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  • Let's start this out right

    This is a writing site, so let's start the new forums with a ficlet. I know what you're thinking, What's a ficlet? A ficlet is a portion of a story that is between 64 and 1024 characters, not words, characters. One person starts the story and everyone else writes a prequel or sequel to this portion of the story. So what you write can happen before or after. This one is sort of a serious one, so no stupid antics please. If you want a silly one, start your own, I'd be glad to help on that.

    Anyway, be sure to indicate whether your addition is a sequel or a prequel. Also, if possible, try to answer some of the questions raised in what is written already, if possible. And don't be afraid to leave questions open to be answered by others.

    Since we're all writers, I trust this won't dissolve into stupidity. Let's try to make an actual story.


    Here's the story:


    He shouldn’t have gotten on the plane. He had one of those uneasy feelings in his gut before he boarded. Had he paid heed, he wouldn’t be where he is now; sitting on a raft of debris and drifting toward a distant island.

    He’s at a loss. He doesn’t know what to think or how to act. He just sits there, cross legged, staring out at the water.

    Someone is crying behind him. He blocks her out. It seems so easy to block things out now.

    There are eight of them on the raft, a collection of plane seats and suitcases tied together with chords and ropes.

    Hope for rescue is not on their minds just yet. For now, all they can do is cope.

    “My baby!” the woman cries out again. But Jones just stares out at the ocean.
    Last edited by donteatpoop; 07-24-2007, 01:05 PM.
    The organ is grinding but the monkey won't dance.

  • #2
    Originally posted by donteatpoop View Post
    He shouldn’t have gotten on the plane. He had one of those uneasy feelings in his gut before he boarded. Had he paid heed, he wouldn’t be where he is now; sitting on a raft of debris and drifting toward a distant island.

    He’s at a loss. He doesn’t know what to think or how to act. He just sits there, cross legged, staring out at the water.

    Someone is crying behind him. He blocks her out. It seems so easy to block things out now.

    There are eight of them on the raft, a collection of plane seats and suitcases tied together with chords and ropes.

    Hope for rescue is not on their minds just yet. For now, all they can do is cope.

    “My baby!” the woman cries out again. But Joes just stares out at the ocean.
    "We need to get to that island." Sounds out a deep voice of reason.

    Many of them turned to look at the tall serious looking man in a casual suit. His hair was short and appeared smart, although wet and disheveled like the rest of them. His manner was imposing and serious, with his dark hand outstretched to point at the island looming in the distance.

    Although nobody knew who this black man was, they all seemed to accept his position as leader. At lest in this moment of panic and uncertainty. Slowly they all started to look around for means of propulsion they could use to aid their raggedy makeshift boat towards it.

    Those still in the water worked their way to get on or at lest hold onto the floating mass before it left.

    The screaming woman continued to cry out for her child, nowhere to be seen.

    Jones looked for something to use as a paddle.
    Dragavan: Dragavan Games - Lootin' Wizards - The Land of Karn - Central U (adult) - Dragavan's Adult Stories

    Comment


    • #3
      He shouldn’t have gotten on the plane. He had one of those uneasy feelings in his gut before he boarded. Had he paid heed, he wouldn’t be where he is now; sitting on a raft of debris and drifting toward a distant island.

      He’s at a loss. He doesn’t know what to think or how to act. He just sits there, cross legged, staring out at the water.

      Someone is crying behind him. He blocks her out. It seems so easy to block things out now.

      There are eight of them on the raft, a collection of plane seats and suitcases tied together with chords and ropes.

      Hope for rescue is not on their minds just yet. For now, all they can do is cope.

      “My baby!” the woman cries out again. But Joes just stares out at the ocean.

      "We need to get to that island." Sounds out a deep voice of reason.

      Many of them turned to look at the tall serious looking man in a casual suit. His hair was short and appeared smart, although wet and disheveled like the rest of them. His manner was imposing and serious, with his dark hand outstretched to point at the island looming in the distance.

