NPR Short Story Part 4

Day four: At the doorstep I look around once more to be sure no one is hiding and ready to jump.  Home is nowhere, but in this moment it is here beside me.  Lazaro, my kid brother, my twin inseparable, my playmate and confidante and only friend for thousands of miles: you lie beneath me now, crumpled, and I will bury you.  Upon entering the house, in fruitless search for a spade, something feels familiar about the door and the book at the table.  It is the Bible and it is opened to the Book of John, chapter eleven.  A brother too is deader than anyone knew and Jesus raised him, but he is not here, not here right now with me.  Or Lazaro.

The morning breaks quietly, as if on tip toe around Marta’s sacred space.  She breathes in deeply, searching, crying, collapsing.  Jesus, God, hold me!  Sunrise: day now.

NPR Short Story Draft 3

A chilling quiet and blood as she’d never seen it before.

Day two: running away hadn’t been as difficult as finding water, and later food.  Animal-like instincts engaged surprisingly; besides, she had rage driving her.  Marta’s heartbeat became to her head a steady siren warning her to stop, rest.  Her need to run tangled again and again with the urge to return, wreak havoc, revenge.  But now she comes, drawing nearer the hollow pit of her stomach, dreading to discover what they did with this body.

Day three: Hope comes in the form of a kind lady in the Alpine McDonald’s.  A bacon, egg, and chees biscuit, and water.  Her parched body expanded deliriously with each cool cup.  In this sacred space, Marta prays: Lord, come to me and my brother.  Be with him and hold him.  As you refused to do while he was alive.  Anger flushes her face, last moment’s indulgent enjoyment overtaken by the betrayal.  Ah, to make it right, to return to that deadly argument and—what?  I will.

NPR Short Story Draft Part 2

Then the border coyote, the money (but not enough!) and the mountains.  Now her thigh muscles ached, the angle of the land steepening: the tense days and promises to pay, anxiety deepening as everything fell open to exhaustion.

Moment one: morning's nearly broken over the remote shack, oh too many of us packed into dark places.  Lazaro in the room next door with the men.  Then an argument, his voice rising and twisting as if pain, despair, flight: "Marta!"  Her name still ringing in her head.  "Here I am!"  I'm coming for my brother because you didn't.

NPR Short Story Draft Part 1

I'd like to submit an entry to NPR's Three-Minute Fiction contest, so I'll put a bit of it together over the next few days.  Let me know if you have any suggestions for improvement!


She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.  The night air's coldness surprised her.  Her footsteps echoed vaguely along the vacant drive, the darkened trailers forlorn against the empty desert sky.  Soon, the sound of sand -- not soft but hard -- skiffed up from her soles.  I prayed and prayed to you and death came instead.  Carlos' voice filled her head overwhelmingly, its reassuring tone strong and confident.  "We'll make it safe, mi hermana.  Trust me."


Minutes ticked toward sunrise, she supposed, but the four days since It happened collapsed upon her world and imposed itself over the cactused landscape.  If you won't, or can't do it, then I will.  She traced her way back to Tegucigalpa, the sacked streets of Guatemala City (the catcalls), the Mexican trains past depressed lands, quietly desperate.