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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.

Featured

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

PI Walthenson’s second case – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’.

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’

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Valletta

Discover Valletta’s Hidden Gems: A Road Less Travelled Through Malta’s Capital

If you’ve ever visited Valletta, you know it’s a city of grandeur: a UNESCO World Heritage site with Baroque splendour, ancient fortresses, and sweeping sea views. But beyond the bustling Barrakka Gardens and the famed St. John’s Co-Cathedral lies a Valletta waiting to be discovered—one filled with quiet courtyards, local secrets, and lesser-known stories. For travellers seeking an off-the-beaten-path experience, here are five extraordinary ways to explore a different side of this Maltese gem.

1. Step into Valletta’s Creative Heart: St. James Cavalier Centre for Creativity

Tucked into a centuries-old Inquisitor’s Palace, the St. James Cavalier Centre for Creativity is a vibrant hub of contemporary art, culture, and community. Originally built in the 16th century, this striking white fortress was once a prison and a site of secret executions. Today, it’s transformed into a lively arts venue, hosting exhibitions, street food festivals, and live performances. Wander through its hidden courtyards and sun-dappled archways, where the past and present collide. It’s a must-visit for artists, history buffs, and anyone craving Valletta’s modern soul.

2. Unearth History Beneath Your Feet: Valletta Underground Tour

Did you know Valletta is built atop a network of ancient tunnels and hidden chambers? The Mysterious Valletta Tour offers a fascinating journey into the city’s subterranean secrets. Follow your guide through forgotten catacombs, medieval wine cellars, and wartime bunkers, learning how these underground spaces shaped Malta’s history. It’s a cool (literally) alternative to the city’s sunlit streets—and perfect for curious minds.

3. Savour the Quiet: Lower Barrakka Gardens

While the Upper Barrakka Gardens are a beloved panoramic spot, the Lower Barrakka Gardens offer a quieter, more intimate view of the Grand Harbour. Less crowded and steeped in history, these gardens were once a secret meeting place for merchants and dignitaries. Stroll through the lush, sunlit pathways, enjoy the distant lapping of waves, and snap a photo without the backdrop of crowds.

4. Explore Dark History: The Inquisitor’s Palace

For a gripping dive into Malta’s religious and legal past, the Inquisitor’s Palace is a hauntingly fascinating stop. This 16th-century fortress served as the seat of the Catholic Inquisition in Malta, and its eerie cells and torture chambers provide a sobering glimpse into a turbulent era. While it’s a bit off the typical tourist circuit, the exhibits and guided tours offer rich storytelling and a chance to reflect on Malta’s complex history.

5. Wander Local Lanes: Strada San Domenico and Triq l-Antika

Swap the well-trodden Royal Road for a meander through Strada San Domenico, a charming artisans’ street filled with workshops for glassblowers, weavers, and chocolate makers. Nearby, Triq l-Antika (Antique Street) is a narrow lane bursting with tiny shops selling Maltese lace, handmade soaps, and vintage souvenirs. For lunch, duck into a family-run café like Café Rui or Café del Sol and savour pastizzi (Maltese pastries) and strong Malta coffee, just like the locals do.

Conclusion: Valletta’s Delightful Detours

Valletta thrives on balance—its grandeur and its intimacy, its history and its innovation. By venturing beyond the well-known landmarks, you’ll uncover a city that’s rich in culture, stories, and small-town charm. Whether you’re exploring hidden gardens, sipping coffee in artisan lanes, or descending into ancient tunnels, Valletta’s road less travelled promises unforgettable memories. So next time you’re in Malta’s capital, let curiosity lead the way.

Ready to explore Valletta’s hidden side? Pack your walking shoes and an adventurous spirit—there’s more to discover than meets the eye!

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

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.

Perhaps it was.

© Charles Heath 2020-2026

…

Coming soon.  Find the above story and 49 others like it in:

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 202

Day 202 – Writing Exercise

…

Myra was a law unto herself.

She was the sort of girl that everyone had an opinion of, and not one of them was right.

The thing is, she never corrected them.

And something else: she didn’t care what anyone else thought of her.  She simply didn’t speak to her detractors; she ignored the taunts and derogatory remarks from people who should have known better.

Even her female contemporaries had little nice to say about her, and I don’t think any of them willingly associated with her.

Not that she cared.

It became a pastime to sit nearby and watch people who should have more sense give her a hard time.  Some said that it was part of the rites of passage in high school. 

Others said it was character building.

I thought differently, but to my dishonour, I did nothing about it.

That is, not for a long time.

And then, when I did, I was not sure why.

…

Reggie was a class A deadhead.

Good at football, so-called God’s gift to the girls, and had parents who were, by their own admission, movers and shakers.

