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.
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.
Known only to a few, there is a legend that a ship named the ‘Flying Dutchman’ left Nazi Germany in the last weeks of the war and set sail for America, escorted by U-boats, under a different name. Aboard was a trove of treasure and gold worth a ‘king’s ransom’.
It was said that it had been sent to a group of American Nazis to create the Fourth Reich at an appropriate time. Over the years since many expeditions off the coast had searched, but found no trace of the vessel or the treasure.
In other words, it was just a legend created to boost tourism.
…
Fast forward to 2024. Our intrepid private detective, Harry Walthenson, overhears a conversation at Grand Central Station. It was the oddness of the message that caught his attention. An investigation turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and he thinks no more about it.
Then Harry is kidnapped, interrogated, and asked questions over and over about a date and a place, why he went there, and when he could not give satisfactory answers, he was beaten half to death and left for dead on a rubbish heap. He was lucky that it was a living space for homeless men; otherwise, he would have died.
In the aftermath, he once again gives it no more thought.
…
After resolving his first case successfully, there’s no rest. Harry’s angry mother comes to his office and demands that he find out where his father has gone. She believes he has run off with a mistress, not for the first time.
Perhaps it was not the wisest decision she has made, because Harry promises to investigate, and adds that she might not like what he finds.
He soon discovered he does not like what he finds, that his father’s friends, a cabal formed at University, have two who are his mother’s current lovers, and another, a criminal blackmailing his father.
Felicity, now his partner, working on a different case, and trying to get answers, uncovers a crime family involved in guarding a disused warehouse on the docks, where she believes Harry had been taken for interrogation, and subsequently dumped nearby to die.
Why are they up to? What is so important that the empty warehouse needs guarding? Who is employing them?
Harry, following up on the death of the blackmailer, traces his death back to an enforcer employed by his grandfather. His mother’s grandfather was a pre-war industrialist who made his fortune in war munitions and shipbuilding.
He was also a member of the American Nazi party.
When Harry also discovers a logbook belonging to a so-called wartime Liberty ship the “Paul Revere” in brackets ‘Freiheitskämpfer’, hidden by his father, and written in a code that is not readily identifiable.
It is no longer a matter of a father who has run off with his mistress; it is a very frightened man in fear of his life, running from a group who will stop at nothing to get the logbook back. And when Harry discovers a family connection to the group, it becomes a race against time to decode the log and find his father before his grandfather does.
…
Coming soon: Harry Walthenson’s new adventure – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’
This timber mill was typical of the time, the mid to late 1800’s and into the 1900’s. It could be assembled and disassembled quite quickly and moved to where the wood was being felled.
It was run by a single portable steam engine which made it possible to have a mill near where the trees were being felled
The engine drives vertical and horizontal saw blades by a series of belts and driveshafts
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked where who, and when.
A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
The 9‑to‑5 Grind: How a “Soul‑Destroying” Day Job Can Become the Secret Sauce Behind Award‑Winning Fiction
“The work we do for a living is the very material our imagination chews on while we’re trying to stay awake at the office.” – Anon.
If you’re a writer who spends eight-plus hours a day staring at a spreadsheet, fielding angry customers, or shuffling paperwork, you’ve probably wondered whether that soul‑sucking routine is killing your creative spark. The short answer? It’s not.
In fact, for many of the world’s most celebrated authors—including the master of psychological suspense, Patricia Highsmith—the very same grind that felt like a dead‑end at the time became the fuel, discipline, and grounding that later powered their best work. Below, we’ll unpack why the daily grind can be a surprisingly potent catalyst for literary greatness, and we’ll look at real‑life writers who turned their “day‑job drudgery” into literary gold.
1. The “Soul‑Destroying” Job: Why It’s Not All Bad
Common Complaint
Hidden Benefit
Monotony – “It feels like I’m watching paint dry.”
Rhythmic structure. Repetitive tasks teach you timing, pacing, and the power of restraint—key ingredients in tight prose.
Lack of creative freedom – “I’m stuck following a script.”
Constraint breeds invention. When you can’t control your environment, you learn to make the most of the tiny windows you do control (a notebook on a lunch break, a restless mind on the commute).
Emotional exhaustion – “I’m drained by the time I get home.”
