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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.

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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

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage, the police thought I had murdered my own wife, though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbours reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months, the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last time I saw Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months, I was barely functioning, to the extent that I had all but lost my job and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in that she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened became our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each other about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realise that all she had was her work; personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police, and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone, then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

Searching for locations: The Henan Museum, Zhengzhou, Henan Province, China

The Henan Museum is one of the oldest museums in China.  In June 1927, General Feng Yuxiang proposed that a museum be built, and it was completed the next year.  In 1961, along with the move of the provincial capital, Henan Museum moved from Kaifeng to Zhengzhou.

It currently holds about 130,000 individual pieces, more of which are mostly cultural relics, bronze vessels of the Shang and Zhou Dynasties, and pottery and porcelain wares of the various dynasties.

Eventually, we arrive at the museum and get off the bus adjacent to a scooter track and despite the efforts of the guide, there’s no stopping them from nearly running us over.

We arrive to find the museum has been moved to a different and somewhat smaller building nearby as the existing, and rather distinctively designed, building is being renovated.

While we are waiting for the tickets to enter, we are given another view of industrial life in that there is nothing that resembles proper health and safety on worksites in this country, and the workers are basically standing on what looks to be a flimsy bamboo ladder with nothing to stop them from falling off.

The museum itself has exhibits dating back a few thousand years and consist of bronze and ceramic items.  One of the highlights was a tortoiseshell with reportedly the oldest know writing ever found.

Other than that it was a series of cooking utensils, a table, and ceramic pots, some in very good condition considering their age.

 
There were also small sculptures

an array of small figures

and a model of a settlement

20 minutes was long enough.

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense.  Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.

I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.

It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.

The boy was Alan.  He was about six or seven.  The girl was Louise, and she was five years old.  She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.

I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.

We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds.  I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell.  Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.

It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children.  They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.

Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.

Until one day she couldn’t.

Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand.  She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it.  The damage done to her was too severe.

The doctors were wrong.

She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants.  It was enough to have them arrested.  It was not enough to have them convicted.

Justice would have to be served by other means.

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die.  It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing.  I had murder in mind.  It was why I was holding an iron bar.

Skulking in the shadows.  It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.

I waited till Archie came out.  I knew he eventually would.  The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go.  I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.

I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.

“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me.  He knew what it was, and what it was for.

It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes.  He was alone.

“Justice.”

“For that slut of a sister of yours.  I had nuffing to do with it.”

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.”  An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.

I held up the pipe.  It had blood on it.  Willy’s blood.  “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up.  He sang like a bird.  That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”

“He dunnit, not me.  Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.”  Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.

“No, Archie.  He didn’t.  I’m coming for you.  All of you Bannisters.  And everyone who touched my sister.”

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries.  Those were the very worst few hours of my life.

She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late.  If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.

If only I’d not been late…

When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood.  The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.

At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told.  He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.

I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy.  There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.

He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone.  It was a half mile walk, through a park.  The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness.  He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.

He didn’t.

It took an hour and a half to get the names.  At first, when he saw me, he laughed.  He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.

When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list.  I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.

When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi.  The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me.  I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.

At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality.  The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.

Archie could help but rub it in my face.  He was invincible.

Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out.  He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged.  I didn’t care.

Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me.  I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.

I revisited Willy in the hospital.  He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come.  Suffocation was too good for him.

David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters.  His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful.  Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered.  A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.

He and I met in the pub.  We got along like old friends.  He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges.  We shook hands and parted as friends.

Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared.  I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me.  He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.

When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes.  I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it.  He told me he was just a spectator.

I’d read the coroner’s report.  They all had a turn.  He was a liar.

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

The same factory only this time there were four seats.  Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities.  She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.

Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.

Archie’s mother cursed me.  I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.

Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily.  The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family.  I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.

I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony.  I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes.  This time he did, it all poured out of him.

I went over to Emily.  He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm.  Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.

“Louise was my friend, Archie.  My friend.”

Then she shot him.  Six times.

To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

Now I was in jail.  I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession.  Without my sister, my life was nothing.  I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.

