Yesterday’s
short story ‘Bubbles’ didn’t start out at that length. It evolved as the
characters moved around in my head. Here are four versions of the beginning, offered
with a few comments at the end of each in the hope that they might prove of interest.
Extract from
first short story version, 1,000 words (April 2007):
Josh Mason’s life seemed to be beset
with bubbles so much that he ended up with that sobriquet. ‘Bubbles’ was an
ill-fitting nick-name as he was more morose than bubbly by nature, yet the
monicker kind of stuck.
We was kids
together in the little Nebraska town of Stiller’s Lookout and spent our long
hot summers swimming in the creek, stealing Mr Johanssen’s apples and ogling
the Fitzpatrick sisters.
I should qualify
that about swimming, I suppose. Josh never learnt to swim. He sure did try, but
he just tended to sink. You’d think with him being so round – rotund, some
polite folk called it – he’d just float like a balloon or a ball. But he just
sank. He spluttered, gyrated his arms and hands in a frenzy but still managed
to sink. Always leaving behind lots of bubbles.
I lost count of
the number of times I fished him out of the deep part of the creek, but I
reckon I pulled him out at least a hunerd.
“What you go an’
do that for, Scott!” he’d exclaim when he got his breath back, bubbles of
saliva flecking his lips. ‘I was that near to learnin’ to swim!”
“One of these
days, Josh, I’ll leave you – or maybe I won’t be here to save your hide. Then
you’ll be sorry!”
Fortunately, our
friendship was solid and these disagreements amounted to squat.
This was the
first version, written for a Writers’ Circle prompt with the title ‘Bubbles’. The
brief was for a 1,000-word story. It told the whole story up to the death of Josh
though somewhat briefly and missed out some escapades that would be created
later. The emphasis is on ‘tell’ here – though to some extent this is
personalised by being in the first person.
***
Same beginning,
but for a longer version, 2,400 words (April 2007):
Josh Mason’s life seemed to be beset
with bubbles so much that he ended up with that sobriquet. ‘Bubbles’ was an
ill-fitting nick-name as he was more morose than bubbly by nature, yet the
monicker kind of stuck.
We was kids
together in our Nebraska Territory farms just south of Stiller’s Lookout and
spent many of our long hot summers swimming in one of them creeks off of the
Platte, stealing Mr Johanssen’s apples and ogling the Fitzpatrick sisters, who
seemed to have legs so long they fair went to heaven.
I should qualify
that about swimming, I suppose. Josh never learnt to swim. He sure did try, but
he just tended to sink. You’d likely reckon that with him being so round –
rotund, some polite folk called it – he’d just float like a balloon or a ball. But
for some obscure scientific reason he just sank. He spluttered and gyrated his
arms and hands in a frenzy but still managed to sink. Always leaving behind on
the surface lots of bubbles.
I lost count of
the number of times I fished him out of the deep section of the creek, but I
reckon I pulled him out at least a hunerd.
“What you go an’
do that for, Scott!” he’d exclaim when he got his breath back, bubbles of
saliva flecking his lips, the water sluicing off of his dungarees. ‘I was that near to learnin’ to swim!”
My tone was
likely as not exasperated. “One of these days, Josh, I’ll leave you – or maybe
I won’t be here to save your hide. Then
you’ll be sorry!”
“You’ll save me?” He laughed and softly punched my upper arm. “Yeh, all right,
if you say so!”
As usual, I let
it go. Pride was somethin’ awful, ’specially when you was young.
Fortunately, our
friendship was rock solid and in the scheme of things these disagreements
amounted to squat.
This longer
version is more descriptive in parts. And I added a little more dialogue to
enhance character and relationship.
***
Same beginning,
but from a third person point of view, slightly longer version, 3,000 words
(April 2007):
Josh Mason’s life seemed to be beset
with bubbles so much that he ended up with that sobriquet. ‘Bubbles’ was an
ill-fitting nick-name as he was more morose than bubbly by nature, yet the
monicker stuck.
