Novel Treatments / Revelations (chapter 2) (Analysis)
CHAPTER TWO
The fire in the storm
It had taken less than five minutes for the entire hallway to be consumed with blackened smoke. Francis’s face was covered with sweat, and drying soot that was crisping to his cheeks. His panting had become heavy, and cough morefrequent. Once he’d crossed into the hallway, he began choking uncontrollably. Clinched in his arms was practically every sheet and towel from the linen-closet; along with the comforter taken from his bed. They dragged behind him like the tail of a dragon making way to the layer. The sheets stained a slippery trail of black water along the hard-woods floor.
His eyes had been bothering him since he’d departed the kitchen, but now, they were constantly being dusted black after each blink. So he’d lodged the knots of his index fingers deep in his eye sockets cleansing them out. After, because he couldn’t see past the smog, he kept his them closed, brushing along the hall wall as a guide. He should’ve left the house by-now. But, he’d be damned if he were going to let his mother, along with a life time of their memories burn to ash.
So he’d marched on, choking on the thick air, spitting out globs of gooey mucus all over the floor. The smoke was becoming too much, he stopped, then pulled the same sheet that was soothing his burnt body over his mouth, holding it, with his un-scathed hand. He took a deep breath into the sheet. It wasn’t fresh air, he thought, but it would do. He carried on dragging to the kitchen.
MINUS FIVE MINUTES
Francis had hugged his arms around his mother crying himself to sleep, where, shortly after, his eye lids began shuttering, and a faint sweat started percolating from his bottom, all the way, to his brow. Francis had a wider imagination then most children; maybe, this was one of the reasons he’d comprehended things far beyond his years. Although, he’d very rarely, ever, remembered any of his dreams, unbeknownst to him, they’d impacted him in ways he couldn’t possibly have imagined. His mother, Mandy, had been a strict believer in his education, that’s why she’d taken it upon herself to give him the education, that, she’d known he would need to survive in this world. History was amongst his favorite subjects, and she’d certainly felt it was the most important subject for him. The paintings she would create for him, at some-times, could be stroked with such vivid colors, that at night, after he’d fallen into that other world, that place of dreams, he’d felt somehow he’d taken part in its design, as if it were, with his own hand, that, actually helped forge history. In a way, like you and me, he was conflicted, he’d lived two lives, his life when he was awake, and his dark life, of that of when he’d slept.
It was dark now, like it always was here, in this world, he walked in the ruins ashes crumbing below his feet. Francis got startled, stopping in his tracks, at the sight of figure amongst the flames. The fire was so bright, yet, this figure, whom, was surrounded within them, was shadowed. The flames seemed to obey its every movement. This figure walked toward Francis, and the fire, moved along with it, leaving it unburned, leaving it unthreatened, and the sky above followed in it darkness leaving it shadowed within light. This figure resembled that of a man, yet, Francis had the strangest feeling that this was no man. Something deep down in the pit of Francis’s stomach choked him tightly, Francis, suspected that this figure only contained the shell of a man. Francis had become quiet accustomed to knowing his own body and how it would tell him things. Like right now, he was in danger and he’d known there was no mistaken that. Anytime his stomach choked on him like a belt, five notches beyond tight, he knew, at the least, to be weary his surroundings, something was a miss.
Francis had a good inclination to run as far away from this figure as he could, but he didn’t, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, he stood there frozen, mesmerized as this figure and its flames came burning closer. It’s stopped, then the flames swirled underneath its claws forming a pool of fire, at the same moment, its, ring of fire halted inches from Francis’s naked feet. Francis glanced down for a moment noting that the fire barley gave off any heat, he’d cocked his head up, peering past the flames, looking this creature in its dead eyes. There was something oddly familiar lingering about, he thought, although, Francis couldn’t place it. Its eyes turned from deep midnight black, to mirroring the flames around it, Francis looked deeper into its eyes, and he couldn’t believe his own sight: He saw himself, and he was burning up in a baptism of fire. A second before he woke up the figure proclaimed: “It’s time!”