They were not allowed to.

For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors.  I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.

Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.

Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone.  They ignored me.  I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that.  You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”

Death sounded good.  I told him to go away.

He didn’t.  Persistent bugger.

I was handcuffed to the table.  The prison officers thought I was dangerous.  Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that.  McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.

“Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.”  Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.

“Your sister.  By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”

“It was murder just the same.  No difference between scum and proper people.”

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

“No, I dare say you’re right.  But you’re different, Alan.  As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen.  We can use a man like you.”

“We?”

“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”

I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him.  It looked like I didn’t have a choice.

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible.  People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.

On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.

At the airport, I became a pilot.  I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.

I had a passkey.

I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.

That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life.  Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.

Two pilots and a steward.  A team.  On the plane early before the rest of the crew.  A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless.  Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides.  It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.

It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.

Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.

Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision.  If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness.  Not that day.  Not any day.

New York, New Years Eve.

I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag.  They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.

This time I failed.

A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…

Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her.  It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.

How could she?  No one could know what I’d been through.

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it.  After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.

The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.

It was late.

People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks.  Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.

A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.

He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”

Two of his friends dragged him away.  He shrugged them off, squared up.

I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground.  I looked at his two friends.  “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”

They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk.  She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.

I looked around to see where her friends were.  The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.

She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.

I sat beside her.  “Where are your friends?”

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

She looked up, and sideways at me.  She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state.  Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.”  I was exactly how I felt.

“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care.  Just leave me here to rot.”

She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.

Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

“You don’t look like a homeless person.  If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.”  I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.

She lifted her head and looked at me again.  “You a smart fucking arse are you?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder.  We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

“Don’t have one.  Take me to your place.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m drunk.  What’s not to like until tomorrow.”

I helped her to her feet.  “You have a name?”

“Charlotte.”

The wedding was in a small church.  We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot.  Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.

On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.

I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.

Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.

And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age.  She arrived late and left early.

Aunt Agatha.

She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look.  “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.

“Likewise I’m sure,” I said.  It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte.  It was clear she feared this woman.

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

Agatha looked at me.  “I like you.  Take care of my granddaughter.  You do not want me for an enemy.”

OK, now she officially scared me.

She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.

“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us.  Her husband was not with her this time.

Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother.  She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.

We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends.  For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.

I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother.  It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.

Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.

Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close.  I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness.  We were never close.

But…

This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head.  It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.

And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction.  “You seem distracted,” she said.

“I was just remembering my mother.  Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”

“Why now?”  I think she had a look of concern on her face.

“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.

Another look and I was wrong.  She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.

It was like coming up for air.

It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life.  I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.

And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”

I could not speak, but I think I smiled.  It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye.  Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.

“Welcome back.”

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

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365 Days of writing, 2026 – 125

Day 125 – Writing Exercise

Down the slope and across the valley, they rode

…

It was a cold day in hell, my father said.

Two men had come into town, men who didn’t look like who they were, murderers.

They said they were scouts for the railway.  We had been told a year before that the railways were going to be passing through.  Some people who owned land would become rich, the town would benefit with a rail head, station, hotels and more people.

Some liked the idea, most didn’t

They’d come to Stillwater Creek from the cities to get away from the hustle and bustle, only to find it wolfed follow them.

The two men visited all the farms along a specific path.  They asked about the other landowners.  It wasn’t until it was too late that someone realised they were looking for one specific person.

My elder brother: Mason Henry.

He was the one who was going to make the Henry name famous.  Study law, practise in the big city, then come home and hang a shingle in town.

Got the law degree, got into a large practise, got one case, and then came home.  Showed us the big city newspaper. Prosecuted the criminal, got him life in jail.  A success by any stretch of the imagination.

He didn’t tell us that he had fled the big city in fear for his life.  The family of the criminal put a price on his head, and he was lucky to survive the first attempt.  He didn’t tell us; the sheriff did, days after the so-called railway scouts arrived.

At that time, Mason was out doing a tour of the farms and ranches being courted by the railways, offering his services so the railway wouldn’t take advantage of them.

