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Wed’s Word Flash Fiction: Contraband

Every other Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). The goal of the exercise is to write something – an essay, poem, or flash fiction – by midnight. Past pieces can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

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If you’ve read Anne Frank’s The Diary of a Young Girl, Tony Morrison’s Song of Solomon, or even the Merriam-Webster Collegiate Dictionary, consider yourself a rebel.

If you’ve picked up a copy of Laurie Halse Anderson’s Speak, you’re really going rogue.

Those books have all been challenged this year, some even removed from libraries. It’s Banned Books Week. For a list of challenged books – and the reasons why you shouldn’t (or should) read them, click here.

And, in recognition of Banned Books, Wordsmith.org has declared this week’s theme “words related to censorship.”

Today’s word:

excommunicate. verb tr.: To formally exclude someone from a group or community, especially from a religious community.

It isn’t pretty when you defy the norm.

*****

Contraband

When Ellen descended the stairs into the basement of Northcrest Mall and opened the door to Room A, her stomach flip-flopped. Maybe it was from hunger pains; she’d been fasting since four o’clock yesterday afternoon, after she ate that double fudge brownie she bought at the fifth grade bake sale. Then again, her tumbling stomach could have been a direct result of the look Ellen got from Patsy, who stood at the podium in the front of the room.

“Come on in Ellen.” Patsy’s invitation sounded like a dare with a hint of a threat.

Ellen took her place in the seat in row three, right next to the aisle. She’d been sitting in the same chair – religiously – every Saturday for the last six months.

“As I was saying, Ladies, fellow Weightloss Warriors,” Patsy began again, “there have been some rumblings of late.”

Ellen thought about the bagel she skipped at breakfast that morning. She thought about the plate of Pecan-crusted Tilapia she pushed away last night. “Upset stomach,” she’d told her date. “Stress at work,” she had lied. Then, Ellen thought about the double fudge brownie. She wondered if Patsy somehow knew.

Ellen caught Patsy’s eye just as she broke out into her weekly campaign on Weightloss Warriors’ commitment to pre-planned menus and abstinence and her caution against outside influences.

“If I remember correctly,” Patsy said, “someone in this room hit her goal weight two weeks ago.” Ellen looked down at her lap and studied her hands. “Ellen? Would you care to share?”

All eyes settled on Ellen in the third row. “Yes,” she said. She smiled apologetically. She announced her weight and the room broke out in a slurry of words: lucky, check the scale, and cheater.

“I dare say, Weightloss Warriors has done wonders for your physique and your confidence. Stand up for us, Ellen.” Patsy leaned over her podium. “Let us take a look at you.”

“Of course,” Ellen said. She stood and straightened her dress. She fidgeted with her hair. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck. When Patsy gave the nod, Ellen sat down again and used her foot to push her purse further under her chair.

Patsy stepped out from behind the Podium and stood next to her seat.

“Ladies, what we have here is a real testimony to the kind of support, education and success we offer here at Weightloss Warriors. Ellen couldn’t have reached her goal without us.” Patsy put a heavy hand on Ellen’s shoulder. “Yet, despite our good services….”

Ellen shifted in her seat.

Patsy’s hand didn’t budge.

“…What we have here…is a Traitor.”

The room erupted into gasps and name-calling. Ellen sank under Patsy’s pressure.

“Martha! Hillary!” Patsy put both hands on Ellen’s shoulders. “Get her purse.”

“No!” Ellen screamed. She squirmed in her seat. “Please!”

But, it was too late. Despite their size, the women moved swiftly. Martha and Hillary were already crouched near Ellen’s feet. With their hot hands, they pulled at Ellen’s legs in an effort to grab her purse. One of the women twisted Ellen’s ankle trying to pry the purse strap out from under Ellen’s right shoe, and the other woman smashed Ellen’s toes on her left foot when she tried to lift herself off the floor.

Patsy held Ellen’s purse up high.

“What we have here, fellow Warriors, is a bag full of contraband.“

Ellen’s eyes darted across the room. Some of the women she’d known for her entire six months – like Betsy who brought Ellen Warriors’ frozen dinners when Ellen fell ill with the flu and Monica who picked Ellen up for meetings when Ellen’s car broke down – glared and growled at her now.

Patsy slammed Ellen’s purse on the podium. She unzipped the main compartment, and the room fell silent. Patsy took her time.

