Short Story #11b: The Chosen 2

One of the writing exercises I've had my students do to prepare them for their state exam is to view an 8 minute short film ("Chosen" by Ang Lee, part of BMW's Clive Owen as The Driver series of marketing films) and then tell part of the story in 26 lines. Even though the film is short, it can't be told as something other than summary (which is different from story) in that brief a space, so they have to focus on one smaller part of it.

What follows is my attempt to capture from 1:30 in the film to about 4:20.

Prompt: After viewing "Chosen" by Ang Lee, write a short story covering a portion of the short film. (Word count: 256)

* * * * * I’m leaving the waterfront with the mystery kid in the back, when two pairs of high-beams skewer my windshield. Busted.

No red-and-blue flashers. Maybe not so busted.

Two enormous thugs exit the sedans. Yeah, pretty busted.

The kid gives me a nod. Well, monsieur, if you insist.

I floor the gas pedal and drive for the gap between the cars. The thugs scurry inside before we reach them. I resist the urge cluck like a chicken.

An SUV blocks the exit of the industrial park, so I drive into a sand-and-gravel processing yard to ditch them.

Easier said then done. They box me in: one in front, two flanking. I slam the brakes and the rear cars zoom past and collide. As they bounce apart, I zip between, looking for spot to turn around.

They play catspaw with me for a while. I go one way, they block it. I try another, blocked again. Blocking me in reverse? Not so effective. The SUV plows into a pile of sand, evening the odds: two cars versus the kid and me.

I enter a maze of cargo containers, but get blocked front and back. I check the kid in the rear-view, see a high-powered rifle bearing down on us.

“Get down!” I shout, ducking while the rear window explodes. I slam into reverse, floor the accelerator. When the car hits the wall of containers, I shift to first, floor it again, and leave our assailants behind.

One question I can’t leave behind, though: Who is this kid?

–30–

Short Story #11a: The Chosen 1

One of the writing exercises I've had my students do to prepare them for their state exam is to view an 8 minute short film ("Chosen" by Ang Lee, part of BMW's Clive Owen as The Driver series of marketing films) and then tell part of the story in 26 lines. Even though the film is short, it can't be told as something other than summary (which is different from story) in that brief a space, so they have to focus on one smaller part of it.

What follows is my attempt to capture the first minute and a half of the film.

Prompt: After viewing "Chosen" by Ang Lee, write a short story covering a portion of the short film. (Word count: 259)

* * * * * “Ridgway Pier: Strange weight from exotic locale. Tonight—No later than 3 o’clock.” That’s all Stan’s note says, not exactly helpful. I consider a non-descript panel van, but bring the Beemer. Van says “don’t look at me,” so the cops, of course, will. The BMW, though, says “Import/Export Owner” rather than “Flunkie,” and an owner would never directly involve himself in something criminal.

I arrive at 1am and flash my lights once every fifteen minutes. I’m waiting for a “two by sea” response. It comes at 2:15.

I walk down to the gangway as the Gotham K arrives. Two people of Asian heritage in red robes debark: an adult in his thirties and a kid in a fur-lined hat that looks like Dumbo ears. Cute. He hands me an intricately-engraved wooden box. Light as air...which is, I suppose, a strange weight. It isn’t sealed, so I start to open it.

“Wait,” the kid says—British accent...exoticer and exoticer. “It’s for later.”

I turn and the kid steps beside me. I look down and guess he weighs 67 pounds, also a strange weight. He helps himself to the backseat when we get to the car. Buckles in. Safety first. Can’t help noticing the prayer beads coiled around his hand, though. He appears calm, but there’s a bluff to it. Like bringing a BMW to gather illicit goods.

I toss the box on the passenger seat, nonchalantly. I can bluff, too. Still, as I drive off, I can’t help thinking, “Who is this kid?”

–30–

Short Story #10: Road Trip!

Prompt: Write a story about a journey. (Word count: 257)

* * * * * Bay Area highway congestion the evening before Thanksgiving wasn’t as bad as Airport Terminal logjam, but Dave was rethinking his all-night drive to Eugene, Oregon. Might not be north of Oakland by sunrise....

