Young Writers Society

The Setting Time period: current 2007/ City: Boston, Massachusetts/ and later on in the story: American Airlines, Flight 107 (gate 29, Boeing 747, Premium class, first class, and economy, in case anybody wanted to know .)

The Plot: Eighty-seven American passengers - young and old, male and female, white and black - have been given a death sentence. By the little known extreme-islamist stateside terrorist cell called the Insha'allah- the God Willing - who are devoted to destroying the allies of Israel and all filthy secular American consumers. This group has decided to overtake flight 107 and plunge it into the Capitol Building where the senate is meeting to discuss a gay marriage rights bill. On December the 23rd. At 6:30 in the evening. Only one Terrorist is sent to board the airplane. It is up to you how this story will end. Will the the Insha'allah succeed? Or will the brave passengers of flight 107 overtake the single terrorist armed with a plastic bomb strapped to his chest and an automatic machine gun cleverly smuggled aboard?

The Now The story starts at 5:00 AM on December the 23rd: twelve hours before the boarding time: 5:30 PM. The airplane is heading for Los Angeles. You decide why your character is traveling there. This is all real-time, just so you know. So you don't have to wait for others to post. Everyone begins their stories at 5:00

The Rules

1.) You can be any of the passengers/pilots/stewards/senators/even the president if you want. These people can be anyone. Of course, since this is realistic there are no Gods. These characters are just like you or me. You can be a child or an ex-military 60-year-old. YOU CANNOT, HOWEVER, BE THE TERRORIST. Only I can be this character - The Jihadist.[s] I can also kill characters if I want while on the airplane[/s]. You may fight the Jihadist while on the airplane and plot against him all you'd like. If the story even comes to such a point, you may kill the Jihadist.

2.) You may make up to two characters. This story is going to need a wide range of POVs.

3.) You may not kill anyone Else's characters. You may, however, kill people before the airplane takes off (i.e: if you're an assassin...)

4.) CONTENT:
a.) Language: If you're gonna swear, swear. But keep it semi-light. I don't want this storybook riddled with "f" words. Let's limit this to one "f" word per entry, IF necessary.
b.) Sex: If your character's gonna have sex, I don't care. But no erotica. I don't want vivid descriptions!!!!
c.) Drugs: Your character can do drugs. There really is no limit here.

5.) Enjoy!!!



Name: Mohammed Al-qir (AKA: The Jihadist)
Age: 36
Height: 5' 11''
Weight: 170 lbs.
Build: Muscular yet slender. He has the same sinewy, powerful body of, say, a runner.
Hair: Black
Eyes: Black (looks like it, anyway)
Nationality: Saudi Arabia (Arabic)
Personality: Cold, emotionless, intelligent, harsh, calculating, determined
Profession: Terrorist
Background: Mohammed is the son of a rich oil sheik and attended Stanford University, studied theology and philosophy, but majored in engineering at age 25. Disgusted by American Consumerism and hardened by political views, he joined the Insha'allah. For ten years, Mohammed learned martial arts, weaponry operations, obtained a pilots license, and cemented his hate of all Westerners. Mohammed has taken part in many smaller terrorist operations and has earned the right to be the one to be The Jihadist. He is a staunch Muslim.[/u]

Name: Britney Spears
Age: 26
Build: Small
Profession: Pop Singer
Background: Having completed her rehab, she is now traveling around the world with common people.

Ash Ketchum

Age: 14

Build: Slender

Profession: Pokemon addict

Background: He was the world's greatest Poke master when a horrible accident happened and he caught on fire and now looks like a zombie. In fact, many people think he IS a zombie because he talks to himself incoherently all the time. Since then, he has been looking for creative ways to kill himself. He's on the plane because he wants to try his hand at sky diving. He also is armed with nail clippers.

Name: MC Square
Real Name: Billy Principato
Age: 22
Profession: Gangsta-Rap-Artist
Background: Been in the game for 5 years and about to go platinum.

MC Square isn't a stranger to street terrorism (most of his street credentials are attributed to Mr. Capone-E: A Day 'N' the Life of Mr. Capone-E where he's casted as extra number 1 ). His lack of attention to cadence and rhythm make him the most unique soundin' cat in the game. Success in the undergound scene means not only cash but women and power. Since his rise to underground 'stardom' he's amassed enough money to go visit his baby boo in the 'real ghetto' (Afhanistan). Dressed to impress he's sporting some gator shoes (green) with standard pimp attire (think The Mack). He's armed with a yellow notepad and lots of 'ice'[that he rocks].

He doesn't know the plane is headed for LA.

