Falling into Obscurity

[Kiowa Warrior]

Yeah exactly: I think most people imagine themselves to be the hero of the day and save everyone no matter what they're experiencing...even though what they're experiencing could render them immobile. And just because someone really wants to help someone - and even knows that they can - does't always mean that they will. It's near immpossible to say how you would react to a certain situation: there's how you would like to react, and how you will react, and you can never be certain of one or the other.

Yes, writing in first person does take some of yourself into the character I believe, since if you've got to write from their point of view you'll be taking some of you pre-conceptions and beliefs into it as well...even though you may like to remain aloof from your character, I personally can't help but put some of my own personality into it when I write in first person...for me it's a lot easier and less exposing to write third person, since you're writing according to the parameters set by another person instead of having - or being able - write with a lot more freedom.

Writing has always been something that's come easily and naturally to me, and if I'm in the mood I can rattle something off without much difficulty. It all just depends on whether I want to put some of myself into that character or not! Yes, sometimes you want to write for the sole reason that you want to write, rather than due to a deadline or anything, and I believe that's when your best work can be produced.
I've never been a fan of standadised happy/pretty etc. characters! The more darker the more interesting imo.

We will both mourn our lack of help and involement in the crash together! It does sound good, since I would like to develop different aspects of my writing and you're a very good writer yourself!

[firebreathingfishies]

Spot on. I mean there wouldn't be many people like Jack, running right on in to the bedlam and pulling people out of burning wreckages. I was quite surprised there wasn't more people in the Pilot who kind of did nothing. I mean, Shannon didn't (but that would be expected ) and Kate was poncing around somewhere... but other than those everyone else was kind of getting right in there. I always liked how Boone went mad for the pens. Kind of like looking for something to take his mind of the shock, even though it was pretty stupid

It's always hard to write a new character as a kind of person you've have little or no contact with because you always end up going with the stereotype, which can sometimes be a major downfall of a story. There are so many books/films/tv shows with so many different characters it's hard to get one truely original, and sometimes to get that you have to use a bit of yourself. I agree that it's a lot less exposing in third person, but i've realised you can build a character a lot quicker by, for example, describing a scene without the usual descriptive terms that no one would really use if they were thinking about it, if you get what i mean

Totally agree with you there. Forced out stuff generally reads as forced. Luckily I really enjoy writing so it's not very often when I don't feel like doing it. To me it's like a break from the other stuff, like uni work and all that jazz

lol, this kind of thing is cool because you can bounce ideas around that you never thought of, and pick up different writing styles. I don't know why you keep saying you suck at OC characters, because from what I've seen your mint

[firebreathingfishies]

I wrote this in about 20 minutes at stupid o'clock in the morning when I'm a tad merry So if its crap then... it's because I'm drunk If it's good then... I suppose I'm just class

No really... it's strange because sometimes I can write better when I've had a drink. Very strange I know...

-------------

That First Night

People are actually asleep. Someone nearby is actually snoring. I sit, staring into the huge, raging fire and wonder how in the hell these people can sleep so soon after almost dying. There must have been three hundred or so people on that plane. There are no more than fifty people on the beach who are still alive, and about thirty of these people are sleeping. I wonder if I’m was one of the crazy ones for not being able to sleep.

The heat from the fire is making my eyes water so I look down at my arms. The doctor had found me again with a sewing set and had proceeded to stitch up a gaping wound on my arm. I had almost punched him it had hurt that much. It annoyed me even more than he apologised about three times while doing it. Eventually though, someone else appeared to need his help and he left me. Ever since I sat alone, my mind mostly blank. John Locke had left me also. He seemed to have brought me down from hysteria into mild catatonia. Catatonia is probably for the best, I tell myself. It saves me running around and causing more damage.

‘You’re going to catch fire.’

Not too long ago I was going to drown. The thought remains only a thought. I look up, blinking lazily. A man is standing beside me, holding out a something wrapped in shiny foil. I look at it stupidly.

‘It’s food, dude.’ The heavyset man tells me with a small, albeit troubled, smile. ‘You look like you need it.’

I take it silently and rest it on my knee. The man is still there.

‘Cool necklace.’ He remarks. My hand wraps around the alien pendant and I just stare at him. Why does everything feel so surreal? No one else seems to be taking it like this.

No one else left someone to die.

‘Thanks.’ I splutter.

