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In a word: Incline

When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.

I’ve been on a few of those in my time.

And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.

For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.

Did I say ‘Iron Horse’?  Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.

It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast

But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay.  I’m sure it’s happened more than once.

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.

An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?

There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation.  Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.

But, you never know.  Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

Hang about.  Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?

I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!

Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.

I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?

Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.

Right now.

 

I pick up the pen.

 

Character number one:

Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing.  Still me, but with a twist.  Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance.  Yes, I like that.

We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons.  It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated.  There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.

Character number three:

The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.

Oops, too much, that is my old boss.  He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him.  Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him.  Last name Benton.  He will play a small role in the story.

Character number four:

Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.

More on her later as the story unfolds.

So far so good.

What’s the plot?

Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers?  No, that’s been done to death.

Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world.  Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people.  That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people!  There will be guns, and there will be dead people.

There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around.  That’s better.

Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.

All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.

Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work.  He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks.  The phone rings.  Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down.  He’s needed.  A few terse words, but he relents.

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 147

Day 147 – The electric and risky expose

…

The Sediment of Truth: When Does Reportage Become a Book?

In the immediate aftermath of a crisis—the sulphurous air of a frontline, the cold sweat of a stakeout, the hollow silence of a bleached coral reef—the writer’s instinct is to scream the truth. You want to get the raw data, the names, and the atrocities onto the page before the world moves on to the next news cycle.

But there is a cavernous difference between the report and the book.

As a journalist covering high-stakes, specialised beats, you are living in the “now.” A book, however, asks for “then.” If you rush the transition, you produce a long-form article that loses momentum. To write a book that is both electric—charged with the visceral energy of your experience—and risky—truthful enough to challenge power and expose systems—you have to master the art of the retreat.

So, how much time must pass? The answer isn’t measured in years, but in the sedimentation of experience.

1. The Cooling Period: Defusing the Adrenaline

When you are in the thick of a war zone or tracking cartels, your brain is operating on a survival loop. Your prose, written in that state, will be reactive. It will be frantic, defensive, and likely too focused on the “I.”

A book requires a wider lens. You need the time (often 12–24 months) to let the adrenaline leave your bloodstream. When you reread your notes after the “cooling period,” you’ll realise that the story isn’t about your bravery or your fear; it’s about the structural collapse of a society, the supply chain of the drug trade, or the irreversible ticking clock of the climate. You cannot see the architecture of the story until the smoke clears.

2. The Contextual Pivot: From “What” to “Why”

Daily reporting answers the “what,” the “who,” and the “where.” A book must answer the “why.”

To transition from reporter to author, you need distance to see the patterns. Did the tactical errors at the border change the trajectory of the war? Was the local drought you covered merely a symptom of a global carbon feedback loop?

If you write too soon, you are trapped by the mystery of the event. If you wait, you are empowered by the wisdom of the aftermath. You need to see the start and the finish line—or at least the trajectory—to make the narrative electric. Without the benefit of hindsight, your book is just a chronological diary. With it, it becomes a thesis.

3. The Riskiest Phase: The “Safety” Window

The “risky” part of your request is the most delicate. If you are writing about drug traffickers or war criminals, there is a tangible danger to your sources and your own safety.

Writing a book—which has a longer shelf life and a wider reach—can put people back in the crosshairs. This is where the time between reporting and writing becomes a moral necessity.

  • The Cooling Window: Wait until the power dynamics have shifted. Have the cartels moved territory? Has the regime changed?
  • The De-identification Process: You need enough time to have distanced yourself from the specific, identifiable moments so you can blend narrative with anonymity. Writing too soon keeps you bound to the specifics that might cost someone their life.

The Litmus Test: The “Grip” Factor

How do you know you’re ready? Ask yourself: Can I write this without needing the notes?

When the details are no longer just entries in a notebook, but have become part of your internal landscape—when you can describe the smell of a village in the heat or the specific cadence of a trafficker’s voice without looking at a transcript—you are ready.

If you still need the notes to reconstruct the scene, the scene hasn’t finished living in you yet.

The Verdict

For a book that hits like a physical blow, aim for the two-to-three-year mark.

  • Year One: You are too close to the trauma.
  • Year Two: You are beginning to see the systemic patterns.
  • Year Three: You have the perspective to be “electric”—to write with the cold, sharp precision of a surgeon rather than the frantic shaking of a triage nurse.

