Have you ever been trapped?
Not just physically, like in a prison cell, but also emotionally or mentally, where someone, or something, imposed control over you. You wanted to get out, but those handcuffs were too tight, that chain too short.
Being trapped is among the recurring themes in Young Adult literature. While it pops up often in general fiction, the theme hits hard and low in teenage fiction, probably because the teenage are often so full of this feeling of being trapped.
Across the Universe
For a fictional example, take Across the Universe by Beth Revis. The protagonist, Amy, gets trapped more than once. In the first chapter, she's emotionally trapped by the decision to go to follow her parents to another planet. She's reluctant, but feels obligated to stick with her parents.
On the journey, she’s physically trapped, locked into the vast prisonlike spaceship, but she's also trapped by:
- Time
- Society (because she looks different, she can't go out on the run without being seen as a freak)
- Love (romances are both binding and liberating!)
Constructing the Prison
We have all seen this a thousand times, and there are plenty of clichés around the entire concept of being trapped.
Put yourself in the shoes of the fairy tale princess trapped in a castle for sixteen years. All the other maidens are able to travel outside of the kingdom and see the world, but not you, You’re not allowed to roam the town, due to the risk of someone running up to you and stabbing you, And which suitor is going to want to marry someone who could fall into a deep sleep at any moment? All because of a spindle!
Hey, that's A Kiss in Time by Alex Finn, an excellent adaptation of the Sleeping Beauty tale.
Here’s how you can construct the prison for your characters:
- Consider how exactly your character's trapped. In what way (physically, mentally, emotionally, etc.) What are the circumstances? The obstacle course?
- In how many ways can they escape? Consider the plausible methods, choose one, and try patching up the blatantly obvious ones. Cardboard prisons can cause a person to slam a book shut.
- What prevents them from getting out easily? Are their physical barriers, or people who guilt them in or threaten death?
- How does your character feel about the situation? Why should they care that they're trapped, and how that influences their actions? Do their emotions hamper their escape attempts?
- Is the situation similar in anyway to how you have been trapped?
Now, go be your character's captor—and liberator.
PRACTICE
Let's design a cell. Write for fifteen minutes about a situation where a character is trapped.
What is their emotional state? What prevents them from just “opening the door” and escaping? What attempt do they make to escape?
When you're finished, post your practice in the comments. And if you post, be sure to give feedback to a few other Practitioners.
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I love this idea! Nice thing about writing is taking our difficult moments and using it to create art. Great post 🙂
Thanks!
As cliche as this sounds, but writing is indeed art, in a different way.
Back and forth, back and forth. Squeaking that could wake Sleeping Beauty. The arthritis that cracked my bones made it nearly impossible for me to move without assistance. It super glued me to my rocking chair. I felt the soft wood underneath my fingertips. When I was a younger woman I was quite the finger tapping, hair twirling, teeth grinding busy body. What I would do to tap my fingers on this silky hand rest to pass the time. It was raining today, which was the only thing that made today different from yesterday. The window looked so sad. Tears running constantly down its glinting face. The water distorted my view like my favorite kaleidescope I had as a child. I loved that toy so dearly. It made ordinary, mundane things look more adventurous and colorful. Like I had entered into some alternate reality. What I would do for a life kaleidescope. It was an older toy made of wood but like my bones it had grown brittle and one of the grandchildren had dropped it and cracked its looking glass. I cried for a week. My ears had lost most of their hearing but I could always pick up the distinct shuffling of slippers on my scuffed wood floor.
“Mama, why do you sit in front of this window? It only makes you sad.” I sighed and remembered the words to an old song.
“Hush child. It’s better to feel pain than nothing at all.”
Hmm…has a nice melancholy feel to it. The word choice comes off as slightly anachronistic, but interesting.
I can see how going from the past to the present in this piece kind of made it a little disjointed! Thank you for the feedback!
So, trapped in the rocking chair as the literal “cell” but also figuratively trapped in the past?
Yes that’s what I was going for 🙂
That’s a really powerful piece, Kristin. You made a great picture, your contrasts between young and old made it even more clear.
Thank you Theresawisner!
Sounds like she is trapped in the past. I liked how she compared everything to the way it once was, including herself.
I guess there were worse things for a guy to get involved in. Internet memes as a vice could be better than smoking crack, perhaps. Be that as it may, Jim felt a little odd at the notion of mentioning this to his therapist. His therapist was a cat person. He knew she wouldn’t understand, but after the initial greetings, and sit-down on the couch it just came out.
