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.
There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?
A retired spy, well, not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.
But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.
And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.
Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest. Then, inexplicably, she disappears. That might have been the end of it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum: find her or come back to work.
Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!
A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father, who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.
When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.
Uncovering the Hidden Gems of Belgrade: 5 Off-the-Beaten-Path Experiences
Belgrade, the vibrant capital of Serbia, is a city that seamlessly blends Eastern and Western cultures, offering a unique and exciting travel experience. While most tourists flock to the famous Kalemegdan Fortress and Saint Sava Temple, there’s more to Belgrade than meets the eye. As a seasoned traveller, I’m excited to share with you the top five other things to do in Belgrade that will take you off the beaten path and into the heart of this fascinating city.
1. Explore the Street Art Scene in Savamala
Tucked away in the Savamala neighbourhood, Belgrade’s street art scene is a treasure trove of creativity and self-expression. This former industrial area has been transformed into a vibrant arts district, featuring stunning murals, graffiti, and quirky installations. Take a self-guided walking tour to discover the works of local and international artists, and experience the city’s edgy, avant-garde side. Be sure to check out the famous “Savamala” mural, which has become a symbol of the neighbourhood’s revitalisation.
2. Visit the Nikola Tesla Museum
While many visitors to Belgrade are familiar with the famous scientist’s name, few know about the fascinating museum dedicated to his life and work. The Nikola Tesla Museum is a must-visit for anyone interested in science, technology, and innovation. Located in a beautiful villa, the museum showcases an impressive collection of Tesla’s personal belongings, experiments, and inventions, including his famous Tesla coil. The museum’s interactive exhibits and guided tours offer a unique glimpse into the mind of a genius.
3. Take a Stroll through the Botanical Garden
Escape the hustle and bustle of the city and find serenity in the beautiful Botanical Garden, also known as the Jevremovac Botanical Garden. This peaceful oasis is home to over 1,000 plant species, including some rare and endangered ones. As you wander through the gardens, you’ll discover a variety of flora, from roses and lavender to cacti and succulents. The garden’s tranquil atmosphere and stunning natural beauty make it an ideal spot for relaxation and contemplation.
4. Discover the Vinča Culture at the Vinča Archaeological Site
Located just outside Belgrade, the Vinča Archaeological Site is a fascinating glimpse into the city’s ancient past. This Neolithic settlement, dating back over 7,000 years, is one of the oldest and most important archaeological sites in Europe. Explore the excavated ruins, which feature remnants of ancient homes, pottery, and tools, and learn about the daily lives of the Vinča people. The site’s museum offers a wealth of information and artifacts, providing a unique insight into the region’s rich cultural heritage.
5. Enjoy a Night Out in the Cvetni Trg Neighbourhood
For a truly authentic Belgrade experience, head to the Cvetni Trg (Flower Square) neighbourhood, known for its lively atmosphere, charming cafes, and eclectic nightlife. This trendy area is home to a variety of bars, clubs, and live music venues, offering everything from jazz and rock to traditional Serbian folk music. As you explore the neighbourhood, you’ll discover a mix of old and new, with historic buildings, street performers, and modern art installations adding to the area’s vibrant energy. Be sure to try some of the local cuisine, including delicious ćevapi and pljeskavica, at one of the many restaurants and food stalls.
In conclusion, Belgrade is a city that offers so much more than its famous landmarks. By venturing off the beaten path, you’ll discover a wealth of hidden gems, from street art and science museums to ancient archaeological sites and vibrant nightlife. Whether you’re a culture vulture, a foodie, or an adventure-seeker, Belgrade has something for everyone. So come and explore the real Belgrade, and experience the city’s unique blend of tradition, innovation, and warmth.
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, 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’
Beyond the Final Word: Why Character Intentions Drive the Best Conversations in Fiction
“Dialogue should be a series of pitched battles in which the characters are trying to get what they want.”
Every fiction writer eventually encounters a scene where two characters are talking, yet the pages feel utterly lifeless. The exchange is grammatically correct, it moves the plot forward, and it delivers the necessary information. And yet, it bores the reader to tears.
Why? Because the characters are simply arriving at what they want to say, rather than wrestling with the turbulent, messy journey of how they get there.
