When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.
I’ve been on a few of those in my time.
And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.
For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.
Did I say ‘Iron Horse’? Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.
It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast
But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay. I’m sure it’s happened more than once.
Then…
Are you inclined to go?
A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.
An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?
There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation. Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.
But, you never know. Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.
Hang about. Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?
I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!
Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.
I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?
Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.
Right now.
I pick up the pen.
Character number one:
Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing. Still me, but with a twist. Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance. Yes, I like that.
We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.
He had a wife, which brings us to,
Character number two:
Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons. It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated. There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.
Character number three:
The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.
Oops, too much, that is my old boss. He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him. Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him. Last name Benton. He will play a small role in the story.
Character number four:
Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.
More on her later as the story unfolds.
So far so good.
What’s the plot?
Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers? No, that’s been done to death.
Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world. Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people. That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people! There will be guns, and there will be dead people.
There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around. That’s better.
Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.
All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.
Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work. He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks. The phone rings. Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down. He’s needed. A few terse words, but he relents.
In just about every book about how to be a good writer, there seems to be a pile of problems that at some time in a writer’s life will need to be overcome.
Writer’s block
Don’t have it. The ideas pour out of my head like water over a waterfall
Don’t use abstract descriptions in your writing
Damn, I do that all the time
But, back to writer’s block, is that where you write 37 chapters and there the story stops?
Oops.
Plan your book and have an outline so you can write it from start to finish
Plan? What Plan?
That only happens when I’ve written the book and prior to the first edit, I make a precise of each chapter to make sure of continuity.
Plan your characters and give them a timeline
Oh God is that why characters’ names are often changing as the story progresses.
Believe it or not, I’m working on this issue.
Manage your time.
Still can’t get it right.
Write at least a thousand words a day, no matter if it’s rubbish or not.
Does that include writing for social media?
Apparently not.
At least this is one of the requirements I follow religiously. Sometimes it’s a lot more words but a least some writing finished up either on paper in on the word processor.
Now it’s time to write those thousand words.
Look, there, I’ve at least got one part of time management under control.
For aspiring writers, the journey to finding one’s voice is as much about discovery as it is about study. Joan Didion, a literary icon whose career spans decades, offers a treasure trove of insights for those seeking to refine their craft. From her sharp-eyed novels to her incisive essays, Didion’s work is a masterclass in clarity, emotional resonance, and the art of observation. Let’s explore how delving into her oeuvre—comprising five seminal novels, screenplays, and countless articles and essays—can illuminate the path for emerging authors.
1. Novels: The Power of Precision and Dissecting the Human Condition
Didion’s novels—Run, River, Play It as It Lays, A Book of Common Prayer, The Last Thing He Wanted, and Marry Me—are defined by their sparse, crystalline prose and unflinching exploration of identity, disillusionment, and collapse. For a budding author, studying her work reveals a critical lesson: less is not just more—it’s everything. Didion strips language of excess, using plain, punchy sentences to evoke profound unease or beauty. “We tell ourselves stories in order to live,” she famously writes in The White Album—a philosophy that permeates her fiction, where characters are often unravelling personal myths in a disintegrating world. Aspiring writers can learn to mirror this by focusing on what isn’t said and how silence, space, and subtext amplify meaning. Her characters also serve as case studies in emotional complexity; they’re flawed, often detached, yet achingly human. How does Didion achieve this? By grounding them in precise details—a crumbling California landscape, a flicker of a smile—that anchor the surreal in the real.
2. Screenplays: Visual Storytelling and the Art of Compression
Didion’s screenplays (notably A Point of No Return and Up at the Villas) offer a different but equally valuable lesson. Adapting her own stories and others’, she demonstrates how to transform prose into visceral, visual narratives. Screenwriting demands concision; dialogue must carry weight, and scenes must be sculpted to evoke emotion without over-explaining. For an author interested in crossing genres, Didion’s screenplays are a masterclass in pacing and economy. Take Up at the Villas, adapted from her 1982 novel of the same name. The screenplay retains the novel’s cold, observational tone but distils its themes into sharp, symbolic images—a storm, a locked door—to convey what words alone might not. For writers, this is a reminder that showing, not telling, is a skill honed through ruthless editing. Studying her scripts can teach how to craft tension through structure and dialogue, even in literary works.
3. Essays and Journalism: The Alchemy of Observation and Truth-Telling
Joan Didion’s nonfiction—collected in volumes like The White Album, Slouching Toward Bethlehem, and Where I Was From—is where her genius as a writer truly shines. Her essays are micro-surgeries of culture, politics, and personal history, blending reportage with poetic reflection. How can a budding author benefit from this?
