"New Manuscript"

Hey Gang,

So now that I'm done with that bull shit, I can finally move on to what the purpose of this blog is; writing.

Shortly after I typed up that short, sweet, and boring intro, I remembered a project I was working on way back in the beginning of April. I never got far enough into the story to associate a name with it, so I nicknamed the project "New Manuscript". The funny thing is, I couldn't even explain to you what the story was about even if I tried. I never really planned for a story arc with this project, which is a big reason in my opinion why it failed. It seemed to lead to a dead end.

So I pulled up this long put-away project and took a simple glance at it to be completely disgusted. See for yourself:

Air filled my lungs like helium into a balloon.

My eyes slowly opened, examining my environment. I had no idea where I was; the large trees and densely-packed area of forest an alien landscape to my foreign body. It was night; wolves howled in the distance, calling my name. The surrounding trees were unfamiliar and strange, stretching far beyond my line of sight.

It was then I realized the crashed air plane around me. I couldn’t remember where I was going or with whom; I could only remember boarding the plane. My seat belt was still buckled, and I was parallel to the ground. I was up-side down, and my blood rushed to my head, which throbbed because of it. The eerie skeleton of the plane burned quietly, slowly turning to ash. I still couldn’t figure out where I was or why I was even on that damn plane, but I felt like I had to get out of there. I almost had the feeling that someone, or something, was watching me, waiting for death to sweep me away so it could sink its teeth into my flesh.

Old memories flew in my head, passing like swift ravens pecking at my dead brain. I still had the feeling that someone was watching me, waiting to strike. A chill ran furiously up and down my spine. What if Mable were on the plane? What if she didn’t make it out of the plane alive? I couldn’t remember if I boarded the plane with anyone other than myself, although I was quite sure I was here alone. There were no noises now, only silence. Silence occupancied by darkness.

It was time to get to work. I tried the belt buckle. It made a horrible noise, obviously hinting that it was jammed. If I were getting out alive, I’d need something sharp to cut the belt. I looked around for a knife, or even a piece of sharp metal. There was nothing. My only other option was to try to work my way out of the seat. Not too far ahead of me was a rope. It seemed odd that a rope would find itself dangling off the ruins of the plane, but I wasn’t going to question an escape if it meant getting out alive. I reached for the rope and tugged on it. It was taut.

If I was getting out of here, this was my chance. I pulled the rope harder. My legs were demolished from the crash, and squeezing them through the tight seat belt was truly unbearable. I had to go on, though. If Mable died at my fault, I’d never be able to live with myself. Better yet, I hoped she wasn’t even here with me.

I pulled on the rope harder, and let out a scream. Blood flowed down my legs, and I notice a gaping hole in my waste. A huge piece of glass disappeared into the gap, its edges sharp and threatening. With sever agony, I put a hand on the shard of glass and braced myself for the pain. I ripped I out, and pain danced around my hip like flames anxious to spread. I let out a scream, and the sound of vultures could be heard in the distance. Chucking the piece of glass aside, I grabbed the rope again and continued to pull.

It wasn’t long until I had pulled myself out and dropped to the ground. My head ached, my body was sore, and my feet were numb with blood loss. But I couldn’t sit there and fade away into nothing. There was nothing that could stop me from finding Mable. I would continue. I had to continue.

Just looking at this makes me want to run for a paper bag. Hell, I'm surprised my editor was willing to look at this. Anyway, that's the first page. Notice the obvious cliches such as, "...helium into a balloon," as well as the moods/ scenarios of the "distressed protagonist". It's very common for the main protagonist in a story to randomly wake up, barely alive, and start wondering about their loved ones. I must say, however, that I'm still very impressed with my work on figuring out an escape for the hero. I felt and still fell that I portrayed the scene well, including some gore as well as wits. Well ... maybe I could have come up with something better than a piece random rope (I know, VERY cliche!), but when I said "impressed", I meant more with the illustration rather than the actual escape.

More excerpt:

I got to my feet and started walking, the pain in my head buzzing. I walked out of the remaining shell of the plane, its dark body aglow with the mystical flames that never seemed to crackle or spread. It made me curious as to what exactly I was dealing with. I looked around, searching for someone, anyone, even a dead body to assure that I wasn’t alone. There was no one, dead or alive. I searched thoroughly through the wreckage for quite some time; as fast as my body could take me. My expedition of the massive mess ended at what was left of the pilot’s cabin.

If you’ve ever walked with across a far distance of land with a hemorrhaging gap of agony in your waist, you’d understand that Hell couldn’t burn worse. With every step I lost another few gallons of blood, and my vision began to fade. I felt light-headed, and I direly needed a First-Aid kit. I was hoping the pilot’s cabin would have something to help me out; usually in the movies they had an emergency kit handy.