To master the art of subtext and realistic human interaction, we can look to one of the 20th century’s most brilliant stylists. The celebrated Anglo-Irish novelist and short-story writer Elizabeth Bowen had profound insights into the architecture of conversation. Bowen understood that in great fiction, dialogue is rarely about the destination; it is about the struggle of intention.
In this post, we’ll explore why characters should focus more on what they intend to say rather than the tidy sentences they finally arrive at, drawing inspiration from Elizabeth Bowen’s literary philosophy.
The Elizabeth Bowen Perspective: Conversation as a Secret War
Elizabeth Bowen viewed the surface of life—and polite conversation especially—as a delicate, often deceptive crust over boiling depths. To Bowen, dialogue was never just an exchange of data. It was a social dance, a power struggle, a form of concealment, and an act of psychological warfare all at once.
In her critical writings and through the immaculate prose of novels like The Death of the Heart and The House in Paris, Bowen demonstrated that people rarely say exactly what they mean. Instead, they circle their desires. They hint, they deflect, they use small talk as a shield, and they weaponise silence.
When characters’ conversation is overly streamlined—when they immediately arrive at crisp, articulate summaries of their feelings—the psychological realism evaporates. Real people are hampered by pride, fear, social conditioning, and a lack of self-awareness.
Bowen’s characters speak not to deliver exposition, but to assert themselves against a hostile or indifferent world. The magic happens in the gap between what is intended and what is actually uttered.
What Happens When Characters “Arrive” Too Fast?
Let’s look at the two approaches: dialogue driven by arrival versus dialogue driven by intention.
The Trap of the “Arrival” Dialogue
When a writer focuses on what a character arrives at saying, the dialogue often falls into the trap of “on-the-nose” writing or pure exposition.
Example (Arrival):Mark: “I am leaving you because you never pay attention to my emotional needs, Sarah.” Sarah: “That’s not fair. I’ve been stressed about my mother’s illness, but if you’re going to be selfish, maybe we should break up.”
Why it fails: It’s efficient, but it feels robotic. Real human beings in the middle of a breakup rarely diagnose their relationship with the clinical precision of a marriage counsellor in the first three seconds. They are defending their egos, deflecting blame, and masking panic.
The Power of “Intention” Dialogue
When characters are driven by what they intend to say—the subtextual desire to wound, to plead, to hide, or to conquer—the conversation becomes a living, breathing thing.
Example (Intention):Mark slammed the refrigerator door harder than necessary, rattling the jars inside. “You leave that wet towel on the counter every single day.” Sarah didn’t look up from her phone. “Some of us have actual responsibilities outside of interior decorating, Mark.” Mark: “Right. Responsibilities. Must be nice.”
Why it works: Mark intends to say, “I feel neglected and invisible in this house,” but that requires vulnerability. Instead, he arrives at a petty complaint about a towel. Sarah intends to say, “Don’t make me feel guilty; I am drowning under pressure,” but she arrives at a counter-attack. The tension comes from the reader feeling the heavy, unspoken weight of their true intentions beneath the trivial words.
3 Ways to Apply Bowen’s Wisdom to Your Writing
If you want to shift your character conversations away from neat arrivals and toward messy, intention-driven power struggles, try these three techniques:
1. Give Every Character a Hidden Agenda
Before writing a scene, ask yourself: What does this character want from the other person by the end of this conversation?
Do they want validation?
Do they want to hide a secret?
Do they want to provoke a reaction without taking the blame for starting a fight?
When characters have an active internal agenda, their dialogue will naturally become evasive, tactical, and charged with subtext.
2. Interrupt the Thought Process
In real life, we edit ourselves mid-sentence. We start to say one thing, realise how it sounds, and pivot sharply.
Let your characters trail off.
Let them change subjects abruptly when they feel vulnerable.
Use action beats (gestures, glances, fidgeting) to show the friction between their brain and their mouth.
As Elizabeth Bowen showed us, the most telling moments in a conversation are often the things left unsaid, or the sentences that fracture before they can be completed.
3. Let Misunderstandings Breed Conflict
When characters are aiming for an intention rather than a neat conclusion, they will inevitably miss each other’s points. Character A is speaking from a place of fear; Character B is interpreting it as an attack.