When he didn’t come home, we went looking for him, my father and I.  And found him, dead, with the horse standing guard.  Shot as he rode past Devils Range, between the Parson’s ranch and town.

The railwaymen had gone.

The sheriff called on any men who were available for a posse.  We started with twenty.  The Henry name meant something in Stillwater Creek.

The usual words about law and order and no shooting on sight or unless in self-defence, we set out.  It was three days ride to the nearest railhead.  There was nowhere else they could go, unless they were simply running.

Fifteen would ride the track.  Five of us were heading straight to Alabaster Springs, the railhead, in the hope that they believed they had got a head start. 

When we finally got Mason to Doc, he said he’d been dead no more than twelve hours.

There was hope.

…

We’d had our fair share of gunslingers passing through.  The Tuckers were among the first of the few land owners that came out when the West was new, and everything was up for grabs.

Others followed, like my family, the Henrys, and they lay claim to smaller tracts and smaller cattle ranches.  It was before fences, with rivalries and perceived injustices, and eventually the law found its way out, along with the start of a town.

It began with two hotels and a general store, a stable and then the stagecoach.  From there, a sheriff’s office and fences.  Disputes over water rights, and the Tuckers trying to run the new ranchers off their properties.

Tucker’s hands were more than cowboys; they were enforcers.  His leading hand had a reputation as a man who’d won a dozen shoot-outs on Main Street, the closest we ever saw a gunslinger.

The last gunfight I saw, not a month or two back, a card sharp was caught and called out.

We thought it was entertainment.

The sheriff called it murder.

Pa said the card sharp should have stayed on the Mississippi.  Ma said he would’ve died anyway.

The point is, talk of railways, more people moving out of the cities, and opportunists arrive every day.  The Tuckers had an investment in the railways, but their land wasn’t on the direct route, so they were buying up land, and those that wouldn’t sell had cattle rustled, cowboys beaten or shot, and the owners intimidated.

Pa knew who was ultimately responsible for Mason’s death, a message of what was going to happen to me and my older sister, Polly, but he was picking on the wrong people.  He tried going down the law path, but the law could be bought or replaced; it, too, was under threat from the Tuckers.

We were not selling, and we were going to prove that the Tuckers were the people responsible for Mason.  With or without the law.

That’s why Polly and I were in the group of five heading to the railhead.  Dad said it was to protect our interests; Polly said through gritted teeth she was going to kill the sons of bitches.

I said that that wouldn’t help find out who hired them.  I don’t think she heard me.

…

Polly was insistent that I learn to shoot.  Not just a rifle, which was a necessity when out herding and moving cattle, but a handgun, for emergencies.

Pa had taught Polly and Mason, even though Mason never liked the idea.  He had no problem with using a rifle; he helped with the cattle when he was home, and there were plenty of reasons for carrying a gun.  Ma said I was too young, so Polly taught me when we were away from the ranch.

I could use a gun.

I shouldn’t have to.

But it was there.

Just before we slowed down, the horses were just about all in from the mad dash, in sight of the town in the distance, and not far from the rail tracks heading back east.

Alabaster Springs was a big town.  When we were younger, it wasn’t much more than our town.  Now it was a city.  A long main street, several livery stables, half a dozen hotels, two with dancing girls, gambling, drinking, and trouble.

It had grown too quickly, and lawlessness outstripped the sheriff and his deputies, and the good intentions from the mayor, the council and law and order were lost in a tangle of land rights, personal power struggles, and property ownership disputes.

Not even the establishment of three churches and three upstanding ministers vigorously performing the Lord’s work could stop the tide of sin.  Pa said it was too little too late, and compared it to Sodom and Gomorrah. 

Pa said never to go there because a child who thought he was a man was still a child and wouldn’t get treated properly.  Or as Polly bluntly put it, a child or a man would be led down the devil’s path before he knew what happened.

We would find the railwaymen, catch them, and turn them in to the law.