By that I guess it meant they were large donors to the school football team, which ensured Reggie had a place to focus his talents

I’d seen him play football, and it was not talent I saw.

Eleanor was equally as dense as Reggie, which in turn made them ideally suited.  She was the head cheerleader, and the resident graduating class queen bee.

Girls would literally kill to get her approval.

I didn’t see the sense in it.  Cheerleaders were regarded by the football team, and others, as something quite different to what the girls thought of themselves.

Needless to say, Myra could never make the cheer squad.  Which seemed wrong to me because she looked just as attractive as all the rest, if you took away the exterior cladding, put her in a school uniform and also got rid of the excessive make-up and the different coloured hair each week

This week it was hot pink.

Nor did she wear the school uniform and had racked up an inestimable number of demerit points that got her into almost permanent detention.

That’s where I first met her.

I’d seen her around, and watched from afar the effects of her attitude towards her fellow students.  Her friends, if they could be called that, were the misfits, and by the middle of graduation year that’s where I finished up.

In detention with the other misfits.

I doubt she noticed me.  No one did, which in a way suited me because I was studying hard so I could go to college.  I know my parents would be glad to see me go, because I didn’t quite fit their idea of a proper child.

Whatever that meant. 

They could hardly put up my older brother as a shining example I should follow.  I was not interested in sport.

So, there we were.  In detention.

…

Mr Forsythe, probably about a hundred years old and on the cusp of retirement, was the teacher in charge of detention.

No one else wanted to do it, and the few extra dollars he got in overtime went towards his retirement, wandering the ruins of ancient Rome.

His subject was history, and Ancient Rome, a subject he could go on about, and did.  Most students treated his class as a joke, but he just ignored them and kept on going, and probably would through a prison riot.

I thought he was a good teacher and his class was one of the few I liked.  There were six students in detention.  Myra and I sat on opposite sides of the room down the back.  The other four sat up the front and were badly behaved. 

Not dramatically so, or they would never get out of going to detention.  Neither Myra nor I joined them.  Detention was just another hiding place.

Until it wasn’t.

For a month, the others left us alone.  No point stirring up someone who wouldn’t rise to the occasion.

Eleanor was different, because of her parents’ influence, the fact she was Prom Queen this year, and on the student council.  She ended up on the detention list for giving another cheer wannabe the treatment, otherwise known as the initiation rite.

I’d heard she had been cited, but I never thought that the head would enforce it.  It remained to be seen whether she would stay.

She made a dramatic entrance.

She didn’t bother to knock on the door, marched straight up to Mr Forsythe’s desk and slammed the sheet of paper on his desk so loudly we all jumped.

Up till then we were in our own world, shutting out the rest of the room.

Forsythe didn’t look up.  Didn’t look interested either.

“Hey, old man.  This is rubbish.  I don’t do detention.”

He took a few seconds, then looked up at her.  “My name is Mr Forsythe, young lady, not ‘hey, you ‘.”
He took the piece of paper and read it, then looked at her again.  “I presume you can read?”

“Of course, you old fool.”

He chose to ignore the insults, but I knew somewhere in this conversation he was going to put her in her place.  “Read it.”

“It’s rubbish.  I won’t do detention.”

“So, now it’s going from don’t do to won’t do, which is something else entirely.  What you will do is sit down and be quiet.  Detainees do not make noise.”

With that, he went back to his book.

“This is stupid.  I’m leaving.”

He sighed, then looked at her.  “Then you will fail history and therefore will not be able to graduate with the rest of your class.  And no graduation, no prom.  Now sit down and contemplate why you are here, and why you are not going to darken my door for much longer.  Am I understood?”

He metaphorically kicked her where it hurt.  Graduation and the prom.  Being the Prom Queen, being the Queen Bee.

I thought Forsythe was brave taking on her family.  He would not be the first teacher her family had tried to ruin.

“This is wrong.”

“No.  What is wrong is that you thought you could do whatever you pleased without consequences.  That might happen at home but not in here.  Sit and be silent.”

She glared at him, but it had no effect.

She was not going to be able to leave, so she scanned the room and saw us, Myra and me.  I could guess what was going to happen next

She came down the back of the room and sat at the desk in the middle of the back row.  She smiled at me and scowled at Myra.

Eleanor was never able to get under Myra’s skin, not in the way Myra could do to her.  It was easy.  She had nothing Eleanor could use against her, unlike every other girl.

She smiled at me because I was once foolish enough to be tricked by her, but once bitten was enough.  I made a point of avoiding her.  Not so easy in detention. But I had nothing to lose.  I didn’t care if I never got out of detention.

She made a great effort to make sure Mr Foresyth knew where she landed.  He wouldn’t care; in fact, he was glad Myra and I sat down in the back.  We had earned the titles of troublemakers not because we started it; it was because trouble came to us.