Emotional reservoir. The frustrations, absurdities, and small triumphs of office life provide a deep well of authentic human experience to mine later.
Time scarcity – “There’s never enough time to write.”
Time‑management mastery. Juggling deadlines forces you to carve out micro‑moments of focus, sharpening the skill of writing with brevity.
Identity dilution – “I feel like a cog, not a creator.”
Grounded perspective. A day job anchors you in the “real world,” preventing the echo chamber that can make fictional worlds feel detached from lived experience.
Think of the nine‑to‑five as a training ground rather than a trough. It may feel soul‑crushing in the moment, but the resilience you build, the people you observe, and the grit you develop often become the scaffolding for your most resonant stories.
2. How the Day Job Turns Into Narrative Gold
Observation Lab – An office is a micro‑society. You see power dynamics, office politics, and the hidden rituals people perform to survive. Highsmith famously used the mundanity of a clerk’s life to study the banality of evil, later channelling it into the chilling psyche of Tom Ripley.
Character Templates – The “friend who never stops complaining,” the “manager who micromanages,” the “quiet intern who overhears everything.” Real people become ready‑made character sketches that feel instantly believable.
Dialogue Bank – The snappy exchange at the water cooler, the forced politeness of customer service calls, the frantic email threads—each is a masterclass in subtext, pacing, and voice.
Structural Discipline – Meeting deadlines and delivering consistent output teaches you to treat your manuscript like a project with milestones, not an amorphous dream.
Financial Safety Net – Money isn’t the only resource a steady job provides; it buys the psychological freedom to take creative risks later, without the pressure to “sell” immediately.
3. Real‑World Proof: Writers Who Turned the Grind Into Glory
Writer
Day‑Job Drag
How It Informed Their Work
Notable Works/Accolades
Patricia Highsmith
Copy‑editor, office clerk, and later a full‑time mother with no literary income.
The repetitive, almost mechanical nature of clerical work sharpened her ability to depict the “quiet horror” of everyday life. Her protagonists often feel trapped in dead‑end jobs, mirroring her own experience.
The Talented Mr. Ripley (adapted into multiple films), Strangers on a Train (Oscar‑winning screenplay).
Raymond Carver
Warehouse loader, janitor, saw‑mill worker.
The stark, economical prose of minimalism mirrors the physical labor and scarcity of his jobs—every word had to earn its place, just as every broken piece of wood earned his paycheck.
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love (National Book Award finalist).
J.K. Rowling
Unpaid research assistant, later a single mother on welfare.
Living on the edge of financial collapse fueled the poverty‑and‑hope themes in the Harry Potter series; the bureaucracy she faced informed the Ministry of Magic’s absurdities.
Harry Potter series (multiple Booker‑type honors, 7‑time Hugo nominee).
Stephen King – The Teacher
High school English teacher (full‑time).
The daily rhythm of lesson planning and grading taught King the mechanics of suspense: pacing a lesson parallels pacing a chapter; the “classroom” is a micro‑stage for human drama.
Carrie (1974), The Shining (1977), The Dark Tower series (Hugo, World Fantasy).
Franz Kafka
Insurance clerk at the Workers’ Accident Insurance Institute.
Kafka’s legal‑bureaucratic prose directly mirrors the labyrinthine paperwork of his day job—The Trial is practically a love letter to (and indictment of) bureaucratic absurdity.
The Metamorphosis, The Castle (posthumous critical acclaim).
Toni Morrison
Editor at Random House (while writing).
Editing other authors’ manuscripts sharpened her ear for rhythm and voice; the corporate environment gave her a front‑row seat to the politics of representation.
Beloved (Pulitzer, Nobel).
Takeaway: None of these writers quit the day job because they loved it. They leveraged it—using the grind as a crucible for observation, discipline, and raw material.
4. Turning Your Own 9‑to‑5 Into a Writing Engine (Practical Steps)
Carry a Pocket Notebook A two‑minute break? Jot down a striking phrase you overheard, a facial expression that tells a story, or a sudden burst of emotion.
Set “Micro‑Writing” Goals
5‑minute flash fiction during lunch.
One paragraph before you log off.
A single line of dialogue while waiting for the elevator.
