Tagline: Outward perfection indicates a multitude of masks and makeup.
Justin and Juliette are the perfect couple. This is a story of their darkest secrets and the desires that bind them to each other.
Juliette is a hedonistic woman who freely indulges in the things she desires. She is attractive, intelligent, and manipulative. She has a longstanding affair with a friend, which has yet to become physical. She reiterates that she will not allow herself to succumb to that one desire because she loves Justin more than she loves sex. She appears the libertine as her ideals are logical and bordering blasphemous. She frowns upon the vilifying of pleasure.
Justin, on the other hand, is a very upright man who resists temptations as much as he can. As he is attractive, he receives attentions from numerous women. He had a one-night stand which he regrets, but cannot let go of. He feels guilt that he succumbed to that because he loves Juliette and hates that he was unfaithful to her. He appears the virtuous man as his ideals are based on what is considered culturally moral. He raises an eyebrow at Juliette's ideologies.
Juliette's relaxed morals enables her to not condemn Justin's affair while Justin's virtues prevents Juliette from giving in to the temptation of her lover. The story climaxes as Justin breaks up with Juliette out of feelings of inadequacy. Juliette, out of habit, is unable to go to her lover, who is already willing to take Justin's place. Justin, on the other hand, is unable to allow himself another relationship. When the two are about to meet again to start anew, Justin is killed by a freak accident and the grief-stricken Juliette is finally received by her lover.
Inspired by Marquis de Sade's books "Justine" and "Juliette".
2010-06-01
[Story Idea] Dear John D.
Tagline: Who is the real John D.?
Investigative journalist John Dumaguina is assigned to cover a meme that has been spreading like wildfire over the past few months. The meme is a love letter addressed to a "John D." and written by a "Kit" and is being passed on to fulfill the writer's wish that the letter eventually reaches the correct John D. The letter does not drop many hints about the identities of the sender and the addressee, making John believe that it is just a misinterpreted literary composition and that "John D." stands for "John Doe". But still, the interest remains and the network John works for, seeing a potential marketing strategy in the story, decides to publicize the search for the real Kit.
Investigative journalist John Dumaguina is assigned to cover a meme that has been spreading like wildfire over the past few months. The meme is a love letter addressed to a "John D." and written by a "Kit" and is being passed on to fulfill the writer's wish that the letter eventually reaches the correct John D. The letter does not drop many hints about the identities of the sender and the addressee, making John believe that it is just a misinterpreted literary composition and that "John D." stands for "John Doe". But still, the interest remains and the network John works for, seeing a potential marketing strategy in the story, decides to publicize the search for the real Kit.
During his search, John and his assistant, Mia Glenn, come across the many people who forwarded or reposted the letter. They hear stories about love lost, love regained, and love found; themes echoed by Kit's letter. John, on the other hand, slowly begins to hope that the love letter is real as he lives his own fantasies about a love he once lost: Lorraine. Finally, they reach the first person who blogged the meme, an anime fan named NaruNaru2_6. NaruNaru2_6 explains that she was not the one who wrote the letter, but instead saw it on one of the anime message boards. The message board had closed down years prior, but John recognizes its name to be one that Lorraine frequented when they were younger. Mia retrieves the username and email of the poster and John search ends when he realizes that the letter was written, indeed, by Lorraine.
John confronts Lorraine only to find that she is married and with child. Lorraine admits to being Kit. She also admits that John D. is John, himself. She says that her husband is already aware of the story of John D. and that he has her permission to run the story if "that is what John D. deems appropriate." John realizes that there is no happy ending and decides to hire actors to play John and Kit so he and Lorraine would be left at peace and the story would have its happy ending.
2007-02-28
Summary
Tatu, whose family has just gotten past a crisis and found new life in a small religious community, is trying to decide for himself whether or not he would convert from his life of Catholicism or not. A born scientist, he has a natural tendency to investigate and search for the truth in text and in reflection. During his research, he bumps into Anneliese, whose father was excluded from the list of heirs of the vast fortune of the landed Alonso family. Anneliese is from a strictly Catholic family whose greatest shame is in the memory of Anneliese's great grandmother, Isabel.
Anneliese and Tatu--using a brief note written behind Donya Isabel's sketched portrait--come across a diary written by one Father Danilo. The diary details the many sins the then young priest encountered in his small town. Father Danilo wrote about secret pagan rituals with magical charms, theft, murder, plots of revolution, and even an exorcism. But, the most striking about the diary was its story of the love and lust that was shared by the priest and the already betrothed Isabel. This is also where Anneliese finds out that her grandfather was, most probably, the son of a priest. This is also the turning point in Tatu's research: the point where he discovers the difference between what is traditional and what is truly religious.
