tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92289032011-12-06T18:51:29.665-06:00A Novel About A Myth.Pamchaochaonoreply@blogger.comBlogger31100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9228903.post-1101956334404392922004-12-01T18:03:00.000-06:002004-12-02T21:29:55.396-06:00

Isabella woke up with a start the following morning. Good morning, she said to herself. She rubbed her eyes, still half asleep. She wanted to go back to sleep but she couldn't. Sighing, she reached over for her father's watch to read the time. Wonderful, she said, when she realized that the watch stopped working. She got up out of bed, and walked towards her window. Outside, she could hear the

Pamchaochaonoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9228903.post-1100848819951867772004-11-19T01:04:00.000-06:002004-12-02T18:38:48.800-06:00

"Pienso que usted es un hombre que mira divertido," Isabella said playfully, as she unfolded her fan to cover her smile. "Senora, please. I'm trying really hard. You know I don't speak good Spanish," he said to her. "You know, Antonio, you're in a foreign land. You should try harder. I could be telling you something you want to hear," she said, as she folded her fan and smoothed out her skirt.

Pamchaochaonoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9228903.post-1100829676870962952004-11-18T23:20:00.000-06:002004-11-19T07:05:49.820-06:00

BATHALA! she screamed in her mind. Help me! She could feel blood ooze from her fingers as she clawed at the hard clay soil. Her lips trembled, her body shook. She had been sitting on the same spot for days now, gripping the loose top soil, sharp, jagged rocks penetrating her soft delicate hands. Her nails, now cracked, was caked with dirt and blood. Her eyes used to be bright. Steely,

Pamchaochaonoreply@blogger.com