The art of the unsparingly honest narrative: Didion doesn’t flinch from ambiguity. She asks, What do we do when we can’t believe the story we’ve told ourselves? This intellectual honesty teaches writers to dig deeper, to question their own assumptions.
The marriage of personal and political: In pieces like “Los Angeles Notebook” or “On Self Respect”, Didion ties intimate self-doubt to societal decay. Aspiring authors can learn to weave the private and the public, creating work that resonates beyond the individual.
Research as storytelling: Her essays are meticulously researched yet read like lyrical journeys. Writers can study how she transforms facts into narrative threads without losing a reader’s interest.
4. Beyond Technique: Embracing Didion’s Curiosity and Courage
Perhaps the most profound lesson from Didion’s work is her relentless curiosity and willingness to confront the uncomfortable. Her writing force-feeds the idea that truth is not a destination but a process. For emerging authors, this mindset—questioning, observing, and daring to write what feels fragile or controversial—can be transformative. Didion’s essays on the Vietnam War, the Manson Family, or her own grief in The Year of Magical Thinking demand that we look at the world with both empathy and rigour.
Conclusion: Let the Questions Be the Point
Reading Joan Didion is not just about learning how to write—it’s about learning how to see. Her work challenges authors to strip away the superfluous, to wield language like a scalpel, and to embrace the messiness of human experience. For a budding writer, this is an unparalleled education. Start with her essays; they are accessible and brimming with insight. Then, move to her novels and screenplays to understand how themes translate across genres. Finally, ask yourself: What story have I been avoiding, and how can I tell it with Didion’s clarity?
In a world of noise, Didion’s voice cuts through with surgical precision. For any writer seeking to carve their own path, her work is not just a blueprint—it’s an invitation to observe, to question, and to distil the chaos of life into something that might resonate for generations.
So pick up a Joan Didion. Let her words unsettle you. Then, let me know how far you’ve come.
Kill Your Darlings: Why Simple, Strong Words Beat Over-Adjectifying Every Time
We’ve all been there. You’re writing a blog post, a novel, or even a professional email, and you look at a sentence like this:
“The large, menacing, ferocious hound ran quickly across the damp, muddy, desolate field.”
It sounds descriptive, right? But to an experienced reader or an SEO expert looking at user engagement, it actually reads like linguistic clutter. It feels heavy, breathless, and—ironically—weak.
Many writers fall into the trap of believing that the more adjectives they use, the better their writing will become. Surely, adding more descriptors paints a clearer picture?
In reality, trying to use too many adjectives is often a symptom of weak writing. As the old saying goes: Simple, strong words are best—and you should avoid any words that leave people reaching for a dictionary.
Here is why less is almost always more when it comes to adjectives, and how you can transform your writing by embracing simplicity and strength.
The Adjective Trap: Why We Over-Decorate
Why do we do it? Why do we stack adjectives like cordwood?
The Fear of Being Boring: We worry that without modifiers, our writing will sound dry and academic.
The “Show, Don’t Tell” Shortcut: Instead of describing how a character feels through action, we slap an emotion word in front of them (e.g., “the deeply depressed, profoundly sad man”).
The Myth of Granularity: We think precision requires length. We assume that saying “a glistening, shimmering, multifaceted diamond” is more effective than just saying “a diamond.”
The truth? Adjectives are the makeup of writing. A little bit highlights the natural features, but caking it on makes everything look fake, muddy, and overdone.
3 Reasons Why Too Many Adjectives Kill Your Writing
1. They Slow Down the Reader’s Momentum
Good writing has rhythm. It flows like a river, pulling the reader effortlessly downstream. Piling on adjectives acts like dropping boulders into that river. Every extra modifier forces the reader’s brain to pause, process, and adjust the mental image.
Simple and strong: “The ruin stood alone.” or “The rotting cabin stood alone.” (Punchy and immediate.)
2. They Weaken the Noun
Your nouns and verbs should be doing the heavy lifting. When you rely on adjectives to create impact, you rob your primary words of their power.
Instead of writing “a very large, towering hill,” use “a mountain.” Instead of writing “walked very quietly and stealthily,” use “prowled.”
By choosing a stronger noun or verb in the first place, you eliminate the need for adjectives entirely.
3. Obscure Words Alienate Your Audience
Another common pitfall when trying to “elevate” writing is using overly complex, high-register adjectives that most people don’t use in everyday conversation. Words like pusillanimous, lugubrious, or perspicacious.
