May 1- May 8

View previous topic View next topic Go down

May 1- May 8

Post by Titanhawk 881 (JT) on Sat May 02, 2015 7:04 pm

This week's challenge:
You are a travelling business man/woman and going to somewhere in the world for a conference. However, your plane crashes somewhere along the flight path and you are the only survivor (you can have another survivor if you want, but just you is better). Before the trip, you packed clothes, a CD, your watch, a lot of paper files, and a dull pen knife. You have to survive using the things you have/can make until you reach civilization!
Challenge by Jeremiah
avatar
Titanhawk 881 (JT)

Posts : 13
Join date : 2015-01-21

View user profile

Back to top Go down

Re: May 1- May 8

Post by Natarsha on Fri May 15, 2015 9:53 pm

Dressed in my usual business wear, my typical grey skirt, white blouse and grey jacket and just to add some jazz to it I wore my black heals, I head to my car, well the company’s car. I get in my blonde hair pinned back into a bun, I sit down my briefcase and handbag on the seat beside me my luggage already packed in the car I head off towards the airport, leaving the rural parts of Auckland I head towards the city, instead of smelling the stench of farm produce and farmers market on a Sunday morning I smell the car exhaustion and smoke from the smokers in the city suburbs, I sigh to myself thinking how great it would be to wearing my gumboots then these wretched heals, to get out of this skirt and put on a bunch of overalls and help with the farm. You see I am no business woman I am no city girl, I’m more of country girl who likes mud but in order to pay for university I need money, at least this is high paying job. I sigh as I pull up to the parking lot of the airport, getting out I grab my handbag, briefcase and my luggage from the boot of the car, I lock my car and walk out of the parking towards the airport. Once inside I head towards my gate, where my luggage was then scanned I stepped through the gate towards the plane to board it, once inside I find my seat near the window I decide to put my handbag in the overhead storage space. Within twenty minutes of getting used to the fact of being by the window we took off, my fingernails dug into the arm rest, I closed my eyes as we got up into the air, once we were flying safety I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding in. Within an hour of flying I look out to see one of the engines burn out, my heart races as I think to myself ‘it’s okay, we’ve trained for this’ all I can think is that we’re going to crash, and oh golly was I right, down we went, and we went down fast like lighting hitting the ground we crashed the last thing I saw when the plane crashed the ground before I blanked out was the sand.  
The pain run up my ankle and jolted me awake, I was thrown out of the plane and landed a couple meters away, my jacket teared by my shoulder. I looked at my ankle, I thanked my mum for making me take first aide as I noticed I had fractured it, I only have a few cuts and bruises but nothing to serious well besides my ankle. I find a couple of thick sticks and I take of my jacket ripping the sleeves off I place the sticks either side of my ankle and wrap it with the fabric to hold the bone in place, I crawl across the sand till I find a big enough stick to hold my weight, I lift myself off the ground and hobble towards the plane gritting my teeth in pain.
avatar
Natarsha

