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Bubbles
Brice tried to focus on his breathing, but that was difficult. He cracked his eyes open and looked around. There were cameras, of course, the few journalists that had been allowed to cover the event, and they all were checking up with their assistants. Further away a couple of rafts, whose outboard motors droned, circled around the boat like bumble bees around their hive.
“Gary!” he called. The chief organiser was softly chatting a few feet away with an unknown underling, but he immediately broke his conversation and came to Brice. “Yes?”
“I need silence now. Please tell those journos to knock it off and try to make the rafts shut their engines too, please.”
“Right away,” Gary said and he was off, slapping the back of the underling en passant. Brice watched him stride to the nearest guy and tell him to speak lower, then continue on to the next one.
When the noise has abated a little, Brice closed his eyes again and started to breathe deeply. He turned his attention to his heart. Years of yoga training had given him an acute awareness of his body, and partial control over some automatic functions like heart beating. Not that he was able to stop or start his ticker at will, but he could slow it down quite effectively. Three months ago, combining this faculty with ample breathing, he was able to reach eighteen pulses per minute, and he knew he could still probably get even slower, to the skepticism of his personal doctor.
Meanwhile the technical aids were checking the diving gear for the last time: pulleys, karabiners, inflatable balloon, ballast, graduated plumb line, emergency signals, everything had to be in perfect order. A single flaw could lead to catastrophe. The whole kit and caboodle had already been tested dozens of time. It was foolproof and there was no reason for anything to go amiss, but better play it hundred percent safe.
After twenty minutes or so, Brice nodded slightly. The platform on the edge of which he was seated moved round, pulled up by chains linked to a crane installed on the deck. The platform pivoted until it was over the water, then was lowered gingerly. As soon as it reached the sea level, assistants swarmed in to lock Brice’s harness to the line and put in his half-closed hand the “command” switch. A single press on it would jettison the ballast and trigger the chemical reaction which would inflate the balloon and lift Brice back to the surface without the need to move a muscle.
When all was done and checked, the assistants retreated and the platform was lowered again until all remained awash was Brice’s head. The cameramen on board zoomed in on it, trying to capture the facial expression in the very last moments before the dive. The doctor eyes were locked on him too, and his right hand clasped a stopwatch.
Everyone on board was edgy. Paradoxically, only Brice seemed to be fully relaxed, as if he’d lost contact with the external world and taken shelter inside an invisible shuck. His head was still, his eyes were closed, his neck was licked by the wavelets that wrinkled the surface of the sea. He seemed to be asleep.
This lasted for long minutes, until all of a sudden Brice’s mouth opened wide, then clapped close. He sunk under the water. The plumb line shuddered, a few bubbles surfaced and that was all. He was gone.
The doctor punched the stopwatch button and everyone gathered around and turned their attention to the TV screen that relayed the images taken by the camera attached to the gear. There was hardly anything to see aside of floating hair and a tangle of cables. Sometimes a couple of bubbles would float up, darting through the screen like shooting stars in the sky.
Thirty seconds.
Brice was sinking flat out into the depths. He kept his eyes closed – what was the point of opening them anyway? Within seconds the dim light of the sun that hit his retinas, oozing through the water and piercing his eyelids faded and he found himself in the night. A false night in which he should stay as long as possible.
The funniest were the “dreams”. It wasn’t really dreams, because he wasn’t sleeping, but it hadn’t found a better term to describe what he was experiencing. To him, it had always felt as if his mind was closing up, warping up his whole life in a few minutes. Memory of long lost forgotten things would bubble up from his subconscious: faces, scenes, landscapes. He had heard people claiming the same phenomenon had happened to them when they stood at death’s door, and he believed them. After all, what was apnoea but the closest state to death?
Slowly the darkness receded as flashy blue lights loomed ahead and…
“Will he survive?” the voice off dad asked.
No audible response. A siren was blaring and although he didn’t feel his body move, he knew somehow he was moving. Rushing ahead. Barrelling. But where? What had happened?
“Two minutes without breathing. He’s only three,” an unknown voice eventually declared.
He was aware of something strange over his face. He cracked his eyes open. He saw dad, seated on a rough plank fixed to the walls of a cramped room. Two other men watched devices and screens he had never seen before. He tried to speak but nothing escaped his mouth, as if he was gagged. He cast a glance at his arms. Both were strapped to the doss he was lying on and a needle had been planted into his right elbow. He fixed it with horror, wanted to scream, to move, to tear this needle out of his arm but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move a muscle. He couldn’t yell. A wave of pure,
primeval fear punched him in the face. He screamed silently, choked, wriggled, windmilled his arms that couldn't move, drowned… Another siren bleeped, closer and louder, and a merciful breaker of darkness engulfed him into oblivion.
Dad barged into the bathroom. “Brice. My watch please!” he said earnestly. The tub was almost full of water and Brice lay in it, his face down and hidden by his floating hair. Dad bent over the tub and poked Brice’s back, who jerked with the surprise of it and rolled over in the tub, splashing water around.
“What?” Brice said, panting.
“My watch, son.”
Reluctantly, Brice reached out and handed the waterproof watch to Dad. “But it was only two minutes and ten seconds.”
Dad sat on the rim of the tub. “Brice, I already told you to stop those stupid experiments!”
