Bilingual

I wrote this for Faithwriters.com competition. The topic was "Face to Face Conversation". I place second in the intermediate division.

The windshield wipers flicked back and forth, back and forth in front of Justin’s eyes as he peered into small area illuminated by the headlights. Swaying branches caught the light and glistened for a moment, then swept by and faded back into the darkness. The raindrops appeared on the windshield, blurring his vision, then were scraped aside, just to reappear again immediately. “It wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right.” Justin muttered, breaking the drumming silence.

There was no one in the car to answer him. He thumped the heel of his palm against the steering wheel, irritation plain in his face. He was usually so mild mannered; but now, alone, his frustration boiled out. “Why do I have to be different?” An intersection loomed out of the rain and he braked at a red light and leaned his forehead against the back of his hand on the steering wheel. Glancing again at the light, he reached up and adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could see his own troubled eyes staring back at him. Straight, black hair hung down across his forehead. His facial features and coloring were completely Native Mexican – wide face, high cheekbones and large flat nose. The light turned green. He sighed and pulled forward, shoving the mirror back to its correct angle.

It had started in Political Science class at the university. A civil discussion of current topics had turned ugly. “Well, here is a fence jumper right here I guess.” A girl across the aisle said suddenly, gesturing at Justin.

“I am not. I was born in this country, same as you.” Justin answered quickly, “I just think we need to see things from their point of view.”

“Why don’t you sound like you’re from this country then?” She asked.

It was true that Justin had picked up the accent from his parents. He had lived in a Hispanic community where English was an exception rather than normal until he was twelve, and the Spanish Accent still haunted him. The girl laughed and nodded triumphantly, as he struggled for an answer. “Uh-huh. What? You grew up in migrant worker fields? Your parents were illegal? Now you’re mooching off our education system and you can’t even speak English right? Do you speak Spanish?”

“Yes, fluently.”

“So where is your fluent English? You aren’t American. In my book, anyone who speaks Spanish is unpatriotic. Our language is being threatened and you’re one of the people threatening it.”

It still made him nearly shake with anger. Why did he have to be so utterly Mexican in his looks? His family was of straight Chiapas stock – full blood native. And Bilingual in a completely white, rural area.

Suddenly into his headlights flashed a person, standing in the road. It was a boy, dressed in dark clothing, with a hood over his face, shoulders hunched against the rain, hands in his pockets. Justin barely had time to register the image in his brain before he had swerved around it and hit the brakes, skidding on the wet pavement. The car jerked to a final stop and he opened his door, “Hey! What are you trying to do, commit suicide? Get out of the road!”

The boy was standing there, motionless, his sweatshirt and jeans soaked through and clinging to his skin. Justin climbed out of the car and took a couple steps toward him, “Hey, are you ok?”

“Sick.” The voice was a hoarse rasp, thickly accented, and barely above a whisper. The boy reached a shaking hand up and pulled back his hood, rain ran down his face and dripped from his lips, chin, and hair. He touched his forehead, “Sick. Hot.”

Justin stepped closer, but the boy drew back, fearful. “¿Hablas Español?” Justin asked. “You speak Spanish?”

The boy jumped and looked at him again. “You’re Mexican?” He asked in Spanish.

“My family is originally of Chiapas.” Justin answered in the same language.

Relief flooded the boy’s face, “I should have known! How good to see an honest Mexican face again! I was working on a farm several miles away, but I got sick and they made me leave. But, God sent me someone who could understand.”

“I’m Justin,” He answered, giving the softer Spanish pronunciation of the name – the pronunciation he had dropped when he came to college. With it came a host of memories of home – the Spanglish jokes, the old Mexican love songs on the radio. “And I’m glad I found you.”

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.

Washed in Rain

This was another one that I wrote up for faithwriters.com. The topic was "The Sense of Touch". Sorry if it's a little overly brutal.

