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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

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years.  Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.

But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.

I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

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

The One Place to Make Your Berlin Stopover Unforgettable

So, you’ve got just one day in Berlin. One whirlwind, jet-lagged, adventure-packed day in a city that could easily fill a month. Between the Brandenburg Gate, the remnants of the Wall, and the endless museums, how do you choose where to spend your precious hours? Skip the stress of trying to see it all. Instead, focus on one unforgettable experience. And for that, there’s only one place that truly captures Berlin’s soul: the East Side Gallery.

Why the East Side Gallery?

Berlin is a city painted in layers of history, resilience, and reinvention. Nowhere tells that story more powerfully—or more colourfully—than the East Side Gallery. It’s not just a sight to see; it’s an emotion to feel.

Stretching 1.3 kilometres along the banks of the Spree River, this open-air gallery is the longest remaining section of the Berlin Wall. But instead of the grim, grey barrier that once divided a city, it now stands as the largest outdoor gallery in the world. After the Wall fell in 1989, over 100 artists from around the globe transformed this symbol of separation into a monumental canvas of hope, freedom, and protest.

What Makes It So Memorable?

1. Art That Speaks Volumes
You’ll walk alongside iconic murals that have become symbols of Berlin itself. The most famous, Dmitri Vrubel’s “My God, Help Me to Survive This Deadly Love” (often called the “Fraternal Kiss”), depicts the embrace between Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev and East German leader Erich Honecker. It’s surreal, ironic, and deeply human—a perfect snapshot of Berlin’s complex history.

Other pieces, like Birgit Kinder’s “Test the Rest” (a Trabi car breaking through the Wall), capture the explosive joy and defiance of a city set free. Every mural has a story, and together they form a powerful narrative of pain, hope, and rebirth.

2. A Walk Through History
As you stroll, you’re literally tracing the former “death strip.” Stand with one hand on the concrete, look toward the river, and imagine the city split in two. Then look again at the vibrant art covering that same concrete. That contrast—between what was and what is—is Berlin in a nutshell. It’s a visceral, moving experience no museum can replicate.

3. The Vibe of Berlin Today
The East Side Gallery isn’t frozen in time. It’s alive. Street musicians play nearby, locals bike past, and the adjacent Spree buzzes with riverboats and afternoon drinkers. Grab a coffee or a Currywurst from a nearby stand, sit by the water, and just absorb the energy. This is where Berliners remember, reflect, and celebrate—and you’re right there with them.

How to Make the Most of Your Visit

  • Go Early or Late: Midday can get crowded. For a more contemplative experience, visit in the early morning or late afternoon when the light is golden and the crowds are thin.
  • Take Your Time: Don’t rush. Let yourself read the plaques, sit on a bench, and really look at the art. The magic is in the details.
  • Extend the Moment: Afterwards, cross the Oberbaum Bridge—a gorgeous brick double-decker bridge linking Friedrichshain and Kreuzberg. The view of the Spree with the Gallery in the background is unforgettable.
  • Refuel in Style: Head into nearby Friedrichshain for a cozy café or a Berlin-style craft beer. Try Schneeeule for a local brew, or visit Simon-Dach-Straße for a lively meal.

One Place, a Lifetime of Meaning

Your one day in Berlin could be spent ticking off famous landmarks. But at the East Side Gallery, you don’t just see Berlin—you feel it. You touch its history, witness its creativity, and join its ongoing story of transformation. In a city defined by change, this place reminds us that even the darkest divisions can become canvases for light.

So, when your plane lands and you step into Berlin with just hours to spare, go straight to the East Side Gallery. Let the art, the history, and the spirit of this city leave its mark on you. Because some places don’t just fill your camera—they fill your soul.

Have you visited the East Side Gallery or have another Berlin favourite for a short stopover? Share your stories in the comments below!

Safe travels, and enjoy every moment of your Berlin day.