The world doesn’t need more news. It needs the sediment of your experience turned into a diamond. And diamonds, as we know, are created only through the immense, patient application of time and pressure. Don’t rush the process; the truth will still be there waiting for you when you’re ready to carve it into stone.

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself, as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters, Harry and Alison, other issues are driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact that he has a beautiful and desirable wife, his belief that she is the object of other men’s desires, and, in particular, his immediate superior’s.

Between observation, the less-than-honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, and she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, is that nothing is ever what it seems.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 38

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

 

“So, Jacobi, tell me what I don’t know.”

I was taking the track slowly and keeping within a short distance of the cars behind me.  The road was little more than a dirt track, and in places, there were almost un-navigable ruts.  We would not have got a truck down this road.

He looked sideways at me.  “You know as much as I do.”

“That’s not possible.  I know nothing.  You set this up.  Tell me about the leader of this group.  Is he the heard of his own militia group?”

“An area commander of a larger group spread out across the top of the Republic, bordering onto Sudan.  They get their guns and other military hardware across that border.  Where we’re going, it’s their main camp in this location.”

“How many men will be here?”

“Twenty, thirty.  Sometimes they train new recruits.”

“Those militia back there, were they his people?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do, Jacobi.  And I think if you want to come out of this alive, you might consider giving me all the facts.  If they were his men, there could be ramifications if they don’t report back, especially if he was expecting to add to his payday.”

“Even if they were, there’s no communication lines out here.  They would have to report back to the camp first.  And then there’s the possibility with all the money they were supposed to collect, there might be a detour.  It’s why I think they asked for 10,000 rather than the 5,000.  The commander was going to take a cut.  Loyalty only goes so far in these places.”

“No likely surprises?”

“None that I’m aware of.  You killed them all anyway.  Dead men do not get up, walk back to come and inform.”

No, they didn’t.



A mile to go I saw the rear car stop for a few seconds and Monroe and Stark get out and disappear into the bush.  The chances were they could walk through the bush faster than we could drive on the track, and beat us there.

And, then, the checkpoint was in sight, a pair of empty petrol drums with a piece of wood across the road, each end resting on a drum.  Behind the barrier were three men, one I presumed to be the commander, the other two, guns at the ready, his guard.  Behind them was a clearing with several buildings and to one side several huts that might belong to some villagers.  There were a truck and two Toyota tray utilities parked to one side.

All in all, I could see about ten men.

When I reached the barrier, I stopped but left the engine running.  Just before we arrived, I gave the order to hide the hand weapons.  It was risky going in unarmed, but the chances were they’d take the guns if we were wearing them.  This way, if we needed them, there was a slight chance we might be able to retrieve them.

Both Jacobi and I got out.  I left my door open.  Jacobi closed his.

“Sergeant James, I presume.”  Good English, beaming smile, friendly manner.

“I think I know how Dr. Livingston felt.  I am he.”

A puzzled look for a moment, then the resumption of good nature.  He didn’t understand the nuances of British history in Africa.

There was no handshake, none was expected.  Jacobi stepped forward.  “I assume the packages are here, and in good condition.”

“Of course.  I assume that you have brought the exchange material.”

“We have.  Now, if we can just park these cars, we can get on with the exchange.”

“In a hurry, Jacobi?  Somewhere else to be?”

“Yes, as it happens.  I’m a busy man, as you are aware.”

Politeness disappeared from his face as quickly as the sun sometimes went behind a cloud.

The commander looked over towards a hut just back from the road, one I hadn’t seen from the car because it was hidden by a grove of bushes.  Two men came out.

“Move the barrier.”

As they did, he said to me, “Tell your men to get out of the vehicles and come slowly up the track.  My men will bring the vehicles into the camp.  Tell them also not to make any sudden or suspicious moves, or there will be trouble.”

A glance back showed another four of his men, also armed, appearing out of the bush towards the driver’s side of the cars.

I’d brought the radio and gave them the instructions the commander had given me.

Five minutes later, we were standing outside one of the huts, the cars were parked neatly in a row, and each of us had been frisked as I thought we would.  The four who acted as drivers were now our guards, not with weapons trained on us, but they could be very quickly.

The commander waited until the guards at the checkpoint had replaced the barrier, then came striding towards us.  I could see he was counting heads and seemed perplexed by the time he reached us.

“Men are missing.  Where are they?”