…

Passing Jockheim’s Livery Stable, several sheets of the newspaper blew across the street, picked up by a gust. Once, it had been tumbleweeds.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was going down after a hot day in the saddle.  We were sore and tired, but the day, for us, was not over.

We had a plan.  Hotel by hotel, looking for the men.  We all knew what they looked like.  Who they were.  Faces etched in our minds.

The faces of murderers.

The horses moved slowly. Jackerby, a deputy, stopped first, hitched his horse to the rail outside the Northern Hotel.

A wave, he went in.

Next, Walters, a cowboy from the ranch next to ours, stopped, and did the same.  He went into the Wiseman Hotel.  There was a lot of noise inside, and as he stepped up onto the boardwalk, a drunk was thrown out onto the street.

It was a confronting sight.

A wagon came up behind us and nearly ran over him.

Samson, a new deputy, stopped at the Likerest Casino and Hotel. 

Three down, about a dozen or more to go.

Everyone, on the street, going in and coming out of the hotels, the stores or walking the boardwalk, carried guns.

It was very busy. A lot of men looked dangerous.

In the distance, the sound of cattle in the pens, waiting for the next train.  It was why so many men were in town.

A gun went off, and I jumped, and the horse reared, a little skittish.  Polly was beside me and leaned over to pay my horse on the neck.

Another man, a distance up the street, found himself face down in the street, muddy, churned up, and not a pleasant place to end up.

The gun followed him.

Polly shook her head.  Ma said it would be dangerous for her in a rough town with drunken men used to having their way.  Pa reckoned she could handle herself, but I was there to protect her.

More like it would be the other way around.

The Belvedere.  Supposedly classy.  Or so the advertisements in the newspaper, sent over once a week by stagecoach, said.  Fine dining, fine ladies, fine entertainment, genuine showgirls from back east.  Jack Belvedere, Mayor of Alabaster Springs, owned nearly everything; it was his city.

Pa said he was the personification of evil.

I could believe it.

He was standing outside his hotel, having his photo taken with two of his showgirls.

Polly and I had reached our first stop, hitched the horses and walked up the stairs outside the next-door storefront, the land office.  It was closed.

She brought her rifle.

Now that I was here, the plan of going to the bar and checking whether the two men were inside seemed impossible.

She stopped just as we were about to cross from the storefront boardwalk to the hotels.

“I see them,” she said.

The other end of the boardwalk.  Coming towards Belvedere.  When they stopped to talk to Belvendere, Polly disappeared after telling me to follow them.

She went down the alley and around the back.

I heard them talking.

Belvedere:  “You made good time.  The train will be here in two hours.  Go inside.  Tell Joe at the bar you’ve got a tab.  He’ll give you whatever you want.”

One said, “Thank you, Mr Belvadere.”

“No, Ned.  I should be thanking you for cleaning up what was about to be a big problem.”

He shook hands with them, and they went inside.

Belvedere, in cahoots with the Tuckers.  No surprises there.  He was part of their escape plan. 

I skirted my way around the photographer and Belvedere and went inside.  Just.  The bar was huge, one of several and packed.

The long bar down one side was crowded with men drinking, some in an intoxicated state, some with women hanging on to them, perhaps to keep them from falling over.  Certainly to keep plying them with drink.  Ma had a name for them.  I don’t think it was a good name.

I saw the two men head down the end, and they were met by several others.  A loud voice carried above the noise.  Larry Tucker.  Then I saw the brothers, Sam and Chuck. Not a good one between them.

Larry was the worst, the same age as Mason.  Tried to lead him astray, but Mason had no taste for drink and bullying, or shooting at innocents.  Harry Tucker had wounded several boys from surrounding ranches, covered by his father as shooting accidents while hunting.

They weren’t.  The boys treated him with contempt, where he expected fealty.  We all knew he was an idiot with a rich father.

“Well, well, well.”  Larry had seen me.

Not good.

Not in a bar.

Not after he’d been drinking.  He was a boy who couldn’t hold his liquor.  And that was dangerous.

“If it isn’t little Tom Henry.  Little fish in a big pond.”

