I would like to share another timed, word-count limited, contest piece I recently wrote. Per the contest rules, writers find out their story’s assigned genre, a main character, and an item that the writer must write about at the beginning of the count-down.
Admittedly, these contests do not always push you to produce your best stories. However, you are forced to think and write creatively, which I believe makes you a better writer in the long haul. Besides – it’s fun!
When I first read my assigned genre, “action-adventure,” I was verynervous! Fast-paced action is not my usual writing style. My first draft of the story ended up being adventurous enough, but it lacked the pace and urgency of what you usually find in action genres. If I had to classify it, I would say it was more of a mystery-adventure. With only a handful of hours left before the deadline, I did my best to increase the story’s sense of crisis and haste.
After the writer’s story is submitted to the contest, the writers are free to continue editing, developing, or changing their story as they see fit. However, I like to share my contest-pieces as-is. I find it interesting to see what has developed in the short time frame, without the benefit of time: being able to step away, clear your head, and edit/proofread with fresh eyes and perspective.
I was on the first bus to the nearest city. My parents wouldn’t be stopping for lunch for at least two more hours. I kicked myself for not driving my own car. But sweetheart, by car-pooling we can spend more time together as a family. The combination of fresh snow and crisp sunlight made it a perfect day for skiing. I could reach the drugstore and get back to the resort before my parents would think to check on me. The old bus creaked and groaned as it rolled down the white-capped roads. I picked at the threading of the old, discoloured seat.
Rows of advertisements, each with frayed edges and faded graffiti, covered the roof above the rows. A skinny blonde woman stared at me, “A beautiful new you! Try laser hair removal today!” Two white men in business suits asked, “Too much debt? The Bentley Brothers can find a consolidation plan that works for you.” A dark-haired woman lay unconscious on a couch, above her read: “Sexual assault is preventable. Remember, consent is sexy.” A heavily pregnant woman stood, her face blurred, her baby’s silhouette highlighted in golds and reds, and printed above her: “Protect them from harm. Think before you drink.” I looked away and fiddled with my phone.
I stepped off the bus with the hoard of people, jostled by overdressed parkas impatient to shop the ritzy downtown. Quickly I made my way avoiding eye contact with strangers as I searched for memorized street names. I came upon a man handing out flyers on the sidewalk. Casually I attempted to pass him, but he thrust a paper into my hand. I took it, quickly shoving it into my pocket. The closest drugstore was tucked away from the main drag, sandwiched in-between a liquor depot and a run-down dental center advertising payment plans – luckily, it was quiet. As I scanned the aisles, I tried to shake my feelings of shame and guilt. You’re an adult woman who has sex – that’s okay, I reminded myself. There it is. “Family Planning,” always conveniently located at the end of the baby product aisle: pacifiers, sippy cups, bibs, tampons, pads, lube, cock rings, pregnancy tests. The condoms were secured behind a locked plastic box. I grabbed a test, hiding it behind my elbow until I reached the till. The cashier said nothing, but I felt as if her expression was enough. No bag or receipt, I stashed the test in my purse and hurried back to the bus stop.
The drive back to the resort felt unbearably slow. I seized a window seat, successfully avoiding the stare of the advertisements, but the bus was full of bodies. Wealthy skiers who spent their mornings emptying their pockets littered the floor with shopping bags. They talked loudly of the good deals, the good food, the good liquor – many of them already feeling the warm distortion of their morning’s indulgence. The man beside me read a newspaper, occasionally brushing my arm with the soft paper corners. In bold letters, “The Battle of Abortion, Ohio legislation classifies birth-control as abortionists,” faced me from the front page. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
The flow of bodies from the bus poured loudly into the lobby of the resort. I hadn’t taken many steps before my name was called. It was my Mother; how glad she was to learn I was feeling well enough for a walk. Now I could join my family for a celebratory dinner, in honour of my cousin’s acceptance into law school. I’ve heard “La Délicieuse” at the resort here makes a wonderful bourguignon.
Dinner was trying. Between the weight of my bag, the gloss of the fish eggs on my cousin’s sushi, and the sight of my Uncle’s escargot, my appetite had abandoned me.
“Thank you all for joining us,” my Uncle began, “We are so pleased to celebrate Johnathon’s academic success during this year’s family holiday. Please join me in giving our son a congratulatory toast, and well wishes for the upcoming school year.” Cheers. Congratulations.
“Well done Johnathon,” my Mother chimed in, “Adam must be so excited for you, has he been accepted into any schools as well?”
“I think not!” My Uncle scoffed.
“Well!” Interjected my Aunt, “Adam has dropped out of school. You see, he is going to be a father!” Johnathon looked down into his lap but remained quiet. “Yes, very disappointing, so much promise. When Adam found out his long-term girlfriend was expecting, he started looking for work.”
“Foolish,” my Uncle rumbled. “Can he even be sure it’s his?”
I attempted to tune them out. I wondered about the conversations around me, between the other families and lovers, what kinds of news they had to share. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a white piece of paper poking out my pocket. The flyer. Under the table, I carefully unravelled it. The Virgin Mary, her arms cradling a bloody and deformed infant, bore into my eyes and said onto me, “Unborn lives matter. Saint Mary’s Church is here.” I was going to throw up.
My Uncle’s deep voice interrupted my stupor, “Nonsense Johnathon, I don’t believe one girl’s thoughtlessness should ruin Adam’s life. What about his future? Too many young people these days are irresponsible, expecting others to fix their problems, crying for free healthcare, welfare, and whatever else. Adam needs to confirm paternity at the very least.”
I had enough. I excused myself from the table, sighting my upset stomach. I grabbed my purse and headed for the sanctuary of my room. Suddenly, my purse felt as if it weighed nothing – I nearly ran. I barreled into the empty hotel room and straight into the bathroom, ripped the foil packing off that tiny, life-changing stick, and put it in-between my trembling legs. For five minutes, I stared transfixed on it, as if it were soaked in gold. At last, the result appeared: negative, I was not pregnant.
Thank God.
Unplanned, written by Amber Rose.
Hello readers!
I wrote Unplanned as part of a short-fiction challenge. I considered revising the work now that I am equipped with the benefit of hindsight, but I decided to share it with you as it was submitted 10 minutes before the challenge deadline.
Let me tell you a bit about the challenge: this particular challenge is run by NYC Midnight. The writer is given forty-eight hours to write a story of 1000 words in a particular genre. However, the writer does not learn of the story’s genre, the assigned location of the story, and a must-use item to include in the story, until the beginning of the forty-eight hour countdown.
Unplanned is a political satire which investigates and mocks the social attitudes of what it means to be female, and the political consequences of an unplanned pregnancy.
