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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

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect them.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half-brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

If I only had one day to stop over in – Belfast – what would I do?

One Day, One Stop: Why Titanic Belfast Is the Only Place You Need to Visit

You’ve just landed in Belfast for a quick stopover. The clock is ticking, the rain is drizzling, and you’ve got only 24 hours to soak up the soul of Northern Ireland’s capital. Where do you go? The answer is simple: Titanic Belfast—the world‑class visitor experience that turns a fleeting lay‑over into an unforgettable adventure.

1. The Power of a Single Icon

Belfast is a city of layers—industrial heritage, political history, vibrant street art, and a buzzing food scene. Trying to cram them all into a single day inevitably leads to a frantic dash from one museum to the next, leaving you exhausted rather than inspired.

Titanic Belfast, by contrast, packs history, architecture, storytelling, and emotion into one spectacular 10‑storey building that dominates the city’s waterfront. It’s not just a museum; it’s an immersive journey that:

  • Narrates the ship’s birth, tragedy, and rebirth in a way that feels personal, not just factual.
  • Showcases Belfast’s industrial spirit—the very shipyards that built the Titanic were the backbone of the city’s economy.
  • Offers panoramic city views from its rooftop glass lift, giving you a quick, breathtaking orientation of Belfast in under five minutes.

Put simply, stepping into Titanic Belfast means you walk through the heartbeat of the city without having to hop on multiple buses.

2. What Makes the Experience Memorable

FeatureWhy It Stands Out
The BuildingDesigned to look like the hull of a ship, the glass‑clad “ship’s bow” reflects the River Lagan and the surrounding skyline—perfect for a quick photo op.
The Storytelling GalleriesTen interactive galleries guide you from the Edwardian era, through the ship’s construction, to the fateful night in 1912, and finally to the modern-day legacy.
Full‑Scale Titanic ReplicaWalk the exact length of the grand staircase, explore the first‑class lounge, and stand in the engine room—feel the scale that no textbook can convey.
“Iceberg” Immersive TheatreA 3‑D projection room that drops you into the chilling moment the ship struck the iceberg—thrilling, yet respectful.
Rooftop Observation DeckA glass lift ascends 100 m, delivering a sweeping 360° view of Belfast, the shipyard, and the surrounding hills. A perfect “one‑minute” city overview.
Café & Gift ShopFinish with a cup of locally roasted coffee and pick up a handcrafted Titanic souvenir—a reminder of your day for years to come.

3. How to Fit Titanic Belfast Into a One‑Day Itinerary

TimeAction
08:30 – Arrival in BelfastDisembark, collect luggage, and hop on a Metro (bus) 400 from the airport to Titanic Quarter (≈ 15 min).
09:00 – Ticket & Quick BitePurchase tickets online in advance (≈ £19 adults) to skip the queue. Grab a quick pastry at the on‑site café while the line moves.
09:15 – Start the TourDive straight into Gallery 1 – “The Legend Begins.” Use the audio guide for a personal pace.
11:30 – Lunch BreakHead to The Dock Café (right outside) for a 30‑minute sandwich and a local craft beer.
12:00 – The Grand Staircase & Engine RoomFollow the self‑guided route through the ship’s interior—don’t miss the first‑class lounge for that glamorous glimpse.
13:15 – Iceberg Immersive TheatreReserve a 10‑minute slot; the 3‑D experience is short but powerful.
13:45 – Rooftop Observation DeckTake the glass lift up, snap panoramic shots, and soak the city’s layout—use this time to check your next travel connections.
14:30 – Gift Shop & DeparturePick up a souvenir, maybe a Titanic‑themed notebook, and hop back on the Metro 400 to the airport (or train station) for your onward journey.

Total time: ~ 6 hours (including travel, meals, and a comfortable buffer). This leaves you plenty of room for a quick coffee at a local shop or a stroll along the River Lagan before you head out.