‘Hey, no problem.’ He winks at me and then moves on. I watch him, feeling slightly bewildered. Then I turn my attention to the foil tray. I must look like a right fool, sitting by the fire staring at the package on my lap like it’s just about to jump up and take a bite out of me. I also haven’t forgotten that I’m covered in scratches and cuts. I look like the only survivor of a riot in a cattery. I half smile, not allowing myself to laugh. No hysterical laugher. If I start, I’ll never stop.

I set the tray aside. I’m not hungry. I lean back on my hands, and am instantly reminded of the cuts that are now bandaged heavily. With a hiss I bring my hands back in front of me and see red blotches soaking through. I feel a lump in my throat and fight it back. Not again. Don’t get hysterical again you stupid mare.

A sudden sound knocks me sideways and I hear a strange sound escape me. It’s not so much a scream or a cry than a bleat. I look up towards the dark jungle with my mouth unhinged. The sound comes again. A terrible roaring. It’s echoing from seemingly every point of the island. The others are up and standing around, chattering in confusion and fear. I remain where I am. Someone, moving backwards away from the trees, stumbles over me. I barely notice.

‘What the hell is that?’ someone nearby asks.

I know what it is. I’ve seen Final Destination enough to know that if you survive a plane crash, you only end up strangling yourself in the bath or getting decapitated by a piece of stray debris. Or in this case, getting eaten by Godzilla or something. Someone else stumbles over me and their foot squashes the foil package beside me. At the sight of this my stomach growls and I realise I actually am hungry. I feel bitterness more than fear and get to my feet. I glare at the idiot who crushed my food but she’s looking up at the jungle and not at me. She probably hasn’t even realised that she’s got a piece of greasy chicken stuck to her foot.

That sound comes again and I jump. I look back to the jungle to see the tip of a tree whip out of sight. I blink. I didn’t just see that. It happens again and I realise I did see that. Bloody hell I must have had one major knock to the head…

‘Did anybody see that?’ someone nearby asks. I turn my head to the heavily pregnant blonde girl who stands beside me, staring at the trees.

‘So it’s not just me?’ I ask, while thinking, Bloody hell you’re pregnant.

She doesn’t even look at me. A man in a black hooded jacket steps up beside her and mutters, ‘Terrific.’

I feel inclined to agree with him.

[Kiowa Warrior]

That was very good indeed for a random drunken twenty minute attempt! I like the Final Destination reference, and your character's got a good sense of humour on her as well as being very believable.

In reference to your last post, yes I agree that I reckon in real life more people would be standing around screaming/in silence doing nothing, and the hero Jacks would be in the minority. But then again you never truly know how you'd react in such a situation, so maybe everyone would be falling over themselves to help!

And yes, I think it is quite difficult to come up with a character that hasn't been done a hundred times before and if you're going to spend a lot of time and invest something in them, then it's only natural that part of yourself will go into them.

Lol ah thanks though: I just don't have a lot of practice writing OCs, and for this one I pretty much imagined how I might feel after a plane crash and then exaggerated/changed/embelished etc. etc. a few things.

Oh and I do agree that you can write better - well at times - for some reason after you've had a drink...maybe it relaxes you more? I don't know! But sometimes it really can...

This is something I wrote last night, and I personally don't think it's as good as my first one - not only because I hadn't had a drink - but because I was also trying to watch The Apprentice at the same time! Your last one was posted at night and I think the continuity - with regards to the characters still works - so just pretend that it's still crash day and I'll get onto night soon!

*****

Something's Just About to Break

What finally gets me moving is not my guilt or fear or still beating desire to be the hero of the day: no, what gets me running isn’t something from inside – if I had my way I’d still be standing still and doing nothing – but by something from the outside.

By an explosion so sudden that my self-preservation instinct kicks in before I really have time to see what exactly happened.

With no more than a glimpse of an engine spinning in a red wheel of fire and the black smoke streaming away from it, I turn on my ankle and sprint as fast as I can in the opposite direction.

Somehow I manage to jump over and dodge around and miss touching any of the debris littering the beach, but the moment I see a young man caked in blood and sand reach out his hand for me I stumble and think about stopping, and that’s when I hear the explosion behind me.

It’s terrifying, and the sound bullies out anything else in my head so that, for what could have been a few seconds or a few minutes, I’m aware of nothing else. The wave of heat expelled from it is suffocating, and only when I instinctively reach up to protect my head do I realize that I’m lying on my front, and my mouth is full of sand.

My ears are full of ringing, my eyes are full of tears and my heart is full of a drowning despair.

Despair not only for the nightmare that us innocent people are now living through, but despair that, even now, I’m trying to work out a way that makes me appear as though I’m doing something to help everyone but doesn’t actually require me to do anything.

