Open Ended Promt

It was Christmas Eve. Fog stuck to the tarmac at Lindbergh Field. Night had fallen across San Diego, and the city buzzed below the hundreds of passengers who busied themselves while the plane was in still in the air. The 20-something year old pilot handled the plane with ease, even though the fog and clouds combined made it nearly impossible to see anything in front of the him. The pilot never drank, he hated the taste of most alcohol and had trouble holding it down. There were times when sadness of his losses would overcome him and he'd drown out his sorrows with a bottle. And one year ago that day, he placed dirt on top of the lowered casket of the man who'd raised him, so at this point he didn't give a damn about the taste or his job, he just wanted to drown. He took another sip out of his water bottle, drinking a clear beverage that if you got close enough, the smell would let you know it was not water. Soon enough the bottle was empty, as was the flask he had hidden in his coat pocket. The copilot, who was supposed to be helping fly the plane, had dosed off in his chair, a little drool dripping onto his chin. Lights were flashing on the control panels and noises were coming from every corner of the cockpit. The young pilot, while still awake, was barely in control of his own body. Dizziness overcame him and soon enough his dinner was in a pool on the ground. More lights were flashing, more noises and calls came from the control tower and the plane started to bump around, causing a few of the passengers to fall out of their seats. The copilot woke up, feeling groggy and questioning where he was, like you do after taking a nap in the middle of the day. More lights, more sounds, more bumps, more falls. And then they stopped. Sparks flew from the plane as the electrical wiring hit the water. Passengers and the copilot became submerged in water, struggling to swim under the force of the plane taking them deeper under, farther away from the surface. The pilot had passed out drunk before the plane hit the water. It was Christmas Eve. Fog stuck to the tarmac at Lindbergh Field. And presents the next morning were left unopened, places at the dinner table empty, and a bottle of vodka missing from the airport’s bar.

The Plot Sickens Reflection:

The Plot Sickens by Fanny Howe talks about the increase of violent outcomes and decrease in the quality of a plotline in her recent student's work. When given just two sentences to start with and the opportunity to write about anything they wanted "out of the 20 stories generated by this assignment, only 5 had endings that could qualify as 'happy.'" Most students will write violent stories with gruesome endings, which to Howe's belief is now due to the lack of the ability to solve a problem. Students will write stories about "victims of hideous violence on accidents, they commit crimes but only for the hell of it, they hate, not understanding why they hate; they are loved or abused or depressed, and don't understand why." The lack of plot makes it easier to gruesomely get rid of the protagonist in a somewhat interesting way instead of solving the problem. My story substantiates Howe's ideas, as it lacks a major plot line, and the story can be considered somewhat violent, as it involves everyone dying in a plane crash due to a drunk pilot. In my opinion, it's just easier to write stories with a violent ending, probably due to the fact that you can lack a plotline while still making it interesting.