I have to say, I don't like some of the rules (i.e. only you can be the terrorist--it might've been fun!, and that only YOU can kill people while in the air....not cool)

Also, Inshalla as you have spelled it is actually spelt "Insha'allah" and means "God willing", not "Gods will".

Anyway, I'll post a bio incase I decide to play.

Name: Yossi Aharoni
Age: 23
Profession: Undercover Mossad agent, posing as innocent Israeli tourist
Nationality: Israeli
Description: average height, athletic build, is freindly and open to most people (or at least they think he is) but at the snap of a finger (or more likely, at the change of a topic in conversation) can change to cold, distant, calculating, need-to-know-basis type guy (typical "foreign service" type. Your stereotypical counter intelligence/espionage agent.

Name: Dusty Ryder
Age: 17
Profession: Her dad works with the FBI, she loved weapons and rodeos.
Nationality: Texas, USA
Description: 5'5, long brown hair, sharp green eyes. Athletic yet skinny build. Hates airplanes but has to go stay with family. Doesn't trust easy. She is really pretty but could care less what she looks like. She would rather be riding a bull then go shopping.
Background: Her parents are in the middle of a divorce and her dad is sending her to her Aunt's house until it is all settled. She rode on one plan to get to MA and is now on her last flight. She only has one bag and then her carry on with her cell phone and MP3 player. There are a few other nick knaks in there that her dad sent with her.


Dusty slowly sat down on a bench looking around. THe last thing she wanted to do was get lost. She had to make her flight or seh was in big trouble. She didn't like getting lost in strange cities. She took a deep breath and pulled her MP3 player, it was going to be a while before her plane got loaded.

Thanks Sabradan for telling me about the translation. I'll change it ASAP. I also got rid of my ability to kill off characters... Hope you can help us make this a great story!! Also, Griff and Snoik... Um, I don't know why you added those mock-up characters. It would be really nice if you got rid of them...

5:00 AM
12:30:00

The seconds ticked by.

The clock resting innocently on the nightstand shaved off precious minutes - precious time – the hour hand like an executioners ax, bearing down slowly upon its victim's head. Time continued on unmercifully. It wasn't stopping for anyone. It hurled along at a breakneck pace, destroying the past, heralding the future. Carrying the time of his death closer. Slowly solidifying the moment in history when his flying thirty-ton bomb would detonate and shake America. Like a bug in a jar. He wondered how he would feel. He wondered how he would feel as flames and debris and the blood of his victims destroyed his body the instant the aircraft plunged into the heart of the Capitol. Good, he decided. Vindicated.

Sleep had eluded Mohammed Al-qir. The ticking of the clock had been too loud. He had been up since three – tired of tossing and turning in his cheap motel bed – staring at the Suitcase. It sat comfortably on the chair in front of him, holding his life. The gun, the bomb, the instructions. The Suitcase was the newest enemy of America, of the west. He leaned forward, black eyes blank, face dark and carefully flicked open the clasps. The Suitcase popped open seductively.

The bomb was nested in a cushion of foam, wafer thin, and made only of plastic parts, containing plastic explosives. Straps and buckles were attached to it and spread in all directions, making the chrome plate look like the head of Medusa. In a few hours, those straps would wrap around Mohammeds chest. There would be a bomb in place of his heart. He ran his fingers reverently over its stone cold surface.

The gun was hidden beneath the foam, also only made of plastic parts and fully dismantled. The Suitcase held some of the most technologically advanced weaponry known to any military around the globe: the bomb and the gun. Obviously, Mohammed Al-qir had friends in high places. The world was practically at his finger tips. And in twelve hours, would be at his knees. He smiled at the thought.

The seconds ticked by.

Please don't think in any way, by any of my posts, that I am anti-american. I love my country. I'm only trying to get into the mind of a terrorist...

5:05 AM
12:25:00

2 years previous...

The truck driver cowered beneath him like an abused child; curled into a fetal position, trembling in the desert sand. He was fat. There was no other way to say it kindly. His bearded jowls flapped and slavered as he whimpered, his chins bobbed up and down like gelatin. Mohammed was disgusted. It was appalling how the Americans stuffed their faces full of food and alcohol, with no regard to health or cleanliness. How they gobbled down fats and thousands of calories a day. How they wasted and consumed. Endlessly consumed resources and food. The four thousand calories they forced into their bodies could do so much good for those in countries which had nothing. Literally nothing. No food to feed their citizens with, no money to pay the doctors with, no resources to build shelters and houses with. And here was America – inhabited by people like the truck driver – shoveling down food and wood and oil and brick and cash like there was no tomorrow. Mohammed sneered and flicked his gun safety off. This man deserved to die.

He held the gun like a reaper’s scythe.