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2020

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction.  He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from the eye socket to the mouth, and he was wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologised as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down.  He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognise later in a lineup.  I stepped to the other side, and so did he.  It was one of those situations.  Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I went towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic.  I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone.  I shrugged and looked at my watch.  It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk?  I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station.  What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’.  I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light.  As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tyres.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high-powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini.  I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car.  It was that sort of car.  I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him.  I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on.  The moment had passed, and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter.   Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure.  I was no longer in a hurry.

Next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot.  A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring.  I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road.  I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realised I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar.   It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did.  There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me.  It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me.  As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger was a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man.  He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long, cold winter.  I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in.  I would have a few drinks and then leave through the back door if there were one.

Just in case.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

newechocover5rs

The Cinema of My Dreams – It ended in Sorrento – Episode 60

One less enemy to worry about

…

There was no doubt at that point that Vittoria and the fake countess were working together, and Vittoria knew who she was.

I helped Juliet sit up against the wall and fetched her a wet towel to put on the back of her head.  After a minute or so she seemed better.

“Did you know the countess wasn’t the countess?” I asked her.

“I just did as I was told.  I think we’re both being used in one way or another, Evan.”

I was beginning to think that too.

Vittoria, of course, had to protest, “What do you mean the countess is a fake.  She is not.  If anyone would know it would be me.”

“Can I shoot her now?” Cecelia asked.

“Do something with her, but don’t leave a mess.”

Cecelia hit her with the gun butt, and she slid to the floor, unconscious.  She was not going to be of any use to us, so it would be a call to Alfie to get the cleaners.

“What the hell was that for?” Juliet was upset.

“Did you go to a farm when Vittoria and the fake Countess went to talk to a man called Dicostini?  Think long and hard before you answer.”

She did.  “I can’t say for sure, I was told to stay in the car.”

“At a farm, another vineyard?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think they made you stay in the car?”

Another moment to consider the question.  It wasn’t hard, even for her.  “So I couldn’t tell you who it was we saw.  They didn’t trust me.  It seems everyone I meet or know doesn’t trust me.”

“Do you honestly think that woman is your mother?”

“Honestly?  No.”

“Well, I don’t think she is either, but I’ve got people working on it.  And, like it or not, you’re working with us now.  Please don’t let me down.”

She sat there for a few seconds or perhaps it was a minute, during which I found I was holding one of her hands.  It was an odd feeling that went through me.

Not the time to get distracted.

“Why are you giving me a chance?”

“Let’s just say I’m hoping you’ll find a way to redeem yourself before I have to hand you over to the authorities.”

“And if I do?”

“I might give you a ten-minute head start.”

I tied up Vittoria so she couldn’t get free or make a noise, then called Alfie and told him we had a package to pick up.

Cecelia tidied up the room so it wouldn’t look like there’d been a kidnapping, and then we put Vittoria in one of the beds and set her out like she was asleep.

If the housemaids came they’d be none the wiser.

Juliet recovered and I cleaned the wound.

It was then she worked it out.  “So, if that other countess was fake, where’s the real countess?”

“Being held where you went yesterday, or another place owned by that man.”

“When did you make this discovery?”

“After speaking to Anna.  She doesn’t know the real countess is missing, nor does anyone else know there is another person also missing, which is basically why Cecelia and I are here.”

“What do expect me to do?”

“Help me find them.  There will be two teams and a few properties to search.  And now that we’re finished here, we’re leaving.”

I helped her to her feet.  “Can you walk?”

“I got hit on the head, not shot in the leg.”  She sounded a little annoyed.  I was not surprised.

“Good.  Save that anger you’re feeling.  You’re going to need it.”

© Charles Heath 2023

The 2am Rant: We’re out in the country

Or almost

When you venture out from the city, particularly this city, you find yourself among the blocks that run to several acres, allotments that are ideal for keeping a horse or two.

Inner suburban living often runs to high-rise apartment blocks, with no gardens, except perhaps on the roof.

Outer suburban living runs to individual houses on allotments that are from 600 to 2,000 square meters. We have not yet gone into mass building of duplexes or terrace housing because, for the time being, we don’t have the population.

And, this is why you only have to go about 35 kilometres from the centre of the city to be able to buy acreage.

So, we are visiting, and on such a glorious day, it’s a pleasure to sit on the back verandah, spending some time soaking up the sunshine, breathing the country’s fresh air, and letting the inspiration flow into the writing.

It works.

I’ve managed to write another photograph-inspired story, number 151, which will be published on my writing blog in the next day or so.

Also being tackled will be the next episode of PI Walthensen’s second case, nearing 60.