In the end, Tatu finds that his true conflict no longer lies in what he believes to be the right belief system for him, but whether he can give up what he believes in for love of a woman.
-
Teaser: They weren't supposed to meet. They weren't supposed to fall in love. Over a century ago, they may have made the very same mistakes.
Anneliese and Tatu--using a brief note written behind Donya Isabel's sketched portrait--come across a diary written by one Father Danilo. The diary details the many sins the then young priest encountered in his small town. Father Danilo wrote about secret pagan rituals with magical charms, theft, murder, plots of revolution, and even an exorcism. But, the most striking about the diary was its story of the love and lust that was shared by the priest and the already betrothed Isabel. This is also where Anneliese finds out that her grandfather was, most probably, the son of a priest. This is also the turning point in Tatu's research: the point where he discovers the difference between what is traditional and what is truly religious.
In the end, Tatu finds that his true conflict no longer lies in what he believes to be the right belief system for him, but whether he can give up what he believes in for love of a woman.
-
Teaser: They weren't supposed to meet. They weren't supposed to fall in love. Over a century ago, they may have made the very same mistakes.
2006-02-11
Chapter One: Flores de Mayo
May, 1871
I saw an appartition today.
Padre Cirino and I were invited to a luncheon that was held at the alkalde's home. Since the alkalde's wife was not feeling well that day and could, therefore, not go to church to give her daily morning confession, I was asked to go to her instead. I was more than happy to leave the festivities below where those who thought themselves educated were discussing the uprisings all over the country while the others were content in wondering about the young woman who would lead tomorrow night's Santa Cruzan. When I was summoned from the lanai to the chambers of the alkalde and his wife, the conversations were still paced in a way that told me that men could go on talking for hours.
But women are capable of speaking more words than men and the alkalde's wife was very much a woman. Why, she had a great number of sins to confess. Heaven forbid that she confess sins of her own! She seemed to have none for she spoke of none. Well then, she must be a saint. A person who does not sin is a saint and only a great saint would ask absolution for the sins of others. I had advised against it on more than one occassion, but the old woman either forgets or doesn't take heed. I suppose this is one of her little joys in life. She can afford to be as spiteful and sharp-tongued as she is, anyway, she and her husband spend an awful lot of tax money on indulgences.
Ah, but that is not what I was previously discussing, was it? No, I was saying that I saw an apparition today.
After giving the alkalde's wife her penance, making sure she did a few more Hail Mary's than usual to make up for the gossiping, I was led back to the lanai to rejoin the festivities and the drudgery of conversation. How I loathed to stay and listen to the mindless babble of the men who loved to speak of consequences they would barely feel, so I searched for our gracious host in order to announce my leave. It was then, as I searched the grounds from my position, did I chance upon a beautiful pair of eyes watching me demurely from behind a fan.
I do not understand why a woman would be staring at me so brazenly and with much interest. I am not the most handsome of men and my priest's habit should have made it clear that I was not looking for female companionship. Then, I recognized a spark of understanding in that covertly enticing gaze. Almost as if reading my mind, she tilted her head slightly to the right, urging me to look in that direction without breaking eye contact. When I obeyed her unspoken instruction, I found the alkalde standing where she had directed me to look. When I turned back to where she was, she was gone.
It is strange. I know I saw her and yet, all I saw were her eyes.
Perhaps she was a spirit of some merciful saint who was answering my prayers to be spared the rest of the affair. But more likely, she was an evil spirit from the river because at that moment and now, as I remember her, I feel the long forgotten stirrings of manhood inside me.
Perhaps it is time for my own confession with Padre Cirino.
I saw an appartition today.
Padre Cirino and I were invited to a luncheon that was held at the alkalde's home. Since the alkalde's wife was not feeling well that day and could, therefore, not go to church to give her daily morning confession, I was asked to go to her instead. I was more than happy to leave the festivities below where those who thought themselves educated were discussing the uprisings all over the country while the others were content in wondering about the young woman who would lead tomorrow night's Santa Cruzan. When I was summoned from the lanai to the chambers of the alkalde and his wife, the conversations were still paced in a way that told me that men could go on talking for hours.
But women are capable of speaking more words than men and the alkalde's wife was very much a woman. Why, she had a great number of sins to confess. Heaven forbid that she confess sins of her own! She seemed to have none for she spoke of none. Well then, she must be a saint. A person who does not sin is a saint and only a great saint would ask absolution for the sins of others. I had advised against it on more than one occassion, but the old woman either forgets or doesn't take heed. I suppose this is one of her little joys in life. She can afford to be as spiteful and sharp-tongued as she is, anyway, she and her husband spend an awful lot of tax money on indulgences.