“I’m addicted to the LOL cats. And memes in general. They consume my nights and days,” he blurted out. It just spewed out of him and, for a professional that deals with crazies all day, he thought she had a bad poker face at his news.
“OK, Jim… uh… we can work with this.”
She immediately got out the large burgundy book. “Not the meds book!” Jim thought, exasperated at having another pill to take. He was beginning to think the meds she was prescribing were going to be his new obsession. Maybe she was in cahoots with the drug companies? Maybe it was all some sort of conspiracy?
“Huh, did you say something, doc?” Jim had been going down the familiar road that leads fantasy land. Her “what are you doing” look said it all.
“Yes, Jim. I asked about how long you’ve had your meme addiction.”
“She just snickered at me! I knew it… I am nuts.” Jim was starting to get frantic. “Oh, man. What kinds of stuff is she going to put me on now? Is she going to have me locked up or something?”
I like the idea of being trapped in one’s mind, but at the same time, being trapped in the process of trying to get help with being trapped in one’s mind. It’s got me a bit nuts just thinking about it!
The darkness fell on top of me. It was heavy. It was hot. I flung the blankets off of me in a swirl like a bull fighter wielding his cape of crimson. I spread my arms out, stared at the blinking red light on the fire alarm. I needed to change the batteries. Maybe if I decided not to I would wake up to the burning smell of smoke and my house would burn to the ground. I could collect the insurance money. I would have to let it burn down completely though, I would hate to pay for repairs. Maybe if my house burned to the ground I would have the courage to move to Italy. I did just survive a massive house fire after all. I was a hero. I was invincible. I could buy a broken down house like the one in “Under the Tuscan Sun” and fix it up and fall madly in love with a beautiful Italian man and make beautiful Italian babies. Oh, love. Oh, Matt. Oh, how he terrified me. Maybe if I wore my new blue dress, the one that made my eyes sparkle, maybe he would finally see that sparkle and talk to me. I would dazzle him with my wit and my blue eyes. I got my blue eyes from my mother. I love her. I should call her. The girl in my show tonight thought about calling her mom but got too busy with her life and found out she had passed away 2 minutes before she was thinking about calling her. I grabbed my cell phone and the little light shot straight up to the ceiling in a sparkling pillar. God showed himself to the Israelites as a pillar of smoke. I wonder why he did that. Why didn’t he appear as a pillar of sparkling light or something with wings. Or something human like. I wonder if it was black smoke or like the grey clouds I had seen today that looked pregnant with rain. The roads with be black and wet tomorrow. It was too cold here. Too wet. I took refuge under my blankets, pulling them over my head and curled my body into the fetal position. I could never survive in the wild terrain of Alaska, like the people I had seen on T.V. Eating nothing but a rock squirrel every three days and sleeping in below zero temperatures. Matt could probably do it. Sometimes he reminded me of a mountain man with his calloused hands, his broad shoulders, his flannel shirts, his dirty boots. He was obviously a hard worker. No one wears dirty boots and flannel if they’re not a hard worker. I wondered if he lived on a farm of some sort. I wondered if he rode horses. There’s nothing more free than riding a sweaty, hot, horse at top speed, with air smelling like summer whipping the hair off of your sweaty forehead. I was hot. I tossed the blankets and heard them fall lightly like a feather to ground. I turned onto my stomach.
I would like to thank Mr. Joe Bunting for hosting my article.
Here’s my own practice, with the “protagonist” of the piece (he’s technically the co-protagonist of my WIP, although he lacks the POV). Let’s say that he’s not very good at social situations, and feels less than pleased by the fact he was sent to hang out with a clingy, eccentric girl.
—-
Finn wanted to scream.
In yet another visit to Scout’s house, he was stuck in the living room. One of her anime shows blared on the television, all of it flying over his head like one of those crazy fight sequences and iffy subtitles. She stared through the glass, swallowing the sights and sounds.
He sat in his spot, pretending to show interest when in fact, he felt very barred in.
Why did Bryan kept sending hm to Scout’s house, even though they repelled each other like magnets? How hypocritical. Yet, Finn couldn’t bring himself to say that all he wanted was to hang out with him more. But they passed that first awkward week together, when he was too awed by all of the sights to really try.
Still, in order to step toward that, Finn had to bail. Quickly.
Considering the televion was the only light in the room, he could make a fast one toward the phone before she could notice.
Careful not to rustle the custions, Finn pushed himself up and crept away. He walked toward the phone. Just a few feet–
“Hey,” Scout said, “where are you going?”