      Although nobody knew who this black man was, they all seemed to accept his position as leader. At lest in this moment of panic and uncertainty. Slowly they all started to look around for means of propulsion they could use to aid their raggedy makeshift boat towards it.

      Those still in the water worked their way to get on or at lest hold onto the floating mass before it left.

      The screaming woman continued to cry out for her child, nowhere to be seen.

      Jones looked for something to use as a paddle.
      A bit of debris banged into the side of the raft, and he looked down to see a thick plastic serving tray floating atop a leather suitcase. He reached down and pulled both the suitcase and the serving tray aboard. Behind him he could already hear people attempting to paddle while other members on the raft pulled survivors up out of the water.

      Jones dipped the tray into the water, straining the muscles in his arm a bit with the weight of the water. He looked over his shoulder to see a woman paddling with an acoustic guitar on one side and someone with an actual paddle on the other. For a moment he allowed himself to wonder how an actual paddle had been located, but he dismissed the thought and focused on the idea.

      Eventually survivors were not pulled atop the raft. It became crowded, and with only three people paddling, the going was tough. Survivors still in the water wondered for how long they would be survivors. Aboard the raft were tears of loss, and sorrow. Sorrow for the trauma they had gone through as well as for the people in the water who could not climb aboard.
      The organ is grinding but the monkey won't dance.

      Comment


      • #4
        A subtle change in the pitch of the jet's twin engines brought Harrigan out of a fitful doze. Harsh white light stabbed at his eyes through the unshuttered window. Harrigan winced, bringing a hand up to shield them while he felt through the pockets of his rumpled suit for aspirin. "Mental note," he rasped, drawing the words out like smoke through parched lips. "Air travel and scotch don't mix." He swallowed the pills dry. "Hey Shirl, got anything to drink over there?" No answer. He sighed and turned to the window, squinting as his bloodshot eyes adjusted. Nothing but black ocean for miles and miles, and scattered icebergs drifting in stark contrast to the immeasurable depths beneath. Somewhere over the North Atlantic, then. He'd been out a little over an hour.

        Harrigan turned from the window, hoping to flag down an attendant. His head was really killing him. Too much scotch, cramped quarters, and - his ears popped twice in rapid succession - the plane was losing some altitude. "What's taking you so long, Shirl?" he muttered. The beverage cart rolled slowly past his seat, unattended. He half smiled to himself, expecting to see embarassed staff chasing after it - then sat up in some alarm when it simply continued forward, building speed until it crashed sharply against the cabin door. A murmur filled the cabin, passengers worrying, speculating, the engines growing louder, more shrill; the aircraft's pitch more pronounced.

        Shouts and a single, drawn-out scream sounded from the rear of the plane, several cabins back. Harrigan ripped his safety belt aside. Shirl. She was back there, somewhere. He stood, his cramped muscles protesting painfully, black spots dancing briefly before his eyes, and began making his way up the aisle. More shouting. A sharp, loud crack. A gunshot. He flung open the cabin door to a blur of movement and roaring wind and stared in disbelief as two parachutes mushroomed far below, outside the open emergency door. Harrigan staggered against the wind and the noise and the sloping floor, struggling uphill, toward Shirl, toward the rear of the plane. Panels dropped open above the seats, oxygen masks dangling. "This is your captain speaking," came a distant voice above the sound of the engines, oddly distorted. "We're having some electrical difficulties. We're going to have to make an emergency landing. Please keep your safety belts fastened and remain calm."

        The engines. He was still two compartments away, and the noise was unbearable, the shrill whine assaulting his ears, climbing through the octaves. He looked frantically for an open seat, any seat, moving forward, away from the yawning open doorway, and there was a muffled whump, and the engines cut out altogether. The floor lurched underfoot as the plane began to nose over, throwing Harrigan against the wall of the compartment. His vision went red and hazy, luggage showering down, a cacaphony of voices and noise filling his suddenly sluggish mind. He struggled weakly to rise against the lurching of his stomach and the crushing pressure of descent - then everything was heat and blinding light and the shriek of tortured metal before the world went black.
        Last edited by Locke; 06-27-2014 at 12:16 AM.