“So, Blinky, what are you in for?”

Blinky was the name her boyfriend gave me because one day he saw me squinting because my eyes were watering.  It stuck because they thought it was insultingly funny.

It was better than some of the names they handed out

“Rest and recreation.”  Which in a sense was true. Trying to avoid the football team’s idea of being boisterous was a tiring exercise.

“You must have done something bad to get put in here with the circus ringmaster.”

She was going to push Mr Foresyth as far as she could, perhaps thinking if she insulted him enough he would kick her out.

“No.  But as a columnist for the high school magazine, this is where I get to work on the juicy stories.”

“No one reads it.”

“You don’t read it, Eleanor, which is to your detriment.  But the Staff and the crazy students do.  Where else can they read about what’s going on?.  I’ve been waiting to do a story on you, and here you are, my prayers answered.”

I remembered the last student reporter the magazine editor sent to interview the head cheerleader, and what had happened. 

His problem was he had a crush on her, and she played him like a finely tuned fiddle.  Her expression changed when I said my prayers were answered.  She had heard what she wanted to hear.  No surprises there.

Myra, in the meantime, tried hard to not look like she was listening in.  Eleanor would tire of me soon, and turn on her.

I asked, “Have they made Reggie the prom king yet.  I’m betting you wouldn’t want anyone else as your king, and I reckon he’d be very dark if someone else got the gig.”

“Why should it matter to me?  I have nothing to do with it.”

“You have everything to do with it.  I heard you screaming at the head master that if Reggie didn’t get it, there’d be no more handouts.  What did you mean by that?”

“Nothing.  I was just making noise.”  She tried to pretend none of it mattered to her, but it did.  It was going to be her way or the highway.

I shrugged.  “I heard you were trying to take over the grad dance.  Please do.  At the moment it’s going to be very boring.  Oh. And what was that strongly opinionated discussion with Mr Masters?  You might want to be slightly more tactful with everyone, or it will come back and bite you.”

Masters was the teacher in charge of the school paper, and one of the teachers organising the Prom.  He didn’t like half of the class he taught because none of them had any respect for the press.  It was, he said, an alarming trend that started at the top.  Added to the fact that most of his students couldn’t string two words together.

“I thought articles were meant to be flattering.  He said any article written about me would be faithfully portray me as the model for the new students as we move towards the next century.”

I was there.  He was being expansive and trying to get her on-side.  He needed coverage on the big issues leading up to the Prom and graduation.  That meant getting Eleanor and Reggie to cooperate.

That was going to be my job, in the end.

Along with commentary for the yearbook.

“Try being your naturally charming self, Eleanor, and the story will write itself.” 

There was not much point telling her the story was done, and it was not too flattering.  That could change.

“Then let me know when you’re free.”

She turned away, and interaction was done.  Hopefully I wouldn’t have to talk to her until detention was over.

Or I could just move.

…

Myra kept a wary eye on her main detractor.  It wasn’t as if she had to; it was just that small problem of Eleanor sneaking up on you when you least expected her.  She did it to everyone, her secret weapon.  I know the other girls in her squad were fed up and couldn’t wait for the football season to end, and for her to graduate.

I kept a wary eye on Eleanor.  For her it was too good an opportunity to land a few insults.  Not that Myra would want me to interfere.  She could handle Eleanor, but some days she could be particularly trying.

“There’s a spot about to become vacant in the squad.  I think you would make an excellent member.”

Myra simply ignored her.  It might work for a while, but it was not a long-term strategy.  The idea that Myra would be remotely interested in being a cheerleader was almost funny.

Myra took her time to swing around and give her a long, hard stare.  “That was a joke, wasn’t it?”

It was.  Eleanor was up to something.  And the fact she had approached her, not the other way around, told me there was a storm front on the horizon.

“No.  I’m serious.  The coach said I needed to relax my stamp on the team and allow for some new talent to facilitate and breathe life into a quintessential and least recognised support group.  He recommended I take a hint from the Dallas Cowboys cheer squad.”

The coach had been joking, but something had ignited in her after watching one episode of a TV series, which one of the football team had mentioned, for reasons other than cheerleading pointers. 

Then came the rumour she was thinking of trying out for the team, next time they were recruiting.  It was not the first time she got one of these ideas.

Myra had no interest in honing her dance skills into a weird sexualised mating performance, which she maintained was just another part of the male culture of putting women in their place engendered by the school and society in general.

She was part of a very small group of girls who firmly believed that men and boys had no right to dictate what they could do, or limit their aspirations.  Eleanor believed a girl’s aspirations were to work until married, then become a wife and mother.  She led by example, working at the diner, and on track to marry Reggie.

