Spooking: Accident

                                                                         

The lump was in his throat again.

The first drops of the rain they’d been promising all day fell on the windscreen.

He turned on the wipers.   

By the time he got to the motorway, it was raining heavily. As he filtered into the traffic there were flashes of lightening and claps of thunder. He turned on the radio to try and drain out the noise. He pushed his right foot down to the floor, bringing Binky up to her top speed. The music matched his mood. Rousing rock music. He was going to fight this and he was going to win.

He steered Binky into the middle lane. The rain was now pouring over the windscreen like a waterfall. The wipers were going full speed, but he still couldn’t see all that well. As he overtook the slower cars and lorries he also had to put up with the spray and the buffeting from the side wind as he drove out of their shelter.

He would have to be careful as he crossed the Hamble Bridge. Binky was quite light and could easily be blown off course. He lifted his foot slightly off the accelerator. Best not to go too fast in this.

He noticed the grey car first of all in his side-view mirror. A Saab, he thought. What was the idiot doing? He was going to hit him. He quickly looked in his rear-view mirror. No, he couldn’t get in to the third lane. Chances were, even if he did, the Saab would still smash into him.

It was going to happen. There was nothing he could do.

Don’t try to straighten up if he makes you skid, he thought to himself. Steer into the skid.

He tried to relax his grip on the steering wheel. But not altogether – at least it was something to hang on to.

There was a thud.

He felt Binky begin to spin round. She seemed to be going in slow motion. They were going towards the parapet of the bridge across the Hamble. Would they hit another car? If they hit the bridge would it hold?

He felt the car slap into the bridge and then he heard the stone begin to crumble.  For a few seconds, he was up in the air, looking at the blue Ford Fiesta falling towards the river.

Was the tide in or out? Which would be better? If the water was deep, the fall might not do so much damage. The water would cushion it. But then, he might not be able to get out. If the tide was out, the water would be so shallow that the car would hit the river bed and both of them would be smashed to pieces.

Why was he up here looking down? Where was his body, actually?

In the car. Then he was in the car and it was plunging through the green-grey water. It seemed an age before it hit the riverbed, but hit it it did. With a silent thud which shook every bone in his body and made his teeth clench. 

He sat still for a moment. Think. What to do? There was no water in her yet. But he must get out and that would mean getting wet and swimming up through the water.

He wriggled out of his denim jacket. That would get too wet and weigh him down It wasn’t easy get it off, what with the air bag and the seat belt.

He could hear the water glugging into the car.

He’s better get out quick.

He tried to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. He would have to try the window. He leant forward towards the glove compartment. The biggest, heaviest thing in there was the   handbook. He tried to smash first the windscreen than the side window with it. Neither would give.

The water was coming into the car faster and faster now.

He remembered what they’d learnt about saving lives in his swimming lessons. He used the old shirt he kept as a rag in the van to make a sort of inflatable. This might help.

The water was up to his chin now. He still couldn’t get the door or the window open. He used his air-filled shirt for breathing. But it was no good. That was getting wet as well. He held his breath for as long as he could. Then there was nothing for it but to let the water into his mouth, into his nostrils, into his lungs.

He thought he was going to burst. It was really painful for a few seconds.

Then he felt sort of peaceful. It didn’t hurt to breathe any more. The water looked beautiful. He felt warm and cosy, sleepy almost. 

A bright light hit the water. Tom watched fascinated as it spread through the grey-green murk until that gradually turned to light as well. Tom felt as if he was drifting towards it, though he could still feel the seat of the car holding him and the airbag pressing on his chest. How could he breathe, though? The water filled the whole car and it had been like that for several minutes already. Just how long could you live without oxygen? 

The light became so bright he could see nothing else.

They must be coming to get me, he thought.  I’ll be out of here soon.

“Not yet, sunshine,” he heard a voice saying. “Don’t look at it.”

Strong arms grabbed him and pulled him away from the light. Then it all went black and he felt as if he was tumbling.  

Grab the full story here.

 

Fibbin' Archie 3

                                                                  

3

Damn, damn, damn!

Fibbin' Archie 2

                                                      

2

Double damn.

Fibbin’ Archie as an experiment

                                                                      

 

I have wondered for some time about the presence of the Golden Segment in literature. Those of us who like literature certainly recognise that stories presented in literary form have a shape that includes a beginning, a middle that follows certain conventions, but not too strictly, and an end. If these are out of balance we notice. But is this a learned response or is it natural?