My conscience gives me a sharp kick and, sickened with myself, I spring up onto my feet and vow to go back to help that man who I saw reaching out for me. I back track a few steps to find him, but immediately turn away again, closing my eyes and wondering if taking deep breaths would actually help, or if sucking in smoke and dirt and blood and decay will make me feel even worse.

Perhaps I should try some and see.

Perhaps I should try and actually help the next person that reaches out to me, so that they don’t then end up with a stiletto thin piece of metal impaled through both their eyes.

I start walking towards the shore, and am overcome with a sudden belief that a rescue boat is, at this very moment, rushing towards us. And that I just can’t see it because of the smoke and the water in my eyes.

I hope it saves me first.

I wipe my eyes angrily, but the tears keep coming and I hate myself for what I’m thinking. For what I’m hoping.

They stream down my face and I give up trying to stop them, not only because I’m weary beyond anything I could imagine, but because I have the ridiculous hope that they will also wash away the blackness that is inside me and expose the good that I know is in there.

The part of me that makes others glad to be in my presence, even as I sit or stand and do nothing. The part that provides safety and security and puts them instantly at ease, and makes me glow with pride and contentment because I’ve done nothing but smile and walk into a room, and I can instantly tell that they’re happy and more relaxed. More certain of themselves, more confident, more able to do the things they know they have to do.

But it seems like years since that happened, even though it’s been less than two months.

A lot can change in that time.

I finally stop crying and take a deep breath and no, not really such a big help after all: I don’t really know why people cite that as an instant cure for a feeling of panic. Yes I know that it increases the oxygen supply to your body, but as you hold this breath you’re only thinking about the reason that’s caused you to take one in the first place, and that just makes you shake even harder. And if thinking about it didn’t make you react in the negative, then why did it cause you to take such a breath to begin with?

A sudden hand on my shoulder pulls me out of my pointless internal ramble and I jump – yes, actually jump: not just a twitch or a shudder, but an actual two feet off the sand jump. Lord how pathetic.

I turn to face the hand’s owner, and see that it is a young blonde woman.

A heavily pregnant woman, clutching her stomach.

Oh bloody hell.

‘Please, can you help me?’ she asks, her voice scored with fear and pain.

‘Err, I’m not sure I’m quite the right person for that…’ I begin, feeling sick at how easily the lie comes out and at how hopeful I sound for her to believe it.

‘He told me that I was fine and that I should just sit and rest’ - I look over her shoulder and scan the background to see if there’s anyone else free to come over – ‘and after he checked me over I did, and I began – argh – I began to look through a few bags next to me, to take my mind off things. And I found this:’ She holds up a piece of tattered photocopied paper in front of me, and I have to blink smoke and grit out of my eyes several times before I can decipher it.

Oh no…

‘And then I threw up and the baby started kicking and I think I might be bleeding and I don’t know if it’s going to die or what’s going to happen or when we’re going to be saved and then I saw you were from this picture and I just hope you can help me because I really don’t know what else to do…’

She looks at me with eyes a familiar shade of hope and relief, and as I stare blankly at a copy of my ID card – Dr. Ellie Weir, Radiology – I really really really wished that I had been fired and sent home in disgrace a day earlier.

*****

[firebreathingfishies]

Very nice I think you've improved on your first one actually. It's very easy to read and the character is more established, and it's cool to have a bit of background already, even if it is only a hint. I'll re-read again later for anything I've missed because... well, i've only had three hours sleep and my eyes feel like they're going to fall out

[firebreathingfishies]

Ah never worry about the time lines... I won't be posting anything over the weekend anyway (cos it's obvious sometimes i get carried away with myself and post reems) because i'm buggering off to York until Tuesday Technically, we don't have to worry about that until our characters cross paths

[Kiowa Warrior]

Ah thanks For some reason I thought the first one was better, but then again what do I know? lol

I do worry about timelines though, I can't help it! And I do wonder what our characters will be like when they cross paths...they'll probably race each other as the sprint away from the next person to ask them for help!

Hope you have a good time in York

[firebreathingfishies]

They're both good! Sometimes though I write things that I think are pretty crap and people tell me its brilliant, and then i'll write something that i think is the best thing i've ever done, and someone will just go meh It's hard to just go off your own pov.

Someone will come over and ask if they know how to fish or something and they'll leg it off into the jungle It'll have to be a big 'moment' though, not just a 'Hi,' 'Hi,' type of thing

We're off to get the train at 12.30. I just hope I've been paid