This friction creates authentic dramatic irony. The reader understands the tragic or comedic mismatch between what the characters intend to communicate and how their words are actually landing.
Conclusion: Embrace the Mess
Great dialogue is never a straight line. It is a zigzag path of sidesteps, false starts, defensive maneuvers, and buried longings.
By following Elizabeth Bowen’s implicit advice—prioritising the volatile, underlying intentions of your characters over the neat, polished sentences they eventually arrive at—you will breathe authentic life into your scenes. Stop letting your characters say exactly what they mean right away. Let them struggle to say it, let them fail, and watch your fiction transform into something unforgettable.
What are your favourite examples of subtext-heavy dialogue in literature? How do you handle character intentions in your own writing? Let us know in the comments below!
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 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 her down for the last three months, and if she 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 that 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 that 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 was 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 who, where, 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 just shrugging and asking 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 the intimacy we used to have, where 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 was instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position, he had not taken advantage of the situation like some might. 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. At 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, followed 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 out of the final turn, and we were braking so that it would stop 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 the new job, the last thing she’d want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends, new life.
We packed her bags, threw out everything she didn’t want, a free trip to the op shop with stuff 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 had been 6 different types of planes departing, 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 to 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.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
…
It didn’t surprise Johannesen there were about twenty prisoners down in the dungeons, though he was surprised to find that the dungeon area was quite large, and in several sections. The fact they smelled of wine told him that once, the cells were used at storage areas for bottles of wine.
Several of the cells that were furthest from the downstairs entrance, and recently boarded over caused several overzealous resistance fighters of Leonardo’s to start smashing walls looking for it.
Johannsen tried not to think about Leonardo. He was the very worst of men, a pig even by German standards.
Martina had been put in a cell not far from Leonardo’s wine cache. There was purpose in that, he could get drunk and then take it out of the woman who had made him look stupid. Come to think of it, he thought, it wouldn’t be too hard for a ten-year-old to do that.
The cell door was locked, but Johannsen had a key. He had meticulously gone through all the keyrings and loose keys that had been found and those that didn’t have an immediate use had been stored in the dungeon guardroom.
Matching keys to locks had been one of his secret tasks, under the disguise of being given the job by Wallace to match keys to locks for them. There were a few short in the end, keys to rooms, and cells that seem to serve no purpose. One had become Johannessen’s hideaway.
It was part of a plan he had been formulating, one where he could take prisoners and hide them. Of course, it wouldn’t work for the moment because the prisoners had to be moved on as soon as possible, and staying in the castle, even if the others didn’t know where they were, would invite a microscopic search. It would need Atherton’s knowledge of the castle, and whether there was another escape route they could use.
It was another of his works in progress, one that was highly likely to fail.
He stood back from the door and looked at the crumpled heap on the floor that was once the leader of the resistance. Leonardo had interrogated her before bringing her back, half-dead, to the castle, and in doing so had made it impossible for anyone to interrogate her further. Had that been the reason why Leonardo had bashed her senseless?
He saw a hand move by her side, and a low groan.
He spoke quietly, in English, “Are you able to come closer to the door?” He knelt down, trying to get a better look at her injuries. Abrasions, and bruising. Swollen eyes, possible broken nose, blood spatter everywhere on her clothing which remarkably was relatively intact. He had suspected Leonardo of doing a lot worse and may still have.
She lifted her head slightly, “Who are you?”
“I could be a friend.”
She laughed, then coughed, and blood came out of her mouth. Broken ribs possibly, and a punctured lung. She might be too injured to move.
“There are no friends in this place, just Tedeschi.” She lowered her head and closed her eyes. Her breathing was irregular and shallow. Definitely broken ribs, he thought. And not likely to survive another interrogation. Not if Jackerby was going to conduct it.
“I’d like to help you if I can.”
“Everyone in here, we’re beyond help. You know that because you’re one of them.”
“Some of us care what happens to people.”
She pushed hard to move around slightly to face him, laying her head on the side to face him. “Which one are you?”
“Johannsen.”
“Yes, Johannesen. Atherton mentioned you. As untrustworthy as the rest. But for me, I’m all but dead, but I’ll humor you. Get me out of here and away from that bastardo Leonardo, and I might believe you.”