4. Insider Tips for a Seamless Visit

  1. Buy Tickets Ahead – The online “Skip‑the‑Line” tickets guarantee you’ll be inside within minutes, even during peak tourist seasons.
  2. Wear Comfortable Shoes – You’ll be walking on metal decks, stairs, and the glass lift.
  3. Pack a Light Rain Jacket – Belfast weather is famously unpredictable; the rooftop deck is glass‑enclosed, but the queue line can be exposed.
  4. Use the Free Wi‑Fi – Download the Titanic Belfast app for audio commentary and interactive maps.
  5. Time Your Photo – Early morning light reflects beautifully off the building’s glass façade, giving you a stunning Instagram shot before the crowds arrive.

5. Why Titanic Belfast Beats All Other Options

Alternative SpotTime RequiredWhat You Miss
Belfast City Hall1‑2 hrs (plus waiting for tours)No deep connection to the city’s industrial roots.
St. George’s Market2‑3 hrs (plus food time)Great for foodies, but weather‑dependent and less “iconic.”
Murals & Political Tours3‑4 hrs (including travel)Powerful, yet emotionally heavy for a brief lay‑over.
Giant’s CausewayFull day (4‑5 hrs just travel)Too far (≈ 1.5 hrs each way) for a single‑day stopover.
Titanic Belfast4‑5 hrs (including lunch)All‑in‑one: history, architecture, views, and a strong sense of place—no extra travel needed.

6. A Quick Story to Seal the Deal

When I first stepped onto the rooftop lift of Titanic Belfast, the city unfolded beneath me like a living map. The old shipyard cranes, the sleek new apartments, the River Lagan glinting in the winter sun—all of Belfast’s past, present, and future converged in that single moment. Within minutes, I felt like a true visitor, not just a passer‑by. That’s the magic of the place: it compresses a city’s story into an unforgettable, tactile experience.

Final Thought: One Stop, One Story, One Memory

If you only have a day in Belfast, make it count. Titanic Belfast isn’t just a museum—it’s a narrative bridge that connects the grit of a shipyard community to the awe of a world‑famous ocean liner, all under one iconic roof. One visit, and you walk away with a clear picture of Belfast’s spirit, a handful of stunning photos, and a story you’ll recount for years to come.

So next time your flight itinerary leaves you with a fleeting stopover, skip the scramble and set your compass for Titanic Belfast—the one place that guarantees your day in Belfast will be nothing short of memorable. 🚢✨

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

I remembered a bang.

I remembered the car slewing sideways.

I remembered another bang, and then it was lights out.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.

Or I could be underwater.

Everything was blurred.

I tried to focus, but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.

What happened?

Why was I lying down?

Where was I?

I cast my mind back, trying to remember.

It was a blank.

What, when, who, why and where are questions I should easily be able to answer. These are questions any normal person could answer.

I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.

I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.

“My God! What happened?”

I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.

I was blind. Everything was black.

“Car accident; hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”

Was I that poor bastard?

“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.

“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”

“What isn’t broken?”

“His neck.”

“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”

I heard the shuffling of pages.

“OR1 ready?”

“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”

“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”

Magic.

It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.

Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time underwater.

Or somewhere.

I tried to speak but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.

Was it night or was it day?

Was it hot, or was it cold?

Where was I?

Around me, it felt cool.

It was incredibly quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or that was the sound of pure silence.  And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.

I didn’t try to move.

Instinctively, somehow, I knew not to.

A previous unpleasant experience?

I heard what sounded like a door opening, and noticeably quiet footsteps slowly came into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.

My grandfather.

He had smoked all his life until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that, he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way down the same path. I could smell the smoke.

I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.

I couldn’t.

I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later, the clicking of a pen, then writing.

“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a bad accident. You cannot talk or move; all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days and just came out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She had a very soothing voice.

Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.

“Everything is fine.”

Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.

“Just count backwards from 10.”

Why?

I didn’t reach seven.

Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning, I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.

It rose above the disinfectant.

She was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.

It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.

The next morning, she was back.

“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very severely injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”

More tests, and then when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. This was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.

The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”

Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accidents, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.

How could that happen?