Create a “Work‑to‑Write” Ratio Example: 90 % work, 10 % writing. When you see the 10 % slice, treat it like a sacrament—no scrolling, no emails, just writing.
Use the Commute as a Lab Audio‑record your thoughts (or a voice‑memo of a character’s monologue). Transcribe later; you’ll have a ready‑made scene while still stuck in traffic.
Harvest Office Archetypes Make a cheat‑sheet of “the boss,” “the gossip,” “the silent observer.” When you need a character, pull from your list and tweak a few details.
Schedule a “Reflection Day” Once a month, take a half‑day off (or use a vacation day) to sit with your notebook, reorganise ideas, and see what patterns emerge from your daily observations.
Remember the Paycheck’s Purpose The salary isn’t just a means to survive; it’s a portfolio that lets you fund research trips, attend workshops, and ultimately leave the day job when you’re ready.
5. The Psychological Flip: From “Soul‑Destroyer” to “Soul‑Maker”
Many writers describe a pivotal moment when they stop hating their day job and start using it. Here’s a quick mental reframing exercise:
Identify the Pain Point – “I hate the endless emails.”
Find the Narrative Parallel – “Characters stuck in a flood of unwanted information.”
Translate to Plot – “A protagonist receives a mysterious series of emails that slowly reveal a conspiracy.”
Create a Symbol – The email inbox becomes a metaphor for the subconscious, a place where buried secrets surface.
When you consciously map a nuisance onto a story element, the job stops being an opponent and becomes a collaborator.
6. The Endgame: When the Lights Go Out
Your day job may eventually fade—whether you quit, get promoted, or transition to freelance—but the lessons you learned never do:
Structure – You now know how to break a massive manuscript into manageable sections.
Observation – You can paint vivid settings with a single, well‑placed detail.
Resilience – You’ve already survived the “soul‑destroying” grind; rejections and revisions will feel less brutal.
Patricia Highsmith herself once said, “The ordinary is an endless source of the extraordinary if you just look at it.” She didn’t escape the office to find inspiration; she stayed and listened—and the result was a body of work that still haunts readers decades later.
Bottom Line
The nine‑to‑five isn’t a curse; it’s a crucible. It strips away the illusion that writing lives in some ethereal realm and forces you to mine the real world for raw, unfiltered material. That material—filtered through discipline, observation, and a dash of rebellion—can become the backbone of award‑winning fiction.
So the next time you stare at your computer screen and feel the weight of a “soul‑destroying” task, remember:
Your desk is a front‑row seat to humanity. Your inbox is a repository of dialogue. Your paycheck is a safety net that lets you risk the stories that truly matter.
Embrace the grind, write in the margins, and let the ordinary become the extraordinary foundation of your next masterpiece.
Happy writing, and may your coffee be strong and your ideas stronger.
References & Further Reading
The Talented Mr. Ripley – Patricia Highsmith (1955) – analysis of occupational ennui in character development.
Reading Like a Writer – Francine Prose – chapters on “Writing from Experience.”
On Writing – Stephen King – King’s reflections on his teaching career and its influence on his narrative pacing.
The Art of Fiction – John Gardner – on using everyday life as a seed for fiction.
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It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you?
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters, cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times, taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice, where, in those back streets, I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all, a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
I want to keep the car. Especially if it’s a Lamborghini and it didn’t cost $500,000.
This form of the word simply means to hang on to something, or up the proper definition, to have or retain possession of
Paring it with other words is where it gets complicated.
For instance,
Keepings off, make sure that the ball doesn’t get into someone else’s possession.
Keep it to yourself, yes, here’s your chance to become the harbinger of secrets and not tell anyone else. Not unless a lot of money is involved, or a Lamborghini.
You guessed it, the car is the running joke on this post.
How about, keep a low profile, been there tried that, it’s a lot harder than you think.
What about keeping your cards close to your chest, yes, this had both a literal and figurative meaning which makes it sort of unique.
That might follow the second definition, to continue, or cause to continue a particular state.
Another way of using keep is by delaying or stopping someone from doing something or getting somewhere; ie, I was kept waiting at the doctor’s surgery because he was late.