Atherton. This might be an opportunity to find out how he could get in contact with him, knowing of course, she wasn’t going to tell him where Atherton was.
“If you want to get away from here, we need Atherton. He’s the only one who knows this place inside out.”
He could see her shaking her head, as painful as that might be.
“He’s not.”
“Then is there anyone who does?”
“There is.”
“Who?”
Again she laughed and it sounded like the death rattle of her last breath. “You think I’m that far gone that I would tell you anything?”
“If you want to escape, I can only get you so far.”
“There is no escape. Believe me. If there was, I would be gone. Save your trickery and lies for someone who might be gullible enough to believe you. I’m quite prepared to die, the fact I’ve lived this long is what some would call a miracle.”
With that she turned away, coughed, and went silent. She wasn’t dead, but death wasn’t far away.
When Johannesen reluctantly left the cell, he only made it to the turn towards the steps up when he ran into Jackerby.
Had Jackerby been somewhere near and overheard their conversation.
“You have a rather interesting interrogation technique,” Jackerby said.
Johannesen groaned inwardly. He had heard.
“Sometimes it’s better to try and infuse hope in the subject rather than resignation. I was trying to get her to tell me where Atherton is.”
“And did she?”
“What do you think. After what Leonardo did, she’s not likely to tell us anything. I’m sure if we had taken a different approach…”
“Yes, softly softly. Doesn’t work. Just leave the heavy lifting to us, and don’t bother coming down to revisit the prisoners. Otherwise, I might believe you really are trying to help them escape.”
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.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature, but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
A shiver went down my spine, and I took it for the omen it was.
Nothing good came of being in a place where you were not supposed to be.
I shook it off.
“Does that look like someone we knew, once?”
He looked at the mannequin, then shook his head. “No, should it?”
“Seems odd they didn’t come back to collect their stock. I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as this when the cracks first appeared.”
“Here it was. Walls crumbled, and in places the roof collapsed. Two shop staff got hit by a falling beam. One later died. There was a long court battle over that.”
I did not remember much of what happened. My mother said it was just another tragedy brought on by greed. It was probably why I had such contempt for the rich.
Boggs did a rotation with his light, and in the direction of the marina, there was a central square over which was a skylight, only it was dirty and little light was getting through. It was just enough to see that the plants had all overgrown and taken over, and it was strange to see pylons covered in creeper, and shrubs growing through seats.
There had been a pond in the middle of that square, but it was probably empty now, and if it had water, it would be contributing to the smell.
In the other direction, there was darkness, the mall heading towards the front entrance.
Boggs started walking towards the square.
That was when I realised he had brought an old map of the shopping centre and had been looking at it when I joined him.
From the square, there were elevators and steps up to the second level where there were restaurants and entertainment areas, as well as the entrance to the multiplex cinemas. The stairs went down to the carpark.
There were two levels of carpark under the main building, and it was the lower car park that had occasionally flooded.
When we reached the square, it seemed lighter than I first thought, but that was because my eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkness, making objects clearer. We had to brush past some of the tree branches to reach the pond.
I was wrong. There was water in it, and it was reasonably clear. I guess without man to pollute it, nature had taken over. Here the aroma was more like a park after the lawns had been mowed.
Boggs had turned off his light as we approached the pond, and it was fortunate he had. We both heard the sound of a brick, or rock, hitting the floor, and a moment later, the faint glow of torchlight.
Other people exploring the wilderness.
“How many people know about that entrance?”
It sounded to me like they were coming back from the marina.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here if that’s what you’re thinking.”
It wasn’t. Not my first thought, anyway.
He headed towards the stairs next to the elevator lobby, remarkably clear of rubble and undergrowth, and started walking down the stairs, into the darkness. I followed, reluctantly, and inwardly sighed in relief when he stopped on the first landing. There was arumour thatthere were ghosts down on the car park levels.
We went just far enough down to be hidden from the other visitors. Unless they decided to use this particular staircase.
The light was less intense as it approached the square, and then we saw two figures.
At least one was a male, tall, and smoking a cigarette.
“God knows why the boss wanted us to check this hell hole. There’s no one here but us.” It was the tall man speaking.