The presence of the Fibonacci series in nature tends to suggest that we are dealing with something natural here. This series of numbers can be traced in the patterns of sunflower seeds, in rabbits breeding and in branch formation in plants and trees, to give just a handful of examples. In this experiment I have set out to work with this series. One might sub-title this novel “Writing by Numbers”. The first chapter is one word long, the final one is 28,657. I have labelled each chapter simply by the number in the series it represents.

In doing this I’ve not completely ruled out my normal way of planning fiction. Distilled from various story theories I find work for me, and in particular that of Robert McKee, the shape I favour is:

Inciting incident

Growing complexities (usually three)

Crisis

Climax (This is actually the gap between the crisis and the resolution and generally where all the excitement is. From this point onwards life can never be quite the same again for the protagonist, however the story resolves. Everything up to now was a rehearsal for this big moment.)     

Resolution

A more complex novel – and Fibbin’ Archie is complex – will have sub plots. How sub plots relate to the main plot is also to do with the Golden Segment. Andrew Melrose identifies a plot pyramid in Write For Children and I build upon that work in Writing for Young Adults.      

The Fibonacci series anyway produces the Golden Segment. We see this in the ratio of any two adjacent numbers in the series to their sum. That is there in the formula described above. There are echoes of it in the three act structure and the five act structure from the world of film and television and the slightly different version of this in stage play.

This is how I worked the mathematics out for Archie.

1,597	4,180				Inciting incident
2,584	6,764
4,181	10,945				1
6,765	17,710				2
10,946	28,656				3
17,711	46,367				60019 crisis
28,657	75,024		End

 

Note that the crisis point happens at about word 60019.  So there is a build up to it and then we come back down to the resolution. Once I reached word 46,368 I knew I had to make the stakes higher. 

Christopher Vogler suggests that sometimes we can follow a formula too rigidly. He identified what works for the film industry and based his suggestions for story on Joseph Campbell’s work. Vogler suggests that it is often more satisfying for the consumer when that formula is skewed slightly. The formula is skewed slightly in Archie. Content spills round the edges of word count. It could be, perhaps that numbers aren’t accurate enough to pinpoint exactly when events need to occur. What I have stuck to rigidly here is the word count per section, and then shaped the content to the section.   

At the end of the book I’ll be giving you some more information about what it was like writing this way. I welcome commentary on this project and for once this is a book I don’t mind you giving away for free; the more people who read it the better. By all means put the usual reviews on Amazon and Good reads, good or bad. I’d also welcome direct commentary which I’ll like to publish verbatim or collated in summary if there is a huge response. Please send your comments to g.james1@slaford.ac.uk.

Thank you for taking the time to read Fibbin’ Archie.

You must have noticed the pun by now. It is, of course, deliberate.                      

                   

   

1

Damn!

A Gallery for Nick Chapter 5

                                                        

 

When Barney arrived at Nick’s Mrs Fletcher was in the kitchen.

“Hello, Barney,” she said. “Will you stay for lunch?”

Barney hesitated. He really shouldn't stay more than an hour. He really did have to catch up with that geography course work.

Mrs Fletcher pushed her hair back and wiped her hands on her apron. Barney had never seen her look so harassed. Usually she was smartly dressed and nicely made up. But to-day she looked tired and grey.

“Only it’s just that I can’t get Nick to eat anything at the moment. I just thought if you were here…?”  Mrs Fletcher looked straight at him.  “Maybe just yoghurt or something? If you eat, he might join in.”

“Okay, Mrs Fletcher, of course, I will. Only I’ll have to ring Mum and ask if it’s all right.”

Barney heard the door along the corridor slam open.

“Barney, are you coming?" shouted Nick. "I’ve got something to show you.”

“You run along,” said Mrs Fletcher. She was smiling now. “I’ll square it with your mum.”

“Shut the door,” ordered Nick. “Come and look at this.” He swivelled round on his chair. His eyes were sparkling. There was another watercolour of the harbour on his desk. He had managed to get it out of the drawer himself!

“How…?” asked Barney.

“Easy!” said Nick. “Watch!”

Nick propelled the chair over to the drawer and wedged the arm of his chair underneath it. He pulled at the knob, tipped the chair away slightly and then placed his elbow in the drawer and slid the paper along. The paper tipped up just enough at the end that he could hold it between his finger and thumb. Resting it on his lap, he turned the  chair back towards the desk and raised his hands slightly until the paper was just balancing on the table top, then inched it on more firmly with his elbow.

“But the water?” asked Barney.

Nick grinned.

“I asked Mum for a drink of water. Out of a glass. I nearly choked, of course. She forgot all about it and left the glass here.”