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet them or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except, of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact that, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street who look like someone we knew and make the mistake of approaching them like a long-lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away from what they perceive as a stalker, or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then, according to the circumstances and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me, one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognise was murder. The photo of the man on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated by what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer, the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room. I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realise what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low-profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, had no children, and, according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company; I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably, more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with several other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with several other delegates at the pre-conference get-together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bulletproof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me? I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain-killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes and took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I would still be considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try to explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in and out of consciousness. A nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told me what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have another visitor. He is from the British Embassy, I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realised then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit, the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old, which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome, and he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently, for them, it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact that you were shot had made it an all-around embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologising?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted on speaking with you first.  I have come, basically, to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document, which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter that could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush-hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that?  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible, so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man, Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri or Sorrento, if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, who had announced herself as the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it: “The patient has recovered excellently, and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed, so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long, wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful, though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him. She checked the door and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then that I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have several witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed-circuit TV, we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her notebook back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti, and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologise for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you, it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest, one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger-happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realised if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry, but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest, he escaped. Once we realised we had made a mistake and reviewed the closed-circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough, no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officers’ weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you, Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrongdoing?”

“I have apologised. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank you for your time and cooperation, Mr Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 255/256

Days 255 and 256 – Writing Exercise

…

A life could be summed up in a half dozen dreams.

Once upon a time, my dreams were of the good times in my life, the first being when a young child, going to the sea by train, once a year for a holiday.

A tradition my father had announced one morning that his parents had done for him and his brothers and sister.  There was no doubt who the favourite was.

We were not rich, but it was the one luxury we could afford.

I carried it on, with our three children, each special in their own way.  Elsie spoiled them, because her family did not the wherewithal to have a single extravagance.

The second was the hard times because with the good came the hard.  My father always said that nothing lasts forever, and he was right.

Soon after my mother died, my father changed.  So did our lives.  There just never seemed to be any fun anymore.  Certainly, there were no more holidays.  It seemed none of his or mothers’ family could or would help us.

The third was watching those around you become cynical and well, just plain horrid.

My mother taught me, taught all of us, to make the most of what we had, to look after each other, because in the end, that was all we had.

She was right.

But our problem was that for too many years we had taken our parents for granted, that they would always be there, and that we would not have to figure it out.

We were wrong.

Then our father died, we were suddenly left alone and those who could not adapt would be left behind.

No one should lose their parents when they just became a teenager.  I was the second eldest.  I always thought my brother was the rock.  It turned out that was my sister.  She had just turned twelve going on twenty-five

The fourth was the choices I made, and how I chose to live my life.  I did not want the pain that was inflicted on me to be carried forward, if or when I married and had children.

I wanted to find them a balance between being nurtured but also tough enough to handle any crises better than I had.

It, of course, did not consider the different external forces that impact our lives, the circumstances that are beyond our control.

Ours had been the early loss of our parents, the lack of sympathy and help from uncles and aunts, and a particular sort of harshness from the external world, a world that no longer rewarded loyalty, and a world that no long-had respect for our fellow human beings.

The world suddenly was filled with the haves and the have-nots, those with a job and those without, a world of shortages and greed, political upheaval, and racial hatred.

It was like we had gone full circle, discovering and basking in a whole series of changes that made our lives better, then watching it all slowly crumble under the machinations of mankind, the wealth of the few increased and the wealth of the many slowly disappeared.

Someone said it was the new world order, and it came so fast that no one saw it coming.

My life after I found the love of my life, Elsie, was a long dream, number five if I was counting, and I had always believed I had been the luckiest man on earth.

How else could anyone explain to me how I ended up with an angel?  Certainly, I didn’t deserve her, but I never ever took her for granted and treated her with the respect she deserved.

I tried instilling those values into my children but somewhere, somehow they missed the point or didn’t get the memo.

Or maybe the world had changed and we missed it, or more to the point, ignored it at our peril.  Whatever it was, it was not a fight we were going to win.

But then, we were not only people on that sinking ship.

The last, the sixth, was a shared dream with all mankind.  It’s the one that was most fresh in my mind.

We were all to blame in the end.  We let a monster run amok, turned our whole world into one of mistrust and hatred, let him start a war over a notion that in the end wasn’t true but still provoked the unthinkable.