Unless you are writing for an academic journal, using obscure words doesn’t make you look smart—it makes you hard to read. If a reader has to stop and look up the definition of a word, you’ve broken their immersion. Clear communication always trumps vocabulary flexing. If people have trouble understanding the meaning of your words, they will simply click away.
How to Write with Simplicity and Strength
If you want to clean up your prose, boost your readability, and keep your readers hooked, adopt these three copywriting rules today:
Rule 1: One Adjective is a Maximum, Zero is Often Better
Before you publish a sentence, look at every noun. Does it have two or three adjectives attached to it? Delete at least half of them. Challenge yourself to find the exact right noun instead of modifying a weak one.
Rule 2: Audit Your Adverbs and Adjectives
Run your drafts through a readability checker or read them out loud. If you find yourself using filler modifiers like very, really, truly, quite, or extremely, hit the backspace key. These words are crutches. They signal that the adjective (or verb) that follows isn’t strong enough on its own.
Rule 3: Write for the 8th-Grade Level (Even for Professionals)
Simplicity is not the same as dumbing down. The greatest writers in history—Ernest Hemingway, Stephen King, Maya Angelou—used remarkably simple language. Hemingway’s prose is famous for its punchy, unadorned strength. Write so that a general audience can grasp your meaning instantly, effortlessly, and with maximum emotional resonance.
The Bottom Line
Great writing isn’t about how many impressive words you can cram into a paragraph; it’s about how clearly you can transmit an idea from your brain to the reader’s.
The next time you’re tempted to write “a profoundly complex, deeply fascinating, intricately detailed problem,” stop. Take a breath.
Delete the makeup. Trust your nouns. Use simple, strong words—and let your ideas speak for themselves.
Beyond the Typical Tourist Trail: 5 Unmissable, Off‑the‑Beaten‑Path Experiences in Lima
Lima—the City of Kings—is famous for its bustling historic centre, world‑renowned gastronomy, and the dramatic cliffs of Miraflores that gaze out over the Pacific. Yet, once you’ve sampled ceviche at a top‑rated restaurant and snapped a selfie at the Plaza de Armas, you’ll quickly realise there’s a whole hidden side to Peru’s capital that most guidebooks barely mention.
If you’re the kind of traveller who loves to wander where the crowds don’t, here are five carefully curated experiences that will let you see Lima through a local’s eyes, without missing out on comfort or safety.
1. Wander the Colorful Streets of Barranco’s “Paseo de los Artistas”
Why it’s special
Barranco is Lima’s bohemian heart, but most visitors stick to the main promenade and the famous Bridge of Sighs. A short walk inland leads you to a tucked‑away lane known as Paseo de los Artistas—a vibrant corridor of murals, independent galleries, and tiny ateliers where emerging Peruvian artists showcase everything from street‑art stencils to avant‑garde sculpture.
What to do
Activity
Details
Mural hunting
Follow the “Graffiti Trail” map (available at the Casa de la Literatura kiosk). Look for the giant “Cumbia de los Andes” piece by local legend Javier “Javi” Lira.
Mini‑workshop
Many studios host free 30‑minute workshops—try your hand at pintura al óleo or corte de papel on Tuesdays at 4 p.m.
Coffee break
Slip into Café San Isidro (the tiny café with the green door) for a cup of café pasado made with beans roasted right in the neighbourhood.
Insider tip
If you’re there on a Saturday evening, the lane transforms into an impromptu open‑mic night. Bring a notebook and join the impromptu poetry circle.
2. Take a Morning Kayak on the Rimac River – “Río Verde”
Why it’s special
The Rimac River is usually known as a bustling waterway that runs past the historic centre. Few tourists realise that upstream, the river widens into a calm, emerald‑tinted stretch called Río Verde, flanked by a thin ribbon of mangrove forest. Small eco‑tour operators run guided kayak tours that reveal a different ecological face of Lima.
What to do
Early start – Depart from the Club de Regatas dock at 7 a.m. to avoid city traffic and catch the mist rolling off the water.
Spot wildlife – Look for the elusive cormorán (cormorant) nesting on the mangroves, and keep an eye out for tiny river otters (nutrias).
Picnic on the bank – Guides provide a traditional juane (rice‑stuffed banana leaf parcel) and a thermos of mate de coca for a post‑paddle snack.
Practicalities
Cost: US $35 per person (includes kayak, helmet, guide, and snack).