That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact that I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment, was the fact that I could not remember before the crash either, or only vague memories after.

But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised I could not remember my name.

I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.

I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I will remember tomorrow. Or the next day.

Sleep was a blessed relief.

The next day I didn’t wake up feeling nauseous. I think they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that but not who I am?

Now I knew Winifred, the nurse, was preparing me for something unbelievably bad. She was upbeat and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”

So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.

But there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.

This time, I was left awake for an hour before she returned.

This time, sleep was restless.

Scenes were playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Other people, I didn’t know. Or I knew them and couldn’t remember them.

Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.

The morning the bandages were to come off, she came in early and woke me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.

“This morning, the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly, or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”

I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.

I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender; the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.

I was amazed to realise at that moment, I wasn’t.

I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.

I felt the bandage being removed and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.

Then a moment when nothing happened.

Then the pads are gently lifted and removed.

Nothing.

I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.

“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later, I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. There was ointment or something else in them.

Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.

She wiped my eyes again.

I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.

I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.

Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.

I nodded.

“You can see?”

I nodded again.

“Clearly?”

I nodded.

“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”

I couldn’t wait.

When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring; there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the most handsome of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.

I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.

They came at mid-morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. She was the distraction, taking my mind off the reality of what I was about to see.

Another doctor came into the room before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon who had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.

I found it hard to believe that if he were, he would be at a small country hospital.

“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months.”

Warning enough.

The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.

Then it was done.

The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with it. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.

I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand and was reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said, noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the result. The doctor said it was going to heal with little scarring. You have been extremely fortunate that he was available. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

She showed me.

I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess, I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.

And I still could not talk. There was a reason; he had worked in that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.

“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement in last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”

A new face?

I could not remember the old one.

My memory still hadn’t returned.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024-2026

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 251

Day 251 – Writing exercise

…

The first sensation I had was excruciating pain.  My leg, my side, my arm… it was hard to tell what hurt most.

A voice above me was in full panic, “We’re losing him.  Make it happen … now.”

Then he realised I had surfaced, an eye partially open, to one side a large leaning lump of metal, smelling of oil or something else.

“Stay with me sir,stay with me.” His hand on my chest, I could hear the groaning sound of metal, and a slight easing of the pain.

“Easy, easy now”, then a scream, ” gently.”

The pain came in a rush and then I heard a scream.  I never thought it might have come from me.

…

Whoever it was hovering had changed; it could be the same person but I didn’t think so.  I could smell lavender.

Perhaps I was dead.

The pain was less, hovering there in the background.

The voice had morphed into a woman’s slightly higher pitch, soothing but urgent.

A man was standing over her.

“He’s stabilised, critical, but ready for transport.  It isn’t good, but its not bad.”

At least that’s what I thought she said as inky blackness and silence followed.

What the hell had happened?

…

Two days and three operations later, followed by an induced command for three more, I woke again, in a completely different setting.

The ICU.

A nurse was sitting in the chair next to me, apparently toiling over the Times cryptic crossword.  I’d wrestled with a few of my own.

She seemed angry, or perhaps she had one of those faces that looked perpetually sad.  I would be too if I worked in this ward.  So many people seen at their very worst.

Of course, I doubt many would be in the same sinking ship I was on, not knowing what happened or why I was there.

Except..

I had done a full reconciliation of my body and I was covered in bandages, and barely able to move.

So, conclusion?  I was hit by a bus.

I stirred, and she looked up.  I was surprised it hadn’t stirred her into instant action.

She carefully put the newspaper to one side, wiped her hands on one of those antiseptic towels and then stood, taking in the biological sights on the machine beside me and nodding to herself.

A lot of wires ran between me and that machine.

She could see me looking at her.

“Can you speak?”

Good question.  The words were in my head, but   come out.  My mouth moved but there was no sound.  Where was that volume button?

“That would be a no, then.”

“In case you haven’t put two and two together, you are in hospital.  This is the Intensive Care Ward and my name is Nancy.  You have been in an induced coma to help in your recovery and in a minute a doctor will be here and will tell you more.”