For three miles Dave and his Civic had played leapfrog with a blonde in a Subaru Forester. He’d gain a car-length on her; she’d pass him; repeat. As she crawled forward yet again, he looked across and smiled. She smiled back. As he passed her, he waved. She returned the gesture.

Carpooling suddenly made sense. She’d love his Uncle Bob and Aunt Sue. And if not, he was sure they’d understand if he joined her at...where?...a cabin at Lake Tahoe to celebrate the holiday. Fireplace, panoramic view of the lake, blackjack across the state line.

A semi’s airhorn brought him back to reality as two cars cut into the opening he’d left. Worse, the Forester was now five car-lengths up. After twenty minutes he’d jockeyed through traffic enough to cut her lead to two. Ten minutes later a departing Camry enabled him to pull beside her when her lane slowed.

Frantically, before his National-Lampoon’s-Vacation/Christie-Brinkley moment drifted away forever, he made the circular roll-your-window-down handmotion and pushed his power window button. She did likewise.

Strains of Raffi’s “Bananaphone” mixed with the grumble of traffic. He glanced to the rear of the Forester and noticed two carseats, each with a matching towheaded child.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” he shouted. She laughed. They rolled their windows back up, and he mentally calculated the hours to central Oregon.

–30–

Short Story #9: Silence

Prompt: Write a short story with the title "The Silence." (Word count: 258)

* * * * * Captain Ray Douglas sat in the command chair of Mars-bound Golden Hind with his eyes closed. The viewscreen was covered by temporary shielding, and though the consoles flashed readouts, there wasn’t anything he wanted to see. All he wanted to do was listen.

He’d tried listening in the cryochamber, but the sleep-pods insisted on pinging out pulserates and O₂ feeds and every last little thing they did. In Command and Control, silence reigned.

Not that he begrudged company. If helmsman Danny Reyes joined him for a waking hour, he’d enjoy discussing philosophy or literature. Likewise sports with Dr. Meg Faugh; endocrinology discussions, though, were more lecture than conversation. But he could talk any time, and they’d have time enough for that once they landed. Silence like this only existed in the vastness of space.

He sat and breathed as quietly as he could, cast his hearing beyond his heartbeat. To the nothingness of the void. Nothing and nothing and nothing. If he’d been told that such a non-sound existed growing up in a family of eight in a six-room house he wouldn’t have believed it. Even after the deafening roar of an Ares-class rocket launch, when everyone used datapads to communicate, was nothing to this silence.

And then it was over. “Captain Douglas, please return to sleep cycle,” the ship’s computer announced. “Extended time outside of cryosleep will result in heightened fatigue at journey’s end.

Douglas sighed—quietly—as he left C&C. Unlike everything else in his life, silence was the one thing he couldn’t get enough of.

–30–

Short Story #8: Supernatural!

Brainstormer prompt: Supernatural Occurance / Flooded / Oil Freighter (Word count: 259)

* * * * * “Brian, you see that, right?”

“Giant octopus.” At first it had been impossibly long tentacles groping through the hole in the bulkhead wall. Then, as Harry Freeman spoke, its bulbous body/head squeezed into the engine room.

Freeman nodded. “Whaddya say we grab a seat on a lifeboat?”

“Works for me.” Brian Jacobs led the way along the catwalk.

Fifteen feet from the exit, a tentacle seized Jacobs’ ankle. Jacobs grabbed the railing and kicked at the suckers gripping his leg. Freeman grabbed his waist and pulled him upward.

With a groan, Jacobs unfastened his pants. The octopus stripped them and his left shoe away. Freeman hoisted him up and grabbed a wrench from a toolbox. Jacobs snagged a prybar.

Just as they reached the door, the tentacles shot up and blocked their escape. The octopus easily knocked their tools away.

“What now?” Jacobs asked.

“Run and jump. Only chance.”

Freeman took four steps back, charged, and flew through the arms before they could grab hold. Jacobs lost his other shoe, but landed otherwise unscathed. As they closed the hatch, tentacles tugged it back open.

“Not again, Bessie,” someone shouted inside the engine room.

