Out of the Frying Pan (Ch 1, Pt 1)

[Anne Martin]

I've rewritten this section, and I'll re-post it after I've finished editing it.

 

[svalbard]

I was hooked from the start. Yep, you can clean it up, but I would leave in the mention of Bruce Willis. It sets the scene, says something about Lena's character(she is a calm customer under pressure). The action is well done, even if it is somewhat implausible. But it is fantasy! You also move it along at a nice pace. I am curious as to what your re-write will be like because the first draft is quite good.

 

[Anne Martin]

Out of the Frying Pan (Ch 1, beginning, rewrite)

OK, I've turned it around and hopefully clarified the chain of events. It tried to remove a few things that stretched the bounds of belief, or at least make them vague enough not to become an issue.



Out of the Frying Pan (Ch 1, beginning, rewrite)

I can't cry now!

Lena Carthage huddled under Shona's desk, staring at her friend's vacant eyes as she lay slumped on the floor a few feet away. A bullet to the temple had killed her, but blood oozed from multiple wounds criss-crossing her chest. Single shots punctuated the eerie silence that followed what had been a merciless attack. What the barrage of automatic weapon fire had missed, the attackers finished systematically. Were they terrorists?

James, from the cubicle across the aisle, grunted as he rolled onto his side, having heroically attempted to knock a partition in front of Shona, who had been standing while Lena crawled under her desk to retrieve an invoice. It had slipped through the crack between her desk and the wall of her cubicle. That was Shona's personal black hole, attracting everything important. Slim and nimble, Lena had regularly come to her rescue.

Seeing Lena alive, hidden deep under the desk, James smiled briefly, before turning his attention to a man who rounded the corner, wearing shiny black boots. Lena held her breath, expecting the worst and holding back a gasp as James took a bullet in his forehead. “She's not here!” the man reported with a familiar voice, kicking away the partition. “She's not anywhere.”

“You said she was here,” answered another voice, presumably the leader of the assault force.

“She was,” the man replied, “five minutes ago. She couldn't have left.” That was Dean Traner's voice. He had been hitting on Lena for the past three weeks, but she wasn't interested. In spite of his rakish looks and good dress sense, he seemed too keen. Nobody had ever pursued her like that. Shona had fancied him, but he wouldn't give her the time of day. Now he never would.

“You imbecile,” the leader shouted, “she can cross through!”

“All the doors are covered,” Dean insisted. “She can't escape.”

“Yes, she can!”

“But you know that she ...”

Lena bumped her head when the shot rang out. Dean pitched to the floor with a bullet hole between his eyes. Had he still been alive, he would have discovered her then.

“Find her!” the leader shouted. “Kill everyone in the building if you have to. We need to be out of here in five minutes.”

Lena listened as the room emptied. She could just stay where she was for the duration, but instinct told her to move.

What would John McClane do?

He'd move, and he'd fight back. Sliding her knee, a piece of paper crunched, the invoice she had been looking for, the one that had saved her life, but now it was meaningless. There was blood everywhere. Crawling over Shona, Lena peeked down the aisle to see if anyone had stayed to guard the workroom, a large open-plan workspace with 50 cubicles, and now with 49 dead bodies.

Although their windows had been shattered, Lena suspected that one of the storerooms on the side would provide better cover. She braced herself for a quick sprint through the broken glass, but spied Dean's AK-47 slung over his shoulder. McClane would take it, but Lena was clumsy enough that she'd probably shoot a load of holes in the ceiling and alert everyone to her presence. Instead, she pried the pistol from Dean's grip. That was simpler, although she'd never fired a gun. She hoped she wouldn't have to.

Just five minutes.

“She's got to be in there,” a voice rang out from down the hall. They were coming back, so she sprinted to the side room and wedged herself behind a filing cabinet. Crouched with the gun against her cheek, she peered out into the workroom, where they had turned their attentions to a specific desk: hers.

S**t!

She could cross through. Cross through what? They had killed the inhabitants of an entire office complex, just to kill her. Why?

“Footprints!” someone hissed.