That was enough.  Definitely hit by a bus.

The doctor when he came, looked no older than a high school graduate.  His manner was strange but I put that down to him being tired.  He looked tired.

His description of my case was disjointed, or perhaps that was me, picking out the salient features.

Car accident – other driver drunk and died at the scene – I nearly did but for a fast acting off duty trauma nurse – extensive broken bones – a hell of a shake-up – but I would recover.

In time … except ..

It appeared I had no memory of the accident, who I was, and a lot of other information everyone routinely knew about themselves like name, address, and phone number.  Or anything personal.

How was that possible?

…

It seems a man with no name must be a criminal.

That was the impression I got when Nancy the nurse told me I was getting a visit from the police, though the way she put it, it was to try and identify whether I was a missing person, considering I had been, by this time, seven days out of circulation.

Was I supposed to feel like a copy of the daily newspaper, or an old book?

Of course, the police had to wait until the doctor decided I was well enough to cope with an intensive interrogation.  By this time the boy doctor had been replaced with an elderly man, almost grey, with a permanent amused expression, and the best bedside manner tone.

Every word he spoke sounded reassuring even if it wasn’t.  He could, I decided, sell ice cream to the Eskimos.

“Unfortunately,” he said, after poring over the ever thickening chart file, “I can only hold them off for so long.  They don’t seem to like the idea that someone cannot remember who they are.”

“I wish I could remember.  The accident, what I was doing before the accident, and whether someone out there is worrying about whether I’m dead or alive.”

“I’m sure the amnesia is only temporary.  After all a car landed on you.  A lot of people would not have survived.  That is one of your nine lives expended.”

Odd, I felt as though it was not the first time I’d spent time in one of these places.  I was due to move to a ward later today.  That was when I would have the first appointment with the torturers, otherwise known as the physiotherapists.

“Thanks, but no point delaying the inevitable.”

…

Detective Lucas and Detective Samson were as different as chalk and cheese.  When they walked in, Lucas, the elder of the two was first.  Samson was young, enthusiastic and animated.

Lucas looked like he’d already done the graveyard shift and decided not to go home.  Tired and aggravated, as if coming to see a guy who couldn’t remember his own name, was an affront to his detecting skills.

Samson hung back and had a notepad out, pencil ready.  Lucas stood at the end of the bed.

“Ninety nine times out of a hundred a person who plays the amnesia card is running from or trying to hide something, and in my experience, are criminals trying to escape the consequences.”

Lucas, apparently, was the bad cop.

“Which one are you, Mr John Doe?”

So, I was John Doe.  Oddly I knew what that meant.  The hospital had to call me something, and I wondered how many John Doe files in their archive.

“The one that got hit by the proverbial bus.  The one that nearly died.  The one that will be lucky to pick up a piece of paper, let alone mastermind an art gallery heist, or drive a getaway car.”

“It’s not my first rodeo.  We’ve done a facial recognition pass on you, and fingerprints, and very strange, you don’t seem to be on any database. To me, it’s impossible to believe you just don’t exist.”

They were not the only gobsmacked people in the room.  “What can I say?  There was no ID, a wallet, drivers licence, credit cards, anything.”

“Not even a label on your clothes.  You have several wounds, long healed, but are the result of a knife, and several bullets.  Can you shed any light on how or when these happened?”

“No.  It’s news to me.”  And scary news.

That tells me, as incredible as it sounds, that you are or were a spy, or you’re here illegally, on a mission.  You will be getting a visit from the FBI, after I sent the a copy of my report.”

If he was trying to use threats to jog my memory, it wasn’t working.  It was still blank.  But something I discovered, I could translate the detective’s words into several different languages, especially after he accused me of being a spy.

Maybe I was.

…

The physiotherapist looked like a doctor out of a Frankenstein movie, with close-set eyes, jutting chin and receding but unruly hair.  The long nose, high cheek bones, pencil moustache and thin cruel mouth completed the nightmare.

I had been asleep, woke and got a hell of a frighten when I saw him peering down at me.