Francis sprung to life, stinking of sweat, and lingering smoke that had crawled up his nostrils. “The stove!” He yelled, unclasping his mother’s body and leaping to his feet. Above him, he saw the faint thread of smoke that twirled its way in the bedroom. In strides, he ran under the plume of smoke, brushing past the yellow glow of antique lights that lined both walls of the hallway.
The kitchen was filled with a mild smoke similar to that of a morning haze. Only this haze slightly irritated his eyes, and wasn’t terribly pleasant on his lungs either. Francis closed his fist and coughed into the curl of his fingers. He’d looked at the flames on the stove letting out a sigh of relief, for a moment, he’d believed, that this house, which has been in his family since the Napoleonic Wars, was going to smolder because of his own hand. Thank the lord it wasn’t, and his heart could begin thumping normally again.
He stuck the plug into the kitchen sink drain and started filling it. The water pressure was superb, the basin was filling quickly. Then, Francis hopped on counter, folding to his knees. He’d flipped the locks on the windows divider up, then jumped to the ground, spinning the gears on the sill. With a pop, above the backyard, the windows slowly swung outward.
In the smaller pan, the potatoes had turned to hard coal like rocks, and smoldering from them, vented a silver smoke with no flame. In the other pan, the grease had ignited. That’s all! The bacon itself left nothing for the flames to consume; they resembled frail twigs floundering cowardly beneath the fire. The flames on the other hand were actually quite the spectacle. Blue and amber fires danced high above the pan, and every once and a while, a rouge sparks flew out, spectacularly fizzling away in the air. But at no time did the flames come near anything combustible.
Francis turned the burners off, then he’d grabbed the handle of the flaming cast-iron pan and lifted it off the grill top. He spun, ready to plunge it into the water, but…
Before he’d felt any initial pain he’d smelt the skin on the palm of his hand melting. His instincts screamed for him to release it, but he couldn’t, not yet! His ears shriveled from the crisp clear sound of sizzling flesh. He should’ve put on an oven glove, like he’d watched his mother do, a thousand times over. He rushed to the sink, screaming in agony, fleeting to dump the pan. The handle began to slide from his fist, he knew, if he dropped he’d have real problems. The blood sputtered, and he shrieked, as he clamped down forcefully on the burning handle.
Unfortunately, despite all his best efforts, the pan still slid from his grip. It tumbled, belting his thigh, before assaulting the floor with a clunk. Most of the grease slid down his leg, with a blaze, splattering wild flames everywhere.
This pain resembled nothing he’d ever experienced before. This pain, cut into his body like a sharp blade, mutilating everything along the way. The flames incinerated the leg of his pajamas; and the grease – like acid – burned away all the fleshy tissue underneath them.
Screaming was the only thing Francis could do. He screamed so loud that some of the pedestrians on the street took notice. He screamed calling for his mother, begging her to please help him. This pain was so unbearable he’d almost forgotten she died, or maybe, they were the only words that made any sense.
Francis fell back, then using the palm of his good hand and pushing off with the heel of his good foot, he’d scurried safely away from the wild flames on his buttocks.
Meanwhile, his pajamas were still burning and the flames had reached his chest. He’d cringed, sucking air through his clinched teeth, until he’d stomped out the fires with both hands. Francis’s whole body throbbed. Bloodied puss, oozed from freshly tattered soars, and others were rapidly rising along his torso. His leg looked like it been mutilated with a pick ax, but he had other troubles.
In just a few short moments, the fire had spread to the surrounding cabinets around the stove. Francis didn’t know what he was going to do, but something had to be done now. He’d flipped to his chest, grunting like a mad dog as he pushed himself to his feet, using only his good hand. He’d balanced himself best he could, keeping no stress on his chard foot. He suspected he’d tumble over if he’d weighted on that foot, and he’d have been right. He balanced himself along the wall with his healthy hand, advancing forward, erratically, dragging himself sideways skipping along with his good foot, leaving the other lagging behind staining the floor with blood.
