After much trepidation, I am going to take a leap of faith and share with you my first Flash Fiction piece. What is that, you may wonder. It’s a short story written in less than 1000 words. I am honored to be working with a group of international novelists, and we all took the challenge to write some Micro Shorts and Flash Fiction. It’s been inspirational, but now I have to publish one out there in the real world. Here goes.
Forbidden Love
The twenty-year-old school bus idled in front of the church, spewing black smoke as a few dozen passengers climbed aboard. Elizabeth made her way to an open seat in the back, avoiding eye contact with her fellow travelers. A few months ago, as in the time before her nightmarish engagement had imploded in a public scandal, she would have enjoyed connecting with these international “intellectuales”, as the conference organizers had billed them.
A wave of guilt swept over her knowing that she had not been able to reach her mother in the States before they’d had to leave. Her mom would be frantic until her only child was safe at home, far, far away from this war-torn, third world country in Central America. And maybe, for the first time in her life, her mother had been completely justified in her fears.
When accepting the invitation to participate as an international observer for the Sandanistan government in Nicaragua, the threat of death had been theoretical. An intellectual concept best served with a glass of Pinot. But now, as the bus bumped along on the rutted path, she found herself anxiously scanning the sides of the road, peering through the dense foliage, looking for any sign of danger. Whatever that might look like. Armed with a camera, she would have little defense against the U.S. mercenaries sent to kill sympathizers of the communist regime they wanted to destabilize. The injustice of it all made her blood boil. Almost as much as the treachery of her fiance.
The folks back home had tried to convince her that she was on the wrong side of history, and that her broken heart had led her to the brink of suicidal insanity. True, her fiance had crushed her spirit in ways that she might never recover from. Emptying her savings had been the least of it. Stealing from the shelter account that had caused the authorities to shut its doors had been the knife in her heart. Children back out on the street in harm’s way. Her heart ached for all of it, with no relief in sight. At least here, she could try to make a difference while avoiding the stares and pity of her detractors back home.
She settled in for the long ride to the Honduran border where the Contras were based. The jostling of the ride lulled her into a fitful sleep until the bus creaked to a stop in the middle of the jungle. She awoke with a start, then hunkered down on the floor. Peaking through the seats, she watched an attractive Gringo dressed in jeans and white oxford board the bus. He chatted in fluent Spanish with the driver, then made his way to the back, straight towards her. Her stomach lurched. She crawled back up on her seat and stared out the window, willing him to disappear.
Her will failed her, and little by little she found herself drawn in by this charismatic, mysterious man. He was from the U.S., affiliated with a university in the midwest. Close to her hometown. That was the sum total of information he had shared about himself. Instead, she found herself pouring out her heart to him, something she rarely ever did, even in the good times, before her break-up. He’d even gotten her to open up about the unspeakable betrayal of her ex. Every now and then her antennae would perk up. Like maybe he was CIA, looking to arrest her, or worse, disappear her. But those flashes were fleeting.
A few hours after sunset, the bus skidded to a halt. At first, it looked like a tree had fallen across the road. Without missing a beat, her new friend herded everyone off the bus and into the brush to hide, then disappeared. After what seemed an eternity crouching in the brambles, he returned without a sound. He took her hand and led the group into the jungle. After a grueling hour-long hike, they reached a remote Sandanistan army base. He assured them that they would all be safe until the rescue party came at dawn. He found a quiet corner for Elizabeth to rest, then checked on the others. When he came back, he found her shaking uncontrollably. He pulled her into his chest and hugged her tightly until the convulsions subsided and she fell asleep.
About an hour before sunrise, he slipped away to meet the rescue party. Before leaving, he embraced her with a ferocity that scared her, then vanished into the dark. When the rescue party arrived, the group gave up a raucous cheer. Everyone but Elizabeth, who desperately searched all of their faces for the one that mattered. But he was not there. The troops drove them back to Managua in a military convoy lined with armed soldiers, some hanging off the roofs, all locked and loaded.
Back at the conference center, she raced around to all of the organizers, asking everyone she could find about the mystery man. No one seemed to know anything. She sat in the corner of the empty meeting hall, head in hands. In total frustration, she started to cry. She didn’t even know his name.
As the sun was setting, she felt a light touch on her shoulder. She looked up into the face of a wizened nun who looked older than her years with the saddest eyes she’d ever seen.
“The man you are looking for is John, my dear. Father John. From the Jesuit order on the Mosquito Coast.”
Elizabeth stared at the nun in dumbfounded disbelief.
“The Padre is on the Contra death list and must remain in hiding until this is over. It’s best if you never speak of him and forget you ever saw him.”
Without another word, the nun shuffled off to evening mass.
Jun. 12, 2021
STACIE F20.07.2021 07:05
I applaud you for completing this piece and being brave enough to publish it! I so admire flash fiction writers’ ability to condense a complete story and create characters I am actually interested in and care about in so few words. You’ve done that with
Judy Richter 