It was always going to happen; it was only just a matter of time.  Each time I went to sleep I hoped against hope that sanity would prevail, but the truth was, all it would take was one man to destroy the world.

And in mind’s eye the dream always ended the same way.  A faceless man in a military uniform hiding in an underground bunker making a decision that he hadn’t thought through.

One that no one had ever thought would come to fruition, that the latent threat would be all that was needed to stop anyone in their right mind from destroying the world.

We were all wrong.  Everyone was wrong.

They didn’t believe that there would be one such man, but there was and it was he who gave the order.  But the biggest myth of all was that even if there was one such man, everyone else would believe that order would have been ignored, that down that chain of command common sense would prevail.  Even when they knew that man led a despotic regime by fear and murder, still they wanted to believe the order would not be obeyed.

And even at the eleventh hour, still no one could conceive that any one person could order the possible end of the world and the complete annihilation of his country and and expect it would be obeyed.

Without question.

Fear of him far outweighed the fear of annihilation.

Promises were made, lies were told, a deadline passed, and five minutes later, the unstoppable conflagration began.

What was always meant to be a deterrent, in the end, was no such thing at all.

…

What followed was a living nightmare.

We were the lucky people not living anywhere near where a low-yield nuclear bomb dropped, but we heard what happened.

About three weeks later, some semblance of order was returned.

All we knew was a warning a day before it happened: a message would be broadcast, with instructions.

Most people in the blast areas got the message but it was too late.  Everyone within a 10 kilometre radius was dead, or dying, and it wasn’t much better for 50 kilometres outside that range.

We didn’t hear what happened elsewhere.  The radio service disappeared, along with everything else, and it was down to local existing authorities until lawlessness set in.

It was inevitable.  We had resources, they wanted resources and they were happy to kill for it.  That’s when someone said we should take what we had and disappear until sanity returned.

I was in the right place at the right time.  I had a truck with fuel; they needed to transport supplies.  In the mountains where many decades ago, a madman thought the hills were filled with gold.

He spent a fortune looking for it, basically building a whole underground city, one very few people knew existed, and a descendant who did made it a new home for selected people.

He was a doomsdayer and had set up a remarkable facility in anticipation madness would eventually win out.

There was space, he estimated, for about a thousand.  We packed up, and silently and stealthily moved out under the cover of darkness.

Five years later, we were still there, watching and waiting, observing the nuclear winter, watching the shifting winds tainted by fallout, watching the earth die, then eventually come back to life.

Few people who survived passed by, and there was nothing we could do for them, some were allowed to stay, and those that didn’t could not be allowed to live and tell.  Most had radiation sickness and would not last a month, two at the most.  It was a harsh, unforgivable rule but the leaders decided that it was the only way we could survive, and they would not have a lingering and painful death.

I didn’t agree, but I didn’t argue.  I don’t know what that made me, and I didn’t want to know.  I guess self-preservation was stronger than moral outrage.

But I was one of about a hundred in the outside exploration and monitoring teams made up of a dozen specialists, a mission leader, a doctor and navigation and journal keeper, a mechanic, a biologist, a nuclear scientist and an escort of soldiers or ex-soldiers.

We were the people to decide who we helped, what was left of humanity, how long we could last before we finally came out of hibernation.

Over the years we monitored the habitat, observed the nuclear winter effects, watch everything die, and we were hoping this next foray, there would be signs of hope.  We sought out supplies, tried to locate other survivors with little o no success.

We had been doing this every three to six months for the last five years.

The last exploration told us that the earth was coming back to life.  That the cycle of radiation and contamination was easing, and possibly the worst was over.  We wanted to believe that other people had to survive, and soon we would venture much further afield and if possible join forces.

We had encountered small groups over the years, but they either died or moved on over successive years.  It wasn’t the radiation that killed them in the end; it was starvation.  And we couldn’t help them; we barely had enough for ourselves.

…

I woke to the sound of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, the music that I used to either put me to sleep or try to find inner peace after a nasty encounter on the outside.

