Diana's letter set off an atomic blast that blew my to heart to smithereens. It arrived a month after the Army sent me to a Middle Eastern desert. Her words ended our engagement, a three-year romance, my faith in women. I'd have gone completely bonkers, if it weren't for a week of intensive war games. Two parachute jumps and a mock attack on an airfield diverted my mind, easing my heartache.

Then the craziest thing happened--I got mail from Shotsie. Her real name was Ethelvina V. Fields. What kind of first name was that? Even teachers never got it right.

Shotsie was a paper-thin, stringy-haired, nerd. I never saw her at a dance or school activity at Wilson High. Nobody'd be stupid enough to invite her to a party. She didn't even hang out at the mall. Rumor had it she was sickly and had to get lots of shots. Girls called her Shotsie as a put down. We guys called her worse things.

She was such a big unknown that it became a problem when I volunteered to write the senior class prophecy for the forty kids in our graduating class. I decided to set the prophecy twenty-five years into the future and write something humorous about each person. I knew enough anecdotes to write about thirty-nine kids. The fortieth, Shotsie, would be a headache. Nobody knew what she did, liked, or wanted to be. I'd have to interview her, and somehow work her into the class prophecy, making things comical. But, for two cents, I'd have left her out. Nobody'd notice, anyway.

Shotsie was putting skeins of pink and blue yarn into a shopping cart when I ran into her at Kmart. Her mousy brown hair looked awful, as usual. Little pyramids pushed her grubby blouse slightly outward. She had a tenth of my girlfriend, Diana's endowments. A few sprays of helium into her shapeless slacks might've helped to fill them out.

When I approached her to explain my task, she suggested we find a booth in the snack bar. We could talk over a coke--her treat. That sounded creepy. I had a reputation to protect. What if somebody saw me sitting with Shotsie? They'd hassle me for weeks. I felt better when we found a booth way in the back, out of view. I gave her a break by letting her pay, making sure I ordered the biggest coke they had.

Her big thing was going to church. I expected her to ask where I went to church, and if I was saved. But, she didn't. She also crocheted little hat and bootie sets for abandoned babies, and volunteered weekends at the down-and-out soup kitchen. It was hard turning those facts into something humorous, and projecting it twenty-five years into the future. I wrote this: In 2025, Ethelvina V. Fields will sell defective hats and booties to Third World countries, giving babies severe, allergic reactions. She'll use the profits to build a chain of el-cheapo fast-food restaurants, designed to look like hobo soup kitchens. I thought it was pretty funny, and so did my girlfriend, Diana.

The day the senior class prophecy was distributed, I looked Shotsie's way in homeroom. She was glued to the prophecy. She wiped something from the corners of her eyes, and left the room. I dismissed the twinge that struck me. Hey, if you want something cool written about you, you gotta be cool.

Now, two years later, Ethelvina Shotsie Fields, the dud, had sent me something in a large bubble envelope. Go figure. I didn't know how she found out where I was, or why she'd bother to contact me. I snorted and threw the unopened envelope into my footlocker. I had better things to do.

Mom wrote. She'd seen Diana and her new guy at Dennys where mom worked the midnight shift. The guy looked like a doper. Diana was drunk. She looked and acted like a low-life slut. Mom said I was lucky Diana was out of my life. She'd always felt Diana was wrong for me.

Mom said a girl with an unusual first name had called, asking for my Army address. She gave it, thinking mail from a girl, who sounded so nice on the phone, would boost my morale. Little did mom know she'd given my address to the queen of the nerds.

After reading mom's report about Diana, I needed a good laugh. Maybe Shotsie's mail would be goofy enough to do the trick. I opened the padded envelope she'd sent, and found a letter and something odd in a plastic sandwich bag. It was flat, muddy brown, and looked like spoiled leftovers from one of her soup kitchens.

I hadn't noticed a photo had fallen from the envelope. Smitty, my best Army buddy, walked into the tent and picked it up.

�OoooWeee! She can park her jump boots under my bunk any old time!�

I yanked the photo from his hands. A wow-blonde in a hot- pink and orange jump suit, stood next to a guy who had his arm around her. On the back was written, �Hey Mark. This is me and my instructor after my first sky dive.� It was signed �Hugs, Vanessa.�

Who the hell was Vanessa?

I pushed Smitty out of the tent so I could read Shotsie's letter undisturbed. I was full of vinegar when starting the letter. There wasn't an ounce left when I finished. I had to read it again.

Paratroopers never use hokey words like �delightful.� But, I must make an exception. Shotsie's letter was absolutely delightful. And loaded with surprises.

She was in her second year of divinity school. Her denomination started to ordain women, and she was studying to become a minister. Her big dream was to become Pastor Vanessa with her own congregation.