Dawn glimmers over the edge of city of Caracas and shines into my eyes. I squint into it, then look away as it grows too bright. A light rain is falling and I’m sopping wet. I run my fingers through my black hair and shake my head, sending drops spinning in every direction. I sit up and shiver in the slight wind. Bianca is sleeping beside me, under the skimpy protection of a stone archway. I pull the blanket up around her shoulders. The streets were empty and quiet. Too quiet. I stand and walk the length of the block, looking for the cause of the silence. My heart beats faster and I run back to where Bianca is. It begins to rain harder and she stirs. “Tiago?” She calls.

“I’m here.” I answer.

She rubs her eyes and opens them. Beautiful black eyes framed with long lashes – beautiful, but sightless. She lifts her head and listens. “Rain.” She sniffs and smiles, “It’s so pretty, Tiago, so clean smelling.” Poor child, she doesn’t really know what pretty is. “Rain is God’s way of washing away all the bad in the city.”

“Yeah.” I mumble, glancing up the street again.

Bianca pushes her hair away from her face, then stops and cocks her head to listen. I think she’s hearing the rain, but now her face grows puzzled. “There’s shouting.”

I look out, but see nothing. Listen, but hear nothing above the drumming rain. Suddenly a jeep roars onto the street and squeals to a stop. Soldiers pile out, unslinging their guns as they hit the ground. From up the street, rapid gunfire rips the quiet to shreds. The communist revolution has come to Caracas. I look down in concern as Bianca jerks sharply, but it is only in surprise at the sudden blast of noise. “What’s that?”

“Fighting.” I answer, trying to move farther back n the archway. “The communists have reached the city.” With all her seven years, Bianca knows nothing of the danger behind the explosions. The sound means no more than hammering to her.

She lifts her head and sniffs the air. “It’s bitter.” It takes me a moment to realize that she is speaking of the smell of the gunpowder.

As I grow more nervous, she slowly relaxes. Suddenly a bullet tears through my shoulder and I barely manage to keep from screaming. I clench my fists and grit my teeth, I gasp with the pain. Don’t scare her. Don’t scare her. Blood quickly soaks into my shirt and runs down my arm. Bianca looks up at the sound of my labored breathing. “Tiago? Are you ok?”

“I’ll be ok.”

She nods, oblivious to my pain, and reaches out to feel the rain running off roof. The battle rages around us, but she sees none of it, it’s nothing but noise and strange smells. Shouting? She hears it all the time on the street. Her hand follows the line of drips from the roof a slight smile lighting her face. Her hand comes under my elbow and my blood flows onto her hand. She starts and pulls back in surprise at the sudden warmth. She puts her stained hand to her face and sniffs it curiously. “Blood?” She guesses.

“I’m – shot.” My voice holds pain and Bianca picks the tone out immediately.

“You hurt your arm on something?” She asks. “Don’t worry. Just hold it under the rain. The rain will wash it all clean.”

Ah, child, if only rain could scrub out the stain of battle. The battle continues around us, but Bianca smiles and puts her hand back under the rain drops, feeling the splashing water with delight.

Into America: Final Part 13

Roberto was sitting in the shade of a store building, leaned against the wall. His face was turned down and his fingers were wrapped tightly around his necklace. He had been waiting here in the tiny town of La Mesa for José for nearly two weeks. At first he had eagerly scanned the street, expecting José to come any minute, but now hope was fading. How long should he wait? What if José was still in an American jail somewhere? Maybe the police had killed him. What had happened to José after Roberto walked away?

Roberto heard feet walking towards him. They stopped right in front of him and he looked up, startled. A Border Patrol Guard stood over him. Roberto jumped to his feet and backed away.

“Roberto?” The guard asked.

Roberto licked his lips nervously. “Why do you want to know?”

“Do you have a brother named José?”

Roberto’s lip trembled. They had gotten José to talk. He had told them where to find them and now they would put him in jail too. He turned and ran. The Border Patrol guard caught hold of his arm. “Hey, wait kid. Listen to me.” Roberto screamed, jerked free, and ran away as fast as he could. He hid behind another store building.

A moment later, he heard a voice calling, “Roberto! Roberto! Where are you?”