Finn stopped. His toes tensed up. “It’s getting late.”
“It’s only seven! And it’s Friday. Don’t you want to see the end of the episode?” Her eyes drifted by onto the television screen.
From their few visits together, Scout clearly displayed her stuborness. She could snatch the phone right out of his hand and unplug the entire thing if needed.
Finn stood by the table for a few seconds. Did he really want to play that card? Yet again, she wasn’t going to mind if he made a subtle stand, unlike Bryan. As much as it felt dirty, it was frustrating the way she waited for him to do something.
“What were you viewing on the computer again?” He didn’t want to think about it, but it was so…out of the blue.
“Oh, Bryan knows about that.” Scout said, unfettered and oblivious.
“You showed him that?” Nasusa settled in.
“Well, that was last year, and both of us were curious…”
Finn’s cheeks started to burn up. “I don’t think Bryan’s mom would want me knowing about it.”
“Nah.” She’ll brush it off. Teenage experimentation, she’ll say. She’ll be shocked, but not surprised–” She leaned forward in her seat. “Quick! They’re going to have a moment together!”
Finn still had a long way to go.
Here’s my practice.
Carol’s apartment door opened with the whisper of a squeak. She pressed her face between the door and the jam and peered out, letting her eyes move left and right as she searched the hall. Murmurings from the other apartments filtered out into the hall to join the echoes of creaking stair treads as someone ascended the stairs to their apartment. She closed the door and leaned her back against it as she tried to control her breathing.
“What if he found out where I am?” She felt the bulge of the gun in her pocket, but even that didn’t make her feel safe; she knew she was too scared to use it. She wondered if just pointing it at him would be enough. “Probably not,” she muttered to herself, “he’s just that determined.”
Carol wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and turned to face the door again. She took a deep breath and flipped the lock. She pulled the door open just enough to take another look to make sure the hall was empty. Seeing no one, she took a tentative step outside her apartment. All her senses were on alert. Every squeak caused her to gasp. Every voice raised in anger from inside the other apartments made her stop to analyze if she recognized the speaker. What if he had convinced someone to let him inside their apartment and he waited for her to pass? He could be very convincing. She shuddered at the thought.
An apartment door opened, startling her. She watched as a young boy stared at her as she tiptoed past him. She heard him calling out to his mother after he slammed the door. “Mama, the woman from upstairs is in the hall. She’s weird.”
I can’t tell him why I’m acting weird. She knew he would become like the others in the building; watching her with narrowed eyes, whispering to each other as she passed them in the street. She couldn’t tell any of them about him. She didn’t want to put anyone else in the same danger she was in. If he came, they would have to be on their own, she wouldn’t be able to help them.
She stopped inside the building entrance and looked through the smudged glass door out into the street. She didn’t recognize anyone so she stepped out into the sunshine. She placed her hand above her squinting eyes to block out the sun and looked up and down the street. She froze when she saw the black car, the driver watching her. Turning abruptly she returned to the apartment building and ran up the stairs to her door. Once back inside her apartment she locked both dead bolts and ran to the window.
The black car was still there, but the driver was no longer sitting in the front seat. As her eyes scanned the street in both directions there was a loud knock at the door. She turned and took a deep breath, pulled the hem of her blouse down to smooth the material, then she took out the gun. It felt heavy in her hand but it made her feel safe. She hoped she wouldn’t need to use it as she went to answer the door.
A good study in being trapped. DV is one of the worst types of entrapment, and many of the dynamics are shown here very clearly without flat out saying what they are.
Because of the limitation to 250 words, I’d like to see about half of it removed, which can sometimes add to the tension.
Although she loved the sea, the past forty days on board this ship had been tough. She’d taken the job to escape the dual prisons of her family and her obligations. But now she found herself more trapped than ever. There was the physical space she was in – ninety foot of wood and steel beneath her and hundreds of miles of water in any direction surrounding her. And not just any water. This was the Bering Sea. Even more imprisoning was being trapped in the deep valleys of her own mind. She’d been alone with it for too long. And it was starting to show in her grumpiness and her lack of interest in what was around her. All of the fresh vegetables were gone except some green cabbage. After this long, how much nutritional value could it have, anyway? And she’d only brought one recipe for cold-slaw.
The crew was getting a bit restless, too. These guys – these fishermen – were no company. They were grunting, groaning, farting caricatures of the worst of the male world. She’s always thought that a woman’s touch would have a taming effect. Not here.