Peering through the gap they saw everything bathed in blue light. Some of the glow hugged their equipment; other parts seemed from another vessel. A spectral crewman with PetrolScot on his coveralls swung a mallet over his head.

The door slammed shut, and Jacobs secured it. “Not a word,” he said, “or they’ll think we’ve been drinking.”

–30–

Short Story 7: End of Winter

Prompt: From Daily Warm-Ups: Writing: Write a haiku about the end of winter. (Word count: 258)

* * * * * Rejuvenation
Provided by melting snow
Postpones next ice age

“Burma Shave,” said Dave.

Ellen punched his shoulder. “Don’t be rude.”

Dave glanced at the other “Parents’ Night” attendees. Everyone oohing and aahing at their progenies’ masterworks. “What? No, it’s okay. It just—”

“What?”

“Sounds like a fortune cookie.”

“It’s haiku. It’s supposed to sound like a fortune cookie.”

“Oh, well then, excellent.”

“How do you know about Burma Shave but not haiku?”

Dave shrugged. “Selective upbringing. Anything “American” was worth learning. Irish, Asians, Libras need not apply.”

“Libyans?”

“No, Libras. My folks thought if you were conceived pre-Valentine’s Day, your upbringing was suspect.”

“I was born November First.”

“I was rebelling when I met you.”

Ellen looked in his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“OK, Libras were fine. But Aquarii....”

Ellen led him to a collection of tissue-paper fishtank mosaics. “Speaking of Aquariuses.”

“Pfftt.”

Ms. Parsons, the third grade teacher shook their hands. “The students are excelling this year, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes,” Ellen said.

“Who’s your child?”

“Amanda,” Ellen said.

Ms. Parsons double-checked her clipboard. “I—I don’t have an Amanda.”

“Isn’t this Mrs. Farhquahr’s class?” Dave asked.

“There isn’t a Mrs. Farwhatsis at this school.”

“Fahrquahr.”

“You better leave before I call security.”

On the drive home Ellen asked, “Think we’ll ever have kids?”

Dave squeezed her thigh. “Like they say, ‛Rejuvenation postpones the next ice age.’”

–30–

Bradbury-esque Titles

Several weeks ago, I attended a writing workshop led by Ray Bradbury biographer Sam Weller. An exercises he had us do was based on Bradbury’s method of title generation. Essentially, start with The and adding an evocative noun to it. A short story, “The Trail,” resulted from the exercise/workshop.

So, here’s a list of potential titles (some from then, some new) for future stories:

The Addict
The Albatross
The Bellhop
The Border Crossing
The Bug
The Crawl Space
The Early Riser
The Escape Clause
The Fountain Pen
The Frost
The Full Stop
The Grandfather Clock
The Hangnail
The Heirloom
The Iguana
The Insignificance
The Lamppost
The Left-hander
The Library
The Limited Engagement
The Loon’s Cry
The Mirror
The Murder-Suicide
The Obelisk
The Porch
The Roadside Attraction
The Scars
The Second Try
The Sliver of Green
The Silence
The Spaceship
The Stain
The Twenty-Dollar Suit
The Typo
The Vanity
The Visitor
The Waterfall
The Wave
The Wendigo
The Wind

Short Story #6: Klondike

Brainstormer prompt: Sojourn / Klondike / Bowling Alley (Word count: 259)

* * * * * The Klondike Bowl isn’t anything to look at. Giant quonset hut of a place that shares the same harsh reality with the rest of the Klondike. But when the light hits her right, she’s amazing.

I’d been driving truck out of Whitehorse for seven years, fifteen out of Calgary before that, when someone asked if I’d take a run up to Dawson. The load I was waiting for was delayed a day; the money was worth a deadhead run; why not?

Some fool got the idea of building a bowling alley between Carmacks and Pelly Crossing (already in the middle of nowhere). Maybe figuring the tourist industry’d boom. Maybe some five-pin champ’s ghost said, “If you build it, they will come.” But tourism never boomed, and hardly anyone came. It’s abandoned now. I mostly ignored it traveling north, the way most folks do.