Last summer she'd worked with a church group resettling refugees in Central America. Next summer, she'd help build a new orphanage in Mexico.

She'd just made her first sky dive, and had included a picture. Yes, she'd dyed her hair blonde. And Vanessa was her middle name. She'd decided to use her middle name from now on.

She'd always considered me the neatest guy in Wilson High. She never forgot the time we sat at the snack bar and had a coke. She'd kept the straw I'd used to sip my coke, and still had it. Geeez, Diana never did anything like that. Did Shotsie keep it, thinking it was the closest she'd ever get to my lips?

What looked like gunk in the plastic bag was really delicious molasses candy she'd made from an old recipe. If I liked it, she'd send more. She'd been dating a nice guy in her class for a year. He spoke of marriage, but she wasn't sure if he was the one God meant for her.

She'd heard about Diana, and our breakup. She thought I might be lonely and homesick, stuck in a desert thousands of miles away. She knew how rough loneliness could be. So, she decided to write, hoping to cheer me up. She'd do the same for other guys in my outfit who needed mail, if I supplied their names. She was already writing to a guy in each branch of the armed forces.

Forget that! I wouldn't give her any names. Let them find their own Vanessa. I felt a little jealous, knowing she was already sharing letters and candy with other guys in the military.

She closed the letter with, �Hugs, Vanessa.� The PS said I was in her daily prayers and always had been. She asked if I'd pray for her too. Me pray? I couldn't remember the last time I did.

I found a magnifying glass and examined the photo closely. It was Shotsie all right, but her face was fleshier. Her lips looked full and pouty--the kind I'd always liked. Had they always been that way? She was still thinner than most, but thin was in. And that blonde hair--totally hot!

Smitty asked about Vanessa. �Private property, dude,� I said sternly. Good grief! I was actually feeling possessive about Shotsie. Well, it was more like not wanting to share Vanessa.

I grabbed a pen and paper. After writing, �Hey Vanessa,� I drew a blank. Then, reality struck. Vanessa seemed vivacious, but some residue of Shotsie could still be lurking in the background. I had nothing in common with Shotsie. We'd never talked beyond that short interview at Kmart. I couldn't just stroll down memory lane and ask: Remember when that rock band, almost caused a riot at our school? Talking about the good old days was out.

Then it struck me--Vanessa and I had something in common--we'd both jumped out of airplanes. So, I wrote about my adventures in the Army's jump school and parachuting from planes at night.

I didn't know how to end the letter. �Your friend,� wouldn't work, because we'd never been friends. �Your new friend,� sounded dumb. I finally closed with: �Here's hoping your chute always opens and you have soft landings--Mark Hanson, Private First Class.�

Before long, Vanessa's bubble envelopes arrived every week. They were always stuffed with letters, newspaper clippings, and that great molasses candy. The letters were long and chatty, and I answered all of them.

After months of writing about life in the present--carefully avoiding issues of the past--she asked how I felt when Diana broke up with me. Nobody'd ever asked before--not even my parents. It was hard to resist Vanessa's invitation to pour my heart out. I wrote the whole story of my hurts, broken hopes and demolished dreams. I closed that letter with, �Thanks for listening. Your friend, Mark.�

She replied with a letter that was like a big, warm, bear hug. The comforting words were like so many arms caressing me, patting my back, petting my head. Many sentences spoke of hope and renewal. She said, �A guy who has the guts to jump out of an airplane in the black of the desert night can jump back into life's unknown grayness, and have a soft landing. Sweetie, I have faith in you, and know you can do anything.�

Was I becoming Vanessa's sweetie?

It was her turn to write from the heart. The envelope was crammed with pages about Shotsie's past. It was a painful story. No wonder she was always withdrawn, and had nothing decent to wear. She'd been sickly. Her mom had died when she was twelve. Her dad was continuously depressed, and didn't earn much, with little prospect for the future. She kept their little apartment clean, and prepared meals. She tried to give her dad hope when there was none. She felt like an ugly duckling, and there was nobody to tell her otherwise. Her dad was too wrapped up in himself to ever hug her or say nice things about her. Going to church made problems seem less painful. Crocheting for abandoned infants, and helping feed the homeless were ways to show love to those worse off than her. Besides, the Bible said it was better to give than to receive.

Her dad finally got a better job in another state. Through a work-study scholarship, she attended a church-sponsored college. That's when her life drastically changed. No longer weighted down with heavy responsibilities, her health improved. She blossomed in every way. Her social life was super. It was as if a prince had kissed the sleeping princess, awakening her to life's possibilities. That's when Shotsie became Vanessa.