Myra had said more than once she couldn’t think of anything worse.  College and career beckoned.  She had no interest in boys, weddings, or wanting to be ‘looked after’ by any man.

“I doubt whether my ballet classes when I was six would be classes as the necessary dancing skills required for the job, Eleanor.  Thank you for the opportunity, but I respectfully decline.”

Being polite was one thing, but refusing an offer from Eleanor, Queen Bee, leader of the pack, daughter of self confessed movers and shakers was something else entirely.

Eleanor’s expression changed.  The last time I’d seen something like it was when the weather changed, and not for the good.

“So, Eleanor,” I said, thinking now would be a good time to run distraction, “if the cheer team is recruiting, does that mean you are dissatisfied with the current team members?  I mean, notwithstanding the minor errors in the routine at the last game, does that mean you’re admitting there are problems?  Coach Wiley says…”

She swung around and glared at me.  Everyone knew the mistake was hers, simply because she had been mysteriously injured the week before.  There were rumours for that too; Reggie had a violent streak, but no one was talking about it.

“Coach Wylie has too many opinions about stuff that’s above his pay grade.  Perhaps if he tried to elevate the football team’s performance and not comment on the intakes of our routine, we might reach the finals.”

There was no mistaking the venom in her tone or the words from her mother’s mouth.  She was the cheerleader and prom queen of her day, and much rested on the shoulders of her daughter. 

“That’s your mother’s disappointment, isn’t it?” I said.

“You have no idea.”

I didn’t.  My parents had no expectation of me.  That all got poured into Jeremy, one of the Reggie acolytes, and through him I heard the true feelings Reggie had for Eleanor, or any of the cheerleaders.

“What happened to you a few weeks back?  You haven’t been yourself?”

The expression softened, which for Eleanor was a marked change from the tough facade she tried hard to maintain.  It may have surprised her that anyone could sound concerned.  I know her mother pushed her way beyond her limits and ability simply because her mother was living her aspirations through her daughter.

It was, I’d finally realised, an impossible dream.  When would Eleanor?

Then the facade snapped back.  “Nothing.  And if anything had it would be none of your business.”  She was turning back to Myra.

“Actually, it is.  News is news, good or bad, and the public have a right to know.” I was quoting Walters.

She was going to regret sitting down in the back.

She turned back, and the look she gave me was unfathomable.  Despair, hatred, misery- it was like she had just discovered everything she had thought her life was about just got turned on its head.

“I did nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong according to the values your mother puts on your actions, which I’m guessing were handed down.  It may have served 20 years ago but not now.  The same as you can create your own style.  Just saying.”

Perhaps I’d overstepped the mark, but I got the impression she was in a no-win situation on all fronts.  The school, the cheer squad, Reggie, her mother, and her contemporaries.

She didn’t say anything; perhaps there was no searing retort she could throw at me right then.

But Myra decided to add her two cents’ worth, “I’m guessing that cheer squad vacancy just evaporated.”

Eleanor turned to her, “Why can’t you just be an ordinary girl, wear a school uniform like the rest of us, and what’s with the hair?  I mean seriously?”

It wasn’t said in a mean way, but it could have had less of an edge.

“You never heard of individualism?  I hate the idea of conformity and living out someone’s expectations.  I am my own person.”

“And your mother lets you?”

“She doesn’t like it, but within reason I have a reasonable amount of freedom.”

“You’re lucky then.”

I added my two cents’ worth too, “My parents don’t care.  Maybe if I was on the football team, or in the track and field team, but I’m not.  To them I don’t exist.  To the other boys in teams, I’m just a punching bag.  It’s why I’m here.”

“So you’re telling me I’m not the only one with problems “

“I get told often I am the problem,” Myra said.

“That’s what Reggie tells me.  Once I learn my place, he says, things will be better.”

An admission perhaps she might not have told us in different circumstances, but it explained a great deal.  Reggie was not a very nice person, and even as she was right now, she was still a better person than he ever would be.

“It doesn’t have to be like that, Eleanor.  You could do a lot better than him.”  Myra, I could see, was now concerned for her.

But she wasn’t going to let her guard down.  Eleanor might be sounding reasonable, but she had been like this before, just before the explosion

“I don’t know.  Until I walked into this room, everything was in a state that I could control, or at least I thought I could.  Talking to you two can be depressing, all the negative stuff going on.  To be honest, I wish I hadn’t talked to you two.  Now my head is filled with even more nonsense.  I can’t explain how I ended up in detention to anyone.  And you two can’t talk about this to anyone.  I need to think.  God, even thinking about thinking it is giving me a headache.”

With that, she pulled out a book that looked to me like a romance novel, similar to ones my mother read, and noth Myra and I went back to our solitude. But things were different now, in a way I couldn’t explain.