Scott Finley and
Josh were kids together on their neighbouring Nebraska Territory farms just
south of the small township of Stiller’s Lookout. They spent many a long hot
summer skylarking in one of those creeks off the Platte, stealing Mr
Johansson’s apples and ogling the Fitzpatrick sisters, whose legs seemed so
long that they fair went to heaven.
While Scott was
a good swimmer, Josh never learned. He tried, but he just tended to sink. As
Scott remarked more than once, ‘You’d likely reckon that with Josh being so
round – rotund, some polite folk called it – he’d just float like a balloon or
a ball.’ But for some obscure scientific reason he just sank. He spluttered and
gyrated his arms and hands in a frenzy but still managed to sink. Always
leaving behind on the surface lots of bubbles.
Scott soon lost
count of the number of times that he fished Josh out of the deep section of the
creek, but he reckoned it was at least a hundred.
‘What you go an’
do that for, Scott!’ Josh exclaimed when he got his breath back, bubbles of
saliva flecking his lips, the water sluicing off of his dungarees. ‘I was that near to learnin’ to swim!’
Scott’s tone was
close to being exasperated as he replied, ‘One of these days, Bub, I’ll leave
you be – or maybe I won’t be here to save your hide. Then you’ll be sorry!’
‘You’ll save me?’ Josh laughed and softly punched his friend’s upper arm. ‘Yeh,
all right, if you say so!’
As usual, Scott
let it go. Pride was somethin’ awful, Scott opined, ’specially when you was
young.
Fortunately,
their friendship was rock solid and in the scheme of things these disagreements
amounted to squat.
I felt I might
not be able to sustain a first-person narrative for a longer version so opted
to attempt an omniscient third person POV. By its nature, this is going to
involve ‘tell’ as well as ‘show’. Most of the ‘show’ will be in the revealed emotions
and in their speech. Again, more description is included. And here I introduce
Scott’s nickname for Josh, ‘Bub’.
***
Final version, still
in the third person POV, and much longer, at almost 6,000 words (May 2007):
Last night’s storm had swollen the river
and it seemed to be rising by the minute as they herded the longhorns into the
fast-running shoals. ‘Keep movin’, movin!’ Josh Mason barked. He was a
big-boned man and, though he’d lost a lot of puppy fat, he was still
overweight. Guiding his whickering horse among the steers, he boldly continued
to chivvy along the fearful critters with shouts and whistles. On the other
side of the broad wedge of beef on the hoof his best pal, Scott Finley, was
also persuading the cattle to keep moving. Fording the river now was dangerous,
but Boss Fairweather and his foreman Stratton had been adamant, they couldn’t risk
wasting the time to wait for the water to subside or even to skirt round the
river. To mitigate against disaster, they forded obliquely down stream, hopeful
that the action of the water against the steers would assist them in getting
across. Yet every faltering step the animals took, there was the strong
possibility of one or more of them losing their footing.
Josh
was tired after spending several hours helping to quell a stampede when the
critters had been spooked by forked lightning that made night into day.
Otherwise he might have noticed the cut cinch on his saddle caused by a horn
during the rain-drenched mêlée last night. Now the strain proved too much for
it and the cinch broke when Josh was midway across.
Without
warning, saddle and rider slid sideways. Josh’s shoulder hit the side of beef
and then he plunged into the water with an almighty splash.
Amidst
the roiling water there was only a cluster of bubbles where Josh had been. Nothing
else. Not even a gloved hand thrust through the surface.
‘Bub!’ Scott
exclaimed, using a truncated version of Josh’s nick-name.
Boss Fairweather
and his foreman turned in their saddles and stared, alarmed, then settled back
to their work and hastened to get the steers to the other side before they all panicked
and were lost.
‘Damn you to
hell, Bub!’ Scott growled. He didn’t hesitate but gently guided his mount
through the loosely packed bodies of the steers. He knew there was no point in watching
the diminishing number of bubbles, waiting for Josh appear. Unbuckling his gun-belt,
he snagged it on the pommel and gulped in a big breath and dove in after Josh.