Behind him, the other members of his cell were hastily preparing the massive petroleum truck for its final job. Its final payday. The bomb would be clamped firmly on the side, the timer set precisely on the hour:minute:second of detonation. It would be clean. It would be quick. It would be deadly. And no one could stop them.

Dry desert wind ran fingers through his hair, feathering his face warmly. The night was starless, black, humid. In fact, the truck driver below him was sweating like a pig; his collar and neck wet. Shoot him, Azir had said. Shoot the driver. Make a quick job of it. Mohammed pointed the gun at the man, loaded, ready, trigger screaming to be pulled, and waited for his brain to instruct his finger to snuff out the man’s life. Nothing was coming, though. He stood there blankly – comrades whispering harshly behind him as they crawled around the truck – and held the gun firmly in front of him, directly over the man’s chest. But he couldn’t pull the trigger. Seconds elapsed. The truck driver’s hand inched toward Mohammed’s ankle – a pathetic attempt at escape. The terrorist kicked him hard in the gut. The hand withdrew.

Mohammed couldn’t understand. This man was an American. By association alone he deserved to die. The bullet inside of the gun chamber was meant for the driver’s skull. His name – whatever it was – was written on the casing. But Mohammed couldn’t do it. His hand was frozen. It’s life, he couldn’t help thinking. However low, the driver was human. These thoughts were evil, he knew. He knew he was being tempted. He was being pulled from his path. But… but…

“Don’t just stand there,” Azir’s voice hissed from over his shoulder, drowning out the man’s sobs. “Shoot. What are you waiting for?”

Mohammed opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His finger twitched. “I…”The truck driver beneath him stopped moaning and looked up. He knew something was wrong. His life was being spared.

“Please,” he whispered, “don’t hurt me.”

“Fire you idiot, fire!”

His finger refused to budge. Curious, his comrades gathered behind him in a semi-circle.

“Please…”

“Shoot him,” Azir screamed “Shoot the bastard!”

He was an American. He deserved to die.

Without warning, Azir shoved Mohammed out of the way and wrenched the gun from his hand. He held the weapon up, eyes cold, lips thin, and fired. Once, twice. The truck driver’s body jerked obscenely and blood immediately blossomed from his chest. His mouth opened in a silent scream. More blood dribbled down his chin.

Azir turned to Mohammed, “You are weak,” he said simply, threw the gun to the ground, and stalked back towards the truck. Mohammed said nothing. He only stared at his hand. Too many buts, he thought. I am not worthy yet.

He had to be stronger.

He had to be colder.

Name: Peighton Larson
Age: 8
Height: 4'3"
Weight: 55 lbs.
Hair: Short, blonde, curly. In pigtails.
Nationality: Caucasian
Personality: Sweet, shy at times but can be friends with most any stranger when she's bored.
Background: Peighton was diagnosed with Leukemia when she was three years old and the family still lived in Boston. Now, once a year, although she is in remission Peighton flies back to Boston and meets up with her grandparents who take her in for her check-up with the doctor who saved her life. Her parents get her on the plane and her grandparents get her off. She usually travels with her eighteen year old sister, but she couldn't go this time. It is her first time on an airplane alone. On this particular flight she is returning home.

[Kylan, no one is questioning your patriotism. But I would recommend not to get TOO much into the head of a terra-ist, if you get my meaning. Also, you REALLY need help on your arabic names. You can PM me for help if you want]


5:05 AM
12:25:00

Yossi had a bad feeling about today. Normally he had no problems getting past the lax security of American flights, even in their "heightened" security state. He checked his luggage of shirts, pants and other various clothes, and had with him two carryones. A small duffel bag containing two shirts, a pair of shorts, and a spare pair of shoes, as well as other objects more geared toward the job: his identification as well as his letter from the government that made him "officially unofficial", as well as his lifeline. His lifeline, of course, being the custom made all-plastic Beretta 9mm, and 5 spare magazines, also all plastic. In his other bag he carried more mundane things that helped make his alias more believeable: a photographers' backpack with three cameras, extra film and digital memory chips, a laptop, as well as more lenses.

The day started off on a bad note when he entered the airport from the El-Al international terminal and everyone was glum. When he asked what was the matter, a perky little teenage girl with blonde hair and a nice bust, obviously fresh out of the army said that there had been another terror attack. A bus in Jerusalem exploded on Ben-Yehuda street, killing 56 people and injuring many others, many of whom were tourists.

Then another problem arose when he neared the security line and a new girl, one who didn't know what his job really was, was screening the bags. This meant he had to go get Eli, the head of El-Al security at the El-Al terminal to get him through, which he finally did after about 20 minutes of explaining, and pleading and greasing the wheels. Finally he had gotten in, and boarded the plane, only to find that he had been given a middle seat instead of a window or aisle. So, since it was an earlly flight with only a dozen or so passengers, he changed his own seat, taking up a whole row, one row behind his assigned seat.