…

When detention was over, she left without saying goodbye.  Myra speculated that she would leave before the end of the year and simply run away.

Myra normally just packed her bag and left.  Today she lingered as I got my stuff together.  She wanted to say something, and I could see her thinking about how she was going to handle things now.

We left together, not saying anything.  There was a coffee shop I’d seen her in nearby, and we headed there.

Coffee and cake delivered, and about a dozen words later, she had decided what she was going to say.  I’d never seen her deliberate before.

“You didn’t have to run interference.”

“I know.  It was just a protective instinct I have for people I care about.”

“You don’t have to.  I can handle Eleanor.”

“Most people can’t.  And she’s like a shark smelling blood in the water, especially from those who didn’t know they’re bleeding.”

“True.  She is a piece of work.”

“Actually, her mother is, and she tries hard to live up to her expectations.”

“Do you care about her too?”

It was asked in a manner I construed would be the same as asking if I was harbouring a secret bunch of feelings towards her.  I wasn’t; she was not in my league, and I was fine with it.

“In a brotherly way maybe.  My brother hangs out with Reggie, and I hear stuff.  She needs to dump him sooner rather than later.”

“He’s hurting her?”

“I’m not sure, but he had a temper, and I hear he’s a mean drunk.”

Her expression and watery eyes told me that she knew something about domestic bullies.  If that was the case, it explained away a few assumptions.

“She won’t listen, even if you told her.”

“Not while her mother has her claws in her.”  I shrugged.  “I just hope it’s an accident not waiting to happen.”

That topic ended, and perhaps her desire to converse any more.  She drained the cup and finished the pie.  I thought she would just get up and walk off.

She hesitated.

“You going to college next year?”

“I’d like to.”

“It’s the only way I’m going to get out of the house and from under the oppressors.  I’m looking for someone to share an apartment.”

“You’d trust me?”

“You care about me.  That’s good enough for me.”

“Well, it solves a problem.  Why not?”

“Why not indeed.”  She slipped out of the seat and threw her bag over her shoulder.  The pink hair stood out under the harsh lights. “Until tomorrow.  You might try sitting closer.  I promise I won’t bite.”

Famous last words.

I watched her leave, stopping just outside the windows to give me a small wave, and I had to wonder where this might lead.

Or that I should not think too much about it and see what might happen in what was always going to be an uncertain future.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

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.

…

Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 46

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…

——

When Carlo heard the shot, he stopped his ‘interrogation’ and sent a soldier over to investigate.  To avoid getting shot inadvertently, I came out of the woods with my hands up, and, thankfully, was instantly recognized.

I went over to the barn and looked at the man on the ground.  “Do he have anything to say?”

“No.”

The other man, awaiting ‘interrogation’ was visibly shaken by the events.  Two dead including Leonardo, and one a bloody pulp on the ground, with a very angry Carlo standing over him, his outlook was very bleak.

“You speak English,” I asked him.

“Yes.”

“Who are you?”

“Alberto, sir.  I didn’t agree with anything Fernando did.  A few of us refused to kill any of the villagers.  That was Fernando.  He was the one who beat up the women.”

“You could have stopped him.”

“You know the bastard, Carlo.  Not even you could, and you tried.”

Carlo grunted.  To make sure the men on the ground were dead, he shot them again, and emptied his gun into Fernando, adding a curse with each bullet.

I glared at Alberto.  “Pick a side.”

“I’m with you.  There are several others, back in the castle.  We would be able to help if you were planning an attack.”

“The last person who told me that is out there in the woods with a bullet in his head.  I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you.”

“We can help.”

“And, you will.  When we decide to go, we’ll take you with us.  You double-cross us, the Carlo gets his five minutes.  You try to run away, Carlo will hunt you down and kill you.  Understood?”

He nodded.

“Fernando?”  The man sent to find the defectors had come back.

I shot him before he could make any sort of move, just as he realized what had happened.

I motioned to the soldiers to get the defectors, who, hearing the shots, had started to flee.  Two shots in the air stopped them.  Two of them were small children, who would not have survived if they’d been taken to the castle.

All four were visibly frightened by what they’d seen, and of what their fate might be.  I assured them, they were now in safe hands, and we were going not to the castle, but to a different place.  Desperate people in a desperate situation, I couldn’t imagine where they’d come from, or their journey from Germany with nothing on a promise of safety taken at face value.

“We go to the castle now,” Carlo asked.

“Soon.  We need a plan.  Let’s go back and make one.  But, yes.  We go to the castle now.”

Storming the castle might have worked if I had a hundred men, not about ten. Granted Carlo would be the equivalent of another five, but in a hail of bullets, he would not last long.

I had to put myself in Wallace’s shoes and figure out how he would defend the castle once he realized Jackerby and the resistance members were dead.

