veritas literary and arts folio 2014

iVeritas | Opposites: A World of Contrasts 2014

1Veritas | Opposites: A World of Contrasts 2014www.thecrusaderpublication.com

Opposites: A World of Contrasts

Cover Artwork by Francis Ryan O. AvellanaPhoto by Jigo L. Racaza

Layout by Jericho B. MontellanoCirculation 3,000 copies


Liter ary and Arts Folio2 0 1 4

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

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

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

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

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

FOREWORD


The Smokerby April Joy Laurente


by Dennis Dave Benigno

Ellipsis

You look for phantom faces under cups of cold coffee,in missing pages of adiary or fadingpictures of youth.In love letterstucked under stacks of sealedpostcards orbeyond doors ofabandoned houses.Yet,you findno one.Not anywhere. But

only in ordinary

moments,

right before

you sleep,

for instance,

when the mind

tries

to

remember

and

forget.

- Summer Daffodil M. Paguia


Fleetingby Adeva Jane H. Esparrago

All the Brands, For Your Glory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All the brands for your glory? The world is full of foolhardy.

Costly prices write your story? Share the greens to the needy!

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

- Jose Angelo Lorenzo S. Gomos


Life’s Paradoxby Lynette L. Tuvilla

Today, Tomorrow

Today I say goodbye to the days we could borrowToday I say hello to a future without you.Today I say goodbye to the uncertainty of tomorrowToday I say hello to the nightmares that are due.

Today I walk alone in the memory of your embracethe smiles, kisses, the dreams that we have once setTomorrow, I face reality and the things I must eraseThe life of us together, I must change - I must forget

Tonight I sleep soundly in the pillow that we sharedTomorrow I live haunted by the love that I covetTonight I imagine the soul that was sparedFrom four years of pain and endless regret

Today I wear a smile for those who know me notTonight I cry my tears that I know refuse to haltTomorrow I drown in this endless stream of thoughtTomorrow I surrender to my guilt, to my fault

Today I say goodbye to the curse we could not mendToday I say hello to a future without youToday I say goodbye to the mother that you wereWhile wishing I could send all my kisses to you.

- Herabelle Villanueva


Coffee and Heart

There she is, in the cafe

Sitting by the window alone.

Mindlessly contemplating on why he disregards her.

The coffee on the table turns bitterly cold.

And so does the warmth in her heart.

- Jose Angelo Lorenzo S. Gomos

9198

It’s rather sad how beautiful thingsOr placesOr peopleCould transform intoSomething truly horrifyingOnce tinted by the memory of a loveThat is long gone

- Fatima Roqaya A. Datu-Ramos

Poem 4I have been staring at maps on the walls

for hours,

Trying to remember

All the places you have been

without me.

- Martina Jugador

by Celeste ObiasSilence


by Jennifer T. Vaquilar


by Stephanie BazSun Jam

Loose Fits

It came in early todayI thought he’d send it later in the afternoon.Yesterday, he said he was too busyto look for it.“It’s somewhere in those boxes of ragged clothes,old toys, dusty books. I’ll look for it when I have time.” he said.I offered a hand in the search, but he shrugged it off, said he didn’t need it. He always does that.I took it out from the tattered box.It has patches all over its dusty carcass.The laces can’t be tangled together: too short.But, aside from the little damages, it was okay,tillI turned it upside down; spikes all worn out.They look more like miniature humps on anancient road. But, again, spikes are spikes. Even ifthey’d probably not hold my feet firm on the ground.And then it came to me, was it too big, again, for my size.“You need not buy a new one. It’ll suffice. Just use it.” he said, while carrying Tita’s bag one Sunday afternoon.