“But Dad, I mean, it’s cool. It’s like being a dolphin and I’m sure I can reach three—”
“One of these days, you’re gotta get yourself drowned. You barely escaped death the first time, remember?”
Brice sighed. “Okay Dad. I didn’t mean to aggravate you. I’m sorry.”
Dad bent and pecked Brice. “It’s okay son. You just be careful. This is no safe game you’re playing. Right?” He smiled, and Bruce returned his smile halfheartedly.
“One minute forty-five seconds,” the doc said. On the control monitor, digits were counting up. 60 metres, 63, 66…
“Is it true he can hold up to fifteen minutes?” a journalist asked.
“Fifteen ten is his personal record measured in a pool. Prolly world record too, though he never bothered about measuring it officially. But I’m sure he can do a few seconds more if he really needs it.”
“How the hell he’d do that?”
“Mystery. Apparently his brain is able to shut down into an oxygen-saving mode, something no one else can do. Gives him a tough resistance to hypoxia.”
“Hypowhat?” Gary asked.
“Hypoxia. Low oxygen condition, what you expect during apnoea.”
They both turned their attention to the figures on the screen. A minute. Just over 200 metres.
Mum and Brice sat around the kitchen table. It was late evening, and the red light of the sunset seeped through the open window.
“E+. That won't get you anywhere Brice! Do you realise that?” Mum yelled, her face crimson with anger.
Brice shifted on his chair. “I do my best, Mum,” he said and shook his head. “I just… I just don’t get it. I’m sorry.”
Mum sighted and relented. “What am I going to do with you. If only your father was still alive…”
“What about the insurance?”
Mum glared at him. “What insurance?” she yelled. “Your dad was a fucking scientist who slogged all his life in a laboratory so that other people could cash what he discovered. His insurance? Pssht!” She wavered in the air. “Goodbye college. But anyway, what’s the problem? With grades like those, you can shove college up to your wazoo.”
Brice looked down to his plate and hushed. Silence fell, and both finished the dinner without talking. When it was over, “Mum?”
“Yes?”
“The guy at the swimming pool wants to see you. He says I could probably do something with my ability to stay under water for minutes.”
Mum sighed again. “All right. I’ll call him tomorrow.”
The door was closed, and Brice couldn’t really hear what was going on on the other side, unless he pressed his ear against it, but the odds were too high it would open and he would be caught red-handed.
He was pacing back and forth in that little room, ignoring the row of plastic chairs that lined the wall. He looked at his hands, but there was no nail he could reasonable afford to gnaw on anymore. He had spent all his ammo.
All of a sudden, the door opened, and the large figure of the sergeant appeared on the threshold. “Come in!” he said in a deep voice. Brice trod in, and the sergeant patted him on the back as he walked through the threshold. “Sit please!” he said, gesturing towards the chair next to the one Brice’s mother sat in. Brice sat in turn, and the officer did the same behind his desk.
“Right,” he began, “Me and your mum have reached an agreement. We both believe you unusual apnoea ability could be really precious to the army, my boy. Every so often, we have to carry out delicate missions where standard scuba divers just can do. Like sneaking through underwater crannies or like. You mum said to me you were thrilled to serve your country?”
“Well… her… yes sir?” Brice replied, half-fazed.
“Then the army is just everything you should care about!” He put forward a document on the desk. “This is your contract, lad. Sign here, and I promise you the best of future. Action, thrill, adventure. You’ll voyage all over the globe and rub shoulders with the most daring and dashing guys you could ever meet, and you’ll become part of them. You’ll be brawny and tanned, every girl on the planet will dream about having sex with you. Welcome to a brighter world, kid.” He handed Brice a big pen.
Brice picked up the pen, bent over the desk and tried to read what was written on the document, but it was all in fine prints and even the little he could make out didn’t really make sense. This was all over him, in a way. He turned his face to look at mum, who nodded. “Go ahead,” she said. “You’ll never find a better job offer in your whole life.”
Half-reluctantly, Brice uncapped the pen and underwrite the document with the squiggle that was his signature at the time.
”Five minutes and thirty seconds,” the doc announced. The depth-meter was still running at full tilt. Minus 150.
“How long will it take for him to surface back?” a reporter asked.
“About a minute if he goes down to 250. The balloon is full of gas, but pressure and water resist against the ascent.”
”That must be factored in, right?”
“He’s aware of this. He’s not rookie, you know?”
Minus 160.
162.
That dive of San Diego’s downtown was sleazy. Brice sat with three friends at a table, chatting and knocking beers back. They were on shore leave after a gruelling mission involving the delivery of spoofing devices on the keel of a Russian vessel.
“Hey,” his neighbour poked his ankle into his hip. “Check out that blonde over there!”
Brice looked up in the direction his friend was cocking his head at and there she was, sitting on a bar stool, alone, sipping an unknown cocktail of a strange, flashy colour with a straw. Natural blonde it seemed, quite busty, with a skimpy skirt and high heels. Twenty, twenty-five at most. Toothsome bimbo.
Brice laughed. “Fuck you, Franck! Look at her. Nice piece of ass, agreed, but she’s a whore. Sticks out like a sore thumb.”
“Bet she’s not. Hookers are made up and lipsticked and freaky as hell. This one only seems to have knocked at the wrong door. Besides, what? You can dive for minutes and put bombs under submarines and you’ve got no balls to walk up to a looker and ask her for nookie?”