She uncovered two bags of Kleenex, a pop-up hairbrush, some make-up. She paused before she pulled out Ellen’s brand new pack of Bubblicious. Patsy tsk-ed when she held up the half-eaten candy bar. Then, Patsy looked out into the room and shook her head.

She found it, thought Ellen, as she held on to the edge of her seat.

“A Book!” Pasty boomed. She thrust it at the audience. “The very book we’ve warned you about!” Patsy laughed in condescension. ” ‘Weightloss the Natural Way’ — this book if full of lies!” Patsy slammed her fist on the podium.

Ellen jumped out of her seat, desperate to defend herself. “Walters is a doctor.” She scanned the room for at least one sympathetic face. Her eyes landed on Hillary. “He’s done research. It’s been proven time and again. It’s chemistry and nutrients and listening to your body, not scales or pre-packaged food!”

“Enough!” At Patsy’s order, Martha and Hillary lumbered across the room and took hold of Ellen’s arms. Ellen felt her body lift and glide down the aisle and towards the door. She twisted her head around towards the women left in the room.

“Exercise and moderation!” She cried. “Pre-portioned meals are a fallacy! Chocolate is not the Devil!”

Before the door slammed she let out her last cry, “Read the book!”

Ellen fell to the floor. Martha spit at Ellen’s feet. Hillary took hold of Ellen’s hands.

“Go,” she said. “Now.” And, she closed Ellen’s fingers around a torn piece of paper.

When Ellen reached her car, she read the note.

Call me, it said, please.

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Wed’s Word Flash Fiction: The Peninsula

Every other Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). The goal of the exercise is to write something – an essay, poem, or flash fiction – by midnight. Past pieces can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

Today’s word:

never-never land. noun. An idealized imaginary place where everything is perfect.

*****

The Peninsula

Bobbie had to walk across a long stretch of soggy ground to reach the edge of Minnow Lake. And, something stunk; she held her nose. Her mother had said that the stench was from all the algae that grew after the long, hot summer, but Bobbie didn’t think it smelled at all like algae. And, now her socks were wet. Still, once she reached the water and stood on the rocks, Bobbie forgot about her socks and the smell. She loved the open space.

A peninsula sat about a mile off to her right. It jutted out into the water like a hook. It pointed towards the campground where Bobbie and her parents stayed every year. The peninsula had a real beach — with sand, not rocks, or slime or tangled brush. And, this year Bobbie noticed a new house built near the tip; the house was white, and it shimmered in the sun. Yesterday, she thought she saw a girl standing on the beach.

She wanted to ask the girl questions, like, where are you from? Do you have your own room in that house, with a double bed? And, Do you like Justin Bieber? Bobbie figured she must be rich. She was definitely lucky.

Bobbie’s mother called her in for dinner. As Bobbie reached the camper door, she smelled fish – again – Sun Perch that her father caught that day.

“A lot of work for a little meat,” her mother always said.

Once Bobbie’s father caught the fish, he said he was “off the hook.” He always thought that was funny. It was up to her mother to clean the fish, cook them, and insist that Bobbie eat them. Then, Bobbie had to scrub the skillet three times to get the fish stink out of it.

She figured that girl on the beach never had to scrub a skillet, if her mother even owned one.

Bobbie’s father cracked open a beer.

Continue reading “Wed’s Word Flash Fiction: The Peninsula”

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Wed’s Word Flash Fiction: The Key to Success

Every Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). Past essays, poems, or flash fiction pieces can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

Today’s word:

enfant terrible. noun. a person, especially someone famous or successful, whose unconventional lifestyle, work, or behavior appears shocking.

The initial read of this word didn’t spark any sort of passion. What’s “successful” and “shocking?” I wondered. Isn’t it all about perspective? Though, the more shocking a person, the more successful they seem to become.

Anyway, while jotting down ideas and a very rough draft, coffee weaseled its way into the mix.

Go figure.

Sometimes you just can’t explain the path of a writer’s mind.

In fact, I can’t even say for sure that this story has anything to do with shocking success. But, what is shocking is how many times I can use the word “coffee” in one short story.

*****

The Key to Success

Jackie packed up her pictures and her tape dispenser. She smiled and said thank you to everyone who passed her cubicle. She threw her head back in laughter when Mr. Carlson handed her a coffee cup that said “Hot tea is for wimps.”