My firm belief had been, after the event, that the world would take a step back and people would be united in a common goal.  The problem was, just before the bombs dropped our own government had turned us against each other, intensifying racism and the divide between the haves and have nots.

The bombs only intensified those hatreds and instead of banding together it became a war of attrition, and it had hard to find any reason why a trivial occurrence of taking a bottle of water would warrant being summarily executed.

It had become a shoot first and ask questions later type of society, where petty zealots seized power and harshly enforced it.  We had those in our camp, but the boss didn’t let hatred fester.  He simply weaned it out with a bullet to the head.

Out in the field it didn’t take long to realise humans had lost all sense of decency; they were not interested in joining with or helping their fellow citizens and would kill anyone who disagreed with them.

The bombs didn’t kill everybody else, stupidity did.

I was hoping that today would mark a change in the world we had been waiting for, with the dense clouds that had been filtering out the sun, were finally going, and that a lot of places would no longer be radioactive.

We gathered in the hall by the rear entrance, the one that gave us the most invisible exit from the cave system.

Everyone had a gun, bulletproof vest, overcoats and sturdy boots.  We were up for a five-mile hike before we got the main road, now little more than a track.  We hadn’t seen vehicles for years, except some parked in a nearby forest resort carpark.  It had been the saddest day of my life to see all the people there had wither been shot or eventually die of starvation.  A note said they had waited for someone to come and tell them what to do.

I was surprised that people were not camping in the various open areas near the roads.  Or maybe they had and left.  The Midwest had very little other than miles and miles of scorched earth and either burned or contaminated land. 

I don’t think many knew there would be a nuclear winter.  I certainly didn’t when it was explained to me.  Normal people had a hard time just believing someone would bomb our country after our military told they would be obliterated if they did.  Perhaps that was the biggest joke, they had fired first, and no one did that to us. 

They were obliterated but so were we.

“Once more onto the breach…”  Howie was ex-military and wore his gun like it was part of him.  He led the team, with a kill or be killed attitude.

He handed out the weapons.  “Shoot only when necessary and keep your eyes and ears about you.”

The scientists didn’t like the idea of carrying guns, but most did.  We had been in skirmishes before.

That was the extent of the pep talk.  He took the lead and gave the order. “Open seasame.”

…

The internal blast doors made the same sound they had for the past five years, except there was a groan before the heavy metal began to open.

When the pneumatic seals finally hissed, surrendering to the greasy heave of manual overrides and backup generators, the sound was less like a door opening and more like a tomb drawing its first breath. A cold, dead draft spilled inward—not fresh, but alien. It tasted of nothing. No, that wasn’t right. It tasted of old stone, distant dampness, and something sharp and metallic that lingered on the back of the tongue. Ozone.

Or maybe just the ghost of rain.

Dr. Elena Vance, the botanist in front of me, adjusted the straps of her filtration pack, her fingers trembling slightly inside heavy rubberized gloves. Behind us, nine sets of boots shifted on the corrugated steel floor of the airlock—scientists, their faces pale and pinched from half a decade of fluorescent-lit hydroponics, and undispersed security personnel, their assault rifles held at low-ready, faces obscured by mirrored polymer visors.

“Remember your protocols,” Howie said, his voice amplified and flattened by his suit’s comm-unit.

Then one of the scientists said, “The soot layer is thinning, but low-yield fallout doesn’t care about sunlight.

That was followed by Howie again, “We stay within five hundred meters of the egress shaft to begin with. We use the dosimeters. And if you see anything moving that isn’t us, you paint it and drop.”

Sergeant Miller, a scarred veteran who had been in town the day the bombs dropped was brought to the subterranean facility when the world ended five years ago, sighed. “Nothing’s out there, Chief.  Just ash and ghosts.  We’re hundreds of miles from the strike zones, and even the rats died out three winters ago.”

“Hope you’re right, Sergeant,” Elena murmured.

She turned back to the threshold.

For five years, the only light they had known was the sickly, yellow-green hum of the algae vats and the harsh white glare of the emergency lamps. But now, cutting through the cavernous darkness of the mountain exit tunnel, was a thin, trembling dagger of gold.

Sunlight.

