Isabel's Letter

The shack was cold and dark. A mouse scuttled across the floor, its claws clicking on the rough boards. Enrique shivered and sat up. The even breathing of the other four men sleeping in the room was not disturbed. Enrique reached for his shoes and crept softly out the door. A chilling wind was blowing up the hillside into his face. Grey clouds raced across the bright moon. It wasn’t quite full, he decided. He sat on the doorstep and pulled on his shoes. Leaning forward, he blew on his hands. His breath fogging white as the wind whipped it away from his mouth. As he took his hands away from his mouth his eye fell on the white scar that adorned his brown wrist. He remembered well how he had struggled to untangle himself from the barbed wire cow fence as the border guard laughed. He had been younger then, only sixteen, young and angry. He had screamed at the border guard in Spanish and tried to punch him as soon as he was free. It had taken two other guards to subdue him. Only when he was in handcuffs did he notice the blood flowing where the barbed wire had torn his skin.

He had come back in two months. The border guard had probably known he would. And here he was, four years later, tanned by the hot sun in the agriculture fields and mellowed by hard work. His hands were rough and calloused from holding the farming tools. His voice had a hard rasp to it after the accident of breathing the pesticide. For days it had not been clear if he would live as he fought to pull his breath past all the allergic reaction and swelling in his throat.

He reached into his shirt and slowly pulled out an envelope postmarked in Mexico. He held it in his hands, staring into the distance. But he saw none of the darkness and tossing trees, no it was bright and hot day in Aguascalientes. The day before he left to come across the wire again, Isabel’s slender form was framed against the window, looking out. “You’ll write me soon, Enrique?” She asked, not turning.

“As soon as I have the money, I’ll write to you.” He had answered. “And send the ring.”

Her soft laugh was musical in his ears. “Don’t forget that.”

He stepped close to her and touched her cheek lightly. “Of course not.”

Now he held her reply in his hand as the wind tumbled a flock of dry leaves past him and made his teeth chatter. He slipped his finger under the tab and loosened it. His letter had been so full of apologies. The housing was mouse infested, the weather was cold, jobs were sometimes few and far between, and the men he worked with were coarse in their ways. What if his description had scared her? He couldn’t bear to look at it. He took a deep breath and tilted the envelope, but only a picture fell into his hand. Isabel’s dark eyes smiled up at him. He turned it over and held it up to read the writing in the light of the moon. One word. “Yes.”

The Panhandler

Another story for Faithwriters. The topic was "Discern".

A slight drizzle was falling as Jim hurried down the street next to the wharf, pulling his ball cap low over his face and hunching his shoulders to ward off the drops. He had worked late and was tired. In this area of downtown Seattle there were usually a fair number of people walking along the harbor and watching the sunset; but now, in the rain, only a few scattered people were out to look at the water. “Hey, spare some change?”

Jim turned to see a man on a bench next to him. He was young – probably in his teens – but prematurely aged. His face was thin and his cheek bones jutted out sharply. Dark strands of wet hair slicked down across his forehead and stood out starkly against his extremely pale face. His eyes were dark and menacing, gazing at Jim with a wild, hungry light. His clothes were dirty and ragged, hanging loosely on his bony frame.

Jim shook his head and hurried on. The teen stood up and stepped after him. “Come on, man. You can spare a little change for a hungry man.”

“No.” Jim said, speeding up.

The youth stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Why not?” His voice was flat, hardly making a question.

Jim shrugged. “I don’t have to tell you.”

The teen stopped, “No. You don’t. But I know why not, and you’re wrong.”

Jim shrugged and pushed past him to continue on his way. Behind him, the boy’s shoulders sagged dejectedly and he collapsed back on the bench.

Jim reached the corner and got on a warm, dry bus. He rode the bus to a warm, dry house. The boy remained on the corner, staring with angry eyes at the stream of cars going past, each with its wipers sliding back and forth, back and forth. At last he got up and sauntered away into the damp darkness.