He’d raced into the bathroom, and wasted no time in placing the rubber plug into the tub drain. Then he grabbed a handle with the only hand he could, forcing it with all his strength. Both handles on the claw foot tub were difficult, especially the cold cross. That had to be turned off with extra force, otherwise it dripped. (Mandy hated leaky faucets, so Francis made sure they never dripped.) After a brief struggle the stem opened. The water sounded so refreshing spilling into the tub, its breeze kissed his face like an angel. And, for the first time in Francis’s life, he would’ve liked to enjoy a nice long healthy bath. A bit later, he thought, limping to the closet across the hall. He yanked open the door, sunk his arms until they hit wall, then he’d scooped out every sheet on the shelf. He returned to the bathroom and dropped them in the tub.
The linens sponged up the water sinking to the bottom.
Next, he’d reached in the tub pulling out a drenched bed sheet. Large amounts of water splashed his feet, rolling in-between his toes, and dripped to the floor. He didn’t care. He’d liked it. The cold droplets were soothing to the open wounds on the curvature of his foot. He’d wrapped the sheet, gently, around his battered body. Now he’d known what it felt like to be in heaven. It felt like diving in the ocean on clear hot sweltering day. Relief-at-last!
He looked in the tub. He’d need more sheets, or better yet…
He ran down the hallway, eyes continuously filling, coughing and wheezing on the ever thickening smoke, with the agility and speed of an asthmatic toddler first learning to walk. The voice of reason was telling Francis to get the hell out of the house: Run past your bedroom as best you can. Twirl down the stairway, however you can. Get to that front door, anyway you can. Just get out of this house, while you still can!
His instincts on the other hand wouldn’t allow him to leave. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew how to put this fire out. Just like a year ago, he’d known exactly how many knives were in the drawer, and like that time, that he’d known that his aunt Linda died. Mandy didn’t receive the phone call until following morning. It was just one of those many things he’d known, and concealed from his mother. He knew these things would frighten her, and he couldn’t bare that thought, she was his mother. Still, he’d always felt that sometimes she’d looked at him a bit odd, usually in the thick of night.
He entered his bedroom and pulled his comforter from his bed. He was going to put this fire out, because he knew things, and one of them things was just that, he’d put this fire out. He’d left his room, dragging along his bedspread, and wrenched his eyes clean. His face glazed over in soot, coughing along the way, wheezing short quick breaths.
He constantly coughed, like a heavy smoker of over thirty years, spitting black gobs to the floor, and wheezing for simplest of breaths. Finally, he got some sense and pulled the blanket over his mouth, filtering the air. The black cloud became so thick, the only visible guide to navigate the hall, the ever so faint yellow lights floating above him.
Once he returned to the bathroom he shut the door behind him. For some reason unbeknownst to him, the brunt of the smoke remained in the hallway. Don’t get it wrong, it was still no treat in here. His eyes still watered, and they still burned. He was still coughing, and his body was still covered with burns. Regardless, of all his discomfits, it was still better than being out there.
He hadn’t taken notice at what point it happened, till now, but most of the pain in his body was gone. If he’d thought it was because he wrapped himself in the wet sheet, he was only partially right. He’d also had flow of adrenaline that was flying off the charts, along with dying and dead nerve endings; his body was, quickly, slipping into shock.
Francis plunged the comforter in the filling tub, with each thrust, water cascaded over cooling his toes on the floor. It was making a horrible mess, but he hadn’t cared, it felt good splashing against his skin. He’d deal with the mess later, that is, if he could put this fire out. Once, the entire blanket was soaked, he closed the water valve to the tub. He was ready to smother these god forsaken flames. With his arms full, carrying, a quickly draining blanket and sheets, he’d opened the door crossing the threshold with a cough.