Coming south, though, on the road twelve hours with another spent dropping-off, I wasn’t seeing straight. Time was, thirteen hours driving was like Christmas Day: here, gone and what’s all the fuss? Nowadays.... I left Pelly Crossing thinking an hour to Carmacks, food, coffee and a couple hours to Whitehorse. Thirty minutes later, I felt lightheaded. Stop and sleep, I risked losing the Skagway job. Keep going or turn back, I risked driving into a ditch. Then I saw the Bowl, lit up like Parliament. Some tourists had patched up the power and had one lane running. Instant coffee and turkey sandwich never tasted so good.

Whatever fool built the place, I owe him one.

–30–

Observations #1

So, five days in, have I learned anything?

One: Go with your gut. After seeing the prompt, start writing the first thing that comes to mind. With “Bakery!” I remembered I’d taken a tour of a bakery in grade school. I don’t remember the mixing room, though—just that I didn’t have to share the baseball cards that came in the loaf of Wonder Bread I got when we left. Still, the memory got things going.

Two: Trust you can tie things together, even if you don’t see how. Keep writing and it will appear. In “Madness,” I noticed Clara’s penchant for vocabulary early on (“nullify this rubble” ... who says that?); it suited the character, but I didn’t know why. Then, as she gathered her treasures at the end—well, of course, she’d come across a vocabulary primer somewhere.

Three: Sometimes the final step comes early. This was more reminder than new insight. The “to die for/too soon” business in “Bakery!” came to mind right after poor Ed was found in the mixing bowl. Rather than trust I’d remember it when I got to the end of the story, I added a few blank lines to type the middle into and went straight for the ending. (I’ve had too many things get away by not writing them down immediately.)

Four: 250-259 words isn’t much. Each of the first drafts of the stories came in between 280 and 310. Editing (and whittling) improves the story, but it’s surprising what little is left.

Short Story #5: Bakery!

Prompt from The Write-Brain Workbook: The building where the bread bakery from my childhood used to be... (Word count: 256)

* * * * * The Meyers Brothers Bakery had been an elementary school field-trip favorite for what seemed forever. Every year, dozens of fourth graders made the trip to see “How Sandwich Dreams Are Made.” Detective Ed Collins still remembered the tour he’d had as a nine-year-old. The mixing room had captivated his interest then. It did so now, thirty years later. Of course, this was strictly off-tour stuff.

Then, “Don’t touch” and “Keep your farkakte mitts away from the equipment” were the watchwords of the day. Someone hadn’t listened. How else do you explain graveyard shift supervisor Emil Greene winding up dead inside a 50-gallon mixing bowl?

“Murder,” Collins said. “Yo, Hayward, whadda we know?”

Collins’ deputy inspector filled him in: messy divorce proceedings, two employees fired in the last month for—“loafing?” Collins suggested. “Yeah, too much of the wrong kind.”—possible gambling debts.

“Not a loan shark,” Collins said. “They break your legs, not every bone in your body.”

“Start with the wife or the ex-help?”

“Wife. Get fired for laying down on the job, how’re you gonna muster the energy to wrestle a guy into a blender?”

“Mixer,” Hayward corrected. “I remember from the tour....”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m gonna close up with forensics. Meet you at the car.”

“Gimme five minutes. I’m going to pick up some pumpernickel in the gift shop. Stuff’s to die for.”

Collins scowled.

“Too soon?” Hayward asked.

“Yeah, but you’re right. Grab me a couple loaves, too.”

–30–

Short Story #4: Odd Couple Blacksmith

Brainstormer prompt: Odd Couple / Pioneer / Blacksmith (Word count: 256)

* * * * * “Watch where you’re putting those,” Felix Rochambeau whined. “You’re ruining the display.”

Oskar Schmidt dropped six fresh horseshoes onto the table. “People don’t care about displays. If they need horseshoes, they’ll buy horseshoes.”

“Ha! Since I set up the display table, sales have tripled.”

“Stop it, Rochambeau. You know I hate when you arrange the horseshoes like flowers.”

“Don’t slap at me. Go back to the smithy. The Andersens are coming soon and you need to patch their cooking pots.”

