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–

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–