Carolyn rolled her eyes and turned back to her hot water and lemon. She squeezed a package of honey into the cup and stirred. She took a sip. She surveyed her desk. She ran her finger across her keyboard and wiped off a layer of dust. Then, she reloaded her electric stapler, and she pressed the speaker button on her phone to make sure there was still a dial tone.

Carolyn ran the accounts of all the clients over 65. Their money sat in low-risk stocks and bonds. Her phone barely rang. Her clients never emailed. And, her profits never peaked. All those years studying at Brown did little for her except leave her with too many student loans.  She’d been sitting in the same cubicle, earning the same salary, for the last three years.

But Jackie somehow managed to move out of her cubicle and into her own office on the second floor within her first six months of working here. And, her profits rose and fell on a daily basis. She was terrible at managing money. Carolyn thought all of Jackie’s meetings with Mr. Carlson were warnings and threats.

Now, though, here Jackie was, laughing and packing and drinking her Hazlenut coffee with low-fat creamer. Jackie lifted her cup high in some salute to success.

“Coffee is for wimps,” Carolyn muttered.

“What’s that Ms. Nelson?” Mr. Carlson stood at the opening of her cubicle. Carolyn didn’t know how long he’d been there; she never even saw his shadow.

“Oh, good morning, Mr. Carlson. I’m just…looking for something,” she said.

“Fine.” He put his hands in his pockets. “I need to see you Ms. Nelson. In my office.”

Carolyn scooted her chair back, stood up, and adjusted her skirt. She took one more swig of her hot honey water, and Mr. Carlson shook his head. In his office, Mr. Carlson motioned towards one of his leather chairs, and Carolyn sat down.

“Ms. Nelson,” he said, as he faced the window.

“Yes?”

“You’ve been here a long time. Am I right?”

“Yes, Mr. Carlson. Three years.”

Three years and not one evaluation.
Three years and not a penny of a raise.
Three years and —

“And, you’ve never brought me a cup of coffee.”

“Coffee, sir?” she asked.

“Coffee.” Mr. Carlson turned from the window and glared.

Carolyn felt like she was sinking into the leather of the chair, so she sat up straight again.

“Oh,” she said.

“Coffee says a lot about a person, Ms. Nelson. Do they drink it black, with cream or sugar, or with both. Maybe they prefer skim milk. Or, two percent.”  He walked over to her chair and stood directly in front of her.

“Do they offer a cup to a colleague?”

Carolyn squirmed.

“Coffee,” he said, “is the pass-key to this world.”

“Coffee, sir?” she asked again.

“Coffee!” He pounded his fist on the arm rest next to her. “Aren’t you listening?”

“I’m listening, Mr. Carlson, but I don’t drink coffee.”

“And, that, Ms. Nelson, is the problem.” He let out a sigh of relief and walked back to the window.

“It’s all about marketing,” he said. “If you don’t drink coffee, Ms. Nelson, you won’t get anywhere.” With that, he turned to her again and stared right into her eyes.

“But, what do roasted beans and a bitter taste have to do with this company and profit margins, sir?”

He stomped over to his desk, scratched something out on a post-it, and ordered Carolyn to “call this number!”

Carolyn looked at the post-it on her way out of his office. It was the number for HR.

Damn right, I’ll be calling HR.

The woman in charge was named Nancy. When Carolyn walked in, Nancy pointed towards the plush couch next to the window. Her office smelled of fresh flowers and the only light on was a lamp on Nancy’s desk. Already, Carolyn felt at ease.

“So. Ms. Nelson. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here.”

Carolyn told Nancy everything: about the three years of her hard work with nothing to show for it, about the questionable promotions, and about Mr. Carlson’s weird, and somewhat threatening, lecture in his office.

Nancy sat quiet for a moment. She put her hand up to her chin and sighed.

“Well, it’s not sexist. It’s not racist. In fact, it’s perfectly legal,” she said.

“Legal?” Carolyn looked around Nancy’s office searching for the exit. “It’s crazy! I don’t know how this company stays on its feet if coffee comes before customer service!”

“Coffee is the pass-key to the world, dear.”

Carolyn sank into the couch and felt the pain of defeat. Or, maybe it was fear. Nancy stood up and walked to the couch with a cup of hot, steaming liquid.

Coffee.

“Maybe you should try it, dear. Just one cup.”

Carolyn swallowed hard. She took the cup in both hands and smiled.

“Sure,” she said. “One cup.” And, she pretended to take a sip.
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