Luckily, he’d
had plenty of practice and though the river was running fast and visibility was
real bad, his questing fingers found his friend’s leather vest. He closed his
hand round the material and, fearing that the water in his boots would drag him
down and his lungs would burst, he gave a tremendous kick and pushed himself upwards
with all his might, hauling Josh with him to the surface.
In a welter of
splashing water and bubbles, they burst into air that was hardly fresh, since a
dense miasma of cattle-odour hovered over the river’s surface. Barely
conscious, Josh was spluttering and struggling in Scott’s grip.
It wasn’t easy,
since he had to restrain his friend’s panicky gyrating arms, but Scott finally heaved
Josh to the opposite bank. Fortunately, their horses were sensible and
well-trained and obediently followed. Scott collapsed in the mud, gasping for
breath. Lying alongside him, Josh disgorged his breakfast and a fair portion of
the muddy river water.
Scott
got no thanks from Josh and he hadn’t expected any. Just the usual: “Why’d you
pull me out, Scott? I near swum to the surface!”
That
got a few laughs from the watching cowpokes and then, in high dudgeon, Josh
dragged his horse away.
Once
the cattle were back on dry land, Scott and Josh ‘Bubbles’ Mason trawled the
river-bed with weighted lariats and, after about half an hour, Scott snagged something.
An air-pocket must have been caught in the saddle-bags and a clutch of bubbles
burst on the surface.
‘It’s
’bout time you learnt to swim, Bub!’ Scott remonstrated as he waded into the
river. With nifty rope-work he finally pulled his friend’s saddle out.
‘Christ-sakes,
you know I damn-well try, Scott!’
‘Yeah,
if tryin’ was all there was to it, you’d swim like a fish!’ Scott dumped the
saddle in the mud and stalked away to dry off.
Josh Mason’s life seemed to be beset
with bubbles so much that he ended up with that sobriquet. ‘Bubbles’ was an
ill-fitting nick-name as he was more morose than bubbly by nature, yet the moniker stuck.
Scott and Josh were
kids together on their neighbouring Nebraska Territory farms just south of the
small township of Stiller’s Lookout. They spent many a long hot summer stealing
Mr Johansson’s apples and ogling the Fitzpatrick sisters, whose legs seemed so
long that they fair went up to heaven. In contrast, they also had simple fun
blowing bubbles with sticks and soap and skylarking in one of the creeks off
the Platte,
While Scott was
a good swimmer, Josh never mastered the skill. He tried, but he just tended to
sink. As Scott remarked more than once to those who witnessed Josh’s doomed
attempts, ‘You’d likely reckon that with Josh being so round – rotund, some
polite folk call it – he’d just float like a balloon or a ball.’ But for some
obscure scientific reason he just sank. He spluttered and wind-milled his arms
and hands in a fearful frenzy but still managed to sink. Always leaving behind on
the surface lots of bubbles.
Scott soon lost
count of the number of times that he fished Josh out of the deep part of the
creek, but he reckoned it was at least a hundred.
‘What you go an’
do that for, Scott!’ Josh exclaimed when he got his breath back, bubbles of
saliva flecking his lips, the water sluicing off of his dungarees. ‘I was that near to learnin’ to swim!’
Scott’s tone was
close to being exasperated as he replied, ‘One of these days, Bub, I won’t be
here to save your hide. Then you’ll
be sorry!’
‘You’ll save me?’ Josh laughed and softly punched his friend’s bicep. ‘Yeh, all
right, if you say so!’
As usual, Scott
let it go. Pride was somethin’ awful, ’specially when you was young. Fortunately,
their friendship was rock solid and in the scheme of things Scott reckoned that
these disagreements amounted to squat.
Obviously, this
version has departed from the others regarding the beginning. I decided to
include some action – action reveals character and relationships. The action is
also intended to put the reader in the scene. This new beginning doesn’t mean
that the original had to be jettisoned; it is inserted after the action scene,
providing back-story.
***
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Review
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