This idea emerged thanks to the lovely Friday Flash image. It's in the same style of "By the River," "The Sign," "Sapphire Rose," and "The Forbidden Dance."
Please click on the badge below the story to read all the other Friday Flash posts.
Hope you enjoy,
By Ria Restrepo
Copyright ©2019. All rights reserved.
Her name was Rosarita. Like most nights, she sang in the local cantina, pouring her heart out in songs filled with passion and despair.
People came from miles around to listen to her and forget their troubles for a while. Unfortunately, harsh reality found their safe haven.
The commander of the militia that terrorized them—with permission from the brutal dictator who ruled with an iron fist—had heard about the seductive songbird. With his officers in tow, he invaded the cantina, creating a rowdy boorish presence.
Quickly enraptured like so many others, he decided to claim what wasn't his. When Rosarita finished her last song and left the stage, he grabbed her and pulled her into his lap.
"You have the voice of an angel."
He squeezed her backside. "And look like one too."
She forced a comely smile.
"Aren't you going to invite me upstairs?"
"It would be my honor." The words tasted vile, but there was no other way.
Rosarita led him up to her room, her heart hammering. He forced her onto her bed and ripped her dress, exposing her chest. While he mauled her breasts, she retrieved the dagger she kept under her pillow and thrust it into his jugular.
His eyes wide with surprise, he lurched back, gasping. Without hesitation, she pushed him onto the floor, took the dagger from his neck, and plunged it into his heart for good measure.
That's how Guillermo found her, standing over the lifeless form. He was the owner of the cantina, the leader of the rebel forces, and Rosarita's lover.
Gently, he turned her to face him and cupped her face with his hand. "Did he hurt you?"
She shook her head. "I killed him before he had the chance."
He kissed her forehead and held her close for a precious moment.
"We need to act fast—while his men are drunk and disorganized."
Guillermo gave her an assessing look.
"Go on. I'll join you shortly."
He nodded, then left her.
She washed the commander's blood and stink from her skin before donning her fighter's garb.
It was a long night and much blood was spilt, but the rebels emerged victorious. The people won their freedom and danced in the town square on a carpet of rose petals. Rosarita was among them, twirling with overflowing joy. Guillermo watched her for a while, a smile on his lips, before finally joining her.
Much later, they writhed together on his bed in a timeless expression of desire. The sounds of their pleasure filled the small room. She gave herself to him with wild abandon and he took her to the gates of heaven, filling her with his seed.
When peace reigned, Guillermo reverted to his artistic nature and commemorated his love on the cantina wall. For generations, patrons imbibed the signature drink named for Rosarita as they looked at her mural. Some said the creamy pink concoction symbolized the treasure the loathsome commander never got to enjoy.