Alcala 1

Daniel Alcala

10/30/2017

ENGL-2307-003

DTolan

Flash Fiction Story #1

Flash Fiction Story

15:00. Dubai International Airport. Terminal C22. Flight leaves in an hour.

I’m sitting in front of a grandeur window view of the Skyline: glittering with splendor, standing
with pride, and displaying with luxury. Suddenly, a far better, fairer, sweeter, and lovelier
scenery distracts and move my eyes towards the empty line of chairs.

There she was. Modest. Smooth-face. Bashful. Youthful. Reserved. She sat by herself with
unfashionable glasses, a richly texturize dress, pale skin, wavy, curly hair, and flat bottom winter
snow boots.

Surprisingly, she lefts her eyes from the big pages, then sharply looks at me. After a few
seconds, she locks her eyes back on the pages. We don’t talk.

23:00. Shanghai Pudong International Airport. Terminal A12. Flight leaves in two hours.

Fatigue after delivering a series of lectures on Calvinism. While searching for the nearest coffee
shop, I unknowably bump and collide with a young lady’s luggage. I collapse heavy and fall
heavy. She helps me get back up. It is the same young lady from my last trip in U.A.E. She
apologizes, then moves on. I can still feel the softness of her hands.

13:00. Charles de Gaulle Airport. Terminal D1. Flight leaves in 30 minutes​.

The same young lady and I are sitting across from each other's terminals. I approach her by
tenderly and kindly asking her name. The length of her name cannot fit on the top upper space of
my research paper.

18:00. Hamad International Airport. Terminal B4. Flight leaves in 3 hours.

We talk about Christendom. I do most of talking about 365 insights in the person of Christ as she
mutely listens. She only said two sentences during the entire conversation. I like her weirdness.
 Alcala 2

11:00. Mexico City International Airport. Terminal C1. Flight leaves in 4 hours.

I find out that she is a traveling missionary, who is involved in imparting the Gospel along with
acts of benevolence to the downtrodden. I’m convicted for my lack of compassion by her posture
and labor of love.

22:00 Allama Iqbal International Airport. Terminal A6. Flight leaves in 5 hours.

She finds out that I am a traveling college professor of History, English, Linguistics, and
Theology with the normative schedule to deliver two to three-week classes related to my
academic disciplines among conferences for doctrinally-sound Christian churches. Suddenly, she
begins to ask questions. I just cracked the egg of her social capsulation of idiosyncrasies.

16:00. Incheon International Airport. Terminal D13. Flight leaves in 15 hours.

Laughing. Dialoguing (as always, I’m doing most of the talking). Reading. Critically-thinking.
Coffee-drinking. Inevitably, we get to know each other's beliefs, preferences, convictions,
interests, hobbies, goals, visions, endeavors, plans—encompassing around the primary objective
and purpose to live life—for the glory of God. We depart and don’t see each other for
twenty-five years. For the next twenty-five years, the seed of warmth, penchant, and undying
fondness for one another blossoms where both names, personalities, and faces are unfaded;
branded, sealed, and stamped in the core of their inner-being.

[Twenty-Five Years Pass]

2:00 P.M. Devotions. Shower.​ Creating a new account on a popular platform called, Facebook,
that everyone is talking about. I suddenly get a friend request from her. We decide to meet at the
Riverwalk in San Antonio, Texas.

9:00PM. Descending, sparkling Christmas lights are hanging from the ancient birch trees.

The river reflects glamorous buildings, people faces, color transfiguration, and stargazing dots.

On a wood-carved boat with geometric lines tracing through all corners, lightly pushing against
premature waves, slowly moving to behold the fullness of cloudy skyscrapers.
 Alcala 3

Reaching out my crumble, wrinkle hands to touch solemn, falling leaves as they pile up in
stacks, while the bone-chilling breezes arouse my skin hairs to stand as battle lines of soldiers,
less this snug coat with luxurious comfort increases my body temperature.

Hired, musicians tune their violins and cello, waiting to hit notes from traditional hymns from a
whole different century.

Because it is wintertime, the sense of nervousness is manifested by my puffs of oxygen,

appearing as soft, white smoke.

A meticulous, vein-appearing tree arching like a rainbow behind a small, stone bridge with a
senior woman clothed in a stainless, blameless, spotless, and innocent dress.