Ah, but that is not what I was previously discussing, was it? No, I was saying that I saw an apparition today.
After giving the alkalde's wife her penance, making sure she did a few more Hail Mary's than usual to make up for the gossiping, I was led back to the lanai to rejoin the festivities and the drudgery of conversation. How I loathed to stay and listen to the mindless babble of the men who loved to speak of consequences they would barely feel, so I searched for our gracious host in order to announce my leave. It was then, as I searched the grounds from my position, did I chance upon a beautiful pair of eyes watching me demurely from behind a fan.
I do not understand why a woman would be staring at me so brazenly and with much interest. I am not the most handsome of men and my priest's habit should have made it clear that I was not looking for female companionship. Then, I recognized a spark of understanding in that covertly enticing gaze. Almost as if reading my mind, she tilted her head slightly to the right, urging me to look in that direction without breaking eye contact. When I obeyed her unspoken instruction, I found the alkalde standing where she had directed me to look. When I turned back to where she was, she was gone.
It is strange. I know I saw her and yet, all I saw were her eyes.
Perhaps she was a spirit of some merciful saint who was answering my prayers to be spared the rest of the affair. But more likely, she was an evil spirit from the river because at that moment and now, as I remember her, I feel the long forgotten stirrings of manhood inside me.
Perhaps it is time for my own confession with Padre Cirino.
2006-01-07
June, 2001
“I’m Anneliese Alonso,” she introduced herself to the class with a clear voice that was a whisper shy of confident. And with just three words, she had me captivated.
Well, maybe it took more than three words.
It was ten years ago when I first saw her. It was ten years ago when I first saw her face, to be exact. The girl who walked into my history classroom almost an hour late for class could not be the subject of the century-old sketch I saw in one of the historical houses my father and I visited in my youth.
She might as well have been, though.
They have the same eyes, the same nose, the same smile, but I would expect the woman in the sketch to have longer hair. Then again, maybe they just resemble each other. It’s not like I saw the woman in sketch again, that is, if you don’t count my dreams. She made an impression on me when I saw her then and I haven’t been able to forget her since. But the human brain is an interesting thing. Over the ten years that have passed since I last saw her, my fantasies could have easily altered her image to make her more like the girls I encounter in my waking life.
“...University rules doesn’t tolerate tardiness,” the sharpness in our teacher’s tone snaps me out of my reverie. Damn. To get reprimanded on your first day. That must suck. I glance at her and see her smiling benignly while looking apologetic. A look of satisfaction passes our teacher’s face and he proceeds. A sparkle in her eyes tells me she noticed the grammatical error, but she’s already in trouble and knows when not to push her luck.
She quietly takes notes as the excitement owed to her late arrival slowly dies down.
I can’t concentrate on the lesson. It bored me the moment I found out it was an introduction to history. My father is a historian, after all. So, I busy myself with other things, pushing the lecture to the background buzz.
Almost automatically, I sink into my fantasies about the girl in the sketch, only this time, she had shorter hair and a baby pink backpack.
Well, maybe it took more than three words.
It was ten years ago when I first saw her. It was ten years ago when I first saw her face, to be exact. The girl who walked into my history classroom almost an hour late for class could not be the subject of the century-old sketch I saw in one of the historical houses my father and I visited in my youth.
She might as well have been, though.
They have the same eyes, the same nose, the same smile, but I would expect the woman in the sketch to have longer hair. Then again, maybe they just resemble each other. It’s not like I saw the woman in sketch again, that is, if you don’t count my dreams. She made an impression on me when I saw her then and I haven’t been able to forget her since. But the human brain is an interesting thing. Over the ten years that have passed since I last saw her, my fantasies could have easily altered her image to make her more like the girls I encounter in my waking life.
“...University rules doesn’t tolerate tardiness,” the sharpness in our teacher’s tone snaps me out of my reverie. Damn. To get reprimanded on your first day. That must suck. I glance at her and see her smiling benignly while looking apologetic. A look of satisfaction passes our teacher’s face and he proceeds. A sparkle in her eyes tells me she noticed the grammatical error, but she’s already in trouble and knows when not to push her luck.
She quietly takes notes as the excitement owed to her late arrival slowly dies down.
I can’t concentrate on the lesson. It bored me the moment I found out it was an introduction to history. My father is a historian, after all. So, I busy myself with other things, pushing the lecture to the background buzz.
Almost automatically, I sink into my fantasies about the girl in the sketch, only this time, she had shorter hair and a baby pink backpack.
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