As they approached the outer entrance, we could see it strike the concrete floor. Elena stepped forward, her boots crunching on crusty layers of grey grime that had drifted down the mountainside over the years. As she cleared the mouth of the cave, she shielded her eyes—not from the dark, but from the sudden, merciless glare of a sky that had been hidden away.

It took a full minute for our eyes to adjust. When they did, the world revealed itself in agonizing, muted monochrome.

The valley below was becoming less of a cemetery of charcoal and pale stone. The pine forests that had once choked the lower slopes were now jagged, tooth-like skeletons jutting upwards towards the sky, stripped bare firstly by fire and then as the water dried up, an inevitable death. The ground was still blanketed in a thick, lifeless crust of soot, dirt, and dead vegetation that crackled under out feet.

It felt eerie walking though what could be described as a petrified forest, only able to see about a hundred years in any direction.

About a kilometre from the cave, we came to a track.  Howie called us to stop by displaying a raised fist, then a whiling motion as the soldier fanned out surrounding us.  “Someone has used this recently.  Tracks are fresh.  Check the surroundings, slowly.”

While the others looked through the trees, and back the way we came, I saw Elena bend over, looking at the ground.  I saw it too, a single, defiant thread of emerald. A blade of grass. Small, twisted, and struggling, but undeniably green.

“I’ll be damned,” whispered Dr. Hayes behind her, dropping to his knees to stare at it. “The physics models… they were right. The thermal inversion is collapsing. The soot is dropping out.”

“Don’t touch it,” Howie snapped, his rifle sweeping the ruined treeline. “Radiation doesn’t care if it’s green.”

She glared at him, then took a photo, and the GPS position.

He waited, then said, “There’ll be more.  Move out. Perimeter formation.”

The squad fanned out, crunching silently across the dead earth. For twenty minutes, the only sounds were the crunch of ash and the rhythmic click-beep of twelve dosimeters registering background radiation—elevated, certainly, but low enough to sustain short-term exposure without immediate biological collapse. There were no birds. No insects. No wind, save for a low, mournful draft sweeping down from the peaks.

We stopped in a clear elongated valley where the road was more defined, if not cracked and distorted, a road that encircle the base of the mountains.  If we were to encounter anyone it would be here.

Which after reaching the first turn, it was not a person we saw, it was the remains of a newly rusted transport truck that had clearly run out of fuel.

The radio squawked.  “Movement. Two o’clock, ridge line.”  The voice belonged to Private Vance—no relation to Elena—posted on the eastern flank.

Every rifle snapped up in unison. Elena froze, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“Vance, status,” Howie barked into his comms, dropping to one knee beside the charred chassis of the truck.

Silence. Then, static.

“Vance?”

A sharp crack echoed off the stone walls of the valley. It wasn’t thunder. It was a round—high-calibre, supersonic—that punched cleanly through the metal door of the truck a foot above Howie’s head, showering rusted flakes.

“Contact!” Howie roared. “Spread out! Return fire!”

Chaos erupted. The sterile quiet of the dead world shattered into the deafening concussions of gunfire. Flashes of muzzle fire stabbed out from the ridgeline two hundred yards up, partially obscured by the lingering wisps of high-altitude haze.

“Where are they coming from?” Hayes cried, scrambling backward and tripping over his own bulky suit.

“Scavs,” Howie snarled, firing a controlled three-round burst from his rifle toward the ridge. “Marauders. They followed the melt line up from the lowlands. They think we’re a fresh vault.”

Elena pressed her back against the truck, her breath coming in ragged gasps. It was not the first time for any of them, but still the five years underground had made them soft; the raiders up on that ridge had spent five years learning how to kill each other for canned peaches and clean filters.

Another round chewed up the dirt inches from her boot.

“We need to fall back to the tunnel!” Elena yelled over the din.

“Negative, Doc! If we run, they bottleneck us at the door,” Howie shouted back, tossing a smoke grenade into the open ground to mask their positions. Thick grey smoke billowed up, mixing with the ambient soot. “Two men on me—let’s climb the gully and flank them. The rest cover the scientists back to the cave!”