Panic would be my first thought.  Then, when rational thought returned, block off all the known entrances and exits, and post sentries outside.  We had about twenty men to deal with, but a dozen were hardened battle soldiers, and that would make a difference.  The fact they were inside covering most of the entrance points would make the job harder.

If we had to use the known entrances.

When the time came, they were going to get a surprise because Carlo knew of two others no one but he, and the owners of the castle, were the only ones who knew about them.

But, first, we had to even the odds if possible.

For that, one of Blinky’s team was a sniper, and with him was a sniper rifle and suppressor which meant we would be able to pick off the sentries without anyone hearing the bullets coming for them.

We were only going to get one shot at it because once Wallace discovered the sentries, he wouldn’t post anymore, and would know of our intent.

But, in the end, none of that mattered. 

We just got a short communication that Meyer was in Florence and his arrival would be in two days’ time.  We were charged with making sure he arrived safely and passed into the pipeline.  The only issue with that was that we needed the castle to complete the process.

That meant we had to move up the plans  to retake the castle, and there were always problems when details were missed.  We had the advantage in our knowledge of the castle and its underground passageways, but would that be enough?

Then there was the surprise.  It had just been learned that a very high-ranking Nazi officer was coming to the castle to personally take Meyer back to the fatherland.  That meant we had to be in the castle when he arrived, so he could be sent back home for interrogation.

Both men, it appeared, had the capacity to turn the tide of the war in our favour.

Blinky simply shrugged when he got the news, then said, “We could do with some more men.”

Stating the obvious.

“It’s the war, you know.  Shortages of everything.”

“Didn’t envisage this at Prep school, did we?  Seems the world was a different place, but my father said it couldn’t last.”

“Nothing ever does.  It’s going to be interesting when this ends if it ends.  There are days I wake up and I can’t remember what it was like, before all this.”

”Well, maybe we get this done, and it’ll be a step closer.  At least, we have to believe that.”

I nodded.  “Good pep talk.  As I remember, you were always trying to talk me into doing something stupid.”

Carlo had been listening to us was a puzzled look.  “Are all you English like you two?”

Blinky answered.  “No.  We’re unique.”

Clearly, he had no idea what that meant.  Blinky was going to try and explain but instead, shrugged.  “Let’s go kill some Germans.”

That Carlo did understand.

——-

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

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, 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 time 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’ service in Moscow, soon to be returning home after 10 years.  She had been there one 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 were 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 interested in her, and Vladimir was.

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 platonic 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 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 would 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 she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed that he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, as always, in 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, the people, and the conversations she overheard were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But on this visit, 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, 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 on 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 minibar and took out the bottle of champagne left there for them, a treat Vladimir arranged 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 about 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 rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2026

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 47

Here’s the thing…

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 installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

“A hundred square miles, that must have run up the coast close to Patterson’s Reach?” I asked.

Patterson’s reach was about five miles to the north, a small town, where there was little fishing done and allegedly a lot of ferrying drugs being dropped off by large ships coming along the offshore shipping lanes.  No one could prove it, and every trap set by the coast guard had failed to find any evidence.  That meant that someone was tipping them off.

It was also the domain of the Cossatino’s who discouraged anyone else from living there.  It was said that Cossatino owned all of the lands the town sat on and the people who lived there worked for him.

“Only as far as Patterson’s reach and then inland for about 20 miles, about as far as the Faultline and perhaps the closest point between the foothills and the sea.  Ormiston had bought all the land thinking that the treasure was buried on it.  You see, he had a map too, long before Boggs senior had started forging them for the Cossatino’s.”

And in hearing that it begged the question, who had first found the original map?  If Cossatino found it, then getting Boggs senior to forge a lot of useless maps would hide where it really was.

What if Boggs ‘original’ map was yet another elaborate forgery, given to him by Cossatino to create others?  I put that thought to one side.

I wondered if Boggs had been to see her, to get some background.  If there was going to be an expert on the treasure, if it existed or not, she would know.  In fact, she probably knew old man Ormiston.

“Does that map still exist?”

“Perhaps.  It was not found in his effects after he died.  Spent his last years in an asylum.  It wasn’t not finding the treasure, or losing his fortune that sent him mad, it was Alzheimer’s, poor old man.  Whatever documents that were found when his relatives cleaned the place out were brought to the library to be stored, cataloged at some point, and one day when someone decides to write a history of the area, no doubt they want to see the collection.”

“I couldn’t look at the papers?”

“Are you interested in writing a local history.  I’m sure your hunt for the treasure and the many fruitless other expeditions looking for it would make a very entertaining chapter.”

“Maybe I will.”

If that was what it took to look at the documents.  There might be something interesting to be found.  Especially if he kept a diary.  I thought it best not to ask, and fuel suspicions.

