel like hurricanes and cyclones ravaging within you, all the things hidden and tucked away just to be safe, as everything tumbles down and gets swept away by the rushing of the tide. It is never the nothing that overcomes you when you are numb. On the tip of my tongue: don’t listen to anyone that alludes love to destruction. Listen to me: love is the wings that would let you fly. So, learn. Learn to accept that he would lift you up to safety. Learn to fly. Or learn to just let yourself fall. II. On the tip of my tongue: he feels like campfire. I am cold and alone in a dying forest but he is the campfire that keeps me warm always as my stories fill the air. I imagine words making tendrils of smoke in the air as I learn how to become a campfire myself. I am no longer the wounded being that I have been for years.
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He makes me believe that I could be everything. Yet I am eternally cursed by my own thoughts, and when I think I’m nothing, he is the sculptor that molds me into a human being. He is the fisherman with the light as I drown in my own waters. He is the echo in caves that makes me feel like I could be heard. He is so many of the things I am not, and I want to say: you are my guide. I’ll follow you wherever you go. Lead me to safety. Lead me to you. He tastes like resolve and, “I’ll be with you forever,” on the tip of my tongue. He tastes like summer air on my skin, when euphoria and living is all that I am. He tastes like cliff-diving and tasting the saltwater. He tastes like cotton candy when I was 8 years old and unknowing. He’s like the budding of flowers in spring. He tastes like future and open doors. And these aren’t things you taste but my mind dips in them anyway, and I see them. I live in them, and I say I’ve tasted them. I want to say: you are the alcohol that makes me forget my past and makes me live in the now, you are the flowers wilting in my closet (because you are hope, you are memory), you are the sea that beckons me (because I believe I was a mermaid in my past life, and I still long for my tail), you are safety and comfort and coffee that keeps me awake, that reminds me I have to live. I want to say: you are you, and that is enough.
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Day dreams
by John Andrew O. Bibal
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Bones
by Christian S. Baldomero Sometimes you find yourself digging through old boxes. Scanning old photographs, Movie tickets, an abandoned circus of faded memories. Searching for bones that have long been forgotten. To feel what you once felt. What you once had.
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Confidently Beautiful with a Heart by Ailene S. Llesis
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Daily Living by Gene Gerard Verona
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Walk
by Natalie Gail Casiño Walk until you stumble upon the homeless Veiled by different lies and unspoken purpose, You’ll notice they’re freer than us Walk until you stumble upon buildings with majestic chapped paint, Smelling the stench they bring, You’ll notice they beg for attention Walk until you stumble upon lost talents who struggle To find the passion they hold within, You’ll notice you’re one of them Walk until you feel beyond the bustle You’ll notice it holds a thousand faces, None of which everyone can see.
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WTC NY by Kaye Quiblat Veritas 2016 | There.
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A Toast
by Melrein John DR Viado
Here’s to the achingthis body is clothed withto the limbs which used to hold these scars in place. Here’s to me now but a mosaic of broken glass, robbed of its colorsstained no more for the many times I’ve tried to clear the past embedded on my skin just for your light to pass through. Here’s to slowly accepting this dusty, obscure, crack-filled frame, through which you once window-shopped in search of things to keep. Here’s to the things which yearned to be seen and longed to be kept. And finally, here’s to you wherever you areI hope you find what you’re looking for.
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Cutis anserine
by Martina Aurea M. Jugador
When you accidentally brush your Fingertips along my skin And you apologize as if you hurt me The tiny hairs that you’ve grazed Rise in a rush of wonder, Perhaps trailing off from the air That you’ve stirred, Holding onto the warmth that You’ve left behind.
Dreams
by Martina Aurea M. Jugador
I don’t think You realize What it means When I say You own The spaces Between the evenings When my eyes shut And the first Touch of sunlight That opens thee.