Unfortunately, though, the inspirational location didn’t afford me a title for this new case, but it will have the opening three words “A Case Of…’

The rest, I’m sure, will come as the story unfolds.

What I learned about writing – Horror stories

From Gothic Gloom to Psychological Dread: The Evolving Art of Horror

The chill that creeps up your spine when you read a truly terrifying tale. It’s a sensation as old as storytelling itself, yet it continues to evolve, morphing and adapting to the anxieties and imaginations of each new era. When we look back at the foundational figures of literary horror, like Edgar Allan Poe and Mary Shelley, we marvel at the sheer ingenuity of their creations. But understanding how they conjured such potent nightmares is key to appreciating the genre’s enduring power, and how authors like William Peter Blatty and Stephen King have, in turn, reshaped its landscape.

The Seeds of Terror: Poe and Shelley’s Gothic Visions

When Edgar Allan Poe penned tales of premature burial, haunted houses, and descent into madness, he tapped into a deep well of human fears. His horror wasn’t always about external monsters; it often lurked within the human psyche. Poe, a master of atmosphere and psychological introspection, drew inspiration from:

  • The Grim Realities of His Time: Poe lived through periods of significant social upheaval and personal tragedy. His own experiences with loss, poverty, and mental illness undoubtedly fueled his explorations of the darker aspects of the human condition.
  • Gothic Literary Traditions: He inherited a rich tradition of Gothic literature, with its crumbling castles, spectral apparitions, and brooding protagonists. Poe took these tropes and infused them with a more visceral, psychological intensity.
  • Scientific and Philosophical Debates: The burgeoning interest in science, death, and the nature of consciousness during his era likely played a role. He explored the fragility of the mind and the terrifying unknown that lay beyond the veil of sanity.

Similarly, Mary Shelley’s creation of Frankenstein wasn’t born in a vacuum. Her “modern Prometheus” was a product of:

  • Intellectual Circles and Revolutionary Ideas: Shelley was surrounded by Romantic poets and thinkers who debated the ethics of scientific advancement and the very essence of life. The scientific experiments of the time, aiming to understand and even replicate life, provided a fertile ground for her imagination.
  • Personal Loss and the Fear of the Unnatural: Shelley experienced profound grief with the loss of her mother and later her own children. This personal experience of death and the potential for “unnatural” creation likely fueled her exploration of a being brought to life through artificial means and the subsequent tragedy that ensued.
  • The Power of Myth and the Sublime: The idea of creating life, of playing God, is an ancient human fascination. Shelley tapped into this, blending it with the Romantic fascination for the sublime – the awe-inspiring, yet terrifying, power of nature and human endeavour.

Both Poe and Shelley, in their distinct ways, explored the anxieties of their times, the fragility of the human mind and body, and the intoxicating, often dangerous, allure of the unknown. Their horror was deeply rooted in the human experience, albeit amplified and distorted for terrifying effect.

The Evolution of Fear: Blatty and King’s Transformative Impact

Fast forward to the latter half of the 20th century, and the landscape of horror had broadened considerably. Authors like William Peter Blatty and Stephen King didn’t just build upon the foundations of their predecessors; they fundamentally altered the architecture of terror.

William Peter Blatty and the Resurgence of Supernatural Dread:

Blatty’s The Exorcist was a seismic event in horror. While supernatural threats existed before, Blatty’s novel brought a visceral, intensely religious horror to the forefront. His genius lay in:

  • Grounding the Supernatural in the Real: He took a seemingly ordinary family and an everyday setting and plunged them into extraordinary, terrifying events. This made the horror feel all the more potent because it could, theoretically, happen to anyone.
  • Exploring Faith and Doubt: The Exorcist delved into the battle between good and evil, faith and disbelief, and the terrifying possibility that malevolent forces could possess and corrupt even the innocent. This psychological and spiritual dimension resonated deeply with audiences.
  • Unflinching Realism in the Face of the Unexplained: Despite the supernatural elements, Blatty presented the demonic possession with a horrifyingly realistic depiction of physical and psychological torment, blurring the lines between the tangible and the infernal.