There are any number of examples of using the word keep in tandem with other words
One that specifically doesn’t relate to all the former examples, is simply the word keep.
What is it?
Usually the strongest part of the castle, and the last to fall in an attack.
It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t. It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…
She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room. It was quite large and expensively furnished. It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.
Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917. At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.
There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.
She was here to meet with Vladimir.
She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.
All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring. Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.
That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.
It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years. She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.
They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.
It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.
They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity. She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.
The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined. After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.
Then, it went quiet for a month. There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited. She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.
A pleasant afternoon ensued.
And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.
By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends. She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy. Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.
She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful. In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.
After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit. She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.
It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine. She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.
A Russian friend. That’s what she would call him.
And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue. It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.
Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour. It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.
So, it began.
It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.
She wasn’t.
It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country. It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms. When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.
Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report. After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.
But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report. She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.
It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen. Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.
And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.
She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room. She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.
Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.
There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit. She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.
Later perhaps, after…
She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.
A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival. It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality. A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.
The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.
She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.
Oh, to be back on a cargo ship with three other crew members and a robot that wasn’t trying to destroy ships and murder crew members.
On the cargo ship, the captain could hide in his or her cabin behind the bridge and never come out except to tell the robot he or she was doing a good job.
Sometimes you’d see the crew in the mess hall.
No major life-changing decisions. It was point A to point B without drama, hold-ups, or anything really.
Not like being the captain of a brand-new class of explorer’s vessels with over 2,000 crewmen on the outer edges of our galaxy, on the verge of being destroyed.
“So, for the benefit of a human without the resources of countless generations of knowledge, and experience of countless alien entities, who or what are you that can make such a life-changing decision? Especially after you said that we would be safe.”
“If you are inferring that I am a robot programmed to not look rationally at the pros and cons of any case you put to me, or that I am devoid of any empathy, you’re wrong. That I should make such a threat, in our experience, you humans tend to do one of two possible actions, you retaliate with violence, or you make a rational argument. As for who I am, I have a living body that requires nourishment and ages not unlike your own, hosting a fully cognisant member of our race. The only difference is that I do not appear in my true form, in deference to making your interaction simpler. I could take any one of a hundred different forms, depending on whom we hold discussions.”
That cleared several questions that had formed in my mind. This race was very advanced, being able to put their consciousness into another, or any, body. Did that mean they never died? Not the time to ask. The fact they had found a way to assess human reaction to stress, or life or death situations so simply showed they had been observing us a long time.
“We chose not to shoot first. You will see we might be at a battle state, but that’s only for our protection. You cannot hold us responsible for the actions of that other ship because as far as the whole of our planet is concerned, we were the first to come here, and as the first, our mission is not to shoot first and ask questions later, as much as it is to explore, and learn. The keyword is learning.”
“These are words, and our experiences with humans have taught us that what you say and what you do are quite often two entirely different things.”
My experience too, and it was an all too familiar scenario. I suspect that the motives of my masters might equally be received with some skeptics, because not everyone in the alliance was on the same page, and decisions were sometimes based on possible shifting alliances.
Space travel still had a gloss on it, and everyone was looking to get a seat at the table. I had no doubt my new friend, I’d I could call him that, would be equally aware of the situation, as it appeared he did, and it spoke volumes about the levels of their penetration in our world.
“I think, then, our best course of action is to prove we mean what we say. You were chasing that other vessel, the one you say the occupants committed crimes upon people in your galaxy.”
“They did. We were, but there was a measured reluctance on the part of the other crew members to pursue them beyond the limits of our galaxy. Exploration is one thing, an offense that might cause conflict is something else.”
So, they had problems with being the instigators of actions that might be misinterpreted.
“Then let us apprehend them, and we will render the justice together. I have no trouble bringing people who have criminal intentions to justice. I would prefer it to be ours, but for the sake of creating at least an initial relationship between our worlds, I will accept the responsibility.”
I could see Nancy looking at me with a look that would kill mortal men and understood her concern. This was going to be a tough sell all round
“It would be acceptable as a preliminary basis for discussions. My people would consider your input if or when any or all of those responsible for crimes were arraigned.”
Good enough, for the moment.