“Come on Francky boy, why don’t you you go yourself?”
“I would, but you know I’m engaged, right? So can’t do that anymore. Honesty blah-blah. It’s your turn now. Show us all you’ve guts with gals, too.”
Brice grimaced. “You’re a fucking asshole Frank, but I love you the same.” He slapped Frank’s back, scraped his chair back and inched his way to the bar next to the girl. He ordered another draught beer then turned to her.
“Hey, know what? I’ve been to thousands of places but I’ve never seen a cocktail look like this. What’s in it?”
The girl eyed him curiously. She had nice green eyes. He was jacked up and tanned, and his pale blue eyes and short chestnut hair added up to make him a really attractive boy. So had some of females he had met told him, but he had to check it independently.
“Nothing fancy. That’s just fruit and rum,” she said, “but with drops of fluorescein added to make it glow with the dark light.” She pointed to the ceiling, where several dark violet tubes were set.
Brice whistled. “Smart guys,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” she nodded. “You’ve been to thousands of places? You’re a sailor?”
Brice smiled. “Yes… well…” He hesitated. “Not really. I’m with the Navy. Special task force.”
“Wow. What do you do exactly?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell about it. Delicate missions, that’s all I can say. Hey—” her glass was empty now. “Want another of your extraterrestrial cocktail?”
She giggled. “Would you?”
“Sure!” he said, and hailed the bartender.
“Seven thirty past. Minus 220. That’s within grasp of the world record,” Gary said.
“Are you ready to activate the signal?” the doc said. “As soon as he breaks to 250, we’ll warn him to go up.”
“He can’t go deeper?” Another journalist wondered.
“Past 250, the pressure becomes very difficult to fight off. Your ribcage can be crushed anytime. That’s 25 bars, don’t forget. One bar every ten metres. There are limits to what the human body can endure. I’m not sure anyone could get much deeper, even if he could hold his breath virtually forever.”
Minus 230.
Sex was over and they were both lying in bed, naked, covered in sweat. Temperature had not dropped under 80, and the night was torrid, in every sense of the word.
She clasped his hand in hers and rolled over in the bed to face him. “That was fabulous,” she said.
He lay supine, his gaze mesmerised by the spinning of the ceiling fan. He didn’t answer, just pressed her hand harder. They remained still for a couple of minutes, with only their labouring breathing keeping them company.
“Do you know,” she carried on eventually, “what I’d like from you the most?”
He turned his head toward her. “No?”
“A baby.”
He closed his eyes and sighed. He was expecting something along the lines of a wedding, and he was even prepared to welcome it. But that? Why so suddenly? Why now?
“Julia, I love you more than anything else in the world, but I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he protested.
She withdrew her hand. “And why’s that?”
“I can’t do that, darling. I’m away ten months every year. When I go, I never know if I’ll return and when. That’s no way to raise a child. A child deserves a father who is close to him. Someone who’s there. A true father, not some sort of ghost. Believe me, I know that.”
“That’s why we should do it right now. I can’t take anymore of it Brice. You going and me waiting for months without even knowing where you go and when you turn back. I want that baby so that I can have you by my side even where you’re gone.”
”You’re already unhappy with my life, but yours an adult, chose to share it. He or she would live the same way, but wouldn’t’ve chosen it. I can’t let that happen. No way. I’m sorry,” he concluded sternly.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, her back facing him. “Is that you last word?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. He crawled towards her and reached to her back.
“Don’t touch me!” she shouted, and there were tears in her voice. She stood up, walked through the bedroom door and closed it behind her.
The next evening, when he came back, she was gone.
“Fuck! Click that fucking switching you moron,” Gary screamed to the doctor. “It’s already past 260! He’s gonna die!”
“I DID!” the medic yelled back. “He should’ve pressed his switch and gone up. What’s wrong with him?” He looked at the screen. 270 and counting up. “Wait, what’s this? What the fuck is he doing?”
The image was dark and blurry, but they all could see Brice’s hands fidgeting with the main karabiner over his head. The fingers groped until they found the gate. They pressed gently on it and the loop opened. With the other fingers he grasped and slid free the attached cables.
The camera started to drift gently, sending to the surface images of an unfathomable, undisturbed blackness.
“Gary!” he called. The chief organiser was softly chatting a few feet away with an unknown underling, but he immediately broke his conversation and came to Brice. “Yes?”
“I need silence now. Please tell those journos to knock it off and try to make the rafts shut their engines too, please.”
“Right away,” Gary said and he was off, slapping the back of the underling en passant. Brice watched him stride to the nearest guy and tell him to speak lower, then continue on to the next one.
When the noise has abated a little, Brice closed his eyes again and started to breathe deeply. He turned his attention to his heart. Years of yoga training had given him an acute awareness of his body, and partial control over some automatic functions like heart beating. Not that he was able to stop or start his ticker at will, but he could slow it down quite effectively. Three months ago, combining this faculty with ample breathing, he was able to reach eighteen pulses per minute, and he knew he could still probably get even slower, to the skepticism of his personal doctor.
Meanwhile the technical aids were checking the diving gear for the last time: pulleys, karabiners, inflatable balloon, ballast, graduated plumb line, emergency signals, everything had to be in perfect order. A single flaw could lead to catastrophe. The whole kit and caboodle had already been tested dozens of time. It was foolproof and there was no reason for anything to go amiss, but better play it hundred percent safe.