Skill level: Beginner‑friendly; paddles are stable, and guides are fluent in English and Spanish.
3. Explore the Pre‑Colonial Ruins of Pachacamac – A Hidden Archaeological Gem
Why it’s special
While many travellers flock to the grand ruins of Huaca Pucllana in Miraflores, the Pachacamac complex, located 30 km south of Lima, remains relatively quiet. This sacred site predates the Inca and was a major pilgrimage destination for the coastal cultures of pre‑Columbian Peru.
What to do
Guided tour – Book a small‑group tour (max 8 people) with Arqueología Viva to learn about the Ica and Nazca influences on the temple architecture.
Sunset ceremony – If you can stay until dusk, the site’s open terrace offers a spectacular view of the Pacific horizon, where local Aymara priests sometimes perform a traditional papa (offering) ritual.
Museum visit – The on‑site museum houses ceramic fragments and a reconstructed temple model that provides context to the ruins.
Travel note
Take the coastal highway (Panamericana Sur) and exit at the Pachacamac sign. Parking is free, and the entrance fee is modest (S/ 5).
4. Savour a Secret “Peruvian Street Food Tour” in the Cercado de Lima
Why it’s special
Most culinary tours focus on upscale restaurants in Miraflores or the famed Mercado de Surquillo. Yet the historic district’s narrow alleys hide a culinary underworld of anticuchos, picarones, and cuy chactado served from modest, family‑run stalls.
What to do
Dish
Where to find it
Anticuchos de corazón (grilled beef heart)
Anticuchería El Buen Sazón on Calle San Martín (open only after 9 p.m.).
Picarones (sweet potato doughnuts)
Dulcería La Senda in the Plaza de la Merced, served with chancaca syrup.
Cuy chactado (crispy guinea pig)
Puesto del Cuy near the San Cristóbal market; the vendor will slice it open in front of you.
Chicha de jora (fermented corn drink)
Small chichería behind the Casa de la Literatura, offering a tasting flight of 3 varieties.
How to join
The Lima Food Explorers collective runs a 4‑hour “Night Bites” tour every Thursday and Saturday, starting at 8 p.m. The price is US $25 per person, which includes a drink and a short cooking demo.
Safety tip
Stick to stalls that display a clean cooking area and have a visible Vigilancia Sanitaria (health inspection) sticker.
5. Unwind at Parque de la Reserva – The Secret Water Garden
Why it’s special
Everyone knows the Magic Water Circuit (Circuito Mágico del Agua), but few realise that behind the main show lies a quiet, Japanese‑inspired water garden that opens only during the early morning and late evening hours. Designed by renowned landscape architect Mario Lara, the garden features a series of koi ponds, stone lanterns, and a hidden bamboo grove.
What to do
Morning meditation – Arrive at 6:30 a.m. for a free, 15‑minute guided meditation session led by a local yoga instructor (check the park’s Facebook page for the schedule).
Photography walk – The soft morning light creates ethereal reflections; the garden’s shōji screens make a perfect backdrop for portrait shots.
Evening lantern release – On Fridays, the park hosts a community lantern‑lighting ceremony at 9 p.m., where you can write a wish on a biodegradable paper lantern and set it afloat on the central pond.
Practicalities
Entrance: Free (the Magic Circuit costs for the evening show).
Access: The garden is located behind the main fountain pavilion; look for signs pointing to “Jardín Secreto”.
How to Fit All Five Into a Long Weekend
Day
Morning
Afternoon
Evening
Friday
Kayak at Río Verde (7 a.m.)
Explore Pachacamac ruins (2 p.m.)
Magic Water Circuit (8 p.m.)
Saturday
Secret Food Tour in Cercado (10 a.m.)
Barranco’s Paseo de los Artistas (2 p.m.)
Lantern ceremony at Parque de la Reserva (9 p.m.)
Sunday
Relaxed brunch in Barranco + optional mini‑workshop
Free time for shopping or museum visit
Early flight or onward travel
If you have only one day, start with the kayak, then hop to Barrio Barranco for lunch, and finish with the secret garden at Parque de la Reserva.
Final Thoughts
Lima’s mainstream attractions are undeniably worth seeing, but the city’s true soul shines brightest in its quieter corners. From paddling on a serene river to tasting street‑food secrets that have survived centuries, these five off‑the‑beaten‑path experiences will give you a richer, more authentic connection to Peru’s coastal capital.
Pack comfortable shoes, a reusable water bottle, and an appetite for adventure—Lima’s hidden gems are waiting.