“Mr John Doe, I presume?”  Damn, he had a German accent. 

What had happened in my life that just seeing him filled me with fear?

“One of many John Doe’s, yes?”

“I am one of two physiotherapists that have been assigned to you to get you back on your feet.  At this moment it time that might see an impossible feat, but I assure you it is not.  We have gone over your scans and it seems there is nothing insurmountable.  Time and effort is all that will be needed, when the time comes.

“In the meantime we will be outlining the exercises we would like to do in preparation.  We will begin an expansive program, bit by bit.  Any questions?”

Yes, about a hundred.  But only one that needed an answer.

“What is my current condition?”

“Better than it was a week ago.”

OK.  Ego boosted, now tell me the truth.

“You’re doing as well as was expected.  We’ll know more in a week, but it’s my firm belief we’ll have you up and around soon enough.”

“And my memory?”

“Not my field, but there are people in that field all over but there are several who work here, and you should talk to one or two.  I’m sure if you talk to your doctor he will find a specialist in that field.”

….

I was woken by raised voices put on the passage, and I could just see through the partially closed blind a hospital security guard, my night nurse. And a man and a woman arguing.

More visitors for me most likely.  I looked at the clock on the wall, and it was a few minutes past six on the .morning.

A pre dawn raid by a police department, though the two were dressed in plain clothes, I believed they were with the FBI. 

It was tactics to burst in, just before dawn, when everyone was asleep and tired, just in time to wake them up and ask questions.  Hoping their guard would be down.  Hoping my guard would be down.

Argument over, IDs flashed and threats made, the two came in and the male agent introduced himself as Agent Rostrum and his partner, Agent Bairns.

I remembered watch the X files where the agents always introduced themselves as Agent something, as if they had no real first name.  They were nothing like Mulder and Scully.

They took up positions either side of the bed, as if they expected I was going to make a run for it. 

Rostrum started.  “We’ve been told you can’t remember anything.”

They could have started less confrontational, but I was guessing this was part of the shock treatment, hoping I was half or completely dazed after being awaken abruptly.

For some strange reason it felt familiar.  What was worse, I felt a strange calm come over me.  I should have been outraged.

“You’ve been told correctly.”

“So, you don’t remember anything before during or after the crash?”

“Not at the moment.  The doctor seems to think the shock of a vehicle landing on me has caused temporary amnesia, and expects my memory will return, sooner or later.”

He looked at his partner, then back at me.  Clearly, he didn’t believe me.  “The number of suspects who have used that lame excuse tells me you have something to hide.”

“Then you tell me who I am, and why I was where I was when the accident happened.  Was I fleeing scene of a crime, because the police would have told me that.”

I looked steadily at him, unblinking, and waited for him to crack first.

“Was there a crime within a fifty-mile radius?”

No answer, so apparently not.

“You could have been on the way to committing a crime?”

“Was I in a car when I had the accident?”

“Yes.”

“Was there anything in the car to suggest I was running from or going to a crime?”

“No.”

“Who was the driver of the other car?”

“A seventy four year old retired schoolteacher.”

A blink, then a light bulb turned on in the recesses of my mind.  The description that it was a seventy four year old retired schoolteacher stuck a chord, a familiar chord.  Why?

“So, I’m driving along, he comes out of nowhere at speed and the cars collide.  It’s a logical series of events that make sense to me.  Wrong place wrong time, but no, you think I’m some crime lord with a fake memory excuse?”

“Aren’t you?  The circumstances are compelling evidence.  You just about described the whole event fir someone who can’t remember.”

“Anyone with a brain could work that out for themselves.  If that’s all you’ve got then you can leave now.”

“We have….”

Another person walked in the door, a woman dressed far more stylish than the FBI agents.  Someone who reeked of authority.  A lawyer?

She had a card and flashed it at the two agents.  “This interview is over, and you two can leave.  I’ve spoken to your boss.  Ring him and check.  Meanwhile, scoot.”

“This is highly irregular.” Rostrum was not pleased.