After twenty minutes or so, Brice nodded slightly. The platform on the edge of which he was seated moved round, pulled up by chains linked to a crane installed on the deck. The platform pivoted until it was over the water, then was lowered gingerly. As soon as it reached the sea level, assistants swarmed in to lock Brice’s harness to the line and put in his half-closed hand the “command” switch. A single press on it would jettison the ballast and trigger the chemical reaction which would inflate the balloon and lift Brice back to the surface without the need to move a muscle.
When all was done and checked, the assistants retreated and the platform was lowered again until all remained awash was Brice’s head. The cameramen on board zoomed in on it, trying to capture the facial expression in the very last moments before the dive. The doctor eyes were locked on him too, and his right hand clasped a stopwatch.
Everyone on board was edgy. Paradoxically, only Brice seemed to be fully relaxed, as if he’d lost contact with the external world and taken shelter inside an invisible shuck. His head was still, his eyes were closed, his neck was licked by the wavelets that wrinkled the surface of the sea. He seemed to be asleep.
This lasted for long minutes, until all of a sudden Brice’s mouth opened wide, then clapped close. He sunk under the water. The plumb line shuddered, a few bubbles surfaced and that was all. He was gone.
The doctor punched the stopwatch button and everyone gathered around and turned their attention to the TV screen that relayed the images taken by the camera attached to the gear. There was hardly anything to see aside of floating hair and a tangle of cables. Sometimes a couple of bubbles would float up, darting through the screen like shooting stars in the sky.
Thirty seconds.
Brice was sinking flat out into the depths. He kept his eyes closed – what was the point of opening them anyway? Within seconds the dim light of the sun that hit his retinas, oozing through the water and piercing his eyelids faded and he found himself in the night. A false night in which he should stay as long as possible.
The funniest were the “dreams”. It wasn’t really dreams, because he wasn’t sleeping, but it hadn’t found a better term to describe what he was experiencing. To him, it had always felt as if his mind was closing up, warping up his whole life in a few minutes. Memory of long lost forgotten things would bubble up from his subconscious: faces, scenes, landscapes. He had heard people claiming the same phenomenon had happened to them when they stood at death’s door, and he believed them. After all, what was apnoea but the closest state to death?
Slowly the darkness receded as flashy blue lights loomed ahead and…
“Will he survive?” the voice off dad asked.
No audible response. A siren was blaring and although he didn’t feel his body move, he knew somehow he was moving. Rushing ahead. Barrelling. But where? What had happened?
“Two minutes without breathing. He’s only three,” an unknown voice eventually declared.
He was aware of something strange over his face. He cracked his eyes open. He saw dad, seated on a rough plank fixed to the walls of a cramped room. Two other men watched devices and screens he had never seen before. He tried to speak but nothing escaped his mouth, as if he was gagged. He cast a glance at his arms. Both were strapped to the doss he was lying on and a needle had been planted into his right elbow. He fixed it with horror, wanted to scream, to move, to tear this needle out of his arm but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move a muscle. He couldn’t yell. A wave of pure,
primeval fear punched him in the face. He screamed silently, choked, wriggled, windmilled his arms that couldn't move, drowned… Another siren bleeped, closer and louder, and a merciful breaker of darkness engulfed him into oblivion.
Dad barged into the bathroom. “Brice. My watch please!” he said earnestly. The tub was almost full of water and Brice lay in it, his face down and hidden by his floating hair. Dad bent over the tub and poked Brice’s back, who jerked with the surprise of it and rolled over in the tub, splashing water around.
“What?” Brice said, panting.
“My watch, son.”
Reluctantly, Brice reached out and handed the waterproof watch to Dad. “But it was only two minutes and ten seconds.”
Dad sat on the rim of the tub. “Brice, I already told you to stop those stupid experiments!”
“But Dad, I mean, it’s cool. It’s like being a dolphin and I’m sure I can reach three—”
“One of these days, you’re gotta get yourself drowned. You barely escaped death the first time, remember?”
Brice sighed. “Okay Dad. I didn’t mean to aggravate you. I’m sorry.”
Dad bent and pecked Brice. “It’s okay son. You just be careful. This is no safe game you’re playing. Right?” He smiled, and Bruce returned his smile halfheartedly.
“One minute forty-five seconds,” the doc said. On the control monitor, digits were counting up. 60 metres, 63, 66…
“Is it true he can hold up to fifteen minutes?” a journalist asked.
“Fifteen ten is his personal record measured in a pool. Prolly world record too, though he never bothered about measuring it officially. But I’m sure he can do a few seconds more if he really needs it.”
“How the hell he’d do that?”
“Mystery. Apparently his brain is able to shut down into an oxygen-saving mode, something no one else can do. Gives him a tough resistance to hypoxia.”
“Hypowhat?” Gary asked.
“Hypoxia. Low oxygen condition, what you expect during apnoea.”
They both turned their attention to the figures on the screen. A minute. Just over 200 metres.
Mum and Brice sat around the kitchen table. It was late evening, and the red light of the sunset seeped through the open window.
“E+. That won't get you anywhere Brice! Do you realise that?” Mum yelled, her face crimson with anger.
Brice shifted on his chair. “I do my best, Mum,” he said and shook his head. “I just… I just don’t get it. I’m sorry.”