Stephen King: The Master of Modern Anxiety:

Stephen King, arguably the most prolific and influential horror writer of our time, has transformed the genre by making the mundane terrifying and by tapping into the collective anxieties of modern life. His impact is multifaceted:

  • Relatable Characters and Settings: King excels at creating ordinary people in extraordinary, often horrifying, circumstances. His characters are flawed, relatable, and deeply human, making their struggles against the forces of evil all the more compelling. His settings often feel familiar – small towns, suburban houses – making the intrusion of horror feel all the more shocking.
  • The Breadth of Horror: King’s monsters aren’t confined to ghosts or demons. He explores cosmic horrors (like in It), technological terrors, the monstrousness of human nature, and the psychological horrors of addiction, grief, and trauma. He’s a chameleon, masterfully adapting to and defining various subgenres of horror.
  • The Power of Childhood Fears: Many of King’s most iconic stories tap into the primal fears of childhood – the monster under the bed, the lurking stranger, the loss of innocence. He understands that these early anxieties can linger and become even more potent in adulthood.
  • Social Commentary Woven into Terror: King often uses his horror narratives to explore social issues and contemporary anxieties, from racism and prejudice in The Outsider to the emptiness of consumer culture in The Long Walk. His stories are often a reflection of the world around us, amplified to terrifying proportions.

The Throughline of Fear:

What connects Poe and Shelley to Blatty and King? It’s the fundamental human capacity for fear, coupled with the author’s ability to tap into our deepest anxieties, whether they are existential dread, the fear of the unknown, the fragility of sanity, or the encroaching darkness in the seemingly ordinary.

Poe gave us the internal descent into madness. Shelley showed us the terrifying consequences of unchecked ambition and the “unnatural.” Blatty brought the battle between good and evil into our homes and churches. And King, in his vast and varied career, has made us question the safety of our neighborhoods, the demons within ourselves, and the terrifying possibilities that lurk just a page away.

The art of horror is a constantly evolving beast. It adapts, it transforms, and it continues to enthral us by reminding us, in the most exhilarating and terrifying ways, of our own vulnerabilities and the vast, mysterious darkness that surrounds us. And for that, we owe a deep debt.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 146

Day 146 – Writing exercise

After what happened, he knew that his first day at the post office was also going to be his last.

…

Of course, it depended on what your version of a post office was.

To most, it was a place where one went to buy stamps and put mail into collection boxes, and where letters and parcels arriving there were sorted and delivered.

To a select group of people, charged with protecting the country and its people from foreign intervention, a post office was something completely different.

It was a post where a selective group of experts worked, a team of operatives, their handler, the researchers, the briefer, the supply chain.

Those posts were called post offices and their employees were postal workers.

We had post offices all over the world, though it would be true to say that when overseas, they were part of the embassy or consulate.

We coexisted with other services, those more well-known and had a much higher profile.

It was the perfect cover, because anyone clever enough to hack into the post office computer servers would find we were all simply ordinary people.

Who did extraordinary things.

Sometimes.

….

As the officer at the training establishment said when we were given a departing lecture before getting our first assignments, we put the secret into a secret agent.

Most of us thought that was amusing, being only ten out of the two hundred that applied.  I had only applied as a joke, after spending two years roaming Europe after graduating from University.

I didn’t want to become a lawyer, and had fought the family tradition as long as I’d could until succumbing to pressure.  Like father, like son, like his father before him.

It was more about power and wealth, two things I was not interested in.  Call it rebellion, but unlike my brothers and sisters, I did not like the life that it afforded us.  Perhaps once, but once you mingle with the less fortunate, you get to see the world as it really is.

It was something my gather couldn’t understand.

So, according to my parents, I went off the rails.  I became the black sheep, the one everyone has; the others turned out just fine, thank you.

I saw them once before I finally disappeared, when they were in Paris at the apartment that my paternal grandmother had bequeathed to my father.

She had died the week before, and I made the effort to go to her funeral.  She had understood my disdain, though she did not understand why I stayed away.

I meant to stay out of sight, but my sister, Eileen, had seen me standing back from the others and came over, at first not recognising me.

She was not as bad as my brothers, had her moments of both acquiescence and rebellion, but had settled down to follow tradition.

I had expressed disappointment and our last words were harsh.

I watched her come over, trying to figure out who would turn up at a funeral and not want to be seen.

It was cold, but it was not why a shiver went down my spine.  Fear?  Maybe, but I just saw my father, and that brought back a far worse memory.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

“Does it matter?”

Then her expression changed.  Recognition.  We could change our appearance, sometimes radically, but not our eyes or voices.  Especially in a moment where we forget we’re playing a role.

“Gerry?”

I sighed.  “Don’t tell the rest of them I was here.  They wouldn’t understand.”

“And i would?”  There was a touch of anger in her tone, not surprising.  “Where have you been?”

