‘Donde estás, Frieda?’
Frieda scrambles to hide the journals. She’s only gone through ten pages. The girl who kept them didn’t write Spanglish, but English.
She hasn’t told anyone – they’d turn them into kindling. She’d gone to dig for water in the desert. She didn’t find water, but a metal box which contained the journals, sealed in thick film protecting them from damage.
Frieda is fascinated by them. They had swimming pools in Beverly Hills then. She tries to imagine having so much disposable water.
‘ Llueve. Vienes?’
She can’t imagine. So she goes to help collect rain water.
I’ve started another blog: More Than 100 Words. I’m going to try to expand some of my 100-word stories into longer pieces. This one might be a candidate.