Unaware of my visitation until the resonating sound speaks forth with the pluck of notes, the
crescendo of the audience, and the summoning of her name by my assured voice.

She and I are captivated by the feeling, the scenery, the moment; studying each other's eyes.

“Dear.“

"It’s been decades from the last time we dialogue."

“Honestly? I couldn’t tell because I see aging on your face and fingers."

"Why were you gliding on a riverboat to come to me?”

"I must express a reserved, long secret of mine."

"A secret? I’m standing on a bridge under nightfall. Please tell me!”

"As I lift up my downcast head and gaze into your interstellar eyes. I, I.., I…."

"I, what? Clearly, there is a strain in between the pronouncement of your voice. Did you need me
to help you finish your sentence? I find this strange because you're an intellectual, word-wizard."

"Many times, the most enriching, eloquent, and evocative words fall so short to unlock the
altogether, perfect, and throbbing vernacular from the most in-depth cores of my locked-up
heart."
 Alcala 4

(​Slight snicker​) (​Slight giggle)​ "I’ve always enjoyed your way with words. I never got tired of
your long-windedness. I could sit down and be entertained by your exhaustive lectures.”

"Really? Well, I never got bored to hear your accent and stammering, stumbling English because
each word contributed and orchestrated a symphony parallel to a classical composition of tunes
and melodies with crescendo and drops as it serenades and evokes warmth, hopeful, cheerful,
and galvanize feeli…”

"Stop! (​Interrupts while she covers her mouth with a smile​) Sometimes, you need to be simple!
Enough with bantering with your word selection. Get to the point!”

"Well, I’ve concealed a secret under our old, buried friendship."

"Yes.. Continue! Continue!”

(​Grabs her wrinkle hand and bends his knee​) “Old-friend, will you marry me?"

(​Grasping for air​) "You wa.. You want to… You want to marry me? I am in disbelief! I thought
you rather be someone with academic initials! I don’t have those. I can barely write my English
with decent grammar."

(​Interrupts)​ "As long as you can say, “I do, then this is what all that matters.” Besides, I
wouldn’t mind holding your wrinkle hands forever and teaching you Elementary English."

(​Tears of joys falling from her cheek​) We embrace each other with an appropriate hug. She
closes her eyes.

She opens her eyes a​ s she walks down the blissful, delightful, colorful, and wonderful aisle to
join her husband as one flesh to resemble the eternal, divine, perfect, precious, and romantic
marriage between Christ and His Church.

We kiss and close our eyes. We open our eyes for two years, but she closes her eyes much
sooner in death. I remain a widow until I see her in a celestial, glorified body with her beloved,
begotten, and beautified Bridegroom, Jesus…
 Alcala 5

Critiques By Poetry Group

For this workshop, I only received one group critique. Therefore, I was limited to the

grativius weight of criticism to determine if my flash fiction was well groomed and dressed. The

criticism that I did receive entirely scoped in the dialogue between both individuals as to how

their friendship developed, then blossoms into a romantic, mutual interest for one another. At the

end of my first section, before twenty-five years pass, I added a brief overview sentence to

succinctly of both characters common interest, which explains the earlier beginnings of their love

another as it grows, flourishes, and blossoms for the next upcoming decades and years. Though a

member of my team suggested greater detail concerning the lady, I kept the details to a minimum

because she is an introvert, whereas her lover is an extrovert. Introverts are quieter than

extrovert, explaining why the male is more outgoing, talkative, and sociable than the female.

Personally, I thought the following line was thoughtfully included at the end of my story; “​We

kiss and close our eyes. We open our eyes for two years, but she closes her eyes much sooner in

death.”​ Common love stories end with a happy ending. However, I wanted to end a

heart-wrenching ending, intermingling with hope along with patience to see a loved one. This

form of ending does add to the unfaded, undimmed love this man possessed towards the woman,

waiting twenty-five years to see her; but after her death, he is willing to wait until his death to

behold her, not as his bride, but as Christ’s bride. Overall, I am impressed by how I deepen and

centralize the characters unchanging characteristic with a twisting ending. Otherwise, a happy

ending wound lessen the gentlemen’s reserved desire for the woman.