Ready to wander? Share your own lesser‑known Lima discoveries in the comments below, and let’s keep the conversation going!
I want to keep the car. Especially if it’s a Lamborghini and it didn’t cost $500,000.
This form of the word simply means to hang on to something, or up the proper definition, to have or retain possession of
Paring it with other words is where it gets complicated.
For instance,
Keepings off, make sure that the ball doesn’t get into someone else’s possession.
Keep it to yourself, yes, here’s your chance to become the harbinger of secrets and not tell anyone else. Not unless a lot of money is involved, or a Lamborghini.
You guessed it, the car is the running joke on this post.
How about, keep a low profile, been there tried that, it’s a lot harder than you think.
What about keeping your cards close to your chest, yes, this had both a literal and figurative meaning which makes it sort of unique.
That might follow the second definition, to continue, or cause to continue a particular state.
Another way of using keep is by delaying or stopping someone from doing something or getting somewhere; ie, I was kept waiting at the doctor’s surgery because he was late.
There are any number of examples of using the word keep in tandem with other words
One that specifically doesn’t relate to all the former examples, is simply the word keep.
What is it?
Usually the strongest part of the castle, and the last to fall in an attack.
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.
Bogotá, Colombia’s vibrant capital, is often synonymous with iconic landmarks like Plaza de Bolívar or the towering Monserrate. But beyond the well-trodden tourist trails lies a city rich with untold stories, cultural treasures, and serene escapes that reveal a more authentic side of Colombia. If you’re ready to venture beyond the usual sights, here are five unique experiences that will deepen your connection to Bogotá and its soul.
1. Museo del Chocio: A Private Museum with Heart
Tucked away in a quiet neighbourhood, the Museo del Chocio (also known as the Soul of a Curious Mind) is a one-of-a-kind hidden gem. Founded by Arturo Chocio, a Colombian engineer turned obsessive collector, this intimate museum houses over 70,000 items spanning 11,000 years of human history—pottery, tools, art, and even Egyptian sarcophagi. It’s a labyrinth of wonder for history buffs and collectors’ curious minds, with personal artifacts displayed in a former house. Entry is donation-based, and the museum’s quirky charm offers a rare, personal journey through global cultures. Tip: Visit on a weekday to enjoy the exhibits in peaceful seclusion.
2. Parque Tunal: A Green Oasis with Literary Roots
While many flock to the bustling Parque 93, Parque Tunal is a lesser-known sanctuary where locals unwind. This sprawling park, home to pre-Columbian sculptures and a hidden library, is the perfect spot for a leisurely afternoon. The lush gardens and shaded benches invite reflection, while the Biblioteca Virgilio Bernal—a modern library offering books and events—adds a cultural twist. Tip: Don’t miss the park’s Mirador del Tunal, a hilltop viewpoint offering panoramic city views, especially magical at sunset.
3. Quinta de Bolívar: Step into History at Simón Bolívar’s Home
For a deeper dive into Colombia’s independence story, visit Quinta de Bolívar, the historic home of Simón Bolívar. This preserved country house in San Antonio offers a glimpse into the life of the “Libertador,” with original furniture, mementos, and a beautiful garden. The museum’s child-friendly exhibits and workshops make it ideal for families, while the serene setting is perfect for a picnic. Tip: Combine your visit with a stop at Cafetería La Quinta, a cozy café serving traditional Colombian pastries.
4. La Nuestra de la Asunción: A Cultural Hub in Transition
Once a colonial convent, La Nuestra de la Asunción has evolved into a vibrant arts and community centre. Housed in a restored 19th-century convent, this space hosts rotating art exhibitions, theatre performances, and culinary workshops that celebrate local traditions. The fusion of history and modern creativity here is inspiring, and the nearby Galería del Barco adds a contemporary art flair. Tip: Check the venue’s calendar for weekend workshops—try your hand at making arepas or Colombian coffee.
5. San Agustín Street Art Trail: A Kaleidoscope of Colour
While La Candelaria is famous for its colonial architecture, the San Agustín neighbourhood is a canvas for Bogotá’s vibrant street art scene. Wander through alleys adorned with murals by local and international artists, often infused with social and political commentary. The community’s blend of art, hip cafés, and eclectic shops gives it a bohemian vibe. Tip: Grab a coffee at La Casita del Tio, a beloved spot in the area, and let the murals guide your stroll.