He waved his torch around, including once in our direction. At the distance they were from us, the light had no effect.
“You know the boss, he has an active imagination. Perhaps if he hadn’t buried the bodies down here, it wouldn’t be an issue. Come on, this place gives me the creeps.”
Another man, and, now, I could see they were dressed in what looked like security guards’ clothes. Why on earth would anyone want to keep an eye on this place? And who was their boss?
Another wave of the torches and they continued their way towards the front of the mall.
“So,” Boggs said with a curious inflection in his tone, “there are bodies buried down here.”
“A figure of speech,” I said. “No one would be that stupid to bury bodies down here.”
“Why not. No one comes here, except adventurers like us, so it’s a perfect place for either the Cossatino’s or the Benderby’s to hide stuff down here. How many people do you think either of them has killed over the years?”
Allegedly quite a few. It was, when I thought about it, quite a good place to hide a body. I just hoped we didn’t find one.
We waited another five minutes, just in case they came back, but they didn.t. I followed Boggs up the stairs and we headed towards the center of the square.
Perhaps not, but now seems to be an appropriate time, nearing the age of 72, to take stock.
We have achieved a lot in the last twenty or so years once the children have grown up and can look after themselves.
Unlike a lot of more modern couples who are travelling in their 20s and 30s and then having children, we chose to do it the other way around.
To me, it seemed easier to deal with teenagers when we were in our 40s rather than our 60s. With the benefit of hindsight, I can truthfully say we were right.
We were older and wiser when we travelled and more aware of the dangers around us, sometimes overlooked or ignored by a youthful devil-may-care attitude.
But, in saying that ….
No, I don’t think I’ll be getting to see Mt Kilimanjaro, observing the wild animals in the Serengeti, climbing Mt Everest, or seeing the ancient pyramids.
But, if it is ever possible before I die, I still want to go to the Greek Islands, and, Santorini is at the top of my travel bucket list.
We’ve been to London. We’ve been to Paris and Euro Disney. We’ve been to Rome and seen the ancient ruins. We’ve been to Vienna, Schönbrunn Palace, and, particularly for us, a visit to Swarovski crystal world, near Innsbruck, we’ve been to Salzburg, and been on the Sound of Music tour.
We’ve been to Florence and loved it, we’ve been to Venice and loved that too, and we’ve spent a few days in the heart of Tuscany, and want to go back for longer, much longer.
In fact, that’s the second item on the travel bucket list.
We’ve also been to Singapore and Hong Kong, at first out of necessity as an airline stopover, but then we went back to see the city and tourist, and non-tourist attractions.
I will not forget staying at the Hong Kong Conrad Hotel as a Diamond Hilton Honors member. Oh, the memories.
We’ve also stayed on the French Riviera, in a timeshare apartment in Antibes where every morning when out back you had a view of the shimmering Mediterranean if the sun was out.
Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo, the billionaire’s yachts in Antibes harbour, Monte Carlo, and ‘that’ casino, taking the same drive along the coast as Grace Kelly did in To Catch a Thief, and feeling like James Bond arriving for a new adventure, minus the half-million-dollar sports car.
But now, crashing back to earth with an extremely hard thump ….
Travel in the future is looking difficult for both of us, not only financially but from a health aspect. We are both not as sprightly as we used to be.
Yet given the restraints and if it is at all possible, aside from the Greek Islands and Tuscany, the next items on the list are:
Germany, visiting both Berlin, from a Cold War aspect, the Brandenburg gate springs to mind, and Munich at the time of the Octoberfest. As a beer drinker that is also high on my bucket list.
Scotland, more so since we’ve started watching Outlander, and besides being a beer drinker, I am also partial to a good Single Malt, the Whiskey Trail.
Ireland, because my wife’s previous name was Murphy and at some point, in the long distant past some relatives emigrated to Australia, and she would like to visit the country of her forebears.
But with the current state of the world, our health issues, and that all-important requisite money, or the lack of it, perhaps it’s time to visit other parts of our own country.
Perhaps it’s time to do a culinary trip, particularly down south. It’s practical, achievable, and safe.
The Unsung Epic: How Everyday Life Becomes Riveting Prose
“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.”
