Nuestra Bendita Madre

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Short Stories

 

     She walked out of the black iron door and out of the fading orange pueblo with rusting window bars and dirt soiled walls: the look of a house that had already been decomposing for decades. She walked onto the pitiful tiny dirt road encased by the lush vegetation of the untamed jungle that interfered with the visibility and the shine of light. She took short staccato steps as if she was trepidations to continue yet too haughty to not go after what she thought she wanted. In her brown sandals and sweet summer dress, she stumbled and tripped over the jagged rocks and pockets of pebbles. She had scratched her knee and the left side of her sweet summer dress had torn, but she continued. She look tattered and mangy and now walking with a slight limp as the blood dripped down her leg and onto the path. A cool wind blew and rustled through the palm trees and tall stalks of wheat grass. It irritated her knee but cooled her soft face. The startling sound of rattling called at her from the ivy; though, she could not distinguish a snake from a cricket. She walked on. The humidity covered her body in a sticky sweat welcoming the mosquitoes to her smooth pure skin. She knew she was near by the starchy smell of freshly washed linen. She walked a little faster until she arrived at the place she was always forced to go as a child. The bells rang, and then they rang louder. The shuffling stampede of shoes on cobblestone made its voices’ heard. Until the last bell rang, then there was nothing but silence. She folded her hands and walked slowly and timidly in the overpowering wooden doors. It was Sunday service at Nuestra Bendita Madre.

     She stepped into that church with one hope in mind: to find what she had lost. As she began making her way down the pews to the altar, she was overcome with forgotten memories. Fighting her tears, she wept. Unable to regain her composure she left the main hall of the tiny church and excused herself to the restroom. She looked at herself in the mirror: swollen, disheveled, weak, and fearful. She did not recognize the hollow reflection as herself. She wept more.

     Resolute on speaking with a Father, she sat down at a pew and waited her turn for the confessional. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

     “Tell me your sins, dear child.” He smelled of brandy and lust. Each of his rancorous breaths let out a suffocating chill. There was something inexplicably sinister in every movement and sound of his: a presence that frightened her more than herself that day.

     “I have lost something, Father. The fire that once moved inside of me is in embers.” She felt emptier with every word she said to him.

     “Child, open your heart. Do not let sadness rule your mind when the church is with you. Three Hail Mary’s."

     “Thank you, Father.” She sat up and left the small box of redemption. Facing the mural of God above the altar, she bowed, turned to leave, and never came back.

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I am notoriously bad at

I am notoriously bad at reading prose.  I cannot write much of it, nor can i read novels of any length any more because i just do not have the patience.  But this small story conceals a huge backstory and, as well, provides quite a catalog of detail that affects the senses.  Your prose makes these details very immediate, and that is always a powerful way to write. 


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