He brushed along the wall to his right with closed eyes, holding a sheet to his face, until he felt the wall vanish behind him. Once it did, his eyes opened to black slits, and he surveyed the kitchen. The flames were devouring the hardwood floor and had spread, almost reaching the pantry closet. They ate up the cabinets, around the stove, and if the wall hadn’t been of yellow brick it would be climbing that too. All Francis saw was smoke and amongst it a roaring glow.
He dropped the laundry, his heart sunk to the pit of his stomach, before he heard the sound of wet sheets smacking the floor. This was too much, then reconsidered whether to fleet from the home or not. Foolishly he stayed, coughing and wheezing into the thin sheet that had been rendered almost useless; it had dusted over and dried out. He needed a better respirator, and soon. His head was getting fuzzy, lungs tired, he felt like he could lose consciousness at any moment. He needed something thicker, damper, something that would cling to his face tightly, allowing him to free his only strong hand.
Francis wasted little time in grabbing a fresh wet sheet from the pile at his feet. Quickly, he wrapped it around the bottom half of his face, stopping below the eyes, stringing it several times, before tucking it below the chin. This was better, he thought, only worse, his lungs were already working on overdrive to draw even the faintest of breaths. He still coughed, and wheezed, it was unavoidable, but at least he could breathe – a little.
After, he’d clenched the heavy blanket, leaving his eyes open not more than a sliver, before walking over to the flames. His foot splashed in a puddle, then the other skated in. Momentarily confused, he glanced down. Of course, he remembered, the sink was still running! Its basin had filled pouring water to the floor. His ears zoned to its subtle undertone, which sung, beneath the ripples and crackles of the fire. He continued walking, on water, the blanket surfing behind. Then he clamped tightly down on the corner of the blanket with both hands, his burnt hand painfully pulsating into the comfort of the wet material. Once his grip was iron-clad he lashed it on the flames and back again.
The blanket scorched the flames on the floor ahead, then, came splashing back to the pool behind him. It was working; Francis was pushing away the flames. Then, he’d lashed the blanket to his left and to his right and down the center again. After he’d scorched the fire back, he advanced forward, ready, for another blistering attack. He’d fought on, until, he smothered the flames on the floor, then shifted his whip to the cabinets. He struck and lashed the flames like a Mississippian plantation owner of the 1820’s, beating it down until there was nothing left. He had done it! He’d put out every last flame.
Francis was utterly exhausted by the time he freed his grip from the heavy blanket. He’d been coughing and gagging, so hard for so long, his lungs felt like they were burning. It had become so every time he’d coughed he’d conjure up a solid lung, but because the sheet was curled around his face, he’d swallow. This last time his mouth started salivating like a mad dog wearing a mussel, and his stomach churned. He realized that he couldn’t stop its flow. He’d pried his fingers in-between the wound sheet, stumbling over the wet floor, to the open window, nearest to the sink, fighting to unravel it from his face, but he couldn’t, it was wrapped tight, like he’d wanted it.
Panic is a rather amusing object, don’t you think? Makes even the simplest of tasks feel imposable, doesn’t it? From the moment it attacks you with that first wave, something about you changes. For most people the change is only but a fraction, and it’s in this minuscule fraction, that for some people decides whether they live or die.
He heaved forward, stomach pumping, and almost broke his head on the countertop below the open window. He’d used both hands, pulling at the tropical blue rag as he choked on the contents of his stomach, then he’d slipped to the wet floor.
From the open window a cool gust of air began clear the smoke, from the floor he continued pulling at the sheet, but, by the time the smoke had mostly washed away, his body was limp. He had choked to death. In the end Francis was reminded of every movie his mother had ever taken him to at “The Regent Theater.” Once every film concluded, like now, the picture always faded to black. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to our show.