“Elmer said there might be relations of Ormiston still around here?”

“Yes, I did say that which I now regret.  There are, but I don’t know who they are.  I knew his wife’s family name was Maunchen, and that the Maunchens came from California originally, and there’s nothing to say they didn’t go back.  Certainly, the wife would be deceased by now, and they had three daughters, all of whom would have married, and changed names.  You’d have to go digging through wedding records in at least a dozen parishes.  If you were thinking of investigating.”

“Sound like too much hard work.  Besides, the treasure doesn’t; exist.  I’m only helping Boggs to keep him from doing something stupid.”

“Like father, like son, unfortunately.  You do realize the father made some outlandish claim in the hotel one night that he had found the clue to where the treasure was buried.   Trouble was, he was prone to making outlandish claims, and by that time, a drunkard.  He went missing the next day, and has never been seen since.”

“You think he found it?”

“No.  But I’m guessing someone thought he had and killed him trying to find out.  We’ll never know.”

“A lesson to be learned then.  I’ll keep an eye on Boggs junior just in case he’s thinking of making an equally outlandish claim.”

“You do that.”

She opened a drawer and pulled out a form and handed it to me.

“What’s this for?”

“A request to look at the archives.  You have to register, and I have to give you a special card, the key to the history of Arkwon County.”

Where it said signature, I signed it.

“You fill out the rest.  When do you want me to pick up the card?”

“Monday next week.  In the meantime, be careful.”

She said it like she knew I would be walking into trouble.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

The 2am Rant: I was just getting started when…

You know how it goes, you just get into a writing rhythm when the phone rings and it’s another of those pesky scam calls.

Or in my case not one but three, so far.

The first has to do with the NBN, which is Australia’s laughable answer to world-class internet, and which is, in reality, a complete stuff up that cost us, the taxpayers, 50 billion dollars, and for nothing.

Most nights during the peak hours, you cannot continuously stream without breaks, pixelation, or just nothing at all.  World-class?  I’m afraid not.  Perhaps I should relocate to Romania where I hear, the internet is much faster and more reliable.

Enough with the rant, the call this time around was the NBN scam, where they try logging into your computer and stealing everything, including banking information, credit card information, and the rest of your life, if it’s possible.

I have no life so they would be badly disappointed.

The second scam call is for solar panels.  Yes, they are selling solar panels, but they are the junk no one else wants, years out of date, and then charge three times what they’re worth, even when you get the government rebate.

I’ve got solar panels already, so I don’t care.  I just put the phone on the other side of the desk and let them prattle on.  They get the message eventually.

The next is for raffle tickets.  It generally relates to some form of charity, in which the caller goes through the charity’s functions chapter and verse and then tries to hit you up for ten tickets at a discounted price.

Sounds legit.  Yes, I’ve heard of the charity.  Yes, I know what it does.

But…

It’s not the real charity calling, but some scammer trying to get your credit card details, along with that all-important 3 digit cvc number.

Not today Josephine, or whatever your name was.

I’ve got an app on my phone that tells me if the caller is a scammer, and this one had red lights flashing and a large red ‘fraud’ stamped across it.

An hour later, all thoughts are gone.

I suppose I better have some lunch and try again later.

What I Learned About Writing – Why Your Aspirational Stories May Be Turning Audiences Away (And How to Fix It)

“If you can’t explain it simply, you haven’t understood it well enough.” – Albert Einstein

In the world of blogging, the line between “inspiring” and “incomprehensible” is razor‑thin. You’ve probably heard the old adage: “Tell a dream, lose a reader.” It’s a warning, not a destiny. In this post we’ll unpack why lofty, abstract storytelling can actually drive readers away, and we’ll give you a concrete roadmap to keep those dreams alive and keep your audience glued to the page.

1. The Allure of the “Dream” Narrative

Every great brand, influencer, or thought‑leader has a vision—a big picture that fuels their work. Think of Elon Musk’s Mars colony, Simon Sinek’s “Start With Why,” or a startup’s promise to “revolutionise the way people travel.”

These dreams:

  • Create emotional resonance – they tap into hopes, fears, and aspirations.
  • Differentiate the voice – a compelling vision makes you stand out in a sea of generic how‑tos.
  • Provide long‑term direction – they guide content strategy, product roadmaps, and community building.

So why would sharing a dream ever backfire?

2. When Dreams Become “Dream‑Noise”

Dream‑Heavy SymptomWhy It Turns Readers Off
Vague, lofty language (e.g., “We aim to reshape humanity”)Readers can’t picture the concrete outcome.
All‑talk, no‑action (no steps, no proof)The audience feels you’re all hype, no substance.
Ignoring the audience’s needs (talking about your mission without linking to their problems)Readers wonder, “What’s in it for me?”
Over‑long, meandering storiesAttention spans are limited; the main point gets lost.
Lack of relatable examplesPeople connect with stories they can see themselves in.

