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.
2006-02-11
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.
2005-12-24
March, 1872
The first mass of the day had long ended when the woman in the mourning veil entered the confessional. Standing at the back of the church, she should have been inconspicuous. Her saya was worn and her panuelo practically bare. The lack of an escort hinted that she was neither a woman of power nor wealth. Yet, despite her simplicity, the older women of the church sought to look at her obscured face. Her step was far too assured and her bearing far too noble for her to be a mere indio. Or maybe she was a liberated and therefore sinful woman who had begun to feel ashamed of her ways, which would explain why she had waited until all the other repentant sinners had finished reconciling with their God.
I know their speculations. They told me. The women of the church confided in me how they thought of her, despite that they do not know her. She knows how they think of her and eventhough she minds, she smiles in understanding. She told me once that they believe that it is their moral duty to speak of the ills of the people who enter the church.
I knew it was her the moment she spoke the requisite, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." Her voice is a soft and controlled the way I have always known it to be. And, for all her guardedness, I detected a catch in the tone she used.
"Isabelita," I greeted her with an unusual endearment. This did not lift her spirits. I was worried. I told her that she should have had me called to her abuelo's house if she needed to see me. It may be difficult to believe, but the most dangerous place for the two of us has always been the church.
She shook her head slowly. She told me we were treading dangerous waters if she had met me at her abuelo's home. I heard that peculiarity in her speech again and I urged her to remove her veil. She did so without complaint nor protest. She knew I was already suspicious. She knew that there was no point in hiding her tears.
How I wish I had seen it sooner, my beautiful Isabel in tears. With her eyes shining with sorrow and her expression bare and vulnerable, I had never seen her more exquisite.
I was speechless for a few long moments, watching her. And then, her words left me dumbstruck. "I am leaving, Danilo." She and her husband, Senor Eduardo were going to live in Madrid. That day, she came in only to say goodbye.
The church is a refuge for the repentant sinner, but for those who feel no remorse for their sins, it is a place for judgement. And as the old ladies scrutinized Isabel as she walked out of the church, I pondered repentance for what we had done.
I know their speculations. They told me. The women of the church confided in me how they thought of her, despite that they do not know her. She knows how they think of her and eventhough she minds, she smiles in understanding. She told me once that they believe that it is their moral duty to speak of the ills of the people who enter the church.
I knew it was her the moment she spoke the requisite, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." Her voice is a soft and controlled the way I have always known it to be. And, for all her guardedness, I detected a catch in the tone she used.
"Isabelita," I greeted her with an unusual endearment. This did not lift her spirits. I was worried. I told her that she should have had me called to her abuelo's house if she needed to see me. It may be difficult to believe, but the most dangerous place for the two of us has always been the church.
She shook her head slowly. She told me we were treading dangerous waters if she had met me at her abuelo's home. I heard that peculiarity in her speech again and I urged her to remove her veil. She did so without complaint nor protest. She knew I was already suspicious. She knew that there was no point in hiding her tears.
How I wish I had seen it sooner, my beautiful Isabel in tears. With her eyes shining with sorrow and her expression bare and vulnerable, I had never seen her more exquisite.
I was speechless for a few long moments, watching her. And then, her words left me dumbstruck. "I am leaving, Danilo." She and her husband, Senor Eduardo were going to live in Madrid. That day, she came in only to say goodbye.
The church is a refuge for the repentant sinner, but for those who feel no remorse for their sins, it is a place for judgement. And as the old ladies scrutinized Isabel as she walked out of the church, I pondered repentance for what we had done.
2005-12-23
Names of Characters
I put this here mainly because I know I will forget them.
1871
Maria Isabel Lopez (y Talusan) de Alonso
Fr. Danilo Calag
Eduardo Alonso (y Martinez)
Fr. Cirino
Don Miguel Lopez y Cedilla
2001
Anneliese Alonso
Jehosaphat "Tatu" Agcaoili
Tristan Sambilay
Introduction
Just too lazy to find a good beta, I guess. Instead of posting things directly to fanstory.com or fictionpress.net, I decided to publish here first to get feedback. A sort of testing the waters before jumping in with the sharks kind of thing. I'm also looking for some way to relieve myself of this accursed writer's block that I have.
Comments are always appreciated. Must you criticize, do it gently. My emotional stability is questionable these days.
This is not a historical piece. This is a squishy-mushy-gushy-wushy love story. Keep this in mind when you read.
Oh yeah, it's fiction, too.
Comments are always appreciated. Must you criticize, do it gently. My emotional stability is questionable these days.
This is not a historical piece. This is a squishy-mushy-gushy-wushy love story. Keep this in mind when you read.
Oh yeah, it's fiction, too.
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