Mum sighted and relented. “What am I going to do with you. If only your father was still alive…”
“What about the insurance?”
Mum glared at him. “What insurance?” she yelled. “Your dad was a fucking scientist who slogged all his life in a laboratory so that other people could cash what he discovered. His insurance? Pssht!” She wavered in the air. “Goodbye college. But anyway, what’s the problem? With grades like those, you can shove college up to your wazoo.”
Brice looked down to his plate and hushed. Silence fell, and both finished the dinner without talking. When it was over, “Mum?”
“Yes?”
“The guy at the swimming pool wants to see you. He says I could probably do something with my ability to stay under water for minutes.”
Mum sighed again. “All right. I’ll call him tomorrow.”
The door was closed, and Brice couldn’t really hear what was going on on the other side, unless he pressed his ear against it, but the odds were too high it would open and he would be caught red-handed.
He was pacing back and forth in that little room, ignoring the row of plastic chairs that lined the wall. He looked at his hands, but there was no nail he could reasonable afford to gnaw on anymore. He had spent all his ammo.
All of a sudden, the door opened, and the large figure of the sergeant appeared on the threshold. “Come in!” he said in a deep voice. Brice trod in, and the sergeant patted him on the back as he walked through the threshold. “Sit please!” he said, gesturing towards the chair next to the one Brice’s mother sat in. Brice sat in turn, and the officer did the same behind his desk.
“Right,” he began, “Me and your mum have reached an agreement. We both believe you unusual apnoea ability could be really precious to the army, my boy. Every so often, we have to carry out delicate missions where standard scuba divers just can do. Like sneaking through underwater crannies or like. You mum said to me you were thrilled to serve your country?”
“Well… her… yes sir?” Brice replied, half-fazed.
“Then the army is just everything you should care about!” He put forward a document on the desk. “This is your contract, lad. Sign here, and I promise you the best of future. Action, thrill, adventure. You’ll voyage all over the globe and rub shoulders with the most daring and dashing guys you could ever meet, and you’ll become part of them. You’ll be brawny and tanned, every girl on the planet will dream about having sex with you. Welcome to a brighter world, kid.” He handed Brice a big pen.
Brice picked up the pen, bent over the desk and tried to read what was written on the document, but it was all in fine prints and even the little he could make out didn’t really make sense. This was all over him, in a way. He turned his face to look at mum, who nodded. “Go ahead,” she said. “You’ll never find a better job offer in your whole life.”
Half-reluctantly, Brice uncapped the pen and underwrite the document with the squiggle that was his signature at the time.
”Five minutes and thirty seconds,” the doc announced. The depth-meter was still running at full tilt. Minus 150.
“How long will it take for him to surface back?” a reporter asked.
“About a minute if he goes down to 250. The balloon is full of gas, but pressure and water resist against the ascent.”
”That must be factored in, right?”
“He’s aware of this. He’s not rookie, you know?”
Minus 160.
162.
That dive of San Diego’s downtown was sleazy. Brice sat with three friends at a table, chatting and knocking beers back. They were on shore leave after a gruelling mission involving the delivery of spoofing devices on the keel of a Russian vessel.
“Hey,” his neighbour poked his ankle into his hip. “Check out that blonde over there!”
Brice looked up in the direction his friend was cocking his head at and there she was, sitting on a bar stool, alone, sipping an unknown cocktail of a strange, flashy colour with a straw. Natural blonde it seemed, quite busty, with a skimpy skirt and high heels. Twenty, twenty-five at most. Toothsome bimbo.
Brice laughed. “Fuck you, Franck! Look at her. Nice piece of ass, agreed, but she’s a whore. Sticks out like a sore thumb.”
“Bet she’s not. Hookers are made up and lipsticked and freaky as hell. This one only seems to have knocked at the wrong door. Besides, what? You can dive for minutes and put bombs under submarines and you’ve got no balls to walk up to a looker and ask her for nookie?”
“Come on Francky boy, why don’t you you go yourself?”
“I would, but you know I’m engaged, right? So can’t do that anymore. Honesty blah-blah. It’s your turn now. Show us all you’ve guts with gals, too.”
Brice grimaced. “You’re a fucking asshole Frank, but I love you the same.” He slapped Frank’s back, scraped his chair back and inched his way to the bar next to the girl. He ordered another draught beer then turned to her.
“Hey, know what? I’ve been to thousands of places but I’ve never seen a cocktail look like this. What’s in it?”
The girl eyed him curiously. She had nice green eyes. He was jacked up and tanned, and his pale blue eyes and short chestnut hair added up to make him a really attractive boy. So had some of females he had met told him, but he had to check it independently.
“Nothing fancy. That’s just fruit and rum,” she said, “but with drops of fluorescein added to make it glow with the dark light.” She pointed to the ceiling, where several dark violet tubes were set.
Brice whistled. “Smart guys,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” she nodded. “You’ve been to thousands of places? You’re a sailor?”
Brice smiled. “Yes… well…” He hesitated. “Not really. I’m with the Navy. Special task force.”
“Wow. What do you do exactly?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell about it. Delicate missions, that’s all I can say. Hey—” her glass was empty now. “Want another of your extraterrestrial cocktail?”
She giggled. “Would you?”
“Sure!” he said, and hailed the bartender.