“Bumming around Europe.  You know,  I sent postcards.”

To her, no one else.  Whether she kept them or tossed them in the bin was of no consequence.

“Yes.  When you felt like it.  Are you coming home?”

“No.”

“You going to see the others?”

The thought had crossed my mind until I remembered the last argument with both my parents.  I had expected some support from my mother, but she just agreed with my father.  It was the deciding factor in leaving.

“No.  I got sick of the same old arguments.  Dad cut me off, so I learned to fly on my own.  It’s a whole different world out there.”

“You’d cut your nose off to spite your face, Gerry.  You finished your law degree, then wasted it.”

That was my father speaking.  She had a mind of her own.  Once.  Now she had folded perfectly into the family mould.

“Law is boring.  Working for my father would be even more so.  We both know his attentions are firmly focused on the prodigal son, James.  The rest are just pawns to be manipulated.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

I shook my head.  She would, like the others, never understand.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Diplomacy with the state department.”  It was the go-to explanation of our lives to anyone we used to know.  “I get my first posting in a few days.  It’ll probably be somewhere in Africa, knowing my luck.”

She looked me up and down, and I suspect she didn’t believe a word I was telling her.  She was the only one who could tell when I was lying, though I was a lot better at it now than back then.

“So, this is it, and you’re off again.”

“I’m the black sheep, Sis.  The stain on the family name.  I think I have reached Uncle Harry’s level of infamy.”

“So that’s what Dad was going on about.  The one in every generation.  Wow.  Despite the fact you’re nothing like him.”  Then she rounded on me.  “Unless you are.  What’s really going on with you?”

I could imagine my father filling her head with nonsense.

“I simply chose a different vocation.  See the world, help solve crises before they become crises, not help criminals get away with murder.  I’m sorry if I have a conscience, and it doesn’t suit family values.  I think I’ve seen and heard enough, Eileen.  Tell them you saw me or not, I don’t care.”

It was foolish of me to think they might have changed.  They had not.  If anything, my father had succeeded in turning my siblings against me, and if that was the case, so be it.

It made it easy for me to just walk away and never see them again.

…

I was sent to Rome for my first posting.  In the briefing with the assignments officer, I was told that the handler, Jacob Weissman, was old school, a man who had a particular way of doing things, and he expected obedience.  He was also in the last year before retirement.

It was also the office with the highest turnover of agents.  The incentive to go there was that if I lasted the distance, I would be considered for a leadership role.

It wasn’t particularly high on my list of priorities; I was more interested in getting experience in the field first, and that generally took five years at least.  If you survived.

I flew to Rome on a Wednesday and was due in the office on Thursday.  I’d been to Italy and Rome before, post graduation and didn’t like it, instead staying in Florence, and getting lost in the ancient history.

The Rome post office was in a back street, cobbled roadway and ancient bricks, making the inside very cool compared to the heat outside.

There was a man in a suit sitting at a desk with a computer and, no doubt, a gun ready to shoot anyone who looked like trouble.

I gave him my letter of introduction, which was specially coded and verified by fingerprint.

He gave me a temporary pass that got me into the main office, where I was met by the administrative officer and taken to the situation room.  There, the panel was waiting.

Jacob Weissman, handler and Head of Station.

Rebecca Abernathy, Administrative Officer.

Julie Grassmier, Operations Manager.

Bethany Myers and Jack Blumenthal, the research team.

Five on one side of the table and me on the other, just like my university admissions interview.  Not a welcoming smile among them.  I had expected one or more agents to be in attendance.

Jacob opened the file he had in front of him.  It was thin, with plenty of room for additions.  It held the documents from the training camp.

“Gerald Walker.  Any relation to the Pittsburgh Walkers?”

There would be nothing about any relation to anyone in the file. The interview at the training camp made the same association, which I denied.  Different branch, distant relatives, we didn’t associate with them for obvious reasons

“We have the same surname.”

“Not the answer to the question I asked.”

I could see that Jacob and I were not going to get along.

“No.  No relation.”

I looked at the five faces in front of me, and not one was friendly.  I could see why there was such a large turnaround of agents, and how easy it could be that the first day could be the last.

Jacob looked especially unwelcoming.

“We do things differently.  We do not usually take new recruits out of the Academy, but we’re a man down and apparently you’re it.  We do not like mavericks or loners.  You will proceed to the brief.”

“As you wish.  What about liaising with the local authorities?’

