Sand — Flash Fiction

Sand
by Pavelle Wesser

Ellen shifted in the rental car, trying to forget that she was lost in the desert of a foreign country and that her boyfriend was missing. Where was Andrew? He’d left, stating simply:

“I’ll be back.”

If they hadn’t gone out to dinner, this would never have happened. Ellen cursed the night just as the headlights of a vehicle lit up the empty road behind her. Silhouetted against the darkness, she saw a man approaching. He tapped on her window and she cracked the door open:

“Yes?”

He stood perfectly straight in his khaki army fatigues and addressed her in his language.

“I’m sorry,” said Ellen, “I speak only English.”

Her words appeared to anger him, as he procured a semi-automatic rifle and motioned for her to get out. She felt helpless standing in the desert sand, and even more so when he pointed at the trunk of his jeep and indicated she should get in.

“My boyfriend will be back,” said Ellen. “He loves me.” She touched the silver cross at her neck, “So if you could tell him ..”

# # #

Andrew counted the money, periodically touching the silver cross at his neck. How much was a life worth: In Ellen’s case, not much. She was pathetic in her refusal to let him break up with her. This was it: ‘Plan A,’ the first and final exit off the highway. He peeled off some bills just as the man in khakis grabbed the entire wad.

“Hey!” Andrew snapped.

The man’s eyes burned into him.

“It’s cool!” Andrew smiled, “as long as I never see her again, O.K.?”

He ran filthy fingers through his matted hair and stared at the man, who was preoccupied counting cash.

“Anyways, I’m done here!”

Andrew trudged toward the rental car in his orange, glow-in-the-dark flip-flops. As the hot sand scorched his feet, a cold resentment rose within him for Ellen. A shot rang out and he fell face-first in the sand. The man in khakis was running over to him just as another shot rang out, leaving him only a split second to consider the tenets upon which he’d based his life:

Never want
Never trust
Never fear

His last breath was ragged.

# # #

Ellen hugged the rifle she’d found in the jeep to her chest. She extended two trembling fingers to touch the silver cross at her neck, remembering the day she and Andrew had exchanged matching amulets while professing their love for one another. At this thought, she laughed until she cried. But her tears could no more nourish the desert sand than a heart which has ceased to beat could have sustained a human life.

She lifted the rifle and fired. A final shot rang out, and Ellen fell dead in the sand.

Pavelle Wesser’s writing has appeared or will appear in various webzines and paper magazines, including:”Flashshot,” “MicroHorror,” “Uncle Ba’s,” “Twisted Tongue,” “NightsandWeekends,” “Ascent Aspirations” and “Wingspan Quarterly.” She lives in Connecticut with her husband and two children.

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