        Comment


        • #5
          very well written, Locke, but don't forget that the guidelines are character count and not word count. You exceeded them a bit. It's a nice prequal that can be linked into the current story with minimal work.
          The organ is grinding but the monkey won't dance.

          Comment


          • #6
            Part added in italics. (almost linked the two together, remember for future add-ons that you must have a direct prequel or sequel to the existing story. Looks good so far, locke and dragavan.)

            A subtle change in the pitch of the jet's twin engines brought Harrigan out of a fitful doze. Harsh white light stabbed at his eyes through the unshuttered window. Harrigan winced, bringing a hand up to shield them while he felt through the pockets of his rumpled suit for aspirin. "Mental note," he rasped, drawing the words out like smoke through parched lips. "Air travel and scotch don't mix." He swallowed the pills dry. "Hey Shirl, got anything to drink over there?" No answer. He sighed and turned to the window, squinting as his bloodshot eyes adjusted. Nothing but black ocean for miles and miles, and scattered icebergs drifting in stark contrast to the immeasurable depths beneath. Somewhere over the North Atlantic, then. He'd been out a little over an hour.

            Harrigan turned from the window, hoping to flag down an attendant. His head was really killing him. Too much scotch, cramped quarters, and - his ears popped twice in rapid succession - the plane was losing some altitude. "What's taking you so long, Shirl?" he muttered. The beverage cart rolled slowly past his seat, unattended. He half smiled to himself, expecting to see embarassed staff chasing after it - then sat up in some alarm when it simply continued forward, building speed until it crashed sharply against the cabin door. A murmur filled the cabin, passengers worrying, speculating, the engines growing louder, more shrill; the aircraft's pitch more pronounced.

            Shouts and a single, drawn-out scream sounded from the rear of the plane, several cabins back. Harrigan ripped his safety belt aside. Shirl. She was back there, somewhere. He stood, his cramped muscles protesting painfully, black spots dancing briefly before his eyes, and began making his way up the aisle. More shouting. A sharp, loud crack. A gunshot. He flung open the cabin door to a blur of movement and roaring wind and stared in disbelief as two parachutes mushroomed far below, outside the open emergency door. Harrigan staggered against the wind and the noise and the sloping floor, struggling uphill, toward Shirl, toward the rear of the plane. Panels dropped open above the seats, oxygen masks dangling. "This is your captain speaking," came a distant voice above the sound of the engines, oddly distorted. "We're having some electrical difficulties. We're going to have to make an emergency landing. Please keep your safety belts fastened and remain calm."

            The engines. He was still two compartments away, and the noise was unbearable, the shrill whine assaulting his ears, climbing through the octaves. He looked frantically for an open seat, any seat, moving forward, away from the yawning open doorway, and there was a muffled whump, and the engines cut out altogether. The floor lurched underfoot as the plane began to nose over, throwing Harrigan against the wall of the compartment. His vision went red and hazy, luggage showering down, a cacaphony of voices and noise filling his suddenly sluggish mind. He struggled weakly to rise against the lurching of his stomach and the crushing pressure of descent - then everything was heat and blinding light and the shriek of tortured metal before the world went black.

            When next he opened his eyes, he found himself in a blurry and cold world. Attempting to breathe, Harrigan choked on salt water, and struggled to the surface. His head broke out into open air, and he hacked and coughed up the intrusive water.

            All around him was chaos. The tail of the plane was beginning to sink into the water, flames engulfing all areas not yet consumed by the water. Debris still splashes into the water from above, and everywhere were cries and screams of terror and sorrow.

            Not far from where Harrigan treaded water a long electrical chord splashed into the ocean, sinking quickly below its icy depths. Thinking quick, he swam over to it and grabbed hold before it sunk further.