He’d listened to water in complete darkness; it splashed to the floor, one last time, soothing his body. He thought now that death had summonsed him it wasn’t as terrifying as he’d once imagined it’d be. It’s true, his life had been short and he had not lived the greatness he felt was predestined, but, filling Francis completely was a comforting peace – soon – he’d be in heaven with his mother and that was alright.
“Oh my dear child can you hear…..” a voice said before Francis’s ears went dead.
CHAPTER THREE
The mysterious Dr. Jonathan Churchill
The flight into Paris’s Charles de Gaulle International Airport was a bumpy one, he’d arrived toward the swift end of a storm, she had danced her way around Europe, and it looked like, France would be her last stop, she were heading out to sea. It wasn’t a violent lady, just a typical reminder, which, sprung, fall to life.
Dr. Jonathan Churchill buttoned his long black trench coat and placed his hat on his head, before settling from the airport with a matching umbrella, its current function was a walking stick with a bone carved handle. In his other hand, he’d carried, a small tan luggage suitcase. This were to be a short trip, most likely, he’d be on his way to Oxford in three days.
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Whew. Got lots of things I wonder about here.
First of all, you drew me into Francis’ ordeal with the fire. You painted an excellent picture of the inferno that he was trapped in, that he was attempting to fight, but you left me with questions, especially when you ended the chapter? Did he die? What happened to his mother? When is this taking place? You talk about a film, but he never goes to a phone, never calls for help. Neighbors on the street walk by and must have been able to see that something was happening, yet they never offer to or go for help. Why? And is someone going to find out what happened. And how old was Francis anyway.
This third chapter does not seem to fit into the story. Is the character you are talking about mentioned earler? I think when you post novel treatments, it’s best to leave the introduction of new characters for another posting.
Two things I noticed. One was the switching of tenses. Sometimes it works, but here it didn’t. And you tend to overuse commas and break your sentences up where you shouldn’t.
But then again, you did say this was a rough draft. I’d like to see it cleaned up.
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As you say this is a draft so you already know that it could be tightened up a little. I’m also writing this as I read each page so I may write something only to have it contradicted by something later.
The first paragraph is overly descriptive imho and should be streamlined. For example you mention he is coughing frequently then the next sentence you mention he is choking. Similarly with the second paragraph which talks about his eyes – I would maybe lose the part about trying to cleanse out his eyes – just tell us he can’t see and his feeling his way along the walls. Another minor note – you use the word “so” quite a lot – maybe you should try and substitute or delete a few of them. Oh yeah, “layer” should be lair if you mean the den of a dragon.
The whole part about his mother and his imagination seems redundant and just slows down the scene. Its well written but sometimes you have to get rid of nice stuff just because it doesn’t serve the story.
“Mistaken” should be mistaking. “Pool of fire” “ring of fire” too close to each other – lose one. “Barley” should be barely – there are several typos like this throughout the manuscript but it would cost too many points to lis them all. Again, I think you need to pare down the description a little to make things move faster – there’s a lack of urgency in this version.
The transition from dream to waking could stand a little work. You start with “a second beofore he woke up” this tells the reader that it is a dream and kind of spoils the suprise. Delete it and make the transition more jarring – end with something like “The figure spoke in a throaty whisper, ‘it’s time’”
You say that Francis is stinking of smoke which is presumably from the burning stove – however he has just woken from a dream. Would he not be disoriented and perhaps think that he really was burning like in his dream for a few moments until he realises what is really happening?
“Smolder” usually implies something not quite on fire. I think you need a more active word to get the point across that he has nearly burned the house down.
More streamlining needed – too much detail about opening the windows etc you don’t need it.
“floundering cowardly”??? have floundering or cowering but not both! Personally, I think cowering works better – I associate floundering with water.
The guy takes like seven pages to burn to death which would suggest you can cut a lot of the detail from this draft. You need to make every word count. As a reader I felt my attention starting to wander with every page which is not a good sign.
The idea is a good one but I think you need to draft this again.
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