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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.

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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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Pumping Up Your Image

During one of the early writing classes I took, I received a red envelope from my instructor, Ariel Gore. This wasn’t just any red envelope. It was small and was decorated with Vietnamese characters written in gold. A drawing of a young boy and a young girl, in what seemed to be ceremonial dress, bowed to each other.

The envelope held promise, but I wasn’t allowed to open it until Ariel gave the instructions.

We were to choose an event we wanted to write about, she said, a powerful image from our past or a scene from a story in progress. Inside the red envelope was a series of cards with questions. We were to pull out the cards, one at a time, without peeking). She wanted us to answer each question and then use those responses to write – or rewrite – our story.

There was no order to the questions, and we didn’t have to answer them all. But, even the few that I drew were enough to widen my perspective of the scene, to see what the character saw, and to incorporate details I overlooked when I had written an earlier draft.

I loved this writing exercise.

The little red envelope appeared mystical with it’s Vietnamese writing, the hopeful expressions of the young boy and girl, and the secret cards; it was bound to do magic on my writing.

The assignment wasn’t daunting; all I had to do was read and answer a few questions. I could even make up the answers. There was no wrong way to do it.

And, the answers put me front and center into the image. They helped me color the scene, add texture, and reveal insight into my character.

As I stepped behind my character’s eyes, I drew these cards:

  • About how old are you?
  • What is to your left?
  • What is to your right?
  • Is anyone else in the image?
  • Why are you there?
  • Is there anyone who just left or who may be coming?
  • What are some of the sounds in the image?
  • What does the air smell like?

I thought it would be fun to try this exercise again. Here’s a snippet of a story – a before and after. Hopefully, the power of the exercise will still shine through:

Before:

One by one they got up from the bed. Jan went to the bathroom. Brian needed food. Mollie went downstairs and put on music. But Paul stayed upstairs with me. He wanted to smoke, so I opened the bedroom window and we climbed outside onto the roof.

There, under the stars, we sat on a small ledge. He smoked. I pulled in my knees and wrapped up in a blanket. We talked. For a long time, we just talked. He laughed at my jokes. But still, he looked me in the eyes when he spoke. I sat with him until the mosquitoes got the best of me.

After: *

At twenty-one years old, I was accustomed to staying awake into the wee hours of the morning. But, I wasn’t used to being woken up at 3am by a posse of four. My roommate Mollie, her friend Jan, and two guys I had just met all sat on Mollie’s bed, across the room from mine. They stared at me and giggled. Knowing they weren’t leaving any time soon, I sat up, wrapped my comforter around me, and listened while they recounted their evening.

Their tale ended, and one by one they got up from Mollie’s bed. Jan went to the bathroom. Brian needed food. Mollie went downstairs and put on music. But Paul stayed in the room with me. As the sounds of Jimi Hendrix climbed the stairs, Paul stood up.

“I need a smoke,” he said. “Can we go out on the roof?”

“Sure,” I shrugged. I wasn’t tired any more.

I opened the bedroom window and we climbed outside. The roof was cool and the air crisp. I pulled my comforter out with me, and we sat on a small ledge that jutted out just enough. We sat side by side, my toes barely over the edge and Paul’s legs dangling.

Paul lit a match, and, even though I didn’t smoke, the first whiff of his cigarette filled my nose with a satisfaction. We sat under the stars and talked about the fresh smell of Spring time in the morning – wet grass and dirt, about the quiet, and the light of the full moon.

It was easy, sitting there with Paul. I pulled in my knees but let the comforter fall off of one shoulder. For a long time, we just talked. He looked me in the eyes when he spoke. And, he laughed at my jokes. I sat with him past the last drag of his cigarette, through the songs of the early morning birds, until the mosquitoes and hunger got the best of us.

Whether you write memoir or fiction, your story is full of imagery. Details settle the reader into time and place, and they give flavor and richness to your story.

If you’re considering a rewrite, ask yourself this: From behind whose eyes does your story unfold?

Who’s got the angle on perspective?

And then, answer a few simple questions of your own.

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* Funny, I said I wasn’t going to write flash fiction every Wednesday for a while. I guess I just couldn’t help myself.

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