FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #1

She told him with a little gesture he had never seen her use before. A flick of the wrist, pop of the hip and a sneer. “Gringo,” she said, and turned away.

Elias stood stunned under the cover of the roof. The church and Yamina stared at him from across the street. What a mistake, he thought. What was meant to be a gentle confrontation with American missionary, turned into a bit of a spectacle – only some shouting and accusatory remarks, but for the locals, it was too much.

“Yamina. Please! Don't be mad.”

 “Goodbye!”

Elias’ thoughts were colliding. On the travelers' circuit for three months, he had only been in Santa Juanita for a few weeks, but he felt like a local. To Elias, feeling like a local was one of the key achievements of traveling. That's why he left Minnesota: To find a world where people are real and life is real, and to belong to it, for a time at least. But the second incentive was to help people, to change things. Why couldn’t she see his good intentions?

Yamina was just a child, really, of twelve; old enough to interact with adults while still maintaining innocence. She was his first connection to the inner circle of the town – the locals – which gave their relationship a special sheen. She sat daily on a small stool, deep in the market, calmly selling fruit from her family’s field. After their first encounter - a purchase that blossomed into a friendly conversation - he got into the habit of visiting her. The short conversations invigorated his day. When other foreigners walked by and saw his fluid conversations, he felt a surge of validation: He belonged here.  

The afternoon rain continued to pour down and Yamina was still across the street. Elias persisted, “I’m sorry!  The church does not have your best interest at heart. I know these people - they aren’t honest.”

As he spoke, he heard his words from her perspective. They were harsh and meddling. At once his goals and his entire perspective came into question; new angles of the problem unfolded in his mind. The church was so dear to the members of the small community. It was central. But it was completely foreign to the culture, an outsider in itself. What right did they have to convert other people? And he really did think there was fishy business going on; why was the minister’s mother, also the accountant, living so well? Why did volunteers have to pay a fee to help? He had questions. At the time of the confrontation, he was so sure he had grounds to speak out, but now, he recoiled.  What if the good outweighed the bad? Do people need saving or not?

He watched her hurry away in the rain, away from him. He felt small. What was he doing here? There was always Minnesota; if he wanted to be a local, he could go home. Like practice targets, visions of cappuccinos immediately formed before him to oppose the idea of home. He was a barista for 6 years, perfecting a craft he never intended to learn. Likewise, the grim reminders of a world where people always wanted more, and the people with more were never happy, creeped up. So was it about finding a noble purpose or a new world or both? Or finding a world where people can be baristas and be happy? His thoughts were taking him in circles. He joined the people in the streets and walked home in the rain.

back to Contest #1