Conclusion: Embrace Bogotá’s Layers
Bogotá is a city of contrasts—where history, nature, and modern creativity collide. By exploring these lesser-known treasures, you’ll uncover a side of the city that locals cherish, one that speaks to resilience, passion, and community. So, trade the crowded queues for quiet pathways, and let Bogotá surprise you with its hidden magic. After all, the best travel stories are born from the detours we take.
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
Kill Your Darlings: Why Simple, Strong Words Beat Over-Adjectifying Every Time
We’ve all been there. You’re writing a blog post, a novel, or even a professional email, and you look at a sentence like this:
“The large, menacing, ferocious hound ran quickly across the damp, muddy, desolate field.”
It sounds descriptive, right? But to an experienced reader or an SEO expert looking at user engagement, it actually reads like linguistic clutter. It feels heavy, breathless, and—ironically—weak.
Many writers fall into the trap of believing that the more adjectives they use, the better their writing will become. Surely, adding more descriptors paints a clearer picture?
In reality, trying to use too many adjectives is often a symptom of weak writing. As the old saying goes: Simple, strong words are best—and you should avoid any words that leave people reaching for a dictionary.
Here is why less is almost always more when it comes to adjectives, and how you can transform your writing by embracing simplicity and strength.
The Adjective Trap: Why We Over-Decorate
Why do we do it? Why do we stack adjectives like cordwood?
The Fear of Being Boring: We worry that without modifiers, our writing will sound dry and academic.
The “Show, Don’t Tell” Shortcut: Instead of describing how a character feels through action, we slap an emotion word in front of them (e.g., “the deeply depressed, profoundly sad man”).
The Myth of Granularity: We think precision requires length. We assume that saying “a glistening, shimmering, multifaceted diamond” is more effective than just saying “a diamond.”
The truth? Adjectives are the makeup of writing. A little bit highlights the natural features, but caking it on makes everything look fake, muddy, and overdone.
3 Reasons Why Too Many Adjectives Kill Your Writing
1. They Slow Down the Reader’s Momentum
Good writing has rhythm. It flows like a river, pulling the reader effortlessly downstream. Piling on adjectives acts like dropping boulders into that river. Every extra modifier forces the reader’s brain to pause, process, and adjust the mental image.
Simple and strong: “The ruin stood alone.” or “The rotting cabin stood alone.” (Punchy and immediate.)
2. They Weaken the Noun
Your nouns and verbs should be doing the heavy lifting. When you rely on adjectives to create impact, you rob your primary words of their power.
Instead of writing “a very large, towering hill,” use “a mountain.” Instead of writing “walked very quietly and stealthily,” use “prowled.”
By choosing a stronger noun or verb in the first place, you eliminate the need for adjectives entirely.
3. Obscure Words Alienate Your Audience
Another common pitfall when trying to “elevate” writing is using overly complex, high-register adjectives that most people don’t use in everyday conversation. Words like pusillanimous, lugubrious, or perspicacious.
Unless you are writing for an academic journal, using obscure words doesn’t make you look smart—it makes you hard to read. If a reader has to stop and look up the definition of a word, you’ve broken their immersion. Clear communication always trumps vocabulary flexing. If people have trouble understanding the meaning of your words, they will simply click away.
How to Write with Simplicity and Strength
If you want to clean up your prose, boost your readability, and keep your readers hooked, adopt these three copywriting rules today:
Rule 1: One Adjective is a Maximum, Zero is Often Better
Before you publish a sentence, look at every noun. Does it have two or three adjectives attached to it? Delete at least half of them. Challenge yourself to find the exact right noun instead of modifying a weak one.
Rule 2: Audit Your Adverbs and Adjectives
Run your drafts through a readability checker or read them out loud. If you find yourself using filler modifiers like very, really, truly, quite, or extremely, hit the backspace key. These words are crutches. They signal that the adjective (or verb) that follows isn’t strong enough on its own.
Rule 3: Write for the 8th-Grade Level (Even for Professionals)
Simplicity is not the same as dumbing down. The greatest writers in history—Ernest Hemingway, Stephen King, Maya Angelou—used remarkably simple language. Hemingway’s prose is famous for its punchy, unadorned strength. Write so that a general audience can grasp your meaning instantly, effortlessly, and with maximum emotional resonance.
The Bottom Line
Great writing isn’t about how many impressive words you can cram into a paragraph; it’s about how clearly you can transmit an idea from your brain to the reader’s.
The next time you’re tempted to write “a profoundly complex, deeply fascinating, intricately detailed problem,” stop. Take a breath.
Delete the makeup. Trust your nouns. Use simple, strong words—and let your ideas speak for themselves.
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 