“This will turn into a very bad pain in the ass if you disobey a direct order.  Leave, now.”  The woman had not raised her voice but it felt like she was shouting at them.”

“Who are you again?”

“Ring your boss, though by this time I’m sure he’s well into writing up your insubordination record. I suggest you hurry to get ahead of this.”

Once again he looked at his partner and she nodded, at the same time heading towards the door.  She was not going to be branded with the same brush as her partner.  Rostrum reluctantly followed.

When they left, the new arrival closed the door and came back. 

She looked at me for a full minute, before saying, “You really don’t remember?”

I looked at her.  Yes, there was something, but it might be that she had an unforgettable look.”

I shook my head.  “There’s something there, but it’s not clear.”

She sighed.  “We are together Michael, we have been for about a year.  It’s taken me all this time to find you.  You really don’t remember?”

Michael?

Something in my head dropped into place.

Michael?

A fragment popped into my head, a memory of a woman, a photo in a magazine.  Another fragment, a room, a large table, a man, a woman, not the one here with me, a map.

A photo in a magazine.

She looked very different in the photo, standing on the deck of a yacht, in a bikini so small it was barely there, but it was the golden hair and oversized sunglasses that stuck in my mind.

Like a movie actor, or something else, maybe the wife of a billionaire, the man who owned the yacht.

It was definitely not me.

And she was definitely not my wife, or partner, and we would never be involved, not in the way she was intimating.

She must have seen my expression changed.

“You remember something.”

“I have seen you before, yes. On a page of a magazine, though slightly less dressed than you are now.  But beyond that, nothing.  I’m sorry.”

She gave me the same look as the FBI agents did.  They didn’t believe me either.

“That’s alright.  We can get the best doctors and figure out what’s happened.  It’s only temporary, after all.”

She said it almost too offhandedly, perhaps to put me at ease.

Another fragment popped into my head, and this one was slightly more terrifying.  That seventy-four-year-old retired schoolteacher, coming out of the cabin of the yacht, holding a gun.

What the hell was I mixed up in.

She saw the expression and smiled.  “There it is.  Harry said if I turned up, you’d remember.”

And oddly, right after she said that, she looked very strange and then collapsed on the floor.

I had just enough time to recognise a hissing sound and looked up at the air conditioning vent in the roof.  Gas.

I could do with some more sleep.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly, he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

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The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 39

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Chasing leads, maybe

…

Sometimes the best-laid plans worked out, but today it was as if the Gods were trying to ruin my day.  Earlier days this week had been getting darkish between three and four, but today it was a little later.

It meant we had to spend a little more quality time together before we embarked on some breaking and entering.

Of course, it might have helped if I’d told her what I was intending to do before I brought her along for the ride, but it was exactly for that reason I did because if she didn’t like the idea, there would be little option to change he mind.

But the initial displeasure was expected.

“Breaking and entering is not exactly how I envisioned my first few days on the job market.”

“You learned all of the requisite skills in training.  I know, I was your partner in crime more than once.”

And that was a question I had once told myself I’d ask her if I ever ran into her again outside of work.

Which I did now.  “Why was that?”

At a guess, it had to be because I knew what I was doing whereas the other men were more like blunt instruments.  They’d taught us the finesse in breaking into a wide variety of entrances, but they seemed to like and use bashing the door in.

“I knew I had a better chance of success if I stuck with you.”

“What about Yolanda?”

She was another woman I had put into the same category as Jennifer, she was possessed of a calm demeanor in a crisis, and actually took the time to lean the subtitles of her tradecraft.  I had been disappointed when she didn’t make the final cut, though I suspect there was more to her ‘failing’ than met the eye.

And, I never got to find out the real reason.

I had liked her and had thought the feelings were mutual, but after she left, I’d not heard from her again.  I guess I could have tried to reach out, and might still do if this ever came to an end where I didn’t finish up dead.

“She was never going to stick the distance.  I got the impression she wasn’t happy about one of the others making life uncomfortable for her.”

“Student or instructor?”