“Seven thirty past. Minus 220. That’s within grasp of the world record,” Gary said.
“Are you ready to activate the signal?” the doc said. “As soon as he breaks to 250, we’ll warn him to go up.”
“He can’t go deeper?” Another journalist wondered.
“Past 250, the pressure becomes very difficult to fight off. Your ribcage can be crushed anytime. That’s 25 bars, don’t forget. One bar every ten metres. There are limits to what the human body can endure. I’m not sure anyone could get much deeper, even if he could hold his breath virtually forever.”
Minus 230.
Sex was over and they were both lying in bed, naked, covered in sweat. Temperature had not dropped under 80, and the night was torrid, in every sense of the word.
She clasped his hand in hers and rolled over in the bed to face him. “That was fabulous,” she said.
He lay supine, his gaze mesmerised by the spinning of the ceiling fan. He didn’t answer, just pressed her hand harder. They remained still for a couple of minutes, with only their labouring breathing keeping them company.
“Do you know,” she carried on eventually, “what I’d like from you the most?”
He turned his head toward her. “No?”
“A baby.”
He closed his eyes and sighed. He was expecting something along the lines of a wedding, and he was even prepared to welcome it. But that? Why so suddenly? Why now?
“Julia, I love you more than anything else in the world, but I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he protested.
She withdrew her hand. “And why’s that?”
“I can’t do that, darling. I’m away ten months every year. When I go, I never know if I’ll return and when. That’s no way to raise a child. A child deserves a father who is close to him. Someone who’s there. A true father, not some sort of ghost. Believe me, I know that.”
“That’s why we should do it right now. I can’t take anymore of it Brice. You going and me waiting for months without even knowing where you go and when you turn back. I want that baby so that I can have you by my side even where you’re gone.”
”You’re already unhappy with my life, but yours an adult, chose to share it. He or she would live the same way, but wouldn’t’ve chosen it. I can’t let that happen. No way. I’m sorry,” he concluded sternly.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, her back facing him. “Is that you last word?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. He crawled towards her and reached to her back.
“Don’t touch me!” she shouted, and there were tears in her voice. She stood up, walked through the bedroom door and closed it behind her.
The next evening, when he came back, she was gone.
“Fuck! Click that fucking switching you moron,” Gary screamed to the doctor. “It’s already past 260! He’s gonna die!”
“I DID!” the medic yelled back. “He should’ve pressed his switch and gone up. What’s wrong with him?” He looked at the screen. 270 and counting up. “Wait, what’s this? What the fuck is he doing?”
The image was dark and blurry, but they all could see Brice’s hands fidgeting with the main karabiner over his head. The fingers groped until they found the gate. They pressed gently on it and the loop opened. With the other fingers he grasped and slid free the attached cables.
The camera started to drift gently, sending to the surface images of an unfathomable, undisturbed blackness.
Pics
For some reason, the first scene had me thinking that this was a politician ceremonially offing themselves. Perhaps because of the way they ordered people around.
The first few transitions were jarring, in that they were unmarked and the descriptions of him struggling and drowning bred concern he was doing it in the main story, too.
Once I got oriented with the flashbacks, they worked effectively - the two threads braiding together in a way that built to a strong finish.
The first few transitions were jarring, in that they were unmarked and the descriptions of him struggling and drowning bred concern he was doing it in the main story, too.
Once I got oriented with the flashbacks, they worked effectively - the two threads braiding together in a way that built to a strong finish.
This is an excellent opening. It manages the flow of information perfectly. It doesn't lecture; It just gives us the concrete details, the immediate events – but lays them out so as to explain with clarity and economy exactly what's going on.
And by the time we're into the flashbacks, I'm even more impressed. This liquid style, slipping from one moment to the next without structural cues. It's a gamble, but it pays off. It entwines perfectly with events of the story so far. And best of all, it seems like part of the same credo as the intro: There's no hand-holding here. No extraneous information to thump the reader with. But the unobtrusive clarity of the narration makes it perfectly obvious what's going on.
And, of course, their content works too. We see a continual progression here, illuminating more of what's going and demonstrating why it's important.
That said, I'm a little uncertain about the scene with the journalist and the doctor. It looks like a cutaway to what's really happening, but it could be part of Brice's memories/ A bit of imagination perhaps? That would explain the slightly-off casual aspect to the scene. Anyway, given the competence on display here, I'm willing to give it the benefit of the doubt.
(It's also odd, now that I think of it, that they're not mentioning pressure effects, which would certainly be there at 200 metres deep.)
Then at the next scene … things start to go wrong.
“Mum yelled, her face crimson with anger.”
And later:
“Your dad was a fucking scientist who slogged all his life in a laboratory so that other people could cash what he discovered.”
Ouch! Reading these, especially against what came before, feels like you'd slipped out of key. “Crimson with anger” is verging on cliché – and besides, there are better ways to get anger across. Yelling like that itself has a touch of the melodramatic. And the scientist dialogue is clearly, clearly aimed at the reader. It feels utterly false.
250 metres in a minute? Okay, so I'm no expert here, but that seems like you're asking for decompression sickness. (For reference, safe SCUBA ascent rates are 30-60 feet per minute.)
And the ending.
Hm.
Structurally, what you've got it very sound. Filling out the meaning of present events with backstory is one of my favourite techniques, and you do it admirably, up to and including your twist. You don't telegraph it to soon, but a creeping sense of dread starts to kick in near the end.