            He began tying suitcases and chairs from the plane together, forming a makeshift raft. He did what he could until he ran out of chord, and then climbed atop the floating collection of debris. He laid back and stared at the clouds drifting lazily by overhead, completely oblivious to the screams of panic below.


            **** **** **** ****




            He shouldn’t have gotten on the plane. He had one of those uneasy feelings in his gut before he boarded. Had he paid heed, he wouldn’t be where he is now; sitting on a raft of debris and drifting toward a distant island.

            He’s at a loss. He doesn’t know what to think or how to act. He just sits there, cross legged, staring out at the water.

            Someone is crying behind him. He blocks her out. It seems so easy to block things out now.

            There are eight of them on the raft, a collection of plane seats and suitcases tied together with chords and ropes.

            Hope for rescue is not on their minds just yet. For now, all they can do is cope.

            “My baby!” the woman cries out again. But Joes just stares out at the ocean.

            "We need to get to that island." Sounds out a deep voice of reason.

            Many of them turned to look at the tall serious looking man in a casual suit. His hair was short and appeared smart, although wet and disheveled like the rest of them. His manner was imposing and serious, with his dark hand outstretched to point at the island looming in the distance.

            Although nobody knew who this black man was, they all seemed to accept his position as leader. At lest in this moment of panic and uncertainty. Slowly they all started to look around for means of propulsion they could use to aid their raggedy makeshift boat towards it.

            Those still in the water worked their way to get on or at lest hold onto the floating mass before it left.

            The screaming woman continued to cry out for her child, nowhere to be seen.

            Jones looked for something to use as a paddle.
            A bit of debris banged into the side of the raft, and he looked down to see a thick plastic serving tray floating atop a leather suitcase. He reached down and pulled both the suitcase and the serving tray aboard. Behind him he could already hear people attempting to paddle while other members on the raft pulled survivors up out of the water.

            Jones dipped the tray into the water, straining the muscles in his arm a bit with the weight of the water. He looked over his shoulder to see a woman paddling with an acoustic guitar on one side and someone with an actual paddle on the other. For a moment he allowed himself to wonder how an actual paddle had been located, but he dismissed the thought and focused on the idea.

            Eventually survivors were not pulled atop the raft. It became crowded, and with only three people paddling, the going was tough. Survivors still in the water wondered for how long they would be survivors. Aboard the raft were tears of loss, and sorrow. Sorrow for the trauma they had gone through as well as for the people in the water who could not climb aboard.
            The organ is grinding but the monkey won't dance.

            Comment


            • #7
              Ah, sorry. I thought you meant the portions of the story could occur before or after, but didn't have to end or begin immediately before/after the adjacent parts. Got it now.
              Last edited by Locke; 06-27-2014 at 12:16 AM.

              Comment


              • #8
                okay, everything fits together now. Here's the story so far:




                A subtle change in the pitch of the jet's twin engines brought Harrigan out of a fitful doze. Harsh white light stabbed at his eyes through the unshuttered window. Harrigan winced, bringing a hand up to shield them while he felt through the pockets of his rumpled suit for aspirin. "Mental note," he rasped, drawing the words out like smoke through parched lips. "Air travel and scotch don't mix." He swallowed the pills dry. "Hey Shirl, got anything to drink over there?" No answer. He sighed and turned to the window, squinting as his bloodshot eyes adjusted. Nothing but black ocean for miles and miles, and scattered icebergs drifting in stark contrast to the immeasurable depths beneath. Somewhere over the North Atlantic, then. He'd been out a little over an hour.

                Harrigan turned from the window, hoping to flag down an attendant. His head was really killing him. Too much scotch, cramped quarters, and - his ears popped twice in rapid succession - the plane was losing some altitude. "What's taking you so long, Shirl?" he muttered. The beverage cart rolled slowly past his seat, unattended. He half smiled to himself, expecting to see embarassed staff chasing after it - then sat up in some alarm when it simply continued forward, building speed until it crashed sharply against the cabin door. A murmur filled the cabin, passengers worrying, speculating, the engines growing louder, more shrill; the aircraft's pitch more pronounced.