There were thirty-two days left. She couldn’t believe she was only half way through the trip. The only other boat they’d seen was the Russian processor they were working with. At 1,000-plus feet, that ship only made her prison seem smaller. Today, her escape would be chicken cordon bleu and JR Tolkien’s trilogy. How long could they distract? For another day, she hoped.
Great portrayal of a character being trapped. The isolation of being on a small boat in a very large body of water can be depressing. And no way out for another thirty-two days makes it seem even worse.
Thank you Angelo.
A ship is a very solid trap! There is literally nowhere to go–I like that the character retreats inwardly as there is no conceivable external escape.
She says that there are “thirty-two days left,” however, which makes me feel like this is an annoying time, but there is an end in sight. She does not seem to be in any imminent danger with any need to escape. I’d like to see some tension. Maybe something happens that makes her think she won’t survive another month and has to actually get off the ship before that time. Is there a lifeboat? Contact with another ship?
Thanks for your comments, Jean. You are right about the tension. I’ll work on it some more.
Gustav hated the first thaw of spring. In the winter, he could pace his courtyard, which was inside the protective walls of his fortress but outside the walls of the steaming palace, filled with the smothering noises and sounds of imprisoned bodies, human passions and lusts and miseries, Gustav’s own envies and his guilt. Winter in the courtyard was cold and clean, a white stage upon which the subtle music and scents of nature played. In the courtyard Gustav was most at home, neither in nor out, neither in the dwelling of man nor of beast. The frigid air soothed the burning flesh beneath his heavy coat and numbed, if only a little, the indecent onslaught of life’s essences through his nose. In the winter courtyard, he could see the dark petals of his mother’s Lenten roses scattered across the snow. He could almost remember his mother in the winter.
At the first hint of spring, the contrary blossoms began to fade. The snow rotted; the purity of ice and frost receded into the black earth. The dry bones of last year’s grasses and naked tree branches rattled as the forests and hills awakened. The sun called the dead to life and unburied the wet loam of last fall’s leaves. It was a brown time, ripening to muddy, bloodthirsty red. Predators crept from their forest lairs, seeking meat to break winter’s fast. Toward Easter, Christians on their faraway homesteads slaughtered lambs and chickens, harvested eggs, and made blood sacrifices. Animals mated in ecstasy and bore their young in agony. Spring was hunting, hunger, lust, and fear for the young. It was a time of blood smeared over doorways to protect the firstborn. The world gave violent birth to the spring, whose sweetness, like a newborn child’s, would not settle in for weeks or months.
And Gustav in his courtyard, under his heavy hide, was doomed to hear and smell it all, the quickening of the wilderness and the rituals of the holy, and he could neither experience any part of it for himself nor turn away.
Damp. Cold. Stale air.
“Where am I?” He thought, opening his eyes and wincing. His back, his chest hurt terribly, especially on each inhaled breath. At first he thought he was blind, for although his eyes were open wide, he still could not see. But he could hear perfectly the sounds of breathing other than his own so he knew he was not alone. And he could still feel. He could tell he was sitting on a stone floor against a stone wall. His legs and arms; even his wings were tied to his body. There was a cloth tied tightly around his mouth to the back of his head.
He hesitantly thought the words, “Are you there?”
Feebly and so faintly he could barely pick it up, he heard the words, “Lift your right wing.”
Try as hard as he could, he could not move the wing one inch. His wings were bound against his back securely. He closed his eyes and strained with all his might, groaning when the effort made pain flare in his chest and his back.
“Geo, Geo, are you there? I can’t move,” he thought, fear flooding through him.
A minute passed. Aden heard, “TRY.”
He shut his eyes again and said to himself ‘you have to do it, you can do it, come on!’ He buckled forward to try and stretch the cords around him, then willing himself to succeed; he arched his back – ignoring the white agony splashing stars across the night – and strained so hard that a growl unlike any sound he’d ever made before escaped inside his throat. His wings lifted clear. A second? A fraction of a second? He didn’t know. But he did know he’d done all he could to do as he’d been asked. He slumped sideways to the cold stone floor, curling his legs up into his chest and gasping.
Beside his cheek came a slight flutter, and then a sensation of something light landing on his tatty hair. An unknown period of time passed, when he thought he was sleeping.
A voice as welcome as the sun after rain entered Aden’s head, and said, “Are you alright?”
From the eye closest to the floor a single tear eased down Aden’s face and dropped off.
Birds? Or angels? It’s good writing, Yvette, and the trap you’ve created for them brings so much dramatic tension. I liked this line, “ignoring the white agony splashing stars across the night.” Splashing stars. Beautiful. The last bit toes the line well between melodrama and poised emotion, however, the line before it is a bit much: “A voice as welcome as the sun after rain.” Is this from a work in progress or something new?