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Sided Smile
by Gene Gerard G. Verona
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Seventh Heaven by Nico Aquino
Night Life
by Rico M. Magallona
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Runaway by Jinky Mejica
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A Walk To School
by Bradd Michael S. Gabe Every time I got off the train and walked to school, I’d pass through a thousand colors. They filled every day of the week, completing the canvas I carried across my chest, But out of all the colors out there, Only a few made up the main impression of my – almost complete – artwork. Aimlessly treading the pavement, Grief sat on the benches, hidden beneath the shadows, Holding a small shirt, covered in her tears. One morning, weeks after the occurrence, She gave me a bracelet made for the supposed years. It was small, but this I could tell you, it was full of love. Sadness, on the other hand, did not cry as often as Grief... She was silent. She smiled at me every time I passed by her at the station. She wore crimson bracelets that never seemed to dry, They had a broken innocence to it. It just never came to anyone’s understanding why she chose to leave. Desire, well he was different. He pranced under the spotlight, getting the attention of all. Every time he saw me walking to school, he would start a conversation. He talked so much about himself; it didn’t really matter if I responded or not. The words that reached the colors around me said that he was full of self-proclaimed significance, But what I saw was a dull color on a lonely palette. I remember passing Misery at the side of the street, She sat perfectly still, holding a drugged doll in her arms. Covered in rags and dirt, she kept Hope with her, waiting for circles to be given. At night I saw her wait by the road as she sold all her charms, Stacking the drugs and the drugged, just hoping she was left without a pang. Hope, who had lengthy conversations at Misery’s side, wore false prayers and quotes of “great” leaders. She would preach to me, whenever I passed by the monument at the park. For me, everything Hope babbled about was blood and money; I took them for nothing, But the only thing I did receive was what my parents told me: She didn’t understand how to let things go. My days were filled with these colors, It came to my realization that my canvas had little to no progress. I did my best to make it look better: strengthening the accents, meddling with the contrast, and mixing a few that seemed to complement.
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Somewhere along the way there was one color that blended with almost all but, as it did so, it left a very distinct mark on my painting. Happiness strode through the train station like any other person. He didn’t look any different than the colors that painted the walls around me, But what made him different was what he covered his canvas with. Happiness was there sitting on the benches at the station, Talking with Grief about wizards and little princes who travel through stars and asteroids. He had given her a cup of coffee to place her hands around. Seemingly, that tear-stained shirt, she held onto so dearly, began todry despite the dampness in the station. Happiness was there embracing Sadness within his arms, They both smiled and laughed at jokes that never seemed funny. It was that one morning when I saw Sadness’ temporary beauty. He had given her a pair of brown bracelets that clung to her skin and had white polka dots on it. The day Sadness left, she wrote a note: “It was Anger who left me, but it was ‘him’ that made me realize that I could find something real again.” Happiness was there laughing with Desire as they got out of the station, They conversed loudly and were excited every second they shared something new. As usual, Desire kept talking and Happiness just listened with a smile, But as I overheard their conversation on the way to school, It was as if Desire’s words were richer and his sentences more complete. Happiness was there handing Misery some food from his bag, He would sit by her side, watching the birds fly through the trees. They shared a cup of water and spoke to each other like they were in their own dining room. He had given Misery as much as he could, despite the empty stomach that led his day. Happiness was there listening to Hope preach about Mischief and Discord. After school, I saw her crying on his shoulders, Dry blood and broken petals are what hid a scar of age, Ever since, Hope became a wilting flower, whose petals fell with grace, Now, she spoke to everyone about Peace and Love. It was Happiness who tapped my shoulder at the school gates. He handed me a brush of untainted hairs and a gaze of nostalgia. He told me that he didn’t need it anymore. Reluctantly, I accepted the gift and watched him walk away. Days passed and colors flew, I carry the brush Happiness gave me, everywhere I go. With every stroke I make with it, I feel more complete. The colors, that fill my canvas, are somehow different than before, Everywhere I look, Happiness is there.
Childhood
by Christian S. Gamolo Veritas 2016 | There.
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(In)equality by April Joy Laurente
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Faith Over Fate Liberty and
by Hensell Hebaya
Rest On One’s Laurels 66
by Nico Aquino
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Monuments in Divisoria by Mai Santillan
In the middle of Divisoria two heroes facing, yet standing far, from each other one carrying a book the other a bolo will forever have a conversation without any conclusion Cars are grid-locked pushing and breaking no driver dared pressing their horns but the fumes of impatience are seething out of their nostrils Children with dry snots under their noses sleep under a bronze statue’s shade As traffic flows passengers say a prayer under their breath A child asks who these monuments are No one answered. No one can.