He’s always like that; passing hand-me-down shoes to me.I’d accept it though. And use them during play-offs. I’d run in marathons, play in ball games, wearing shoes twice the size of my feet. And as always, I’d fall short.“Your shoes are too big,” they said, “try these on. I think we’re of the same size.”I’d shrug them off. “I don’t need it.” I’d say. And continue with what I was doing, inmy dad’s shoes.But this time, I didn’t like the ideaof running around the diamond, with loose pair of studs. So I decided to try it on. If it didn’tfit, I’d buy a new one. That simple.I slid my right foot in, same goes with the other.And surprisingly,

they fit perfectly.


by Star E. TolentinoLuzviminda


by Kimberly Mae V. Llano

Liberty and Captivity


by Jericho B. MontellanoFlesh and Bone

(Photo Courtesy: Time Magazine)

1978

There are sunsets in my mother’s collarbonebut for her feet, she still wore Skyscrapers.And in an afternoon stripped from her makeup and pencil skirt--a decade after she stopped telling me bedtime stories--she told me of a world that was once our own.Where people walked with sunshine on their trailsinstead of exhaust and haste and uneaten breakfast.Where conversations grew like flowers on the groundinstead of asphalt and plastic and clogged drainage.In a world where my father still held her handinstead of a ghostly white line around her ring finger.A world splashed in sepia and kindness and ‘real’ people.A place where prayers and love meant something.A time when I still believed that knives are for cutting applesand that everyone always deserved a chance to redeem themselves.And as my mother ended her reminiscing(like slipping the last page of a book through your fingers),I saw that the sunsets have moved in her eyeswith wrinkles like the last fading rays of orange light.With a faraway look, a sigh, and two tablespoons of nostalgia,I caught a glimpse of my mother in her youthwhen life was still hard but someone held her hand;a maiden who still hoped and dreamed and suffered quietlywith the same hazel almond-shaped eyes.

I have my mother’s eyes.

- Sidlakan Therezza S Baluyos


Pygmalion

I will fall all over again

on your artful hands that pluck

the thorns from my flesh, and pinch

my unrestful body

like clay

shaping my muted lips into

a loud, deafening pucker—

(you beckon me with your mad

loneliness, Galatea,

bittersweet like the fall of rain

on the galvanized iron

ceiling)

I will fall all over again

then feel your artful hands on

the cold, marble bust of my skin

unrestful, you mastered

me.

- Maria Karlene Shawn I. Cabaraban

Maling Huliby Christian Loui S. Gamolo


Education

“Get educated”, I say,at the front of the classroom,before a dull-eyed full houseof sleep deprived students.Their notes are scribbles and scrawls,more sketches than piecesof academic thought laid outbefore them on the chalkboard.The hour seems to drag on,frustration mountingas my spoken tomes slam into walls.Their hands slow to a crawl,the faint scritch-scratch of pen to paperlost to the drone of the slowticking clock.Their hands stop altogether.

Nothing I can do reaches them.

The bell tolls – sweet symphony! –

and we both gather ourselves from

our respective dissatisfaction.Once inert, now in action, herein the midst of the nearesttea shop, I see shining, inquisitive eyes.It may be due in part of the liquid adrenaline,but more so from the freedom among friends.There is chatter chock full of thoughts,yet not a single one of these words were spokenin the classroom.

What are we doing wrong?Or is their education only evercomplete in the sea of society,unconfined by the seeming cage of the academe?What a curious sight to see,an education attained where noclassroom is needed.Curious indeed.

- Jan Rupert Alfeche

by Maria Gladys B. LabisSkins


Just a Positionby Hensell Hebaya


The Bus Ride

The bus pulls awayfrom the terminal; my sistersoftly sinks into the splitting silenceof metal lullabies.The vastness of the vehiclenarrows in my restlessness,my slippers tap, tap, tap on the flooras, lurching, we embrace the journey to Medina.

How do we measure distance?When it rains in Cagayanbut my fingers feel dryin Balingoan, that is how I feel your absenceand the roads stretching intodust and memories

of afternoons that listento the tap, tap, tap of rainon your Toyotaand taste the wgraynessof lips crying for closure.

But this busit drives past canopies of leafy arms reaching towarda blank canvas of skin,

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

I hear Medina from a distance,The gentle waves brushingagainst the shore, and I,tempestuous being,hear your absence resonateacross the sands:

The bus ride carries me awaybut where you are I stay.

- Maria Karlene Shawn I. Cabaraban

Pamalandongby Marlon R. Boro

by Adeva Jane H. EsparragoA vior Peur


by Marcelino Cahig Jr.Youth is Wasted on the Young


by Amiemon C.GodmalinScarlet

The Cosmology of Our Love

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

Between my love for literature and your enthusiasm for sports there is a bridge to be crossed and a hand to hold formed in handwritten letters and time-outs for dates. You say I walk in starlight. I see the galaxies in your eyes. This is what makes us whole.