Through the smoke, Elena saw shapes moving down the ridge. Three—no, four figures, wrapped in mismatched tactical gear, heavy dust coats, and crude gas masks with yellowed lenses. They weren’t soldiers. They were starving, desperate things, clutching battered assault rifles with the manic intensity of the damned.

One of them broke cover, charging down the slope toward the smoking transport truck, firing wildly.

Private Diaz, one of the younger security guards, stepped out from behind a boulder, his weapon tracking the charging figure. His rifle barked twice. The raider dropped, tumbling dead into the ash.

But the others were already adjusting. A heavy machine gun opened up from the ridge, chewing the boulders into white-hot shrapnel. Diaz took a round to the shoulder, his cry cut short as he pitched backward into the dirt.

“Diaz!” Hayes made a move to run toward him, but Elena grabbed the collar of his suit, hauling him down.

“We can’t help him yet! See if you can see where that machine gun is.”

I took the distant crackling in the forest to be Howie, moving quickly, and then saw the ridge gunner just as he popped up to shoot, and aimed and fired.  The machine gun fire stopped abruptly.  A minute later a volley of shots rang out and after a minute, silence fell.

I could hear my own heart pounding.

A few minutes later, the others returned, holding extra guns and ammo.  “Six of them.  Starving.”  He shook his head.  “There will be others, so we’d better retreat, regroup, and go look for them.”  He kicked the ground.  “Senseless.”

We made our way back slowly and carefully, a different path, just in case they had closed in behind us.  They probably came with the truck, and after it broke down or run out of fuel, set out to find somewhere to camp.  It meant we had to be more careful the next time we left the cave.  It was nearly dark when we returned.

As Elena tumbled past the heavy steel threshold and back into the cool, recycled air of the tunnel, she looked back one last time. It was, for her, mission accomplished.  Life had returned, even if it was one blade of grass.

Outside, the golden sunlight cut relentlessly through the dying sky, illuminating a battlefield of ash, blood, and a single, stubborn blade of green. It was a brutal, beautiful world waiting to be reclaimed—if they could survive the humans who had inherited it first.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Coming soon: “Strangers We’ve Become”, the sequel to “What Sets Us Apart”

Strangers We’ve Become, a sequel to What Sets Us Apart.

The blurb:

Is she or isn’t she? That is the question!

Susan has returned to David, but he is having difficulty dealing with the changes. Her time in captivity has changed her markedly, so much so that David decides to give her some time and space to re-adjust to normal life.

But doubts about whether he chose the real Susan remained.

In the meantime, David has to deal with Susan’s new security chief, the discovery of her rebuilding a palace in Russia, evidence of an affair, and several attempts on his life. And, once again, David is drawn into another of Predergast’s games, one that could ultimately prove fatal.

From being reunited with the enigmatic Alisha, a strange visit to Susan’s country estate, to Russia and back, to a rescue mission in Nigeria, David soon discovers that those whom he thought he could trust each have their own agenda, one that apparently doesn’t include him.

…

The Cover:

strangerscover9

Coming soon

 

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 44

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the 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

I leaned back in the chair and shuddered.  It was not so much the cold as the stark realization before me, well, before all of us really.

The USB was gone.

But it was going to be impossible to convince any or all of Severin, Maury, and Nobbin.  Or for that matter Monica.  None of them were going to believe the explosion in the café was a deliberate act.  

But it did raise a question.

“How did whoever placed the bomb in the café know you and your contact were going to be there, and, for that matter, that either of you might have the USB?”

O’Connell seemed lost in thought.  After prodding him, I asked the question again.  His hesitation seemed to suggest that what he’d told me might be a lie, or a half-truth because the more I thought about it, the more implausible it sounded.  The other side of that was, what did he have to gain by lying?  Of no doubt, there was more to this story.

“There are more people involved in this than what you know.  Dobbin had me looking into a biological laboratory, one that was reportedly doing research on cures for various coronaviruses, like SARS.  The thing is, they had a store of nasties they were using as candidates for finding cures.