“Ach! I’m a blacksmith, not a tinker.”

“And I don’t give a dam ... hmmm ... hmmm.” Rochambeau made his best “see what I did there” face.

Schmidt spat at his partner’s feet. “Stop arranging the horseshoes like flower petals.”

Several minutes later, over the sound of hammer and anvil, Rochambeau called out. “Schmidt, have you seen the inkpot? I need to make a sign.”

Metal clattered to the ground behind the leather curtain that separated the forge from what Rochambeau called “the sales floor.”

“You need to make a what? Our customers can’t read. I can’t read. I’m a little bit suspicious that you can’t actually spell.”

“I just want to make a list of prices. Like the bill of fare at Simon’s Place.”

“Simon serves horsemeat, not horseshoes. Stop bothering me.”

Rochambeau mouthed “horsemeat/horseshoes” several times, then resumed his search for the inkpot. The ache at his temples told him this was going to be a long afternoon.

–30–

Short Story #3: Madness

Brainstormer prompt: Madness / Rotting / Downtown City (Word count: 250)

* * * * * This story has been removed. It is being revised for possible publication. –30–

Story #2: Baseball

Prompt: Write a story about sports. (Word count: 251)

* * * * * Bases loaded, two outs, full count, one-run lead, the final pitch. The catcher called for high and inside. Greg Timmins shook It off. Fast ball. Timmins looked at Dale Wilcox in the batter’s box; another shake-off. Slider. Timmins wound up, set the ball sailing.

As soon as he threw it, Timmins knew it was wrong. Wilcox swung and the baseball rocketed toward the left field wall.

Timmins’ future flew toward the parking lot along with the ball. Back to the minors if he was lucky. No chance his wife would reconcile. No Gold Bond endorsement. He pretended not to hear the jubilation of the crowd, inspecting an odd patch of grass near the pitcher’s mound.

As Wilcox trailed his teammates around the bases, the rising swell of cheers promised his heart’s desires. A sweeter contract. A Wheaties box. Timmins’ ex. Nothing could stop....

Above the noise of the crowd, the left fielder whistled. Forty thousand fans grew hushed. Timmins raised his head. Wilcox stumbled approaching first. Fifty feet from the wall, the baseball hung, then started drifting. Drifting. Drifting foul, fouler, foulest.

A collective groan filled the stadium as Wilcox trudged back to home plate. His feet, light as birds moments before, dragged anchor chains behind them.

Timmins, though, didn’t notice the despair. His toes started tingling. He found his wife in the stands, smiled. The minor leagues receded back to the Midwestern farm town where they belonged.

He had one more pitch, one more pitch to make it all right.

–30–

Story #1: Animal Characters

Prompt: Write a story with animals as characters. (Word count: 255)

* * * * * The coyote tore through Whitfield’s garden, the sheepdog nipping its tail. It dug its paws deep into the soil, flung it back at the dog’s face.

Old Whitfield hobbled out from the garage, brandished a rake. “Sic ’im, Butch! Get ’im this time!”

Butch had found the coyote skulking beneath the henhouse, the frenzied cackling of hens having given away its position. Once he’d stuck his muzzle beneath the structure, the coyote had skittered out the far side. After noticing it had broken left, toward the garden, he dodged around the henhouse, and the chase was on.

When Butch shook the dirt from his eyes, the coyote flattened itself. The dog shot over it. The coyote reversed course and headed back to the henhouse, the barn, the forest beyond.

“Butch, he’s getting away!”

Snarling, Butch blazed hot on its trail.

Frantic cries of chickens. Discouraging lows of cattle. The dog’s labored breath getting closer. The coyote shut out everything but the birdsong of safety in the forest. It leapt a haybale near the bottom half of a Dutch door at the end of the barn, then flung itself for the upper opening.

Landing tail-over-shoulders, it saw Butch soaring toward him. Found itself pinned by the Sheepdog’s body.

“Owwwww!” it howled.

“Get up, wuss,” Butch growled. “Payback for dirt in my face.”

“Fine,” the coyote said. “Next time we play hide and seek in the forest.”

“Whatever. Saturday, then.”