Posts : 28
Join date : 2014-08-15
Age : 17
Location : Auckland, New Zealand

View user profile

Back to top Go down

Re: May 1- May 8

Post by Melody on Sat May 16, 2015 1:57 pm

Sorry I missed the meeting yesterday guys! A little late, but here is my story:
(It's not quite finished, I haven't had a whole lot of time to work on it the past two weeks. Plus, I've been lazy Razz Jer, You will be happy to know that I was planning on killing Vickie, therefor there would only be one survivor Razz)
There were one hundred and forty eight on the flight from Manhattan to Honolulu. Only one is getting out alive.
Searing pain stabs my right shoulder. I clench my teeth, waiting for the pain to subside. It does not. My vision is blurry—from the pain or from a concussion, I can't tell—but I can make out the main shapes around me.
­This is a plane.
There is blood everywhere. A small river of it trickles along the aisle, more than the carpeting can absorb. My seat is also stained crimson; it takes a moment for me to realize it is my own. I glance down at my shoulder, and now I know the source of the pain. There is a two foot long piece of jagged metal pricing it. I guess it was torn from the roof of the plane in the crash, explaining the gaping hole above me.
The crash.
Those words hardly seem possible. So many times I have flown. I have read many times about plane crashes, gruesome and morbid, but I never thought it could happen to me. To me, Mary Kay Lawrence, president of Lawrence and Hatfield, the largest law firm in the United States of America. I was traveling to Honolulu for a weekend conference over the construction of the new Getaway Resort and Spa.
And now I will probably die.
At least I could have seen Hawaii first, I think ruefully.
I try to move, but an explosion of pain sends me reeling back into the seat again. The metal is drove into the chair as well, pinning me down with abandon. I let out an involuntary sound, something between a scream and a groan. It dawns on me that no one else in the plain is moving. And there is so much blood...
“Are you alive?”
I jump at the sound of the voice, regretting it the moment I do. A woman, who looks in her early thirties, approaches me from behind. She is covered in blood, but I see no serious wounds. There is a large cut above her left eyebrow that stretches across her forehead, but it is not deep.
“Yes,” I say. “But I can't move.” I turn my gaze down to the metal in my shoulder.
“This is going to hurt,” the woman says, wrapping both hands around the metal, “but there is no other way.”
Before I can protest, or even tell her not to bother, I'm as good as dead anyway, she pulls on the metal with a giant heave.
I scream. It feels like a hot iron being thrust through my shoulder.
It comes out, and I feel momentarily better. Then the blood starts. It was only trickling out before, but now is pours out, soaking my shirt and pants. She presses a piece of torn cloth against the wound, stifling the blood.
“Can you move?” the woman asks.
I nod weakly, and attempt to stand. My legs wobble, and every movement is excruciating, but I can move.
“Here, lean on me.” The woman slides her arm under my good shoulder. It helps.
“Thank you,” I say, but it sounds mumbled.
“My name is Victoria Lawson,” she says. “But everyone calls me Vickie.”
“I'm Mary Nelson.”
Vickie helps me to sit on the edge of the plain—the door hangs open loosely on its hing. She then slides down to the ground, and reaches up for me.
“Wait—is there anyone else?” I say hoarsely.
She shakes her head.
I feel numb for a moment, but the pain in my shoulder quickly snaps me back to reality.
“Where are we?” I ask. I had spent most of the flight flicking through business papers, and paid attention to little else. Work has been my primary focus in life as long as I can remember.
“I'm not sure,” she says, running her hand through her strawberry blonde hair. It leaves a crimson streak that contrasts  intriguingly with her green eyes.
“Are there any buildings here?” I say. Sitting down, the surrounding tree's block my view.
“I can't see any,” she answers solemnly. “It's quiet. There are no motors, no honking, no screaming—nothing.
I think she shivers, but I can't be sure. If she did, it wasn't from cold. This must be the warmest day of the summer. My body is covered in sweat, and salt stings my eyes.
“Then we will have to walk,” I say. My mind has slowly come back to life. With the pain no longer as excruciating, my will to live has come back. I will not die, not here. Not now.
“You need a sling first,” Vickie points out. My right arm hangs unnaturally at my side. I can't move it.
Vickie rips a piece of cloth from a shirt—a carry-on bag, amidst other rubble, was spewed from the plain when it landed. She fashions is crudely into a sling. It hurts at first, but I must admit that it begins to feel better once the initial shock is gone.
The sky begins to dim. My carry-on bag is near me; I pull it open. It is filled mostly with business papers and a CD containing briefing, but there is also a change of cloths and a watch that is broken. Vickie begins to sift through the other passengers belongings.
“Should you do that...?” I ask softly, my focus trained on the distance. I can't look inside the plane again; I know there were at least two children on board. I am already having a hard time not vomiting at the sickly smell of warm blood.
“They won't mind,” Vickie says. She pauses, then adds, “I believe that all the important things about a person—who they are—is in their soul. Once they die, I don't think the soul says in their body. Plus, my father ran a morgue. I'm used to death.”
“You're religious?” I ask. It's been a long time since I've thought about religion. My parents believed in God, and I used to, once. I don't know what happened.
“I believe and I serve God,” she answers. “How about you?”
“I grew up in a Christian home,” I say, as if that is supposed to answer the question.
“Do you believe in God yourself?”
“I...” I'm not sure what to say. Before I can think of something,  Vickie makes an excited sound.
“Look what I found!” she says exuberantly. She waves a blue pocket-knife in front of my face.
“How did that get on the plane?” I ask. Commercial airlines have strict rules regarding what can be brought on a plane. Especially after the Trade Towers.
“I don't know,” she admits. “But this could be the thing that saves our lives.”
“I'd settle for getting away from here.” I cover my mouth and nose with my jacket sleeve. The smell of blood  is suffocating, like it's replacing the air.
“Okay,” she says.
As we start our trek, it becomes obvious I won't be able to make good time with my shoulder in this condition. Every movement is painful. Blood surges from the wound, and its all Vickie can do to keep me from bleeding to death.
“We will make camp here,” she says gently, easing me into a sitting position on the ground.
I nod weakly.
She had found a lighter in the same bag with the knife. Gathering sticks, she begins to make a small fire. I'm burning up by now. I can't understand why she would want one.
“Mary, you don't look so good...” she says, her voice trailing off. Something in her voice worries me.
“I just survived a plan crash—I wasn't planning on entering a beauty contest anytime soon.”
Vickie puts her hand against my forehead. It feels like ice.
Her brow furrows and her mouth drops into a frown. “You have a fever.”
“Great, now I'm catching a cold,” I say downheartedly, remembering how I felt like throwing-up earlier. I certainly feel sick enough.
“I don't think that's it,” she says. “I think you have blood poisoning.”
Her father was a mortician. Her ability to diagnose me so quickly worries me.
“My mother was a doctor at the St. Joseph Memorial Hospital,” Vickie says, as if she could read my mind.
“So, this... blood poisoning. Is it serious?”
“Not with the proper medication.”
Which we don't have, she neglects to add. I inch closer to the fire. Cold chills have replaced the sweat, and goose bumps cover my body. I pull my jacket closer. It is soaked with dried blood, most of it my own, but it still helps.
Vickie lays down, and soon I hear soft snores accompanied by shallow breathing.
How can she sleep after all that's happened today? I wonder. Sleep is not a conceivable thought in my mind right now. Every time I close my eyes, their faces—bloodied and broken—overtake my mind. I try to get comfortable, but it is impossible. But I know I will not die. I cannot.
I will fight.
I will live.
avatar
Melody

Posts : 30
Join date : 2014-10-27

View user profile https://writeon.amazon.com/read/story/Melody_Brocke_Shera/amzn1.

Back to top Go down

Re: May 1- May 8

Post by Sponsored content


Sponsored content


Back to top Go down

View previous topic View next topic Back to top


 
Permissions in this forum:
You cannot reply to topics in this forum