He knew that voice. It was José calling him. Slowly he crept out of hiding and looked up the street. José was standing there, weakly leaning against the wall of the store. His shoulder was bandaged and his arm was in a sling. “JOSÉ!” Roberto yelled, running to him.

José put his good arm around him and pulled him close. “I told you I’d make it, Roberto.”

Then Roberto saw the Border Patrol Guard behind José, watching them. He pulled away from José and stared at him uncertainly. “Did you bring him?” He asked José.

José grinned and ran a hand through his little brothers hair, “It’s alright. He’s not going to arrest you. Everything is fine now.”

Into America: Part 12

José stayed in the hospital for a week recovering from the wound in his shoulder. His story was all over the newspapers. Mexican boys dying trying to cross the desert was everyday, but a Mexican boy being shot by Minutemen was only once or twice a year, so José had his name in the newspapers. Not that José cared whether he had his name in the papers, what he wanted to know was if he had to go back to Mexico. The answer was “Yes.”

The guard who rescued him was the one who tried to explain. He shrugged, “Sorry José. Shot or no you’re still unlawful. You still belong in Mexico.”

“But – but – I have to try again?” José asked, disappointed.

The guard laughed, “You’re SUPPOSED to stay in Mexico, José. That is the point of sending you back at all, remember? You’re not supposed to tell me that you’re going to try again.”

“Is there any way to keep from getting sent back?” José asked.

“Well, if some family offered to adopt you – that would work.” He said thoughtfully, “I guess I could ask around to see if anyone wants a rowdy, fourteen-year-old Mexican.”

José looked hurt, “Not THAT rowdy.”

The guard only laughed, “Ah, well, a little bit rowdy then.”

“And if a family takes me, they have to take Roberto, my younger brother. He’s in America too.”

The guard looked surprised, “Oh, really? Well, I’ll be sure to add that on. I’ll see what I can do.”

José waited in hope. Two days later, the guard came back. This time he had his young wife with him. “Hey, José! I have good news for you! In my family, it seems that both my wife and I have been missing something. Two rowdy Mexican boys would fill the gap perfectly. What do you think?”

José stared at him in amazement. “You’re going to adopt us?”

The guard bowed, “Of course.”

Into America: Part 11

José lay at the bottom of the gulley crying in pain. He heard shouts and shots above him. Were they still shooting at him? Suddenly a border guard lowered himself over the edge of the gulley and dropped to the bottom of it. “Hey kid, are you hurt?”

“Please don’t kill me. I’ll go back to Mexico. I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t shoot me again.” José begged.

The border guard knelt next to him. “Calm down, kid. I’m here to help you. Are you hurt?”

José rolled over and tried to get up, but couldn’t. “Don’t hurt me, please, I beg you!”

The guard pulled him back gently and laid him back down. “Hey, hey, stop. I’m here to help you. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. ”

José stared at him. “The Border Patrol wants to help me? Be real.”

“Right now, the Border Patrol is here to help. Show me where you are hurt.” The guard answered.

José pointed to his shoulder. “Here. They shot me. Please, do you have water?”

The guard held his canteen to José’s mouth to let him drink. José thought that water had never tasted so good to him. The guard took his radio from his belt. “This is Agent Ortega in the gulley. The kid is down here and he has a bullet in his shoulder from those Minutemen. Get the helicopter up here to get him to the hospital. He’s bleeding badly. Over.”

The radio crackled, “We’re bringing the helicopter around. Be there in a minute. Over.”

The guard took José’s hand and held it. “Hold on, kid. The helicopter will be here in just a minute.”

“Were those Minutemen part of the Border Patrol?” José asked.

The guard shook his head, “No. They’ve been arrested and they’re on their way to jail right now for what they did. They are just some stupid guys who think they can shoot anyone they want in the name of Patriotism.”

Two more Border Patrol guards jumped into the gulley carrying a stretcher with them. “Alright, kid, you’re on your way to the hospital. Don’t worry about a thing. You’re safe.”