An Essay in Fiction
Today, I’m taking a break from commenting on art to produce a tiny piece of my own. From a writing prompt in a Girls Write Now newsletter:
How To Write Dystopian Flash Fiction
Step 1– Place yourself in a dystopian mindset. Dystopian fiction is otherworldly, so to write it, we have to think outside of our known world. To start your piece, choose one of the following sentences and write a story for 10 minutes that is set in, or is about, this dystopian world.
Scanning the yellow and orange seats of a Brooklyn bound N train I realized that I could see into people’s souls.
His slurred words hardened before expelling thick tarry pebbles from his dying brain.
Like counterproductive clockwork the blue light appears and the entire city goes black.
I’ve gotten so used to cleaning up other people’s messes that I’ve forgotten how to tidy my own.
Step 2– Take the story that you’ve written and edit it down to about three paragraphs, roughly 500 words. Work to extract the important elements of the story and make sure it has a clear beginning, middle, and end.
Step 3– Analyze each remaining sentence. Does it add to your plot progression? Does it have necessary imagery? Does this sentence add to the overall value of the story? If the answer is no, delete it.
Step 4– Reread what’s left of your story. Paying close attention to imagery and plot, smooth out and refine your story. Add any detail necessary for clarity.
Step 5– The title should pack a punch! Reread your flash fiction and think of an impactful engaging title.
Step 6– Celebrate! You’ve just written your own dystopian flash fiction!
So here it is!
Where is He?
Scanning the yellow and orange seats of a Brooklyn bound N train, I realize that I can see into people’s souls. Not that there are any physical people around, anymore. One sat in my seat. One wasn’t here in the flesh, but hers was bared on a panel ad for breast augmentation. And, across from me, there was a would be-well wisher who scribbled, “may god forgive you” in the panel’s corner, so compelled to speak that he/she couldn’t resist uncapping a permanent pen.
God forgive you, model in the photo, for baring your skin for a gig. Not prostitution, but not far off. Don’t we all sell some part of ourselves for our work? May god forgive you for choosing a career path that would enchain your well-being to time’s progression. As the lines etched in, your worth, as determined by model scouts, diminished. Perhaps you dreamed of being an actress, a super model, a cover girl, a company spokesperson: the hot girl from T-Mobile, Flo from Progressive Insurance. May god forgive your inability to see the worth of your self over that of your body.
May god forgive the woman who surreptitiously scratched the orange seat while memorizing the ad’s phone number. Would women want bigger breasts if it weren’t for the gender to which that large hand in the ad belongs? What’s the point of bigger other than for better ogling and grabbing? May god forgive your inability to see your real worth, too: the kind that can’t be enhanced by 3000-dollar water balloons.
And may god forgive the person doling out the unsolicited pleas for forgiveness — from a god I never believed in anyway. He, capital ‘H,’ who granted the wishes of the materialistic and not the starving millions. Well, we’re all starving millions now. In this empty subway car that used to transport me to necessary places — work, school, appointments (necessary takes on a far more basic meaning now) — I’ll be hard pressed to find food. Here, ink words penned on shiny plastic outlast the people for which they were meant. Here, in this subway car — a remnant of our godforsaken time.
Originally published on the-escritoire.com.