And yet ... I don't feel satisfied. The conceit here is clever and interesting. The backstory was less so. It verged on being cliché and melodramatic. They feel a little too engineered – it's clear their purpose is to explain why Brice did what he did rather than to fill out his character.
Still, this is the top of my slate so far.
And by the time we're into the flashbacks, I'm even more impressed. This liquid style, slipping from one moment to the next without structural cues. It's a gamble, but it pays off. It entwines perfectly with events of the story so far. And best of all, it seems like part of the same credo as the intro: There's no hand-holding here. No extraneous information to thump the reader with. But the unobtrusive clarity of the narration makes it perfectly obvious what's going on.
And, of course, their content works too. We see a continual progression here, illuminating more of what's going and demonstrating why it's important.
That said, I'm a little uncertain about the scene with the journalist and the doctor. It looks like a cutaway to what's really happening, but it could be part of Brice's memories/ A bit of imagination perhaps? That would explain the slightly-off casual aspect to the scene. Anyway, given the competence on display here, I'm willing to give it the benefit of the doubt.
(It's also odd, now that I think of it, that they're not mentioning pressure effects, which would certainly be there at 200 metres deep.)
Then at the next scene … things start to go wrong.
“Mum yelled, her face crimson with anger.”
And later:
“Your dad was a fucking scientist who slogged all his life in a laboratory so that other people could cash what he discovered.”
Ouch! Reading these, especially against what came before, feels like you'd slipped out of key. “Crimson with anger” is verging on cliché – and besides, there are better ways to get anger across. Yelling like that itself has a touch of the melodramatic. And the scientist dialogue is clearly, clearly aimed at the reader. It feels utterly false.
250 metres in a minute? Okay, so I'm no expert here, but that seems like you're asking for decompression sickness. (For reference, safe SCUBA ascent rates are 30-60 feet per minute.)
And the ending.
Hm.
Structurally, what you've got it very sound. Filling out the meaning of present events with backstory is one of my favourite techniques, and you do it admirably, up to and including your twist. You don't telegraph it to soon, but a creeping sense of dread starts to kick in near the end.
And yet ... I don't feel satisfied. The conceit here is clever and interesting. The backstory was less so. It verged on being cliché and melodramatic. They feel a little too engineered – it's clear their purpose is to explain why Brice did what he did rather than to fill out his character.
Still, this is the top of my slate so far.
Yeah, no. I tried reading this, but the writing is probably the lowest quality I've seen so far, with lots of telly language and just incorrect, awkward construction. If the opener wasn't so poor, it might have been more forgivable, but I'm afraid I couldn't get very far into this story. I had trouble following what was going on, and the ideas and characters here didn't really grab me either. The dialogue, too, seemed really forced, crude, and just generally clunky.
For example:
This just doesn't feel like actual dialogue. It feels like bad dialogue from a bad movie. And I can't even really tell what they're trying to say? Like, argh. I'm having trouble even engaging with the events of the story because of this.
Sorry I don't have a more complete review for you, but this generally just needs a hell of a lot of work.
For example:
The next evening, when he came back, she was gone.
“Fuck! Click that fucking switching you moron,” Gary screamed to the doctor. “It’s already past 260! He’s gonna die!”
“I DID!” the medic yelled back. “He should’ve pressed his switch and gone up. What’s wrong with him?” He looked at the screen. 270 and counting up. “Wait, what’s this? What the fuck is he doing?”
This just doesn't feel like actual dialogue. It feels like bad dialogue from a bad movie. And I can't even really tell what they're trying to say? Like, argh. I'm having trouble even engaging with the events of the story because of this.
Sorry I don't have a more complete review for you, but this generally just needs a hell of a lot of work.
Well, that was quite a dive.
As >>Scramblers and Shadows said, the strongest point of this story is the back and forths between past and present. You chose to not having clear breaks between them and that was risky, but you managed to handle that very well. I haven't been lost one single time. So great job with that.
As for the writing, I can't really say if it's awkward or not. I'll just say that your points came across and that's at least something.
Some dialog felt a bit over the top, unfortunately. While it conveys your message, it feels a bit forced, like here
A kid asking about insurance after her mother reminded him his father was dead, I don't buy it.
Even if there was some clichés here and there and some awkward moments, I still enjoyed the story. That will be a mid-tier for me.
As >>Scramblers and Shadows said, the strongest point of this story is the back and forths between past and present. You chose to not having clear breaks between them and that was risky, but you managed to handle that very well. I haven't been lost one single time. So great job with that.
As for the writing, I can't really say if it's awkward or not. I'll just say that your points came across and that's at least something.
Some dialog felt a bit over the top, unfortunately. While it conveys your message, it feels a bit forced, like here
“What am I going to do with you. If only your father was still alive…”
“What about the insurance?”
A kid asking about insurance after her mother reminded him his father was dead, I don't buy it.
Even if there was some clichés here and there and some awkward moments, I still enjoyed the story. That will be a mid-tier for me.
I'm afraid I'm with >>Pearple_Prose on the down side for this one. it started off well enough, looking like some David Blaine publicity stunt, but then suddenly it's about joining the army, and cruising for sex with "Francky boy you you," and then surprise, it was suicide all along, exclamation point, question mark, question mark, question mark. I feel like somewhere along the line I got duped as to what this was trying to do and how I was supposed to engage with it.
