Short Story #11c: The Chosen 3

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 4:20 in the film to about 6:30 (the final minute and a half are credits, which I won't be dramatizing).

Prompt: After viewing "Chosen" by Ang Lee, write a short story covering a portion of the short film. (Word count: 258)

* * * * * My heart races as I text Stan: “pckg recd.” Stan texts an address 20 minutes south of town. The kid/pckg sits serenely, looking at nothing but warehouses changing to strip malls changing to farmland. No iPhone, no Nintendo. How’s that possible?

It’s a two-story place with a broad porch in front. Peaceful. A red-robed monk answers the door. The kid takes my hand, leads me inside.

“I have a gift for you,” our host tells the kid.

The kid doesn’t drop my hand. Instead, his eyes cut toward the monk’s feet. Tony Lama boots. An East-meets-West thing? I don’t think so.

“Again, many thanks.”

Outside, I look through a basement window: four monks on the floor—tied up, not playing Twister. A light comes on upstairs. OK, then.

I sneak inside and step through a beaded curtain as “Tex” presses a syringe to the kid’s throat. I advance. Tex stabs at me with the needle. One blow to the jaw and he collapses, spinning a prayer wheel with his face as he falls. Amen.

Freed, the monks take charge of the situation, and I return to the Beemer. The kid’s “for later” box is on the passenger seat. Inside, a Hulk Band-Aid. As the obvious question enters my mind, a chill wind stings my right ear. I glance at the shredded headrest, bring away blood when I touch the side of my face.

It seems “later” has finally arrived. I put the Band-Aid on, thinking as I drive away: Who was that kid?

–30–