He stepped out from the bar, a hand on the gun, a big gun, bigger than most.  Smirk.  Threatening posture.  Daring.  A blink and slight swaying movement.

A drink too many.

A touch too much courage?

A section of the crowd had gone quiet, waiting to see what happened.

“What are you doing here?”

Trying not to alert the two men, but it was a bit late for that.  They were on the alert now and looking worried.

Three men with guns.

But what the hell.  It was death or glory.  “Looking for two murderers.”

Harry Tucker laughed.  “You’re in the wrong place.  Nothing but law-abiding citizens in here.”

He looked around at the people who were now interested in this side show.  I saw several men by the door, closed up, cutting off the exit.

“And the two railway agents standing next to you at the bar?”

“Businessmen.  Buying land for the railway that will benefit not only the Henrys.”

“How does killing my brother fit into the plan?”

“I know nothing about your brother.  But if he’s dead, then he was obviously sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong.  Like you.  I don’t like you calling my friends unsavoury names, Henry.  Leave, or I’ll put a bullet in you.”

He drew his gun and pointed it at me.  It wavered in his hand.  It was heavy.

The next few seconds were a blur.

A gun went off, and I felt a bullet hit me in the arm, the force of it knocking me backwards.  Then several more shots, and as I was falling, I saw Harry go down, the two railwaymen drawing their guns and being shot, the other brothers trying to draw their weapons and being stopped by men behind them, then a gun shot three bullets into the roof and a man yelling, “The next man to fire a gun will die.”

Silence, after I finished sprawling on the floor, holding my arm that was hurting like hell, and bleeding.  I honestly thought I was going to die.  That’s when I passed out.

…

When I woke, it was in a hotel room with an old man leaning over me, looking at my arm.

“He’ll survive, it’s just a scratch.  It’s patched, you just need to change the bandage in a day or so.”

On the floor, there were three bodies.  The two railwaymen and Harry Tucker.  I didn’t shoot him or any of them.  I knew better than to draw a weapon in a place like that.

Belvedere was standing over them, shaking his head.

In the corner, a man with a sheriff’s badge and sporting a blackening eye was standing next to my sister, looking somewhat dishevelled.

Belvedere looked at her.  “Anytime you want a job working for me, just make yourself known to Joe.”

“I’m not a whore.” Her tone and manner dripped defiance. She scared me, most of the time.

“I mean, as a sharp shooter.  That was the most amazing display of shooting I’ve ever seen.”

“Pity she didn’t shoot you,” I said.

He swivelled around.  “Ah, the small fish speaks.”

“You paid them to kill my brother.”

“Correction, Tom Henry, that is your name, isn’t it?  Of course it is.  The family resemblance is unmistakable.  Are all of you Henrys this rambunctious?  I had nothing to do with it.  In fact, I told those stupid Tuckers it would bring nothing but trouble.  And here it is, on my doorstep.”

“You reap what you sow,” Polly said.

“I’m trying to build something here.  Not spend the rest of my life in jail.  Harry Tucker simply misinterpreted what his father said and took it into his own hands to get these two second-rate shooters to kill your brother.  Had you not turned up, I was going to hand them over to the law.  In fact, the sheriff is about to transfer them to Boot Hill.  I’ll send Tucker back to his father with an explanation.  Neither of you two nor any of the Henrys had anything to do with it.”

He looked at Polly.  “Take your brother home, tell your Pa he got caught in the crossfire.  Don’t come back any time soon, or you might get arrested.  Whatever you came here for is done.  Am I clear?”

I could see her thinking.

“It’s done, Polly, no matter what we think.  It’s done.  I’m done.”

She thought some more.  “I get my gun back?”

“Once you leave the city limits.  My deputy will escort you back to Springwater.  All of you.”

“Fine.”

The sheriff said, “I could lock you up for assaulting a sheriff, but I wasn’t wearing my badge, so you weren’t to know.  That’s a mean right you’ve got.”

She gave him a smile, but I didn’t think she was trying to be nice.