Oh thank you for some valuable critique Joe! I ‘felt’ something was not quite right but couldn’t put my finger on it. Yes now that you’ve pointed it out I can see it too. Will delete that bit.
This is an excerpt from my WIP, book two in the series.
Birds or angels? Neither. These are shape-shifters. My characters morph between insects and humans with residual characteristics of insects. For instance Aden is a dragonfly or a human boy with wings (either way he has wings but in this scene he is in human form). And his mentor, the wise old man Geo is trapped in his form as a fruit fly beneath Aden’s armpit.
I have not edited this book in any way. It’s purely in rough draft, as it was written. However having just done that writing course I took this excerpt and made minor changes before posting it. I”d normally agonize for months over a piece like this. Felt so cool to adjust in a minor way and then get feedback. Cool. Thanks! 🙂
Holy Cow! By jingo, it worked!! I posted a ‘reply’. Yeeha!! What did you do?
Awesome! I didn’t really do anything. Maybe the problem magically went away. I really hope so 🙂
Shapeshifters? Very cool. Although the armpit thing is pretty gross 🙂
When are you going to publish?
Ha ha. Yeah I know! Well the first book was sent out in triplicate at the end of last year to three publishers in the States. I was going to work on editing the rough draft of book two. However…one of the things I did during said writing course, was to sometimes work on passages from book one rather than two, and every time it improved the piece. So I have come to the rather dismal conclusion that there’s yet more work to be done on editing the first book!! Now that the course is finished, it’s back to the drawing board. But I have a goal. A deadline. Novel Rocket have a competition for middle grade fiction that starts in August. The prize is winning an American agent. So I aim to complete book one and submit it to that. Could be tight though….I just joined Sean Platt’s blog and he said I should self-publish. I’m hesitant on that score.
Ha there’s always more editing work to be done. But editing is good (and can be done with a publishing contract in hand and a professional editor, too).
And you don’t need a competition to get an agent. Just a good manuscript. 🙂
Without warning the evil library gnome crinkled up his nose,
squinted his beady little dark eyes, pointed his crooked index finger downward,
and started turning it as if he were stirring sugar into a cup of coffee. But he wasn’t stirring sugar, he was stirring
the Persian rug they were all standing on, and it was twisting downward, taking
them into a deep dark hole.
Victoria, Vanessa, and Ethan found
themselves surrounded by darkness but on a carousel that was spinning faster
than any carousel they’d ever been on. They
had to hold on tight, not to be whipped off from the centrifugal force.
Vanessa saw that she was on a
fierce looking huge chestnut horse. He
was so wide she had to sit side saddle. His
dark eyes looked angry as if he were on a war path. His legs were bent at the knees, perpetually galloping. He bared his teeth, and flared his nostrils. She could swear she felt him breathing
beneath her. Up and down and round and
round.
The carousel music played songs
from her childhood, but they sounded sinister.
The instruments were out of tune, and the melodies were surrounded by a percussive
racket.
Vicky and Ethan were slightly
ahead of her riding on their own evil looking steeds.
“I don’t think I can hold on much
longer!” Vickie said. “It’s spinning too fast!”
Vanessa heard the library gnome
gleefully laughing, enjoying the spectacle.
She could see he was still twirling his pointy index finger driving the
carousel round and round.
It was getting to harder to hold
on.
“Please stop!” they pleaded. But the gnome was having too much fun. They were his toys and he wanted to keep
playing.
“I can’t hold on anymore.” Vanessa
said. She let go and flew off her beast.
I liked that from the part where the crooked index finger started stirring the rug. I think your some of your images are novel and striking and I felt like I was spinning at one point. You might want to distill it a little more, like focus more on the finger stirring the rug than on the beady little eyes and crooked nose (which aren’t fresh images like the others) in the first paragraph. This is one of the best things I’ve read in this genre in a long time. I usually don’t like fantasy because it’s so full of cliches but you seem to have a very specific and different take on some of the details. Keep it up!
Thanks for the feedback, Marianne. I really appreciate it. This is part of a longer piece I’m working on. I was having trouble with that first paragraph but couldn’t figure out what was throwing it off. Your suggestion of focusing on the “finger stirring….” hit the nail on the head.
Not sure why my practice looks the way it does. I copy and pasted from a Word document (as I’ve done in the past with no issues). Sorry it looks so messy.