Lena groaned. She had stepped through the puddle of Shona's blood, and the prints would lead right to her. How much ammunition did she have? Not enough against their arsenal. She didn't even know how to check.

“In there!” another shouted.

Lena wasn't going to die without a fight. She took a deep breath, half-pulled the trigger, and shouted “Hell-fire!” as she stepped out from behind the cabinet, squeezing the trigger repeatedly.

Pfffft.

Startled, Lena found herself standing in the middle of a mirror-like lake. The report of her shot seemed so anticlimactic, as if it had disappeared before it left the gun. A single bullet would never have saved her, but her attackers were gone, as was the office … and the stench had become worse than before, now more like rotting flesh than dust and fresh blood. The sun burned black in a night sky devoid of stars. In the distance her lake, which was only an inch deep where she stood, was lit by 12 pyres, each 144 feet high. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did, from deep in her being.

The lake itself wasn't water. It reminded her of mercury, but her movements made no waves. It stuck to her toes like an opaque chrome paint, as if she had mirror-plated her feet. If that weren't strange enough, it had dissolved her shoes and stockings on contact, yet it left her untouched. Dazzled by the pyres, she couldn't see past the surface, just the black sun in the black sky and herself. Still confused, she reached down and dipped her hand in. Like her feet, the liquid coated her fingers, dissolving the fine hair on the back of her hand. It was odourless, so the stench had to come from beyond the pyres.

She dabbed her finger on her tongue: no taste, or rather, it tasted like her … like her after a hard night with Ben, her ex-boyfriend, salty and sweet at the same time, like a light post-coital sweat. She couldn't feel the silver dot on her tongue, yet she knew it was there, confirmed as she bent over to look at her reflection in the pool. Not thinking, she wiped her hand on her skirt, which dissolved almost before she touched it.

 

[Mouse]

Re: Out of the Frying Pan (Ch 1, beginning, rewrite)

Hello.

I can't cry now!

Lena Carthage huddled under Shona's desk, staring at her friend's vacant eyes as she lay slumped on the floor a few feet away. Way better start! Far more gripping. A bullet to the temple had killed her, but blood oozed from multiple wounds criss-crossing her chest. Criss-crossing wounds? Like cuts, you mean? Single shots punctuated the eerie silence that followed what had been a merciless attack. What the barrage of automatic weapon fire had missed, the attackers finished systematically. Were they terrorists?

James, from the cubicle across the aisle, grunted as he rolled onto his side, having heroically attempted to knock a partition in front of Shona, who had been standing while Lena crawled under her desk to retrieve an invoice. It had slipped through the crack between her desk and the wall of her cubicle. That was Shona's personal black hole, attracting everything important. Slim and nimble, Lena had regularly come to her rescue.

Seeing Lena alive, hidden deep under the desk, James smiled briefly, before turning his attention to a man who rounded the corner, wearing shiny black boots. Lena held her breath, expecting the worst and holding back a gasp as James took a bullet in his forehead. Nice. “She's not here!” the man reported with a familiar voice, kicking away the partition. “She's not anywhere.”

“You said she was here,” answered another voice, presumably the leader of the assault force.

“She was,” the man replied, “five minutes ago. She couldn't have left.” That was Dean Traner's voice. He had been hitting on Lena for the past three weeks, but she wasn't interested. In spite of his rakish (do people still say rakish?!) looks and good dress sense, he seemed too keen. Nobody had ever pursued her like that. Shona had fancied him, but he wouldn't give her the time of day. Now he never would.

“You imbecile,” the leader shouted, “she can cross through!”

“All the doors are covered,” Dean insisted. “She can't escape.”

“Yes, she can!”

“But you know that she ...”

Lena bumped her head when the shot rang out. Dean pitched to the floor with a bullet hole between his eyes. Had he still been alive, he would have discovered her then.

“Find her!” the leader shouted. “Kill everyone in the building if you have to. We need to be out of here in five minutes.”

Lena listened as the room emptied. She could just stay where she was for the duration, but instinct told her to move.

What would John McClane do?