                Shouts and a single, drawn-out scream sounded from the rear of the plane, several cabins back. Harrigan ripped his safety belt aside. Shirl. She was back there, somewhere. He stood, his cramped muscles protesting painfully, black spots dancing briefly before his eyes, and began making his way up the aisle. More shouting. A sharp, loud crack. A gunshot. He flung open the cabin door to a blur of movement and roaring wind and stared in disbelief as two parachutes mushroomed far below, outside the open emergency door. Harrigan staggered against the wind and the noise and the sloping floor, struggling uphill, toward Shirl, toward the rear of the plane. Panels dropped open above the seats, oxygen masks dangling. "This is your captain speaking," came a distant voice above the sound of the engines, oddly distorted. "We're having some electrical difficulties. We're going to have to make an emergency landing. Please keep your safety belts fastened and remain calm."

                The engines. He was still two compartments away, and the noise was unbearable, the shrill whine assaulting his ears, climbing through the octaves. He looked frantically for an open seat, any seat, moving forward, away from the yawning open doorway, and there was a muffled whump, and the engines cut out altogether. The floor lurched underfoot as the plane began to nose over, throwing Harrigan against the wall of the compartment. His vision went red and hazy, luggage showering down, a cacaphony of voices and noise filling his suddenly sluggish mind. He struggled weakly to rise against the lurching of his stomach and the crushing pressure of descent - then everything was heat and blinding light and the shriek of tortured metal before the world went black.

                When next he opened his eyes, he found himself in a blurry and cold world. Attempting to breathe, Harrigan choked on salt water, and struggled to the surface. His head broke out into open air, and he hacked and coughed up the intrusive water.

                All around him was chaos. The tail of the plane was beginning to sink into the water, flames engulfing all areas not yet consumed by the water. Debris still splashes into the water from above, and everywhere were cries and screams of terror and sorrow.

                Not far from where Harrigan treaded water a long electrical chord splashed into the ocean, sinking quickly below its icy depths. Thinking quick, he swam over to it and grabbed hold before it sunk further.

                He began tying suitcases and chairs from the plane together, forming a makeshift raft. He did what he could until he ran out of chord, and then climbed atop the floating collection of debris. He laid back and stared at the clouds drifting lazily by overhead, completely oblivious to the screams of panic below.

                From the water climbed aboard a fellow survivor. Following him was a broad shouldered black man pulling a screaming woman aboard. The woman cried out unintelligible and anguished moans.

                Harrigan sat up as his little raft started to crowd.

                Soon there were half a dozen people aboard the tiny, unsteady raft. There was a major problem here, they were running out of room and still more survivors were swimming toward the collection of debris.

                “There’s no more room!” one of the men on the raft called out to the people in the water. “Find something else,” he told them.

                They either didn’t hear him, or chose not to listen. Either way, they continued to swarm the little makeshift raft.

                “We need to make the raft larger,” the black man said.

                Harrigan knew the man was right. He reached into the water and pulled aboard a suitcase. Opening it up, he pulled out several articles of clothing.

                “Here,” he said, tossing some of the clothing to the black man.

                The two of them went about tying additional pieces of debris to the existing raft with the articles of clothing, expanding its capacity to accommodate more survivors.

                Aboard the raft, sitting cross legged at the edge and staring off into the sea was Jones.

                He shouldn’t have gotten on the plane. He had one of those uneasy feelings in his gut before he boarded. Had he paid heed, he wouldn’t be where he is now; sitting on a raft of debris and drifting toward a distant island.

                He’s at a loss. He doesn’t know what to think or how to act. He just sits there, cross legged, staring out at the water.

                Someone is crying behind him. He blocks her out. It seems so easy to block things out now.

                There are eight of them on the raft, a collection of plane seats and suitcases tied together with chords and ropes.