“If you come in contact with them, which you should assiduously avoid at all costs, then you will come to me, and I will handle it.”

“Do they know about us?”

“They do nothing unless it is necessary.  You are expected not to put yourself in their way.  They take a very dim view of us working on their patch, so discretion is necessary.”

“Is there an assignment?”

“One is in development.  Get acquainted with Rome while you can.”

The folder closed, the interview, introduction, whatever it was, was over.  My only impression from it, Jacob was a micro-manager, and it was going to be impossible to work with.

…

From what I remember of my last visit to Rome, it had a lot of ancient sites, and we had made a point of visiting most of them.

It was a period when my sister had decided she was going to study archaeology and that her father would be happy to sponsor a dig somewhere in Egypt or Italy, preferably near the Mediterranean, so she could stay on a yacht.

Her father wasn’t particularly pleased, humoured her and like everything she did, it lasted a month or two; then he declared it boring and moved on.

She still stayed on the yacht for a few weeks with her suitably impressed friends.

I wasn’t that interested then, but this time I bought a guidebook and decided to go full on tourist.

That first day I visited the Colosseum and tried to imagine what it was like back in the days of ancient Rome and the people who had graced the seats looking down on the carnage that was supposed to be ‘games’.

Like throwing Christians to the lions.

Like Gladiators fighting to the death.

Like accidentally noticing a particular woman who was following me, or perhaps it was my overactive imagination.

It felt like the home team were putting me through a few exercises to see if they hadn’t made a mistake putting me in the field.

So the watcher became the watched.

I considered the odds of anyone even knowing that I was in Rime, and if they did, why I was there.  Unless it was mandatory for all staff passing through the embassy. An exercise to keep us on our toes.

I saw her five times, one actually looking in my direction.  She did not appear to be with anyone else, but good surveillance required more than one person and preferably a four-man rotating squad.

I moved to the city ruins not far from the Colosseum, and it appeared she had not followed me.

The next day, I visited the Trevi Fountain, and while sitting back having a cup of coffee, I found her, trying a different disguise but nonetheless easily identified to the trained eye.

She was definitely following me around.

Having planned to visit and got a ticket for the Parthenon, I took my time before heading to it in an annoyingly slow stroll that made it difficult for surveillance. 

Once outside, I waited for my moment, dodged her and went inside.  As soon as she couldn’t see me, I knew she’d follow me in.

Inside, there was nowhere to hide, so I took up a posting by some columns not far from the entrance.  Of course, my interest was not entirely taken up with the surveillance team; right now, it was in the large concrete dome that had been standing for a very long time.

Certainly a lot longer than our man-made structures.

I watched her do a circuit of the main hall and end up standing next to me.  Was it a deliberate move to unsettle me, or something else?

She knew that I knew she was following me.

That meant, as far as I could tell, she was one of the Italian police forces, the plain clothes suggesting a branch of the Carabinieri.

She looked sideways at me and had a half smile.  “You are a very interesting man, Gerard Walker.”

I shrugged.  It was a bit late to play the confused or apprehensive tourist card.  “You have me at a disadvantage.”

“As it should be.  Your handler, for want of a better description, knows the rules and yet he continually breaks them.  That would indicate he has not told you the ground rules for operating in this country.”

“Probably not, but I  have specific instructions from the people back home, which I’m sure you are aware of, of which I promised to observe “

The smile widened.  “Words, Gerald Walker, words you believe I, and my superiors want to hear.  Your predecessors went down the same path, and they did not fare well.”  She handed me a card.  “Before you launch World War Three, give me a call, and time, day or night.  You will find that cooperation with the appropriate authorities will make life for you much simpler and safer.  My compatriots sometimes shoot first, then ask questions.  Have a nice tour.”

“You should be my guide “

“I have criminals to catch and watch over errant spies.  Never a free moment.”  She sighed, then left.

To be honest, for a moment, I believed she was trouble, whether working for Italian law enforcement or not.

How could she possibly know I was in the city and what I would be doing there, unless…

Someone in the embassy told her.

Or she had more on the inside, reporting everything.  If it was, my money was on Jacob, trying to boost his retirement fund before leaving.

Working with local authorities was always part of the transparency catchphrase people like you think was a manageable option, but it wasn’t.  There were things that no one needed to know beyond the objective being achieved.  The how was almost always by any and all means available.

Using the phrase kill or be killed always seemed unpalatable, and no one, if they were not personally faced with a life or death situation, would ever understand.  I hadn’t yet, but the point was, until you are, taking a life was never a good idea.

