A South American Fiction Story
I woke up early in the morning. The chatter outside my bedroom reminded me of the world outside. I piled up some of the branches and charcoal from last night’s fire and left a small hole on the top. I squeezed in some old newspaper and then threw a match inside. As I blew into the wooden structure, I heard the fire starting to crackle and felt its heat rise up to my face. I stepped away and placed a steel pot with water on top of my little structure.
Some coffee always helped me start the day with a clear mind, where I could leave things in the past. I called my friend, with whom I had arranged plans to leave town at noon. We met at the bus stop by a big plaza.
Street vendors offered us all sorts of things: candy, fruit, souvenirs, newspapers, art posters, taxi rides… I thought of getting a lunch portion at the “soda” but I was running out of money.
I shared a watermelon with my buddy and got on the bus heading to the coast. As we rode through the rainforest, I started to miss my old home, where I had made some friends. I felt sad knowing I might never see those familiar faces again. Looking back, sometimes we take for granted the little things: waking up and having nothing to do, walking around the park, having an ice cream on a sunny day.
Once we reached the coast, we walked on a narrow path next to the beach that led us to the farm where we would be working. The moonlight shone bright and reflected on the tide pools. I washed my face and stared into the water. “Why is life so unfair?”, I thought to myself.
The farm had a scent of boiled malt and there were some foreign folks standing outside a stable, drinking beer and chatting. I approached them and asked for Jim, who was assigned as our supervisor. A tall man with a thick mustache and round glasses said that was him and walked us to our room. As we passed the banana trees and the corn, I saw into the distance, and noticed a yellow light by someone sitting on a porsche.
“That is Mr. Whitlock’s daughter… you better keep your hands offa her, okay?”, Jim said in a threatening voice. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor and was writing on a notebook illuminated by a candle. I looked up feeling insecure and she smiled right at me. Her teeth were as bright as the moon and her eyes were blue like the sea. It’s as if she could see right through my rugged appearance and was staring at my innocence.
Author’s Note
The struggle of the Latin American working class, the beauty of our natural landscape, as well as our art and culture are subjects of constant exploration in my writing. I was born and raised in Costa Rica and have always felt a connection with story-telling, especially when it shows the reader another side of the story or another way of looking at cultural issues. If you enjoyed the themes and the ambiance in my story, I invite you to check out Lullaby Art Co, a boutique store dedicated to South/Central American art that is inspired by nature and culture.