                Hope for rescue is not on their minds just yet. For now, all they can do is cope.

                “My baby!” the woman cries out again. But Joes just stares out at the ocean.

                "We need to get to that island." Sounds out a deep voice of reason.

                Many of them turned to look at the tall serious looking man in a casual suit. His hair was short and appeared smart, although wet and disheveled like the rest of them. His manner was imposing and serious, with his dark hand outstretched to point at the island looming in the distance.

                Although nobody knew who this black man was, they all seemed to accept his position as leader. At lest in this moment of panic and uncertainty. Slowly they all started to look around for means of propulsion they could use to aid their raggedy makeshift boat towards it.

                Those still in the water worked their way to get on or at lest hold onto the floating mass before it left.

                The screaming woman continued to cry out for her child, nowhere to be seen.

                Jones looked for something to use as a paddle.
                A bit of debris banged into the side of the raft, and he looked down to see a thick plastic serving tray floating atop a leather suitcase. He reached down and pulled both the suitcase and the serving tray aboard. Behind him he could already hear people attempting to paddle while other members on the raft pulled survivors up out of the water.

                Jones dipped the tray into the water, straining the muscles in his arm a bit with the weight of the water. He looked over his shoulder to see a woman paddling with an acoustic guitar on one side and someone with an actual paddle on the other. For a moment he allowed himself to wonder how an actual paddle had been located, but he dismissed the thought and focused on the idea.

                Eventually survivors were not pulled atop the raft. It became crowded, and with only three people paddling, the going was tough. Survivors still in the water wondered for how long they would be survivors. Aboard the raft were tears of loss, and sorrow. Sorrow for the trauma they had gone through as well as for the people in the water who could not climb aboard.
                The organ is grinding but the monkey won't dance.

                Comment


                • #9
                  A subtle change in the pitch of the jet's twin engines brought Harrigan out of a fitful doze. Harsh white light stabbed at his eyes through the unshuttered window. Harrigan winced, bringing a hand up to shield them while he felt through the pockets of his rumpled suit for aspirin. "Mental note," he rasped, drawing the words out like smoke through parched lips. "Air travel and scotch don't mix." He swallowed the pills dry. "Hey Shirl, got anything to drink over there?" No answer. He sighed and turned to the window, squinting as his bloodshot eyes adjusted. Nothing but black ocean for miles and miles, and scattered icebergs drifting in stark contrast to the immeasurable depths beneath. Somewhere over the North Atlantic, then. He'd been out a little over an hour.

                  Harrigan turned from the window, hoping to flag down an attendant. His head was really killing him. Too much scotch, cramped quarters, and - his ears popped twice in rapid succession - the plane was losing some altitude. "What's taking you so long, Shirl?" he muttered. The beverage cart rolled slowly past his seat, unattended. He half smiled to himself, expecting to see embarassed staff chasing after it - then sat up in some alarm when it simply continued forward, building speed until it crashed sharply against the cabin door. A murmur filled the cabin, passengers worrying, speculating, the engines growing louder, more shrill; the aircraft's pitch more pronounced.

                  Shouts and a single, drawn-out scream sounded from the rear of the plane, several cabins back. Harrigan ripped his safety belt aside. Shirl. She was back there, somewhere. He stood, his cramped muscles protesting painfully, black spots dancing briefly before his eyes, and began making his way up the aisle. More shouting. A sharp, loud crack. A gunshot. He flung open the cabin door to a blur of movement and roaring wind and stared in disbelief as two parachutes mushroomed far below, outside the open emergency door. Harrigan staggered against the wind and the noise and the sloping floor, struggling uphill, toward Shirl, toward the rear of the plane. Panels dropped open above the seats, oxygen masks dangling. "This is your captain speaking," came a distant voice above the sound of the engines, oddly distorted. "We're having some electrical difficulties. We're going to have to make an emergency landing. Please keep your safety belts fastened and remain calm."