It’s a line that resonates deeply with anyone who loves a good story. We crave the heightened stakes, the emotional rollercoasters, the twists and turns that define our favourite books, films, and series. But what if I told you that the “dull bits” aren’t always so dull? What if the real magic lies not in eliminating them, but in learning to see the drama hidden beneath their unassuming surface?
The challenge is enticing: Can we take everyday events and turn them into riveting prose? My answer, unequivocally, is yes. And in doing so, we don’t just write better stories; we learn to live a richer, more observant life.
Beyond Explosions: What Is Drama, Really?
First, let’s redefine “drama.” It’s not always grand gestures or world-ending stakes. At its core, drama is about conflict, tension, and emotion. It’s about a character wanting something and facing obstacles in getting it. It’s about choices, consequences, and the raw vulnerability of being human.
Consider that infamous “dull bits” pile: commuting, waiting in line, doing laundry, making coffee. On the surface, these are the unglamorous necessities of existence. But with a writer’s eye, they become potential stages for micro-dramas.
The Writer’s Superpower: Perspective and Pressure
The secret weapon for transforming the mundane is perspective. It’s about zooming in, acknowledging the internal monologue, and applying pressure.
Zoom In: A spilled coffee isn’t just a stain; it’s the sudden, hot shock, the ruined shirt on the morning of a crucial presentation, the ripple effect of lateness. The drama isn’t the coffee itself, but what it means to the person experiencing it.
Internal Monologue: We rarely share the full, rich narrative of our minds. What anxieties bubble up while waiting for a delayed train? What silent arguments play out as we fold a partner’s forgotten items? The internal world is a universe of untold stories, rife with hope, fear, regret, and determination.
Apply Pressure: Take any everyday event and ask: What if something goes wrong? What if the stakes are slightly higher for this particular character?
The Commute: It’s not just a drive; it’s a desperate race against the clock to pick up a child from daycare before late fees kick in. The brake lights ahead aren’t just an inconvenience; they’re a physical manifestation of rising panic.
The Grocery Store: It’s not just a shopping trip; it’s the careful balancing act of an elderly person on a fixed income, trying to make healthy food last an entire week from a dwindling budget. Every price tag is a small, quiet battle.
The Awkward Conversation: It’s not just polite small talk; it’s a son trying to delicately broach a sensitive subject with his aging father, hoping to connect before it’s too late, fearing misinterpretation or dismissal.
Unearthing the Micro-Conflicts
Everyday life is brimming with small conflicts:
Person vs. Self: The internal debate over whether to speak up, to forgive, to take a risk, or to stick to the comfort of routine.
Person vs. Nature/Environment: The unexpected downpour when you forgot your umbrella, the power outage during a critical deadline, the unreliable public transport.
Person vs. Person (Subtle): The passive-aggressive note from a roommate, the slight that goes unaddressed, the unspoken tension across a dinner table, the small power plays in a queue.
These mini-struggles, when given the prose treatment, become relatable and powerful. They remind readers of their own quiet battles and hidden heroics.
The Art of Observation and Sensory Detail
To write riveting prose from the ordinary, you must become an exceptional observer.
What do you see? Not just objects, but the way light falls, the subtle expressions on faces, the wear and tear of time.
What do you hear? The hum of the refrigerator, the distant rumble of traffic, the specific cadence of a voice.
What do you feel? The cold ceramic of a mug, the ache in tired muscles, the prickle of irritation.
What do you smell and taste? The comforting aroma of baking bread, the metallic tang of fear, the bitterness of burnt toast.
These details ground your reader in the moment, making even the most mundane scene vivid and immersive.
So, Can We Do It?
Absolutely. By acknowledging the inherent drama in our struggles, choices, and interactions – no matter how small – we unlock a boundless reservoir of material. We aren’t cutting out the dull bits; we’re illuminating the hidden drama within them.
Next time you’re waiting in line, stuck in traffic, or simply watching the world go by, challenge yourself. What’s the story here? What’s at stake for the person beside you? What internal monologue is playing out in your own mind?
The world isn’t just a stage for grand narratives; it’s a collection of countless, intricate, and often riveting personal epics, waiting for us to notice, understand, and perhaps, to write them down.
What “dull bit” of your day do you think holds a hidden story? Share in the comments below!
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 