Writer's Digest Prompt: New Life

You've left town—ditching your old, miserable life—hoping to start a new life for yourself. You've given yourself a new name, fake background and style. Write about your first encounter in your new town.

I dropped my overstuffed duffel bag on the floor next to the barstool and took a seat at the counter.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” the waitress asked, as she balanced four plates of the evening’s special on her way to a family sitting in the back corner of the diner.

“That’d be just fine Miss,” I replied. I had decided on the bus ride from Potsville to Merced City that in this new life of mine, I would try to be more respectful and courteous, more upstanding than the coward who had spent so long running away from his problems.

The waitress brought me the coffee, pushed a menu in front of me and smiled. It was a warm, inviting smile. An almost familiar smile. But in that instant I felt a pang of guilt as I remembered Mandy.

“Here you go. The special is fabulous tonight but whatever you do, make sure you save some room for dessert. The pecan pie here is the best you’ll ever have.”

“Thank you Miss,” I replied. Her crudely-fashioned nametag read “Pamela.” She reminded me of Mandy, but was a bit heavier and her hair was different.

And anyway, Mandy was dead.

“I’ll have the special,” I said, not even looking at the menu.

“Good choice,” she replied with wink.

I stirred two sugars into my coffee and thought about the last time I saw Mandy. It had been almost ten years. She had rushed to my parent’s house looking for me, frantic, not knowing what to do after her drug-dealing father had found the positive pregnancy test in her bathroom trash can.

“What are we going to do?” she cried. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. I had no answers.

I should’ve been there for her. We should’ve been in it together. But instead I backed away and three days later, despite the pleas of her friends and cousins, Mandy took her life by jumping off the Potsville Bridge into the Grayson River feeding the Pacific Ocean, never to be seen again. She left a note, but didn’t mention me.

I was sleeping in my cozy bed at the time.

Her death traumatized our tight-knit community and I could never seem to escape the hushed whispers or judging eyes of those around me. I was the reason she was dead.

Pamela set the meatloaf special in front of me.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

“No, I think I’m fine. Thank you Miss.”

It didn’t take long for Mandy’s father to put two and two together. And if it weren’t for the police raid of his drug operation prompted by the investigation of Mandy’s suicide, I’m sure he would’ve come after me with a vengeance.

He was sentenced to 12 years in prison on drug trafficking charges but only served a little over nine. I had known for a long time that as the day of his release neared, I would have to make some changes. I didn’t know what to do. There was nothing for me in Potsville, where I had grown tired of the being labeled as the boy who forced a young girl to her death.

So I decided to leave. I got a one way bus ticket to wherever it would take me.

And I landed here, in Merced City.

“So,” Pamela asked. “Where are you from?”

“Umm…Swenson,” I replied.

“I love the autumns in Swenson,” she said.

“Yeah….yeah, I’ll miss those autumns,” I lied, having never actually been to Swenson.

“What brings you to Merced City?” she asked.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how much I should say. After all, I was trying to establish a new identity, but at the same time felt an inexplicable, yet desperate need to confide in someone.

“I’m here for a fresh start,” I said. Pamela smiled, almost knowingly.

“I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “Sometimes, you just have to turn the page and give yourself a new chance. I did the same thing, and now my son and I couldn’t be happier. I’m glad you picked Merced City.”

“I am too,” I replied.

I finished the rest of my meatloaf and ordered a slice of Pamela’s pecan pie, feeling hopeful in this new beginning.

“My name is Paul,” I said, extending my hand.

“Paul,” she repeated, taking my hand in hers. “Paul, from Swenson.”

“That’s right,” I replied.

“It’s funny,” she said. “You remind me of boy I used to know from Potsville.”

Las Golondrinas

Prompt: Write 1,000 words about a local festival. I chose the Swallow's Day Parade in San Juan Capistrano. I have fond memories of Swallow's Day, having once served on the royal court (no joke!) Anyway, here it is...

Los Golondrinas

Dalton ducked around the passing throng of tourists on the bustling sidewalk that ran along the Camino Capistrano parade route. He stopped in front of the Ortega Trading Post and as he paused to enter, saw the smiling face of a toothless toddler held captive in her stroller, a young couple from Canada laughing about the aroma of fresh horse droppings, and a stone-faced traffic cop, trying desperately, yet unsuccessfully with the shrill of his whistle to direct pedestrians away from the incoming procession of horses, middle school marching bands, dancers, and Rotarians.