As I climbed up the cabin, shadows danced across my eyes. I looked around for any sign of an emergency kit. I looked under the seats. There was nothing. I looked near the gages, and again, there was nothing. I cursed my bad luck, and started to leave the cabin when I noticed a tiny hatch on the wall near the entrance.

I limped over to the hatch, my sides and legs thoroughly soaked with sticky blood. I pulled on the handle of the latch. Jammed. I swore, my patience clearly worn thin. I looked around the room for something to open the hatch when something gleamed in the corner of my eye.

A crowbar bathed in blood was places on the cracked gauges of the plane. How has that gotten there? I was absolutely sure that wasn’t there when I’d just checked. I hobbled over to the crowbar and picked it up, the wet blood sticking to my hands. As I turned back to the hatch, a fierce and mighty rumble shook the cabin.

Wires fell out of the ceiling, electricity dangling from their damaged tips. They tangled together into a huge ball of plastic, copper, and electricity that guarded the hatch. My chance at survival was blocked, and I was doomed. There was no way my already broke body would be able to withstand the voltage of the terrifying ball of death. It’d fry my body into liquid Jell-O. The light from the electricity lit the little pilot’s cabin, and the floor became visible.

A trail of blood was clearly visible on the floor. But it was just a track of blood; there was something more. In fact, it wasn’t a trail at all. I realized that someone had written with blood on the floors, the huge and horrifying. I stepped back and fell, my face showing the true horror that rested inside me.

The blood spelled, “SACRIFICE” with an arrow pointing to the hatch. Whoever had written this clearly knew the wires would fall above the hatch. The amount of surprised that blossomed so furiously inside my body was tremendous. Someone wanted this plane to crash – they’d planned it!

But what choice did I have? It was die or a chance at survival, a chance at life, a chance to find Mable. My abductor was testing my bravery and endurance.

During this part of the story, I decided to make the crash more of a planed "game of survival" (very much like the Saw series). This hero (yeah, I never quite got to naming him; like I said, the project never really got far enough in development. Why don't we call him Hank?) has been dropped into this serial killer's web of darkness for some reason that's unknown. The murder has stolen Hank's wife Mable, and Hank must make some "sacrifices" in order to test exactly how far his love goes. Do I hear a Cliche rant starting?

Last bits of the story:

It was a test to gauge my passion for life and happiness. This was a test that I wouldn’t let myself fail. I boldly grabbed the crowbar which I had dropped when I fell and approached the hazardous hatch which emitted an eerie-blue light.

It was now or never. I brought the crowbar swiftly behind me, trying to gather all the momentum I could. Before I’d even given myself time to think about it, I swung the bar forward as fast as I could, aiming for the crevice where the hatch and the wall met. It was important that I wouldn’t let myself think about it; I know for a fact I wouldn’t have done it if I had. My journey would have ended right then and there. Sadly enough, this was just the beginning. The vibrations of the bar hitting the crevice rang through my hands.

The pain followed directly after.

It was possibly the least intelligent thing I’d ever done, thinking back on it afterward. I could have saved myself the suffering right then and there. But I was devoted. I was devoted to her. The pain of electrocution coursed through my veins like a raging tourist that wanted to see every corner of their destination. It paralyzed my muscles, and I was frozen in increasing pain that made me want to double over.

I heard her voice. It sounded so real. She told me to keep going. She wanted what I wanted, and I’d have to work for it. These words were like aloe to my morale; it burned to hear her voice so sad, but it gave me confidence. That goal could be reached, it was possible. But sacrifices were in order, prices that needed paying. And I would pay those prices.

I slowly pushed the crowbar forward with my remaining strength. The more I tried, the louder her voice became, sounding stronger and more confident. I was helping her in helping myself. After what seemed like forever, and when I didn’t think I could take anymore, the hatch opened. I flew backward, my body fried like French Fries that were left in boiling grease too long. In the hatch, I could see a bright red button, its shiny surface reflecting the light of the wires.

That pretty much finishes everything that was written. Again, this really made me throw up in my mouth when I read it over again, and then I thought, "What a great example to post on the new and shiny blog?" However, getting that feeling makes me happy. "Why the hell would being disgusted with your writing make you happy," you might ask me. Well, sure, it's frustrating when you write something but can't bring yourself to love it. Everyone gets that way. But it's also a sign that you're improving.

When you write something, look back on it, and see all the flaws, that shows your making progress. Sure, it's doesn't feel as good as I'm describing it, but that doesn't mean the sense of change and evolution isn't present. It's good to change and evolve, because our story-showing skills (that rant is a completely different one) change and evolve along with us. You should never look back on a story after a long period of time and love it just as much as you did when you were writing it, because that means you haven't changed.

See ya in the cafe,

WIO...