It was described to us as the worst-case scenario.

Another was having your cover blown

Effectively, the moment she approached me, my usefulness was over.  Clandestine operations only worked if you remained clandestine.  That she and her whole department knew meant I should report it and ask for reassignment.

I had to consider that it was Jacob’s intent all along, not only for me but also for others in his group.  The question to ask was why?

…

I doubt officers back in the training establishment ever expected to hear from their graduates again, unless sent back to hone their skills or learn new skills and techniques.

I was determined to break that mould.  The problem I had was being caught out before I started.  I was not sure that had happened before, or if it had, whether it was significant, or a stain on my record.

I called a number for emergencies only.

And left a message.  Typically, there was no one on the other end.  After an hour had passed, I believed that no one really cared, that this was a test, and I was failing miserably.

Two hours later, my cell phone rang.  I was sitting in a park watching the rest of the work
I’d been getting on with their lives, and I was beginning to believe this was not what I expected or wanted.

What had happened to the other candidates before me who had found themselves in a sticky situation?

I answered with a noncommittal, “Yes?” As per protocol.

“Your mission, in case you haven’t worked it out by this time, is to find who it is that is betraying our agents to the local authorities.”

“That wasn’t explicitly expressed.”

“You have to read between the lines.  If you hadn’t come to a similar conclusion, you would not have called.  We have lost three agents in the last 12 months.  Find them.”

“The leak is not at your end?”

“No.  Handle it any way you see fit, but it stops now.  Understood?”

“Understood.”

I felt rather than saw a person sit on the other end of the bench, odd, because there were several free nearby.

A glance took in the woman who had accosted me earlier.

“No criminals to be chasing down?”

“Only errant spies.  I believe you made a call.”

I tried not to look shocked, but I was not that clever yet.

“How…”

“I’m paid to know everything, yet surprisingly often still left in the dark.  My superiors must thing is need to know, and I need to know.  You and I, I’m told, are about to become good friends.  We are seeking the same person.”

“Who are you?”

She smiled.  “I believe I am what you might call the Cheshire Cat.  She looked over at another bench where a man was sitting.

He wore a trenchcoat, smoking a pipe and reading, or pretending to read, a newspaper.

“Go over to the conspicuous man on that bench, and he will verify who I am, and give the code word your masters gave you back home.  I’ll wait.”

This was like a bad 1960s spy movie.

I shrugged.  It was either going to be an interesting assignment, or my life was over before it started.  Either way, at least I got to see the Ancient Roman Ruins.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Searching for locations: Paris, France: Place de la Republique

Whilst a rather important place for the French, for us visitors, it has a convenient hotel located just behind the square, and an underground, or Metro station, underneath.

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Added to that was equally convenient cafes, one of which, The Cafe Republique, we had dinner every night.  The service and food were excellent, and we had no problems with the language barriers.

At the top of the monument is a bronze statue of Marianne, said to be the personification of France.

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Surrounding Marianne is three more statues, representing liberty, equality, and fraternity.

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At the base is a lion guarding what is said to be a ballot box.

In a word: Line

The English language has some marvellous words that can be used to have any number of meanings

For instance,

Draw a line in the sand

We would all like to do this with our children, our job, our relationships, but for some reason, the idea sounds really good in our heads, but it never quite works out in reality. What does it mean, whatever it is, this I’d where it ends or changes because it can’t keep going the way it is.

Inevitably, it leads to,

You’ve crossed the line

Which at some point in our lives, and particularly when children, we all do a few times until, if we’re lucky, we learn where that line is. It’s usually considered 8n tandem with pushing boundaries.

Of course, there is

A line you should never cross

And I like to think we all know where that is. Unfortunately, some do not and often find their seemingly idyllic life totally shattered beyond repair. An affair from either side of a marriage or relationship can do that.

You couldn’t walk a straight line if you tried

While we might debate what straight might mean in this context, for this adaptation, it means staying on the right side of legality. Some people find a life of crime more appealing than doing honest day’s work.

This goes hand in hand with,

You’re spinning me a line

Which means you are being somewhat loose with the truth, perhaps in explaining where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing. I think sometimes liars forget they need to have good memories.

Then there are the more practical uses of the word, such as

I have a new line of products

Is that a new fishing line?

Those, I think, most of us get, but it’s the more ambiguous ones that we have trouble with. Still, ambiguity is a writer’s best friend, and we can make up a lot of stuff from just using one word.