The fundamental problem here for me (well, one of them) is that I did not find the story elements convincing. I can accept a premise of this guy having a magic power to hold his breath. I can kind of sort of accept the abusive childhood. The military recruitment, though, and everything else following from it? No. Suicide at the end? Super no. Dude got dumped by one girl. It's just not believable, just a succession of cliches jumping around with no coherence or effort put into making them believable.
The other fundamental problem, as the other comments have said, is that the prose side of this needs serious work.
All I can say is read more, think about your own writing, read it out loud to yourself carefully, and focus on trying to improve it.
The past/present juxtapositions do work, kind of. That's probably the best part of the piece. However, the reason why they work is that the ending makes them irrelevant. There's no need to go back and figure out what the people screaming numbers were talking about, because the guy dies at the end anyway, so none of the other action in the present really matters.
So, this is going near the bottom of my votes. I hate to sound so negative though. The intro was pretty good. Try going back to that and working around a single clear idea, and double check your narrative for consistency and conveying the themes you want it to. Thank you for writing, though!
The fundamental problem here for me (well, one of them) is that I did not find the story elements convincing. I can accept a premise of this guy having a magic power to hold his breath. I can kind of sort of accept the abusive childhood. The military recruitment, though, and everything else following from it? No. Suicide at the end? Super no. Dude got dumped by one girl. It's just not believable, just a succession of cliches jumping around with no coherence or effort put into making them believable.
The other fundamental problem, as the other comments have said, is that the prose side of this needs serious work.
Sex was over and they were both lying in bed, naked, covered in sweat. Temperature had not dropped under 80, and the night was torrid, in every sense of the word.
All I can say is read more, think about your own writing, read it out loud to yourself carefully, and focus on trying to improve it.
The past/present juxtapositions do work, kind of. That's probably the best part of the piece. However, the reason why they work is that the ending makes them irrelevant. There's no need to go back and figure out what the people screaming numbers were talking about, because the guy dies at the end anyway, so none of the other action in the present really matters.
So, this is going near the bottom of my votes. I hate to sound so negative though. The intro was pretty good. Try going back to that and working around a single clear idea, and double check your narrative for consistency and conveying the themes you want it to. Thank you for writing, though!
This is extra nitpicky, but wouldn't nitrogen be an issue as well? Or am I insane?
Anyhow, see >>Ranmilia here. I really don't have much to add beyond that. Honestly, this might have been better if this were a significantly shorter and much more emotionally evocative piece, focusing on the feeling of the depths and why that drives him to let go. Like I'm actually quite surprised we don't have a much tighter metaphor in place.
Anyhow, see >>Ranmilia here. I really don't have much to add beyond that. Honestly, this might have been better if this were a significantly shorter and much more emotionally evocative piece, focusing on the feeling of the depths and why that drives him to let go. Like I'm actually quite surprised we don't have a much tighter metaphor in place.
>>Ratlab
>>Scramblers and Shadows
>>AndrewRogue
>>Ranmilia
>>Fenton
>>Pearple_Prose
So this was a rough idea more or less inspired by the 1980’s French cult film Le Grand Bleu by Luc Besson (that I haven’t seen). It was written during a four days weekend on my iPhone in the few spare time I had (kids and stuff) for the first third. The other two-thirds were written Monday between 8 and 12:02 GMT at work while… doing work. I could nor edit nor proofread nor even have a look back on what I’d written when I got finished, so it was 100% raw. Like, you know, line breaks and such. Aragon, you’re right. The dialogue you emphasised as being especially bad was jotted down at 12 GMT probably. No wonder it was awful.
Some remarks:
Nitrogen is not a problem with apnoea. There’s no decompression stops because the diver doesn’t breathe underwater, so there's no supply of gas at a higher than atmospheric pressure. It's like being in a submarine. The problem is that the external pressure pushes on your lungs and the ribcage can be crushed if pressure rises too high.
So sorry for delivering (again and again) such a rough ride. I shouldn’t have submitted it, and I apologise. Many thanks to Scramblers, and Fenton, though ❤️.
See you maybe not next round but the one after.
>>Scramblers and Shadows
>>AndrewRogue
>>Ranmilia
>>Fenton
>>Pearple_Prose
So this was a rough idea more or less inspired by the 1980’s French cult film Le Grand Bleu by Luc Besson (that I haven’t seen). It was written during a four days weekend on my iPhone in the few spare time I had (kids and stuff) for the first third. The other two-thirds were written Monday between 8 and 12:02 GMT at work while… doing work. I could nor edit nor proofread nor even have a look back on what I’d written when I got finished, so it was 100% raw. Like, you know, line breaks and such. Aragon, you’re right. The dialogue you emphasised as being especially bad was jotted down at 12 GMT probably. No wonder it was awful.
Some remarks:
Nitrogen is not a problem with apnoea. There’s no decompression stops because the diver doesn’t breathe underwater, so there's no supply of gas at a higher than atmospheric pressure. It's like being in a submarine. The problem is that the external pressure pushes on your lungs and the ribcage can be crushed if pressure rises too high.
So sorry for delivering (again and again) such a rough ride. I shouldn’t have submitted it, and I apologise. Many thanks to Scramblers, and Fenton, though ❤️.
See you maybe not next round but the one after.