Exhausted, both animals headed for their homes.

–30–

Test story: Surprise

This is a story I worked up for class over the Winter Break. It's based on the prompt: Write a story about a surprise. Written out on lined paper it comes to 26 lines. Open Office pegs it at 260 words.

* * * * * “Hey, Kid!” Old Man Henry shouted. “You wanna break your neck or somethin’?”

My friend Steve and I had been climbing on the boulders at Pineridge Park all afternoon. Old Man Henry was a frizz-haired, six-toothed homeless guy who collected bottles and trash in the park and hassled all the kids wherever they were playing.

“Let’s scare him,” Steve whispered, balancing on one foot. He pinwheeled his arms like he was going to fall. Then he did. He landed on his back on the next boulder down, smiling. Old Man Henry, I knew, couldn’t see the smile.

“Oh, geeze!” I shouted. “Call 911. His head’s bleeding like a geyser. Is that his brain? Huuuuuahhh...” I pretended to barf.

Old Man Henry started tossing plastic bags and Coke cans out of his shopping cart. He pulled out a beat-up Motorola phone. “Emergency? I’ve got a kid here who just fell and busted open his … his … his ….” He clutched his chest and dropped the phone. “Oooo….” He fell to his knees and landed on his face.

He didn’t move.

Steve and I peeked over the edge of the rock. Old Man Henry still wasn’t moving. Didn’t look like he was breathing, either. We scrambled down and rolled him over. Nothing.

“What should we do?” I asked.

“Get his phone.”

I picked up Old Man Henry’s phone. Instead of the 911 operator it was the digital buzz of a dial tone.

Old Man Henry opened one bloodshot eye. “Gotcha.”

–30–

Promptness Matters

On the Texas State Assessment, Freshmen are required to write their short stories based on a prompt. So far, two have been released to the public; they are:

1. Write a story about the power of imagination.
2. Write a story about a challenging adventure.

The stories I write for the blog will be based on some kind of prompt as well. Some I'll make up (ideally, before I write the story). Others will come from sources like The Write-Brain Workbook and the iOS app Brainstormer.

Philosophical Quandaries #3: What This Blog Is Not

While this blog is titled Wordstorm, there are several other things with that title that this blog isn't.

It isn't

• A word game for Apple or Android devices
• A visual brainstorming tool
• A Canadian reading series
• An Australian poetry group
• A Word prediction program
• or any of the other things that come up when you Google Wordstorm (unless it's this blog that comes up, in which case this is what it is)

(dis)Claimer

Although I am a teacher and expect to use some of this blog in my classes next year, all original material is my own work. No district/campus materials/equipment/technology will be used in the creation of this blog. I will not engage in blog activities during contracted hours.

I am the sole owner of this material for copyright purposes, and solely responsible for this content.

Philosophical Quandaries #2: Why Now?

In addition to the writing course I'll be teaching next year, I'm also participating in The Summer Writers Club and Book Country.

Part of that involves writing 250-500 words a day.

So each day, one or two 250-word stories.

Will the blog continue after the end of the Summer Writers Club and I'm back-to-school at the end of August? Stay tuned.

Philosophical Quandaries #1: Why? What?

Now that the obligatory welcome is out of the way, the obligatory "why" statement.

The State of Texas (Great State of Texas) requires all high school freshmen to write a short story as part of the state exam. The short story must have "an interesting plot" and "engaging characters." It must fit on a page with 26 lines. It must also be written in approximately 1 hour.

So to help get a handle on that (I'm a teacher and will be teaching a writing course next year), this blog. (There's also a 26-line expository essay the freshmen and sophomores have to write, as well as a 26-line persuasive essay for the sophomores, but I'll let other hands furrow those fields.)

Most of the blog will be 250-word stories. This will approximate the 26-line limit. The plots will be interesting; the characters, engaging. I may fudge on the time limit, but probably not by much.

The rest of the blog will be writing quotes, tips, pictures, etc., as they occur to me to include them.

Enjoy!

Willkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome

But said with the pseudo-ironic tone of Gene Wilder's Willy Wonka rather than Joel Gray's enthusiastic cabaret M.C.