He'd move, and he'd fight back. Sliding her knee, a piece of paper crunched, the invoice she had been looking for, the one that had saved her life, but now it was meaningless. The sentence starting with 'sliding' is a bit odd, to my ears. There was blood everywhere. Crawling over Shona, Lena peeked down the aisle to see if anyone had stayed to guard the workroom, a large open-plan workspace with 50 cubicles, and now with 49 dead bodies.

Although their windows had been shattered, Lena suspected that one of the storerooms on the side would provide better cover. She braced herself for a quick sprint through the broken glass, but spied Dean's AK-47 slung over his shoulder. McClane would take it, but Lena was clumsy enough that she'd probably shoot a load of holes in the ceiling and alert everyone to her presence. Instead, she pried the pistol from Dean's grip. That was simpler, although she'd never fired a gun. She hoped she wouldn't have to.

Just five minutes.

“She's got to be in there,” a voice rang out from down the hall. They were coming back, so she sprinted to the side room and wedged herself behind a filing cabinet. Crouched with the gun against her cheek, she peered out into the workroom, where they had turned their attentions to a specific desk: hers.

S**t!

She could cross through. Cross through what? They had killed the inhabitants of an entire office complex, just to kill her. Why?

“Footprints!” someone hissed.

Lena groaned. She had stepped through the puddle of Shona's blood, and the prints would lead right to her. How much ammunition did she have? Not enough against their arsenal. She didn't even know how to check.

“In there!” another shouted.

Lena wasn't going to die without a fight. She took a deep breath, half-pulled the trigger, and shouted “Hell-fire!” as she stepped out from behind the cabinet, squeezing the trigger repeatedly. 'Half-pulled' strikes me as odd.

Pfffft.

Startled, Lena found herself standing in the middle of a mirror-like lake. The report of her shot seemed so anticlimactic, as if it had disappeared before it left the gun. A single bullet would never have saved her, but her attackers were gone, as was the office … and the stench had become worse than before, now more like rotting flesh than dust and fresh blood. The sun burned black in a night sky devoid of stars. In the distance her lake, which was only an inch deep where she stood, was lit by 12 pyres, each 144 feet high. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did, from deep in her being.

The lake itself wasn't water. It reminded her of mercury, but her movements made no waves. It stuck to her toes like an opaque chrome paint, as if she had mirror-plated her feet. If that weren't strange enough, it had dissolved her shoes and stockings on contact, yet it left her untouched. Dazzled by the pyres, she couldn't see past the surface, just the black sun in the black sky and herself. Still confused, she reached down and dipped her hand in. Like her feet, the liquid coated her fingers, dissolving the fine hair on the back of her hand. It was odourless, so the stench had to come from beyond the pyres.

She dabbed her finger on her tongue: no taste, or rather, it tasted like her … like her after a hard night with Ben, her ex-boyfriend, salty and sweet at the same time, like a light post-coital sweat. She couldn't feel the silver dot on her tongue, yet she knew it was there, confirmed as she bent over to look at her reflection in the pool. Not thinking, she wiped her hand on her skirt, which dissolved almost before she touched it.

Much better this time round. I really hate guns, they freak me out, and this re-written piece made me more 'eep!' than your first one. So, good stuff.

 

[The Judge]

I've only quickly skim read as I don't have a lot of time, but to me this is much better. More immediate, more gripping, more realistic -- the dialogue is a great improvement, as well. One or two places could still be a little tighter and the two paragraphs starting "James, from the cubicle..." are a bit confusing. But overall, a very good revision. Well done.

 

[Grimbear]

Much improved. I have one thing to say though...

Pfffft ??

Please ditch that. Otherwise most impressive.

 

[Hex]

Horrifying.

I can't get over James smiling, though. Isn't he terrified?

 

[Anne Martin]

We will learn later that James and Shona were two of Lena's protectors. He saw that she was alive, and that meant more than anything to him. She wouldn't have read a sigh of relief as anything other than a "brief smile." Would she?

 

[Hex]

It just jumped at me, which is good in light of the explanation - it means I'd remember James for later.