These pitfalls cause a cognitive overload: the brain wants a clear mental model, not a cloud of abstract promises. When that model is missing, the reader disengages—often before the first paragraph ends.

3. The Science Behind the Drop‑Off

  • Attention Span: Studies show the average online reader spends only 8‑10 seconds scanning a piece before deciding to stay or leave.
  • Cognitive Fluency: The brain prefers information that’s easy to process. When you bombard readers with nebulous concepts, they experience mental friction and instinctively retreat.
  • Emotional Alignment: Readers stay when they feel the story resonates with their own goals. A dream that feels distant creates an emotional gap—and gaps drive exits.

4. Turning Dream‑Talk Into Reader‑Retention Gold

Below is a step‑by‑step framework that lets you share your grand vision without losing traction.

Step 1: Anchor the Dream in a Tangible Problem

Instead of: “We’ll change the way the world thinks about sustainability.”
Try: “Every year, 1.2 billion tons of plastic end up in oceans. Our platform gives brands a zero‑waste packaging solution that cuts that number by 30 % within two years.”

Why it works: Readers instantly see the stakes and how your dream addresses a real pain point.

Step 2: Break the Vision into Three Concrete Milestones

MilestoneTimeframeReader Benefit
Prototype LaunchQ2 2025Early adopters get 20 % discount & co‑design input
Beta ScalingQ4 2025Access to analytics dashboards to track waste reduction
Full Roll‑outQ2 2026Certification as a “Zero‑Waste Partner” for marketing

Why it works: Short, numbered milestones make the journey digestible and create mini‑wins that keep readers invested.

Step 3: Weave a Relatable Human Story

  • Introduce a protagonist (real or fictional) who embodies the reader.
  • Show their struggle with the problem.
  • Demonstrate how the solution (your dream) changes their life in measurable terms.

Example: “When Maya, a boutique owner in Austin, switched to our biodegradable sleeves, she cut packaging costs by $3,200 in six months and saw a 12 % lift in repeat customers.”

Step 4: Use Concrete Data & Social Proof

  • Include stats, testimonials, or case studies that prove the dream is already moving.
  • Visuals (infographics, before/after photos) reduce abstraction and boost credibility.

Step 5: End With a Clear Call‑to‑Action (CTA) Aligned to the Dream

  • “Join our pilot program and be among the first to showcase a waste‑free storefront.”
  • “Download the free roadmap that walks you through the first step of going plastic‑free.”

Why it works: The CTA transforms inspiration into a next step—the bridge from dream to action.

5. Real‑World Examples: Dream‑Talk Done Right

BrandDream StatementHow They Ground ItResult
Patagonia“We’re in business to save our home planet.”Constantly shares specific initiatives (e.g., 1% for the Planet, repair kits, supply‑chain transparency).Loyal community of 4M+ activists; consistent sales growth.
Airbnb“Belong anywhere.”Provides concrete stories of hosts and guests, clear guidelines for community standards, and data on economic impact.150 M+ users, $5B+ annual revenue.
Tesla“Accelerate the world’s transition to sustainable energy.”Regularly releases measurable milestones (Model 3 production numbers, Supercharger network expansion).Valuation > $1 trillion, massive media buzz.

Notice how each brand starts with a bold dream, but immediately anchors it in specific, relatable, and data‑driven details. The dream becomes a promise you can see, feel, and act upon.

6. Quick Checklist: Is Your Dream Story Reader‑Friendly?

  •  Problem‑First – Do you start with the reader’s pain point?
  •  Three‑Step Roadmap – Is the vision broken into digestible milestones?
  •  Human Hook – Is there a relatable protagonist?
  •  Concrete Evidence – Do you back up claims with data or testimonials?
  •  Clear CTA – Does the post end with a next step tied to the dream?

If you tick four or more boxes, you’re on the right track. If not, it’s time to rewrite.

7. Takeaway: Dream Boldly, Write Clearly

Your audience craves big ideas—but only when those ideas are presented in a way that feels real, relevant, and actionable. The mantra becomes:

“Tell a dream, keep the reader.”

By anchoring ambition in concrete problems, breaking it into bite‑size milestones, and wrapping it in human stories, you turn a lofty vision into a magnetic narrative that inspires and converts.

Ready to Test This On Your Next Post?

  1. Draft your dream statement.
  2. Apply the five‑step framework above.
  3. Run a quick A/B test: original vs. revised version.
  4. Measure dwell time, scroll depth, and CTA clicks.

Share your results in the comments—let’s learn from each other’s journeys toward dreaming and delivering.

Happy writing, and may your dreams never lose a reader again!