                  The engines. He was still two compartments away, and the noise was unbearable, the shrill whine assaulting his ears, climbing through the octaves. He looked frantically for an open seat, any seat, moving forward, away from the yawning open doorway, and there was a muffled whump, and the engines cut out altogether. The floor lurched underfoot as the plane began to nose over, throwing Harrigan against the wall of the compartment. His vision went red and hazy, luggage showering down, a cacaphony of voices and noise filling his suddenly sluggish mind. He struggled weakly to rise against the lurching of his stomach and the crushing pressure of descent - then everything was heat and blinding light and the shriek of tortured metal before the world went black.

                  When next he opened his eyes, he found himself in a blurry and cold world. Attempting to breathe, Harrigan choked on salt water, and struggled to the surface. His head broke out into open air, and he hacked and coughed up the intrusive water.

                  All around him was chaos. The tail of the plane was beginning to sink into the water, flames engulfing all areas not yet consumed by the water. Debris still splashes into the water from above, and everywhere were cries and screams of terror and sorrow.

                  Not far from where Harrigan treaded water a long electrical chord splashed into the ocean, sinking quickly below its icy depths. Thinking quick, he swam over to it and grabbed hold before it sunk further.

                  He began tying suitcases and chairs from the plane together, forming a makeshift raft. He did what he could until he ran out of chord, and then climbed atop the floating collection of debris. He laid back and stared at the clouds drifting lazily by overhead, completely oblivious to the screams of panic below.

                  From the water climbed aboard a fellow survivor. Following him was a broad shouldered black man pulling a screaming woman aboard. The woman cried out unintelligible and anguished moans.

                  Harrigan sat up as his little raft started to crowd.

                  Soon there were half a dozen people aboard the tiny, unsteady raft. There was a major problem here, they were running out of room and still more survivors were swimming toward the collection of debris.

                  “There’s no more room!” one of the men on the raft called out to the people in the water. “Find something else,” he told them.

                  They either didn’t hear him, or chose not to listen. Either way, they continued to swarm the little makeshift raft.

                  “We need to make the raft larger,” the black man said.

                  Harrigan knew the man was right. He reached into the water and pulled aboard a suitcase. Opening it up, he pulled out several articles of clothing.

                  “Here,” he said, tossing some of the clothing to the black man.

                  The two of them went about tying additional pieces of debris to the existing raft with the articles of clothing, expanding its capacity to accommodate more survivors.

                  Aboard the raft, sitting cross legged at the edge and staring off into the sea was Jones.

                  He shouldn’t have gotten on the plane. He had one of those uneasy feelings in his gut before he boarded. Had he paid heed, he wouldn’t be where he is now; sitting on a raft of debris and drifting toward a distant island.

                  He’s at a loss. He doesn’t know what to think or how to act. He just sits there, cross legged, staring out at the water.

                  Someone was crying behind him. He blocked her out. It seemed so easy to block things out anymore.

                  There were eight of them on the raft, a collection of plane seats and suitcases tied together with chords and ropes.

                  Hope for rescue was not on their minds just yet. For now, all they can do is cope and hope to survive.

                  “My baby!” the woman cried out again. But Jones just stares out at the ocean.

                  "We need to get to that island." Sounded out a deep voice of reason.

                  Many of them turned to look at the tall serious looking man in a casual suit. His hair was short and appeared smart, although wet and disheveled like the rest of them. His manner was imposing and serious, with his dark hand outstretched to point at the island looming in the distance.

                  Although nobody knew who this black man was, they all seemed to accept his position as leader. At lest in this moment of panic and uncertainty. Slowly they all started to look around for means of propulsion they could use to aid their raggedy makeshift boat towards it.

                  Those still in the water worked their way to get on or at lest hold onto the floating mass before it left.

                  The screaming woman continued to cry out for her child, nowhere to be seen.