“Excellent. Now, could you lift the block you have on our communications so I can get the first officer on to finding where their ship is “
“You may have a hard job catching them. Their ship is, as far as we are aware, the fastest your galaxy has.”
“Not quite, but that’s a discussion for another day.”
The green bar on my communicator returned.
“Number one.”
A moment later he came back with, Sir, you are OK?”
“Fine. Have you been monitoring that Russian vessel?”
“Yes, sir. It’s about a half-hour from here.”
“Good. Ready the ship for pursuit. We have a few questions that need answering. I’ll explain more when I get back.”
“You can come with us, on our ship, or in yours. I will communicate your existence with my superiors, just not the fact you’ve infiltrated us in deference to your people if you want to get them out, or declare their presence, a situation we can control if you agree to sit down and talk about it. I suspect that they’ve been helping more than hindering, other than just keeping you informed of our progress.”
I didn’t get a smile, but that invisible change in expression was an interesting indicator.
“I’ll stay, we’ll follow discreetly. Your actions will be judged, Captain.”
“No pressure then. Could you send the names, or if not, photos, of the offenders? How many are there?”
“Six. We shall. Good luck.”
The next instant I was back on the deck of my own ship.
I have this thing about taking photos of the ocean. This one was taken early in the morning, after sunrise, which was pretty spectacular, and of a passing rain belt. It’s not quite as discernable as it was with the naked eye, but it was out to sea, and I wondered what it might be like aboard a large ship.
What if the rain storm followed the ship? It would be intriguing to know if that’s ever happened, but my thought would be, a ship in the middle of the ocean, with limited engine power because of a mysterious breakdown, pouring rain continuously pounding the ship keeping everyone inside, and then people start dying.
Of course, there’s no visible reason why they should be, no wounds, no strangulation, no gunshot or knife attacks, people just dropping dead.
Is it the shroud that has enveloped the ship?
Is it unworldly?
Is it nature’s retribution?
It might be the latter, because on board is a large group of industrialists responsible for more of the carbon dioxide output that is destroying the ozone layer and worsening climate change.
The story fleshed out for the second section, discussed in Point of View
Annalisa looked at the two men facing her, a shopkeeper who, despite his protestations, was a dealer, and the other man, a customer scared shitless.
The poor bastard was not the only one scared.
It was meant to be simple, arrive at the shop just before closing, force the shopkeeper to hand over the shit, and leave.
What had happened?
The shopkeeper laughed at them and told them to get out. Simmo started ranting and waving the gun around, then all of a sudden collapsed.
There was a race for the gun which spilled out of Simmo’s hand, and she won. No more arguments, the shopkeeper was getting the stuff when the customer burst into the shop.
This was worse than any bad hair day, or getting out of the wrong side of bed day, this was, she was convinced, the last day of her life.
Her mother said she would never amount to anything, and here she was with a drug addict coming apart because she had been cut off from her money and could no longer pay for his supply, which had led them to this inevitable ending.
She heard a strange sound come from beside her and looked down. Simmo was getting worse, like he had a fever, and was moaning.
If Alphonse had thought his day was going to get any better after the delivery disaster earlier that day, he was wrong.
If he thought he could maintain his real business and his under the counter business with no one finding out, in that he was wrong too. He’s know, inevitably, some useless punk would come and do exactly what Simmo was doing.
It might have been salvageable before the customer came in the door, but now it was not. The customer had heard the words, and given him ‘the look’. A drug addict telling the cops he was a dealer, it was his word against an unreliable addict, but this local chap, he had that air of respectability the cops would listen too.
Damn.
But he had to try and salvage the situation, there was a lot of money involved, and other people depending on him. He looked at the boy, on the floor, then the girl.
“Listen to me, young lady, I have no idea what you are talking about. Please, put the gun down before someone gets hurt. Your friend needs medical help and I can call an ambulance.”
The girl switched her attention back to him. “Shut up, let me think. Shit.”
The storekeeper glanced over at the customer. He’s been in once or twice, probably lived in the neighborhood, but looked the sort who’d prefer to be anywhere but in his shop. More so now. If only he hadn’t burst in when he did. He would have the gun, called the police, and brazened his way out of trouble. Now, that remedy was off the table.
Now he had to deal with the fallout, especially if the girl started talking.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 