Barney shook his head. What was he worrying about, when Nick had so much to put up with, but still managed to do what he wanted to?

“Come here. Come closer,” said Nick. “Take a really good look at this one.”

 Barney moved over to the desk.

“What am I looking for?” he asked.

“See there?” said Nick. “Right next to the boat with the yellow sails?”

“Yeah,” said Barney, still puzzled.  “What about it?”

“This!” cried Nick.

Barney felt something cold and wet on his cheek.

“What the heck?” he cried. He turned to see Nick with a huge grin on his face and holding the paint brush clenched tightly in his hand. Barney grabbed the other paint brush which was lying on the desk. It was covered with green paint. He jabbed at Nick’s face with it. Nick laughed out loud. Then he managed to get the red paint brush between his teeth and started dipping it in the glass and using it to flick water at Barney. Barney really found it difficult to keep out of Nick’s way, as Nick could turn his wheel chair in any direction he wanted. Besides, Barney was tired from the swim and had gone weak from laughing. Nick threw back his head and spat the paint brush out on to the floor. He laughed and screeched at the same time. Barney was laughing so hard there were tears coming from his eyes. The two boys looked at each other. Then the laughing started all over again.

“Well, I’m glad you two boys are having a good time,” called Mrs Fletcher. “I’m just bringing your lunch along now.”

Nick pointed to the painting with his head. The laughter had gone from his eyes. Barney could see that he was sweating.

"Go on then," he hissed. He started tapping his fingers nervously on the arm of his wheelchair. “Quick,” he whispered.

Barney hurried to put some clean kitchen paper over the picture.

“You look a mess,” mouthed Nick.

“You too,” replied Barney. Both boys started giggling again. Nick managed to get his voice under control.

“It’s all right, Mum,” he said. “Leave the tray outside. Barney’ll fetch it in a minute.”

“So what’s going on here then?” asked Mrs Fletcher, with just a touch of sharpness in her voice.

“We’re making a birthday present for you,” said Nick quickly. "And if you believe that, you'll believe anything," he added under his breath.

“Oh, I see,” said Mrs Fletcher. "Nothing like being well prepared."

"We've got to get it right, Mum, haven't we?"

 Barney thought Mrs Fletcher sounded relieved. He guessed she was glad Nick was enjoying himself. Then he caught sight of one of the green spots on Nick’s face and felt another giggle rising up.          

“Well, just make sure you both eat your lunch.”

“We will,” said Barney, forcing himself to keep his face straight for a few seconds.

Barney waited until he heard Mrs Fletcher close the kitchen door again. Then he sneaked into the bathroom and cleaned his face. He found Nick’s flannel and took it into his room to wipe him.

“I don’t want any of that crap,” said Nick suddenly, looking scornfully at the banana custard.

“Man, you’ve got to eat,” said Barney. Nick could be so stubborn sometimes. “Why don’t you want to eat?”

“‘Cause!” replied Nick, making his eyes go big and licking his lips. “‘Cause I’d rather have a steak!” 

Barney tried to imagine Nick eating a steak. He would never be able to chew it. He remembered when they left junior school. Nick wasn’t in a wheelchair then. There had been a barbecue at the Fletchers’ home to celebrate the boys’ move up to secondary school. Nick had had to walk with a frame, but at least he could still walk. And he had eaten steak straight from the grill. Suddenly Barney didn’t feel like laughing anymore.

“You have them both. I’ll eat later,” said Nick. He spun his chair round so that he had his back to Barney.

“But ...”

“I just don’t like people watching me eat,” said Nick, his voice sounding husky. “Not even you, or Mum and Dad.”

Barney could tell Nick meant business. He was quite ravenous after the swim and the early start. It had been several hours since breakfast.

The boys didn’t speak while Barney ate. Mrs Fletcher came back half an hour later.

“Did you both enjoy that?” she asked looking meaningfully at Barney. Nick was staring straight at Barney. He seemed to be warning him.

“Oh, yes, Mrs Fletcher.  It was lovely,” said Barney. “Look, we’ve finished it all.”

“Thank you, Barney,” said Mrs Fletcher. She smiled. Barney knew she wasn’t just thanking him for the compliment about her cooking and felt himself go red.

“I want to go down to the harbour,” Nick suddenly announced.

“Well, I’m sure it's possible. I’m sure Barney won’t mind wheeling you down there. It’s a nice afternoon. Will that be all right?” Mrs Fletcher looked at Barney.

“Of course, Mrs Fletcher.” That was good-bye to the geography homework. But of course he would take Nick down to the harbour. How could he refuse?