                  Jones looked for something to use as a paddle.
                  A bit of debris banged into the side of the raft, and he looked down to see a thick plastic serving tray floating atop a leather suitcase. He reached down and pulled both the suitcase and the serving tray aboard. Behind him he could already hear people attempting to paddle while other members on the raft pulled survivors up out of the water.

                  Jones dipped the tray into the water, straining the muscles in his arm a bit with the weight of the water. He looked over his shoulder to see a woman paddling with an acoustic guitar on one side and someone with an actual paddle on the other. For a moment he allowed himself to wonder how an actual paddle had been located, but he dismissed the thought and focused on the idea.

                  Eventually survivors were no longer pulled atop the raft. It became crowded, and with only three people paddling, the going was tough. Survivors still in the water wondered for how long they would be survivors. Aboard the raft were tears of loss, and sorrow. Sorrow for the trauma they had gone through as well as for the people in the water who could not climb aboard.

                  They didn’t exactly have the option of looking back.

                  The island seemed impossibly far away, but they paddled on desperately, making slow and gradual progress until the raft hit the shallow bottom of the shelf. The survivors pulled the little suitcase and plane seat raft onto the beach as the sun set behind the small cluster of mountains in the distance.

                  Exhausted with trauma and exertion, many of them passed out on the beach. Only a few of them kept the presence of mind of the need to make fire.

                  The large black man who spoke with such leadership aboard the raft, Jones, Harrigan, a young man barely out of his teens, and a middle aged woman made plans on how to ensure their survival.

                  “We need wood and some sort of flame,” the black man told them. “You and you,” he said pointing to the young man and Jones, “get into the woods and pull out any dry wood you can find. Make a pile of it. I will join you.” The two nodded and made their way towards the wood line.

                  “You two,” he said to Harrigan and the middle aged woman, “start going through those suitcases and grab anything you can find that will be helpful; keep an eye out especially for lighters and knives.”

                  “Okay,” the woman said, turning and leaving for the many suitcases.

                  Harrigan stayed behind a moment and craned his neck back to look the large man in the eyes. “Name’s Harrigan,” he said, extending a hand.




                  (anyone else in on this anymore?)
                  Last edited by donteatpoop; 08-16-2007, 12:10 PM.
                  The organ is grinding but the monkey won't dance.

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                  • #10
                    (sequal)

                    “Ingram,” the man replied, shaking the outstretched hand.

                    With a nod, they parted company, off to take care of their respective responsibilities.

                    Harrigan met up with the woman, who had two open suitcases at her feet.

                    “Any luck yet?” he asked her.

                    She laughs a bit, “None. I don’t know what I expected, though. Who even travels with knives?”

                    “Serial killers,” Harrigan replied, bending down to open a case at his feet.

                    The case had a lock on it that was easily bypassed with a well placed bash of a rock. Within the case was clothing, shampoo, a paperback, and a few other items of little to no real value.

                    “Nothing,” Harrigan said to himself as much to the woman who was working at another case beside him.

                    The woman smiled to herself and let out a little grunt of triumph. She held a shiny square piece of metal in her hand. “Zippo,” she said.

                    The sound of wood snapping and a loud scream erupted from the woods, waking a few of the sleeping survivors.

                    “What the hell was that?” The woman asked.
                    The organ is grinding but the monkey won't dance.

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                    • #11
                      (sequel)

                      Harrigan didn’t respond, he was already jogging in the direction of the shout; towards the edge of the wood. She followed him, walking with a bit more caution than he seemed capable of.

                      Not too far from the edge of the forest, the adolescent came running from the tree line and nearly slammed into Harrigan.

                      “Hey,” Harrigan said. “What is it?”

                      But the boy didn’t answer, just kept running, all the way back to the beach.

                      A few moments later, Jones and Ingram stepped out of the woods, Ingram holding onto a wooden pole. He sunk the shaft of the pole into the ground so that she and Harrigan could see what it was; a human skull on a spike.

                      “It would appear that this island is inhabited,” Ingram said in a grave tone.
                      The organ is grinding but the monkey won't dance.

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