Interesting she should say that because I had thought there was something going on between her and Maury, and when I asked her she didn’t deign to answer.

“Both.  She considered it was best just to leave.”

Which apparently, she did.

But, back to our current problem.  “All I need you to do is have my back.  I’ll go in, see if he is there, or anyone else, and if the coast is clear, we’ll search the place and leave.  No need to be there one second longer than we have to be.”

But I will; be disappointed if the USB is not there.

“That means we have about an hour to kill,” she said.

Which is why I decided to stop off at a traditional English pub and have an early dinner of bangers and mash.  I was not sure why it just appealed to me.  I’d feel so much better breaking in with a full stomach.

And a mobile phone with the sound turned off.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

Another excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – A sequel to ‘What Sets Us Apart’

…

It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone.  It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air.  In summer, it was the best time of the day.  When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.

On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’.  This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.

She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable.  The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day.  So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.

It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her.  It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

I sat in my usual corner.  Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner.  There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around.  I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria.  All she did was serve coffee and cake.

When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?”  She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.

“I am this morning.  I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating.  I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise.  I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”

“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me.  I have had a lot worse.  I think she is simply jealous.”

It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be.  “Why?”

“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”

It made sense, even if it was not true.  “Perhaps if I explained…”

Maria shook her head.  “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole.  My grandfather had many expressions, David.  If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her.  Before she goes home.”

Interesting advice.  Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma.  What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?

“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.

“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much.  Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone.  It was an intense conversation.  I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell.  It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”

“It is indeed.  And you’re right.  She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one.  She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office.  Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”

And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful.  She had liked Maria the moment she saw her.  We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived.  I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.

She sighed.  “I am glad I am just a waitress.  Your usual coffee and cake?”

“Yes, please.”

Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.

I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one.  What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.

There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it.  We were still married, just not living together.

This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her.  She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.

It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.

There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd.  She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right.  It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.

But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings.  But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.

Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart.  I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit.  The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.

I knew I was not a priority.  Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.

And finally, there was Alisha.  Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around.  It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties. 

At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata.  Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan.  She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores.  We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated.  It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.

It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard.  I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.

She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top.  She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.

Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak.  I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.

Neither spoke nor looked at each other.  I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”

Maria nodded and left.

“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests.  I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence?  All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”

My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.

“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us.  There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”

“Why come at all.  A phone call would have sufficed.”

“I had to see you, talk to you.  At least we have had a chance to do that.  I’m sorry about yesterday.  I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her.  I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”

An apology was the last thing I expected.

“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington.  I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction.  We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”

“You’re not coming with me?”  She sounded disappointed.

“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress.  You are so much better doing your job without me.  I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband.  Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less.  You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it.  I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”

It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement.  Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points.  I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever.  The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.

Then, her expression changed.  “Is that what you want?”

“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways.  But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”

“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”

That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud.  “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan.  You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy.  While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”

“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance.  I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother.  She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right.  Why do you think I gave you such a hard time?  You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously.  But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”

“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”

“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”

“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”

I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead.  Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers.  Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen.  Gianna didn’t like Susan either.

Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her.  She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.

She stood.  “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face.  “Of course not.  I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship.  I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”

I had been trying.  “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan.  I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”

She frowned at me.  “As you wish.”  She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table.  “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home.  Please make it sooner rather than later.  Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”

That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car.  I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.

No kiss, no touch, no looking back. 

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2025

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The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 4

After having to take another leap of faith…

…

And, getting out of the elevator, this time no erratic behaviour but still not filling me with confidence, I step onto the bridge.

The forward screen has changed.

It seems we are going to Neptune via the moon, or we were going to be passing by on our way to someplace else.

The Captain was on the bridge, obviously coming out of his day room on the news that the Chief Engineer had fixed everything.

“Ah, number one, we’ve hung around here long enough.”

He walked back to his chair and sat.

I decided to remain behind the navigator. I could see that the co-ordinates to our destination had been entered and it was Neptune, so the moon was not going to be a stop off.