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Ladder of Life by Jon Michael S. Mercado
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To the Girl Playing the Violin at 4:30 in A407 by Abigail C. James
October 3, 2014. I had already tucked my bag into the corner of the teacher’s chair in A406 when I had the sudden urge to pee. It was my 4:30 class on a Friday during my first semester of teaching at Xavier. I didn’t have a key to the teachers’ bathroom and with four classes straight, I usually would end up rushing; this often meant having to go to the bathroom at the most inconvenient times. It’s not as if I could have stopped in the middle of a lecture to skip off to the bathroom. As a teacher, you need to learn to time things. So there I was, having to pee but also nervous that the class checker might come along any minute and mark me absent if I wasn’t in the room. I checked my watch and figured it wouldn’t take me more than ten minutes since the bathroom was mercifully on the same floor. With a quick announcement, I left my class that was still filling up and went quickly down the hallway. I got a bit nervous when I saw that the other classes on the fourth floor were already starting. I shuffled along the corridor until something stopped me in my tracks. I noticed that the classroom next door – usually empty – was now occupied. I had actually heard the sound before seeing the person. Music. It was barely noticeable from inside my own classroom, but out in the hall, the sound seemed to float. Looking through the window of the back door, it was apparent that the room was mostly empty. Yet the sound rang clear and beautiful, almost like a recording. I wondered if the other classes had noticed it; if they had, they gave no sign. Life continued as usual, yet I was transfixed at the sound. The front door to the room was slightly ajar. I walked slowly towards it, trying to be casual. From the window, I could see the music was coming from a girl with a violin. She stood on the podium, cast in shadow as the sun receded on the opposite side of the building. I watched her for a while, unrecognizing her face which was in deep concentration. I couldn’t tell what piece emitted in practiced precision from her instrument but it held me where I was, full bladder completely forgotten. Suddenly, she stopped playing and started putting her violin back into the case. I took that as my cue to return on my quest to the bathroom. I passed as quietly as possibly so as not to make it look obvious that I was spectating, my head full of questions. Who was she? Why was she alone it that room? Why had she chosen that time specifically to practice? Did she have a show? Nearly two years has gone by and I still don’t know who that girl with the violin in A407 was. I might never know. But I will always remember the music, and most of all the feeling of wonder I had, watching this stranger make something beautiful almost exclusively for me. At that moment, we had some sort of connection. Unbeknownst to her, she had provided me with a private concert. Unfortunately, I was not able to offer her any applause. It’s hard to shake the sense of wonder surrounding that event. I could have looked and walked on, but I stayed. Almost two years into teaching and life has gotten busier than ever but I remember that moment as if it were yesterday. In between lessons, grades, and now trying to get an MA, it’s easy to neglect the little moments that happen as you least expect them. When you’re caught up in the current and just trying to keep your head above water, you sometimes forget the reason you went swimming in the first place. So to the girl playing the violin at 4:30pm in A407, I still think about you to this day. Please know that you weren’t overlooked. www.thecrusaderpublication.com 70
Drought
by Mark Rodriguez
Abstract
by John Michael Mercado
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Living Shadow by Gene Gerard G. Verona 72
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Crusader
The
P U B L I C A T I O N Publishers Subscribing students of Xavier University -Ateneo de Cagayan Editors Xian Louis Patrick R. Arcayera Editor in Chief Nitzschia Cassiopiea Beroe A. Lozarita Associate Editor Keith Obed J. Ruiz Design Editor Samantha Isabelle H. Bagayas Managing Editor Andrew Rey L. del Fierro News Editor Mary Antoniette M. Magallanes Campus Features Editor Rezza Mae B. Tolinero Local Features Editor Kevin Paul P. Mabul External Features Editor Lorenzo A. Botavara Sports Editor Jericho B. Montellano Graphic Design and Layout Editor Jigo L. Racaza Photography Editor Rico M. Magallona Freehand Editor Finance Officers Jigo L. Racaza Auditor Maria Gladys B. Labis Senior Finance Manager Anna Jamela Soraida S. Balindong Junior Finance Manager Managers Lynette L. Tuvilla Human Resource Manager Marlon R. Boro Office Manager Mark D. Rodriguez Circulation Manager Evan B. Aranas Video Productions Manager Jo Marie Claire B. Balase Online Accounts Manager, Senior Computer Systems Manager
Staff Writers Nikki Gay Louise P. Amores (Trainee) Alexa Kim K. Bacong (Trainee) Meryanne Rose S. Bacud (Trainee), Harmony Kristel D. Balino (Trainee) Raizah L. Bagul (Trainee) Mary Therese P. Mole (Trianee) Charissa D. Santiago Staff Artists Maria Kristina G. Abing (Trainee) John Niccolo A. Aquino Ben Clark B. Balase Paul Clinton B. Balase, Erah M. Balindong (Trainee) Marlon R. Boro Christian Loui S. Gamolo Dave Allyster R. Gultiano (Trainee) Benedict B. Laplana (Trainee) Jinky M. Mejica (Trainee) Jaymar T. Patana Khristine Marjorie L. Quiblat (Trainee) Marc Anthony B. Reyes (Trainee) Mark D. Rodriguez Jan Michael A. Sy Lynette L. Tuvilla Rizalyka Joanne M. Waminal (Trainee) Moderator Ms. Ann Catherine Ticao-Acenas