The teacher just said "This is hot, this is what's happening!" LMAO --- What are we in the 80's!?
Director is so obsolete.
If you haven't been watching LOST this season, then IT'S TOO LATE. You probably think LOST is just about a monster on an island. Pft, we are SO beyond a monster. CATCH UP. Do you even know what the numbers mean? Maybe --- Well we're not tellin' you either Johnny-come-lately. I suppose you don't even know what's down the hatch, or who this guy is. WHY WEREN'T YOU PAYING ATTENTION? LOOK AT ME, do you have any idea what happened to Walt? Oh, you don't even know who Walt is! Yeah he doesn't know who Walt is. YOUR PATHETIC. Turn back now, you will NEVER catch up. If you don't know about the Polar Bears, then you don't know SH*T!
Can you tell I have nothing else better to post in this thing? xD
The Broken Raft
Shannon ( Kate, Sawyer )
His hands had started to ache; almost numb out from the loss of circulation. The binding was tightly wound around his wrist and fingers while Kate threw in her assistance. "No!" His step-sister's voice pierced through his eardrums and aggravated his already pulsing headache. Wincing at her scolding tone it had obviously hadn't served the same purpose for Kate since she had already launched herself into the water. Boone anchored himself accordingly, keeping the damaged bamboo from splitting any further. "Get her----no it can't be fixed underneath!"
A trickle of liquid dripped it's way down his face --- he wasn't sure if it was the spray from the ocean, sweat, or blood from open gash in his head. The tempting motion to wipe it was unattainable; his mobility bound together, holding the life of the raft in his hands. The next few events Boone had no control over --- and they happened so quickly Boone wasn't sure if they really happened or his mind was playing some sick joke on him. The raft collided with something, not a brain-buster that it was probably Kate's head (no pun intended). It slammed the small vessel side to side; similar to a car riding over a speed bump --- it knocked them off course, the smooth sailing route they were on soon fell to shit, another body condemning itself to the ocean's deadly grip. Maybe Sawyer was having an epiphany --- it was the second selfless act Boone had seen. Maybe it was due his second head trauma --- or was his third?
Their fellow rafters were swept away by the ocean's death grip. Boone stood, soon regretting the action. For one the pain that pulsed through his head with the sudden elevation change --- and two the grip he had secured unraveled it's hold. Boone jerked towards the raft's edge, instinct fighting the facts; they were pulled from his sight with each lift of a wave --- soon LOST completely from his vision.
"They're gone." She knew what he was thinking and put a stop to his perceived actions. It would have been stupid --- impulsive as ever. Typical Boone. Yet her somber tone pulled him out of it, revised his concern; transfigured his focus. "We have to fix this thing ourselves."
He dropped beside her, frantically searching through the pile of extra binding and bamboo. The back of his hand quickly ran across his brow --- the moisture that continued to streamed from his head. It was blood --- not doubt seeping from the wound Sawyer gave him. "It's no use, we'll never repair it."
His head swung towards her, a disapproving look etching the features of his face. "Don't say that." Pulling a small peg from the pile he thrust it into her possession. "Besides; I have an idea. Hold the peg in the center of the rip." Weaving the loose binding tightly around his wrists again it shrunk the hole. Waiting for her to position the peg accordingly either hand interlaced the cord around the spare dowel. "This'll clog the hole--" He worked quickly, ignoring the continual spurts of water that protested against the repair and splashed against his face.
"---then we can turn back and look for Kate and Sawyer." Boone was sometimes blindly naive; completely unaware and unwilling to accept they were, at this point, irretrievable.
The air was hot and thick, choking at his throat. Lungs ache and oxygen couldn't break through. A gasp of air is taken but it couldn't fill his chest --- overbarren by smoke. Rolling over to his knees he digs every digit into the sand. Face pressed into the beach, gasping, gagging --- finally catching a breath. Azure oculars opening, the blazing sun scorching his back, catching their first realization of the ground. Sand. His hands are bruised and bloody. His head is spinning and body is aching. He slowly regains awareness --- eyes active, ears attentive. And now the sound is deafening. The shrieking noise of an active machine, piercing through his ear drums. A part of the plane --- an important part; the engine, embedded into the sand; viciously hollowing and sucking nearby debris into it's mouth; thirsty for more flight.
The sun is merciless; blistering against his skin. Confusion swirling in his eyes; trying to remember the last thing that happened. Nothing. No recollection; no memory. There's blood on his shirt; his head is pounding. He winces in pain at the smallest movement. Then, recognition of where he is begins to sufface his face. The sand is sticky on his palms, stinging his open wounds and clinging to his bruised skin. The mechanical noise drifting into the background --- screams are more prominent; or maybe more terrifying that they grab his attention. Screams of help; pain, fear. Chaos stretching across the coast line -- paradise blossoming into a terrifying, horror flick.
It was usually a nightmare, so vivid, that it jolted him from his sleep. Haunting his subconscious, behind his eyes even through the daytime. Each time more real than the last. Impossiable to tell if it was a dream, or he was reliving the same nightmare all over again. It replayed through his mind on a constant loop; no stop button; no escape. These scenes were all to common for one of the 48 survivors of Oceanic Flight 815.