The Chief engineer’s voice came over the speaker. “Ready when you are, Captain.”

I forgot, for a moment, that the Chief and the Captain had served before, and someone had mentioned the fact the captain had asked for him to be assigned to this ship.

“Mr Jacobs, take us out, slowly, and try not to bump into anything this time.”

Mr Jacobs was the second officer.

In a rather sheepish tone, Mr Jacobs said, “Taking the ship out carefully, sir.”

It was hard to tell if the ship was moving, but the tell tale sign was the movement of the objects on screen. And the fact I could see through the side windows as we moved forwards, leaving the dock superstructure behind.

Also, on the screen I could see the movements of other vessels, several freighters waiting to leave, and one coming in, but standing off until we departed.

Then, suddenly, we were in clear space.

Jacobs turned to the captain, expecting the next order.

“Let’s take it easy. Level one, when you’re ready.”

Jacobs was ready, even eager to get this ship under way. It had performed faultlessly in trials, now we were going to put it through it’s paces.

“Level one, as you wish.”

He pushed the button, there was a moment when nothing happened, then with just the slightest movement inside the bridge, we were under way.

Next stop, Neptune.

…

© Charles Heath 2021

The 2am Rant: Is there something wrong?

I asked myself that question when about 1000 odd words into a current short story, one that I continue to go back to, but found an initial reluctance to write, and now seems to be difficult to continue.

Is the reason because I don’t feel like writing, that I’ve written myself into a corner, the story isn’t flowing, or there’s something else I’d rather be doing…

Like, scouring the internet…

Working on writing some blog posts, like this one…

Checking my email…

Checking my other blogs to see how many people have viewed my recent posts,

Or just puddle with anything other than what I should be doing.

The thing is, I know where most of the stories are going, it’s just a matter of sitting down, picking up the threads, and writing. Certainly, I could be working on one or another right now.

But, something is nagging at me.

I thought it was that I wanted to write another Being Inspired piece, having the photo I wanted to use for inspiration in my head. I sat down this morning and started it, and got seven or eight paragraphs done, and then it was time to go down to breakfast.

Attention diverted.

I could have written more after breakfast, but that seemed to segue into a chat over coffee that ran into lunch. It’s odd how it seems there is so much to talk about.

Then it’s been one excuse after another that has kept me from picking up that story and running with it. I could do it now, but that reluctance remains.

Perhaps tomorrow.

For now, I’m going to work on some crosswords and see if that doesn’t inspire me, and if it doesn’t I could always have an early night.

It’s the same every time we go away, on the run all day doing touristy stuff, making notes for later on, on the run, and then getting back to the room exhausted. After all, there is so much to see and do.

Maybe I’ll just reflect on today and worry about it tomorrow, except…

We have an equally hectic day planned.

Maybe I’ll get that holiday from writing after all.

What I learned about writing – When you need a distraction!

If I get a headache, I can take paracetamol

If I have a sore back, I can take ipBrufen.

If I can’t put words on paper … what is there I can take?

Therein lies the writer’s dilemma.

I have been staring at the blank screen on my computer for about an hour now.  I am in the middle of a rewrite.  I know what direction I want the story to go.  Yet, for the life of me, I cannot find the words.

Is it writer’s block?

Here’s the thing.

Not four hours ago, I had all the words in the world.  The new scene was all but writing itself; the words flowed, and the characters were alive and almost bubbling over with enthusiasm.  I was almost as if I was in the same room with them and their mental sparring.

That scene is done.

And usually, the next is already forming in my mind as I’m getting to the end.  This time, an untimely interruption put a spoke in the works, diverted my attention to resolving a problem, and everything I’d been thinking about has gone.

Not a block then, but a dastardly distraction.

I guess I’m going on a long walk around the neighbourhood, looking but not seeing, thinking but trying not to think, stopping at the café and have a long hot coffee and a cake, perhaps this time a custard tart with whipped cream (OK, I know that can’t be good for me, but it is delicious) and by the time I get back …

Hopefully, the words will return.