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

This is the whole piece in us that reasons sweaty palms. This way we can make flowers if we hold against each other. This is the broken piece in me that calls the sky. This is the broken piece in you that makes up the earth. This way we can make trees out of my tears and your chest.

Maybe our brokenness is a perfect fit against each other. Maybe this is our stars being drawn towards what loves and destroys them. Maybe this was how the Bang was heard. Maybe, someday, we can make another Universe with this love.

- Sidlakan Therezza S. Baluyos


“Are you willing to wait…?”Tanong niya sa akin.Parang ginising, mula sa isangmagandang panaginip, sa pamamagitan ng pagbuhos ngtubig na binabaran ng yelo.Malamig. Gusto kong sumigaw,pero hindi ko magawa, hindi puede.Nagising, hindi mula, kundi tungo sa isang bangungut. Mga salita ng wala ang lumabas mula sa aking bibig, walang pilit,buong kusa. Di ako nakasagot, wala akong maisagot.Nakatitig sa kanya, pilit inaalala,kung bakit umabot sa punto nakailangang pumili kung ako ba ay maghihintay o titigil, aalis, at kakalimutan na lang?Bakit nga ba? Hindi ko maalala.“Are you willing to wait…?”Tanong niya ulit sa akin.Eh ikaw, how long do youwant me to wait? Tinanong ko siya.Sagot niya “… .”Hindi ko narinig. Nakabibingi

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

by Francis Ryan O. AvellanaPesca


by Stephanie Baz

pala ang ganito. Bastahindi ko alam kung ano.Pero tiyak ko, hindi “forever” ang sagot niya. Hindi ko kaya angmaghintay ng forever. Hindi rin namanpuwede. Wala namang ganun. Forever, kung meron man, ito ay isangparusa. Parusa na piniling ipataw sa sarili para sa kasalanang hindi ko alam kung sino ang may gawa: siya ba o ako?Ah basta, ayaw kong maghintay. Ayaw kong dalhin ang bigat ng pakiramdam na sa bawat araw ay tatak sa kamalayan ko na ang susunod ay isa na namang paglundagsa balon ng walang katiyakan: malalim, madilim;na ang bawat bukas ay maaaring maging isang pagbali sa pangako.Ngunit kailangang magtaya, magtaya saisang akala, naalala ko. Pero bakit, hindi ba pwedeng magkamali, ang magkamali ng akala?No, I cannot wait. Ito ang naging sagot ko.Thank you, dagdag ko.“Okay,” sabi niya. Tumalikod ako. Mabilis na naglakadpapalayo sa kanya. Mabilis natinungo ang nakangangang pinto.At sa unang pagkakataon,ginusto ko ang makalimot.

- Tyron Keith Maru Varias Sabal


by Haiko B. Magtrayo


For Alana with Hugs and Coffee

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

“What’s happening upstairs?” she asks.

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

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

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

by Abby Cabildo

by Rommel OpadaPain


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

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

Nana was born shortly after the beginning of the 1996 Summer Olympics which took place in the United States, in Atlanta, Georgia. Mom took out the Ts to make “Alana.” We call her Nana for short, but we have to do so at the top of our lungs since she’s severely deaf in her right ear and profoundly deaf in her left. Other kids whose mothers suffer German measles during pregnancy are not as fortunate. At least Nana was spared her life.

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

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

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

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

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

Night Lifeby Rico M. Magallona


Respireby Paul Clinton B. Balase


by Mary Yvonne C. AlambanLiving in a Bubble

Poem 3

I’ve seen it happen once.A boy was stealing glances at me on the commute to school.I was reading Murakami with my earphones on.It’s funny how you can feel the weight of someone’s eyes on you.It’s funny how you can almost feel someone falling in love with you.I looked up right then.He looked away.

I still see him sometimes: in a crowded hallway, a busy lunch hour, in a rush of traffic.I never looked back.I never wasted a second glance.But dear God, does he linger…And then I realized, maybe this is how poets are made.

- Martina Jugador


Fortunate Eventsby Evan B. Aranas


by Mary Yvonne C. AlambanContrast

Midnight Blues

The moon hides himself

behind the clouds of grey,

It was the brightest star

that lightened my way.

Walking as I go, thinking of you,

how it should be to start anew.