Shortly after take off, just as the seatbelt sign was turned off, he felt a vibration in his pocket. It was his cell phone! The only person who had that number was the Boss, and he only called for important reasons. Quickly and quietly, he went into the bathroom, locked the door, and made a rudimentary sound barrier with wet paper towels. He answered the phone.

"Nu?"

Strong, if low volume, gutteral hebrew on the other end,

"Yossi, we have some important information for you. We have strong reason to believe that on your flight is an operative of a new pan-arabist terror organization Insha'allah ready, willing and able to conduct an operation on this flight. You need to eliminate him before he can do anything. Understood?"

"Yes"

"Good. Remember, if you get caught, I don't know you, the Old Man doesn't know you, no one knows you, and you work for no one. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now get to work"

"Yalla, bye."

Yossi returned to his seat, grabbed a small black pouch out of his duffel, and returned to the bathroom. Once he was back in the bathroom, he locked the door, and withdrew from the pouch, his Beretta 9m. Quickly, and quietly checking all the locks, actions and bolts, and checking to make sure everything was in order, he loaded the weapon, and returned the weapon to a safe place on his person: a holster strapped to his lower abdomen under his shirt, and returned to his seat to study the rest of the passengers.

Dusty shifted in her seat, she was bored. She watched as an Isralite looking man sat down about a seat or two away from her. She watched other passengers walking by but none of them seemed interesting. She stuck a peice of gum in her mouth and frowned. This promised to be a very boring day.

TNcowgirl... Just so ya know, no one is on the airplane yet... Yossi is on a different flight in his entry, not 107 (correct me if I'm wrong, sabradan). Flight 107, the aircraft which will be hijacked, does not take off for another twelve hours!!!!! I don't know what airplane you're on...

Also, Sabradan,... I can use all the help I can get. I'm guessing you're refering to the name "Azir"... If you have another name for me, I would be deeply appreciative.

(Sabradan: Just to be sure, Yossi isn't on flight 107 yet, is he?"

-Kylan

I'm wondering why more people aren't joining... Maybe I did something wrong. Enlightenment, please?

5:10 AM
12:20:00

Smiling softly, Mohammed leaned forward and fished the manila folder containing his mission details from a pouch in the Suitcase. It was thick and heavy. Thick with damaging instructions. Heavy with pain and death. His smile broadened as he leafed through the charts and airline tickets and anti-American doctrines. The Insha’allah were thorough people. They had given him everything he would ever need for the job ahead of him. And more. He had the Gay-Lesbian rights bill description the senate would be discussing in the Capitol at the time of the hijacking. He had the passenger manifest for flight 107. He had the profiles of anyone threatening to his mission who would be on his aircraft. Mohammed was ready. Absolutely. Totally.

Standing slowly – eyes still glued to the folder – Mohammed peeled his ticket from the jungle of paper. Mohammed al-Qir, Flight 107, Class: first, seat 5A, Boarding time 5:30 PM, American Airlines. His ticket stated when and where he would make his last stand. “Where” he would breathe his last breath. “When” he would be united with Allah. Seat 5A would be his coffin. And Flight 107 would be the hands bearing it. It gave him a chill: to know death was coming. He vaguely wondered if he was ready. Had he served Allah on earth with all his might, mind and strength? Had he been absolutely loyal? Unfailing, unswerving? Only time would tell. In twelve hours, Mohammed would be standing before the judgment bar. Allah would make his verdict then.

Silently, he shut the folder, tossed it on his bed, and snatched his jacket from the coat hangar on the back of the motel door. He would not be making the same mistake he had made with the truck driver this time around. On the airplane there would be no hesitation. None. He would be cold, hard, untouchable. Mohammed would pull the trigger and he would do so gladly. He was ready for this. He was ready spiritually, mentally, and physically. Allah would be pleased with his work.

Mohammed shrugged his jacket on and oriented himself towards Mecca.

He knelt on the dirty motel floor.

And began to pray.

[Kylan, I originally HAD meant him to be on flight 107, but we can just pretend its a different flight, and we can change along with the story. Go with the flow as you will. Also, Insha'allah would not have "the" attached to it. You don't say "The God Willing" so its not the Insha'allah. I meant you need help with your arabic names from "Azir" yes, but also from "Al-Qir" as that is not a name I have ever heard belonging to an Arab, and being Israeli, I have heard many]

[TNcowGirl...its ISRAELI not Israelite. This isn't the bible.]