That night, I pulled guard duty from midnight to 4 AM. Patrolling the base perimeter in the solitude of the cool desert night, her story haunted me. I realized what I'd been back in high school--arrogant, selfish, mean, crude, and worse. But, Shotsie, who I'd shunned and ridiculed at every opportunity, had been the opposite. Though sickly, she'd taken care of her dad and done things for unwanted babies. That took love. She'd rubbed elbows with the unwashed homeless. That took even more love. What did I ever do for others? Nothing. I pretended problems didn't exist and guzzled beer at one wild party after another. Who was the real hero in high school? Me, the jock, who made touchdowns for roaring crowds, or the girl we shunned, who in silence transformed yarn into little warm booties?

As the months passed, my feelings for Vanessa grew stronger. It was partly from respect, because she'd withstood our rejection when she needed acceptance. It was partly from regret for things I'd done to make her life worse--especially for the scornful words I'd written in the class prophecy. It was partly from affection for a deeply misunderstood woman who had a sweetness that penetrated every corner of my heart.

We discussed our school days, and my deep regrets for how I'd treated her. She forgave everything. She even taught me how to forgive Diana. Her influence was changing me beyond recognition.

I even began to pray. She composed a little prayer, suggesting we say it at the same time every day. Whenever I recited that prayer, I could almost feel her presence.

Then, I realized I'd fallen in love with Vanessa. The feeling was incredibly strong, yet soft and yielding. I needed to tell her. I grabbed a sheet of paper and wrote, I LOVE YOU!!!� in huge letters, underlined the words three times, then mailed it.

Two weeks passed without hearing a word from her. I felt neglected and rejected. An inner voice nagged, It's payback time.

What was wrong? Did my declaration of love scare her off? Did she suddenly decided to marry her boyfriend? Was she sick? Did she have an accident? Did she lose her heart to one of the other guys she wrote to? Didn't she realize what she meant to me?

Some bad guys from the neighboring country started threatening oil fields. We were rushed to the border and ordered to dig in. Things were tense for a week. Any moment, bullets might fly back and forth. But, the possibility of going into combat didn't upset me as much as Vanessa's silence.

Fortunately, diplomats worked out a solution, and we returned to our base.

Mail from Vanessa had arrived. This time she used a small, post card sized envelope, instead of a big bubble envelope. The change was alarming. Oh no! Don't tell me she's going to pull a Diana. Not another Dear John!

I couldn't open the envelope. I dropped it on my bed and left the tent.

I jogged along the barbed wire fence to ease tension. My tour of duty would end in a month, and I'd be sent back home. I'd daydreamed about seeing Vanessa, holding her, kissing her. And now--

Smitty caught up to me. �Hey, dude, why are you jogging in this heat?�

�I got a letter from Vanessa. In a real small envelope.�

�Uh-oh. A Dear John?�

�I don't know. I didn't open it.

�Maybe you should before you totally freak out. Hey--it might be something good.�

Back at the tent, with Smitty on hand for moral support, I opened the envelope with trembling fingers. Unfolding the page, I noticed it didn't even begin with �Dear Mark.� A bad sign.

�Well, ain't you gonna read it?� Smitty barked.

�I just did.�

�Can I see it?�

I passed it to him. �What is this stupid thing?� he asked after a quick glance, �your horoscope?�

�Not exactly.�

�Well, you didn't drop dead, so it can't be that bad.� He cleared his throat and read slowly and loudly. �Class Prophesy for Mark Hanson--twenty five years in the future. Written by Shotsie.�

He gave me a dumb look. �Who's Shotsie?�

�It's a long story. I'll tell you later. Finish reading, already!�

He moved the page closer to his face and continued. �Mark Hanson and his wife, the Reverend Vanessa Hanson of Harmony Bible Church, will celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary by reaffirming their vows. A gala reception at the church hall will follow. All parishioners, including the couple's four children, and the entire Class of 2000 from Wilson High School, will attend. Mr. Hanson will receive the Governor's Outstanding Service Award for the year 2025, for his unselfish devotion and work with abandoned children and the homeless. They will live happily ever after, in peace and prosperity, and will enjoy incredibly satisfying emotional and physical love.�

�I like the part about incredibly satisfying physical love, Smitty said.

�Don't we all,� I said, grinning from ear to ear.

Michael A. Kechula is a retired technical writer. Switching to fiction in 2003, his fiction works have won first prize in six contests and honorable mention in three others. His stories have appeared in fifty-eight online and print magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and the US. He�s authored several books on flash fiction, including a self-study book that teaches beginners how to write flash fiction. He�s owner of Flash Tales Magazine, an online magazine specializing in speculative fiction in the micro and flash fiction formats.