“The laboratory had been getting funding from the military so that to me meant they’d been working on weaponizing one of those nasty viruses, but there had been containment breach leading to a review, and they lost their funding.

“That, in turn, leads to the head of the company seeking funding from elsewhere, and that it was going to be an overseas government institution, one which they claimed commercial confidence so the donor could not be released.  Of course, our intelligence services went into a spin, thinking the worst, that it was either Russia or the Chinese, or some other rogue regime, and if they got their hands on those candidates, well, you can imagine the paranoia.

“There was also the problem of hacking, where various countries and/or individuals are looking for information to use for their own benefit, or to sell to the highest bidder.  That as far as I can tell is what happened here; it was not a case of external hacking, this was internal by one of the staff, downloading sensitive information onto the USB and smuggling it out.

“As soon as the breach was discovered, it triggered an internal review, which had a member of the military on the panel, and it concluded it was one of three ex-employees.  Dobbin gave me the three names, and I tracked them down.  One of the three had stolen the data, but far from stealing it to sell to the highest bidder, he had stolen it to pass on to a newspaper reporter, the person I was going to see.

“He could see the information was not the sort to be disseminated to the general public and wanted it returned.  I was going to get it.

“So, in answer to your question, it was possible that someone else had done the same as I had after I had visited each of the three, and decided to deal with the problem decisively.  But it would have required planning and an organization with infinite resources to pull it off.  Top of my list is the owners of the laboratory, simply because, they were not interested in getting the copy back, and the fact they didn’t want to have any witnesses, which meant the reporter and had to be silenced.”

“And the person who stole the information?”

“Burned to death in a house fire.  The fire department concluded it was a gas leak.”

“Helped by a person or persons unknown.”

“Given the distribution list of that final report, unless Dobbin has been moonlighting as an assassin, there’s only one other name on the list.”

No need to say it out loud.  That left one question, and probably a hundred others that wouldn’t get answers.

“What’s it to do with Severin and Maury?”

“That’s not their names.  Severin is really David Westcott, and Maury is Bernie Salvin.  Both used to be in the security detail at the company about three years ago when several biological entities were being researched, both of whom were assigned by the military to keep an eye on their investment.

“When the accident occurred, they were reassigned, but I suspect, at the time, they knew exactly what had happened, and what is involved.  It’s not a leap to come to the conclusion they had a shift in allegiance and may have helped the person who stole the information because there was no way the person who stole it had the knowledge to get it out.

“It was not something he would tell me.  That, he said, if he told me, would sign his death warrant.”

Which it did.  Was the original thief killed before or after the explosion?

“Do we Assume Severin is the man in charge?”

“No.  They’re basically blunt instruments, giving orders, and doing what they’re told.  We all are, to a certain extent.  This operation had someone else, someone far more clever, and connected.”

“But they did create a whole unit and train them in an existing facility without anyone knowing.”

“Is that you they told you?  And you believed them?  Nothing goes on in that place with an official sanction.  No.  Your operation was created on the books, but on the quiet so if anything went wrong, they could disavow any knowledge of it.  It went south and what happened?”

“They disavowed any knowledge of it.”

“And kept you on, only reassigned?”

“Those of us who survived, yes.”

“Then I suggest you watch your back and keep all of them at arm’s length.  You’ll only be useful until the USB is found, so you have to keep them believing it’s missing.”

“We’re not going to be able to do that forever.”

“No.  Which makes it imperative we find out who Severin and Maury’s bosses are and chop of the head.”

All while pretending he was dead.  Easier said than done.

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the Past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The Birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus, the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all rewrites, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Year’s, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening, we were out late and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow; it was cold and wet, and apartment buildings were shimmering in the street light, and I thought, “This is the place where my main character will live”.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went, so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller Centre is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy man with few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

…

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 9

What’s the worst that could happen?

…

Captains invariably hated the word ‘problem’. I did too, because it conjured up so many different scenarios, each more scarier than the last, and maginified exponentially because we were in space.

We took a closer look, and it was the sort of damage if it was back on Earth, one would associate with weapons fire, lasers to be exact.

Yes, in the 24th century we had ray guns, handheld, and ship bound.

