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–