Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24890120-20170718000125

Sup guys. I've been working on this adaptation of a Metz commercial. It's very short thus far and unfinished, but I'd like feedback for character development thus far and scenery. Any constructive criticism will be greatly appreciated.

CHAPTER I --

I remember when I was a child. I had some pretty grand wishes which usually weren't attainable by modern technology. When I was about four, I asked my father for a pet tyrannosaurus. He laughed a hearty laugh and combed his meaty fingers through my wild blonde hair. "When we strike oil, Jax." He would say, his bold voice echoing off the light brown walls, now peeling at the corners.

I suppose that's what inspired me to do great things. Growing up, neither me nor my father had much money. He worked as a retail manager, and although that would've been enough for a man and his budding son to live comfortably, my mother's medical bills garnished over half of his income. He spent what he had left mostly on me, claiming that my joy was enough to light up his whole world. Back then, I took it for granted. I couldn't understand how the happiness of someone else could enlighten you more than your own happiness, I was too young to understand such a concept.

But now I'm twenty-three years old and I've grown three feet over the past decade or so. I'm my own man now, not so much of a man as my father with his grisly dirty blonde beard halfway to his bellybutton. I still don't think I understand that concept, not quite, because honestly I'm a bit of a grinch. All of my money goes to me and only me. I don't think I've donated to any charitable organization in months, years even. I should work on that.

But that doesn't matter! What matters is that his words, "When we strike oil, Jax", is why I have this job. This... Career? It's not particularly lavish, nor well-paying, but it offers indefinite and exponential growth. When you work in the oil business, whatever oil you find is your property, as long as it's not on official ground. And that's what I set out to do. Find my own oil, sell for a sizable profit and earn myself the living my father only hoped that he could provide for me. Maybe even commemorate him in some pompous way.

Dreams never come without consequences though, it would seem. Although I'm nearly bound to strike oil myself in this 'new and improved' excavation set up by the Nabors corp, this Arctic weather is the cold day in hell everybody talks about. I'm stuck here in my station drowning in three sweaters and four sweatshirts and my nips are still frozen solid. I could only imagine what it's like to be out in the ocean, naked. God, that'd be a cool way to die. Get it? Cool? No? I'll just... Stop here, I guess. my ink's starting to get frozen. I need to buy some pencils.

CHAPTER II -- FIRST JOB

It's my first operation and I'm writing this from a tiny cubicle in what's similar in function to a crane and it's so goddamn cold the glass is literally frozen over; if I touch it my finger gets stuck and it feels like the epidermis is peeling off if I try to take it off. I thought it would be boring here, what with nothing to entertain myself except a cold-ass phone and some frozen soda (terrible idea honestly), but the scenery's beautiful. Desolate and lonesome, but beautiful. Everything's a shade of blue or white and in the distance I can see mountains of snow and ice. Not too far away a mile-high glacier infinitesimally swims down a water canal. Honestly, I'm not sure how the water manages to not be frozen. It awes me yet scares me at the same time.

It's definitely unique and something magnificent to gawk at, but if this cave were to collapse with everyone in it... Help is about 3 days out on a good day. Up to two weeks including snowfall and the brittleness of ice. Theoretically, with our emergency food and water rations -- packed in special thermoregulating bottles of course -- could keep us alive, all forty, for close to two months, the hypothermia would get us probably within the day. Moral of the story; if you slip in the Antarctic, you're fucking dead.

Not much to write really. The pounding of the oil drillers permeates the air and makes it kinda hard to think. If you go to one of the drillers and look down, you can see miles of ice just straight down. Despite the drills working day and night nonstop, we still haven't reached the bottom. Jesus fuck, I'm from Florida, I'm not used to all this damn ice and cold 'n shit. I can't even take a piss without it freezing solid.

Hours later and my shift's almost over, nothing spectacular. Some guy spilt his water onto the ground and it froze almost instantly, poor guy. Actually, I think I hear ringing outside. Probably signalling it's time for me to get the hell out of this glorified ice cube. Uhm... I'll write tomorrow? This is awkward.

CHAPTER III -- Oops

I could be more creative with the whole "Oops" thing, but it's damn hilarious if you think about it. Apparently the drills hit something, and something hard. The boss called it off temporarily and brought some of the guys to check it out. In the booth right now waiting for orders and let me tell you I do not necessarily indulge in climbing down almost a mile of fucking ice, it's cold enough as it is up here. But... Eh, I'll probably get fired if I don't.

Fucking christ that was weird, and cold too. And dark. The sun was already hiding behind a solid wall of clouds, but under a mile of permafrost it's pitch black. When me and the grunts got down there, (after one of them almost falling to death), we landed on perfectly smooth ice. That's unusual -- breaks in the ice isn't terribly uncommon, but sheets of it akin to a skating rink is. Me and the nine other guys went to check out the heart of the operation -- where the drill was, and as it turns out, the drill had hardly scraped the floor of the cavern and was beginning to strain from the pressure.

The cavern was sprawling really -- although it was dark, certainly dark, with a beam from one of the flashlights you could faintly make out some small ovular breaks in the wall, roughly sized enough for a built man like me to fit through, with enough squeezing of course.

I'm back in the glorified ice cube of an office now though, watching my colleagues making sure they don't impale themselves on an icicle or fall into a frozen pond. The glaciers usually keep me entertained enough but at times the fact we're the only twenty men for dozens of miles out gets to me. Don't be a sis, my father would say. This cold is making me into one. 