“Take them over to the jail house and get them to sign some paperwork, and a report to their father about what happened here.  An investigation into his son’s death has been carried out.  You know the details.” To a deputy by the door.  “Ride out and meet the posse.  Take them to the sheriff’s office.  Make sure they understand the circumstances.”

…

Back home, Pa was not a happy man.

The fact that Polly and I went into a bar, each carrying a gun.

The fact that the moment I saw Harry Tucker, I should have run.

The fact that Polly exercised summary justice in the two railwaymen/murderers.

The fact that I got shot by a Tucker.

The fact that we got caught.

The fact that we might never get the truth.

He was interested to learn what I heard between the railwaymen and Belvedere, but it wasn’t conclusive evidence. But at least he knew the Tuckers were trouble, and he had not prosecuted his daughter when they had sworn testimony that said otherwise. The report had a note from Belvedere himself; the Henrys had suffered enough.

The fact that Belvedere had outlined the facts of the case, and, according to him, Harry Butler had taken matters into his own hands and hired the railwayman to execute Mason, was as good an explanation they would get.

For that, old man Tucker apologised and said he would do everything he could to help the family cope with the loss.

Ma was particularly upset.

A parent, she told Polly, should never have to outlive their child.  Then she slapped Polly very hard for allowing me to go into the bar and for nearly getting me killed.

It was the only time I saw Polly cry.

Other than that, as far as I was concerned, the Lord should be satisfied his work was done.  And eye for an eye. Harry Butler for Mason Henry, though Harry was far from being the same man as Mason.

The Lord, it had to be said, worked in mysterious ways.

The railway came.  We made some money, not a lot, and in time, what happened at Alabaster nearly happened in Stillwater.

Except…

We had the foreknowledge of what was coming and stopped most of it dead in its tracks.

Polly, as if it were ordained, became the first Mayor. She married the sheriff she gave a black eye.

My arm still aches with the onset of winter, a reminder that we don’t always get what we want at the time; it eventually happens if you wait long enough.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

“What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.

Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.

They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?

When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.

When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.

Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.

Find the Kindle version on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

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The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 16

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and the question of who is a friend and who is a foe is made all the more difficult because of the enemy if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now he faces questions, not only his own but that of his commanding officer.

And the answers might not be what he wants to hear.

…

Breeman returned later that day, an agitated look on her face, the sort that reminded me she was having a bad day, and more often than not after a secure video conference with the powers that be at the Pentagon.

At least this time I was about to speak but had still not made the decision on whether I should tell her anything.  It depended on if she had any questions for me, and how specific they were.  I would tell her the truth.

She sat and head hunched forward in her hands, she rubbed her eyes and looked at the floor for a minute before looking back up at me.

“Your disappearance has set off a shit storm.”

“Because we were in the no-fly zone?”

“You knew where you were?”

“No.  One part of the sky over the desert is the same as any other.  I had no idea where we were when we were shot down, but I figured there are not many civilians armed with rocket launchers, particularly wandering around in the middle of the normal desert just waiting for a US military helicopter.”

“I would tend to agree with you.  Did Jerry tell you why he was there?”

“Jerry doesn’t talk to us enlisted me, nor deems it any of our business where he goes.  He did say, however, he was on a training run to supplement his flying hours.  But, whatever he was doing or where he was going, he needed your signoff.”

Did I just say that in an angry manner?  Not the way to speak to your commanding officer, friend or not.  I should apologize quickly, and did.  It didn’t change her expression, in fact, to me, it now looked more severe.

“There’s a flight plan with my signature on it, but it’s not my signature, but a very good counterfeit.”

“Any idea who the forger is?”

“No.  But they are on the base, here, what could possibly be a traitor.”

“Does it show whether the pilot intended to cross into the no-fly some?”

“No.  It was a usual path on our side, following the boundary.  It doesn’t explain the wreckage 60 miles inside the border.  Did you see anyone?”

Now it gets tricky.

“Just a rocket launcher out the side of a Toyota aimed at us followed quickly by a rocket coming straight at us.  There wasn’t much time to think.”

“You jumped.  It’s the sort of thing I’d expect from you.”

