Here is the winner of this month’s contest from Wokingham Writers Group, devised by Eva Donkor.
Maria Conchita Lopez stood on her balcony every other Tuesday at 1.45pm. She watched him get into his car and waited for the usual gesture.
In his prime, he would have given her a full military salute, before being ushered into the car by his bodyguards. These days, he would tip his hat and give her a wink. She would nod and give him a little wave in return, as she flicked the ashes from her cigarette.
He had aged a lot but was still a handsome man. Some forty years had passed, since he had rescued her and the other women from her village. The rebels had burnt down her house and slit her husband’s throat and separated her from her children.
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The General and some of his men had tracked them through the jungle and fought and killed the rebels, but little Sofía and Mateo and many of the other children from her village were never found.
She thought of them every day and wondered what had become of them.
Had they died, had they escaped, were they married, could she possibly be an abuela?
“Stop it, Maria,” she admonished herself. She knew she could not allow herself to think like that.
At least these days, she was able to babysit for the girls who rented out the rooms downstairs in her house. Girls like Paula, Martina and especially Julieta, whom she was fond of. There was something about her eyes, but she never asked questions.
Questions about where they had come from, where they went or how they made their money. She had been there. She knew. Strong men like the General, important men with their big cars, at all times of the day and night, all wanting a little pick-me-up.