But Dalton was not looking for any of them. On this day, amidst the carnival of the Fiesta of the Swallows, he was only looking for one person and her name was Melissa Anne.

***

It had been a year since Dalton last entered the Ortega Trading Post. The Post, located directly across the street from the Mission San Juan Capistrano, was a well-known tourist trap that beckoned visitors with a weathered banner above its entrance, promising them a “Free Swallows Story.” Dalton entered the shop cautiously, hoping to remain inconspicuous, for his goal was not to watch the Swallows Day Parade, or to purchase a bumper sticker or postcard or miniature spoon, but to purloin a certain leather Indian Chief wallet – the same wallet that Andrew LaMothe had shown off to the envious eyes of their sixth grade class earlier that week. The wallet that everyone knew someone like Dalton could never afford. He made his move towards the wallets, but his thoughts shifted as his eyes fell upon the prettiest girl he had ever seen. She had long auburn red hair, and wore beige capris, a pink tank top and sandals. And she was walking straight towards him.

“Hey,” she said. “Do you know where I can get the ‘Free Swallow’s Story?” Dalton had seen the story before – a few lines typed crudely on a bookmark, a couple of random facts about the journey of the legendary cliff swallows.

“You don’t really want that story,” Dalton told her.

“I don’t?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface, of the swallows’ journey across 7,000 miles from Goya, Argentina to here, of….” He stopped himself, suddenly embarrassed. His comprehensive knowledge of the flight patterns of these famed birds had rightfully earned him nicknames such as “birdboy,” “geekhead,” and “lamebrain” among his peers.

“Go on,” she said.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah, I want to know,” she said, cracking a smile.

So Dalton went on. He told her about the swallows’ winter migration to Argentina and their annual return on St. Joseph’s Day. He told her about how the Swallows Day Parade started in the 1930s as a small school carnival and how it had grown to become the largest non-motorized parade in the country. He told her about Leon Rene’s famous song and about the Hat Contest, Hoos’gow Day, the Hairiest Man Contest, and the President’s Ball.

But he wanted to do more than just tell her. So he took her hand and guided her out to the parade, where folkoric dancers were performing alongside their decorated horses. They crossed street and ran onto the Mercado, the Fiesta’s street fare, where they rode rackety carnival rides and shared a hot, sweet funnel cake while a local western band played their cover of an old country favorite.

He took her hand once more, and lead her down the street to the Mission entrance, where they snuck in, pretending to be part of a large tour group from Prescott, Arizona.
“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You’ll see,” he said. She followed him to the massive ruins of rock and adobe.

“What is this?” she asked.

“It’s the Great Stone Church,” he said. “At one time it was the most beautiful church of all the missions. But in 1812 it was destroyed by an earthquake. Forty people lost their lives. Now, it serves one purpose.”

“What’s that?” she asked. And a smile flashed across his face.

“Look,” he said. “Look,” as he pointed towards the towering arch above them. And together, while the rest of the town was consumed with the parade and the music, horses and dancing, the two twelve year olds cast their eyes on the mud nests above them and watched the first of the swallows return to their home.

And for a moment, time stood still. Until…

“Melissa Ann, where have you been! We’ve been looking all over town for you!” A large woman grabbed the girl by the hand and pulled her away.

And just like that, she was gone.

Dalton thought of Melissa often. He thought of the perfect day that they had shared together. He thought about her smile and her laugh. And as the months passed, he found himself thinking more and more about the next Swallows Day Parade, and his admittedly silly thought that he might see her once again.


***


As the day wore on, however, and as the afternoon turned to dusk, he slowly came to accept to the fact, that she would not be there. He thought he saw her at by the Ferris wheel that they had ridden together, or heard her laugh by the old Trading Post. But she was not there. So he walked back towards the Great Stone Church.

He looked up at the arch, and stared at the hundreds of swallows resting in their homes after their long journey. He took a deep breath and smiled.

And a familiar voice called him from behind.

“Hey, Do you know where I can get the Free Swallows Story?”