The Cool breeze of autumn air,

That tingles my skin so very rare.

How I long to feel your warm embrace

to say: “I’m sorry for my mistakes”.

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

how I wish you were with me tonight.

The broken road along with my broken pieces

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

Your blood in my veins we live life as two.

Now, where were you in my midnight blues?

- Jo Marie Claire Balase


A Distant memoryby Paul Clinton B. Balase


by Christian Loui S. Gamolo

Kabaliktarang Kalayaan

Dearly Beloved

And I will live forever wondering how the worst of meCould ever possibly be lovedBy the best of you

- Fatima Roqaya A. Datu-Ramos

Yin Yangby Lynette L. Tuvilla


by Haiko B. Magtrayo


by Star E. TolentinoAfro Tree

Kagabii Didto sa Lapyahan

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

Mingyaka kos balas ug nagpadayon sa pagsud-ong. Ang tinuasik sa balod mikab-ot

ug mihalok sa akong tiil, paa, liog ug sa mga liki sa ngabil.Apan wa ko igsapayan

ang gibating kahapdos. Gipalabi ko ang iyang kabugnaw. Ug hinayhinay, sa di na maihap

nga higayon, gibiyaan ko sa balod. Gipili utro ang mokuyog sa bulanngadto sa kapunawpunawan.


Glances

“...falling in love could be achieved in a single word—a glance.” - Ian McEwan, Atonement

You’d laughin betweenshotsas youmake funofvirgins,then

you’d sayshe’s anexception.But

youreyestellmeotherwise.



Chasing the Goldby Jigo L. Racaza


TheCrusaderPublishers

Subscribing students of Xavier University -Ateneo de Cagayan

EditorsLouren B. Aranas Editor in Chief

Andrew Rey L. del Fierro Associate EditorRico M. Magallona Design Editor

Nitszchia Cassiopiea Beroe A. Lozarita Managing EditorRezza Mae B. Tolinero News Editor

Samantha Isabelle H. Bagayas Campus Features Editor Xian Louis Patrick R. Arcayera Local Features Editor

Marina M. Garcia External Features EditorMa. Isabella C. Agawin Sports Editor (OIC)

Jericho B. Montellano Graphic Design and Layout EditorPaul Clinton B. Balase Photography Editor

Marlon R. Boro Freehand Editor (Interim)

Finance OfficersRochelle D. Barros Auditor

Yoshabeth A. Valdehuesa Senior Finance OfficerMaria Gladys B. Labis Junior Finance Officer

ManagersBen Clark B. Balase Human Resource Manager

Jigo L. Racaza Office ManagerMarlon R. Borro Circulation Manager

Keith Obed J. Ruiz Video Productions ManagerSamantha Isabelle H. Bagayas Online Accounts Manager

Mchael D. Poncadras Senior Computer Systems ManagerJo Marie Claire B. Balase Junior Computer Systems Manager

Staff WritersRomualdo Manuel C. Bacungan III (Trainee)Karl Patrick P. Bontanon (Trainee)Lorenzo A. Botavara (Trainee)Fatima Roqaya A. Datu-RamosDaphne J. Dujali (Trainee)Mary Antoinette M. Magallanes (Trainee)Marvin N. Pamisa (Trainee)Charissa D.C. Santiago (Trainee)James Edgar T. Sia (Trainee)

Staff ArtistsEvan B. Aranas Francis Ryan O. AvellanaJohn Niccolo A. AquinoBen Clark B. BalaseIan Kenneth O. Bicar (Trainee)Mirachelle L. Bronola (Trainee)Christian Loui S. Gamolo Kimberly Mae V. Llano (Trainee)Jigo L. RacazaMark D. Rodriguez (Trainee)Kieth Obed J. RuizJan Michael A. SyLynette L. TuvillaDeanne Antoinette B. Yecyec (Trainee)Lorenzo B. Yecyec (Trainee)Venice Marie P. Villo

ModeratorMrs. Ann Catherine Ticao-Acenas

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

Innocenceby Mary Ivonne C. Alamban

www.thecrusaderpublication.com

veritas literary and arts folio 2014

Documents

gomos11veritas opposites

copies3veritas opposites

paguia9veritas opposites

foreword5veritas opposites

opposites range

iveritas opposites

example of contrasts

joy laurente7veritas