The only problem was, only the cruise class vessels, like the one I was now on, were allowed to have them, and using them, well, the paperwork alone could keep a complement of 20 working day and night for a month.

Test them, yes, less paperwork, use them, no. There had never been a reason to.

But someone had, and on a freighter, which only meant one possibility, that whatever the freighter had been carrying, had been worth violating a thousand regulations and rules.

And bring their ship and selves out into the light.

It was, of course, Space Command’s worst nightmare realised, that the ideal of space exploration as a united effort by everyone, had a member who had decided against unity.

Unless, of course, the improbably had happened, there was life outside our solar system, and we were dealing with a new planet, or people.

Except I would not expect them to use something as conventional as a laser.

Myrtle had put us very close to the damaged area and taken a number of photographs, and the engineer had analysed the damaged area.

Then, cleared to enter the freighter, she took us up to the cargo doors and waited as we watched them open.

It was the same time the engineer’s hand held computer started beeping.

And a warning light on the console in front of Myrtle started flashing, accompanied by a warning klaxon.

Another vessel had just entered our proximity zone.

…

© Charles Heath 2021

The 2am Rant: There ain’t no mountain high enough

If only it were as easy to write one line of a song as it is to write a sentence, a paragraph, or a page of a book.  Of course, if you were to ask a songwriter the same question, he or she would probably twist it around, and not without reason.

The bottom line in all scenarios, whether writing a story, writing a song, or writing a letter, at times it feels like it is like climbing a mountain.

It’s why we have waste paper bins and imaginary shooting practice sessions.  By the way, I don’t get very many scrunched paper balls in.

Curiously, we seem to categorise almost insurmountable problems in terms of climbing mountains.  Of course, I’ve yet to attempt to climb the north face of Mount Everest, but I suspect I’ll have to do a lot of practice to do so.

Maybe that’s what I need to do as a writer.  Practice, not climbing mountains.

Mountains have always been part of the metaphor for overcoming obstacles.  So, metaphorically, to overcome this ‘obstacle’, we can choose to climb over it, blow it up, or tunnel through it.

But the salient point is the same in all cases: obstacles, metaphorical or not, are not insurmountable; they just need time to find a solution.

So, in my case, there are two items to note when it comes to mountains: the first, I prefer to go through a tunnel, and the second, there’s not a mountain I’ve been up that hasn’t had a magnificent view.  Of course, getting to the top has been easy; I just hopped on the tram or the gondola.

After all, isn’t that what they’re there for?

Ok, flippancy aside, I have had to climb a few mountains of my own over the years, and, yes, it’s hard work, and, at times, I’ve wanted to give up.

But not today.  Today is a good day.

And as the title says, ‘There ain’t no mountain high enough!’

 

 

What I learned about writing – Even vacations can provide inspiration

It has any number of names, from Leave of Absence to Vacation, but it is meant to be a time where you can rest and relax.

And by the time you finally get to go away, preferably somewhere as far from home as possible, you are sure ready for it.

Those long days at the office, the decisions, the deadlines, the endless pressure of having to achieve the impossible all melt away when you walk out the door, and what a feeling it is when you tell everyone, ‘I’m off on holidays, see you when I get back.’

As anyone will tell  you, it’s not wise to travel the next day if at all possible, because you need some time to decompress before tackling what sometimes can be an arduous getting to the final destination, especially if it is at a peak holiday period, or on planes where anything and everything can go wrong very quickly.

Been there done that.

We traveled the next day, nothing went wrong, and all is fine.

Except …

As a writer and having spent the last few months finishing off my last novel, I was looking forward to some down time.  The editor has the final draft, and I’m happy.

Then, as it always does, the best laid plans of mice and men …

It all comes unstuck.

Inspiration often comes out of left field; something happens, a piece in a newspaper, an item on TV, or just lying down staring at the ceiling, when ‘bang’  it hits you.

The start of a story, a theme that you can run with.

Damn.

I’ve been away for four days now and written seven chapters and the words will not stop.

If only …

Hey, what a great title for the story.

Sorry, got to get back to work!