“Aside from hitting the sand, that’s about all I remember.”  It was a direct lie, but it could be modified or rescinded later.  This room was not secure.

“Did you see anything else?”

“Other than desert and sky?  No.”

She gave me a very long and considered look, and yes, I blinked first.  I had the awful feeling she knew I was lying to her.

“There’s a camp out there, somewhere, and what happened to you proves it.”

It was as far as she got with that statement, whether of fact or supposition, she didn’t tell me.

Colonel Bamfield just walked into my hospital room.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2023

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 38

It was the orange ribbon

…

“It’s the orange ribbon, isn’t it,” Cecilia said.  “I thought it looked good with the yellow floral summer dress and the fake fur coat.”

I had thought Juliet was just shocked to see Cecelia again with me, that we were possibly having a relationship.  It was something else.

Cecelia looked at me.  “Alfie said Vittoria called Juliet while you were texting me, a bit like ships passing in the night, to tell her she was on her way, and this idiot woman in a fur coat and orange ribbon had almost knocked her off the sidewalk.  I mean, really, people buried in their phones should be knocked off the sidewalk.”

We both looked at Juliet.  I could see she was thinking fast on her feet, then smile at Cecelia, and say, “Wow!  What can I say?  How’s your acting career going?”

“Good actually.  I got a part as a mercenary.  Just need to do the training and figure out how I’m going to survive the Moroccan sun, I mean, with this skin?”

There were two slices of pizza.  “Do you mind,” Cecilia said, “I shouldn’t but it’s been one of those days.”

Juliet nodded.

“Now, Juliet, do you want to revise any answers?”

“Who are you really?  The two of you?”

“We find people.  Or I used to until Larry came after me, and then my boss decided I couldn’t retire, or maybe it was his wife this time.  She’s a good chum of the countess.  It seems if I found her, I can finally go back to my well-earned retirement.  So, one question, did your mother, Vittoria Romano, kidnap her?”

“No.”

No hesitation.  Interesting.

“She is up in your apartment at the moment?”

Juliet looked at Cecilia, reaching for the second slice.

“Yes.”

“How long have you known about her?”

“About three months.  She found me.  I didn’t believe it at first, but apparently, she had to wait until my adoptive mother died before she could see me in person.  It was the agreement they made.  By the way, she shared the money the count paid her for my upkeep and to go to medical school.”

“So, you are his daughter?”

“She showed me the birth certificate.  It has his name on it.  No one was ever supposed to know.”

“Until the money stopped.  Who did she go to?”

“The countess.  My mother had nothing to do with her disappearance.  You should be looking at the family, that Alessandro is a criminal, the whole family are.”

“They’re bankers,” Cecilia said.  “Is there a difference?”

“OK.  If she is not guilty of anything, then she will have no trouble talking to us?”

“I can ask?”

“No.  Not until we’re on the doorstep.  You may think she’s not guilty because she told you so, but unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury.  And you know me well enough to know that I keep an open mind about everything.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You do.  But if we let you go and we find out you’ve lied to us, then we’ll hunt you down, no matter where you are, and we will not be as nice as we are now.”  The way Cecelia said it, it sounded like she relished hunting down criminals and liars.  The words were accompanied by a very mean look.

“Can we finish dinner first?”

“Of course.  I was looking forward to having some tiramisu.”

Cecelia was in a role.  She smiled.  I was glad she wouldn’t be hunting me.

Another small pizza, tiramisu, red wine, coffee and conversation, from the outside could be construed as three friends meeting up and having a leisurely dinner and reminiscing.

Cecelia was genuinely interested in car accident victims, to help her in her auditions, and Juliet was genuinely interested in the movie business.  I was fascinated watching the two women together, wondering if Juliet thought there was something between us.

Back in Venice, that was the impression she was giving Juliet.  Here, I got the occasional glance, and a touch on the hand, the sort of touchy-feely things a girlfriend might do.  I hadn’t thought of her a lot since Venice, but she hadn’t completely disappeared.

By the time we left, most of the other customers had gone, and the staff were cleaning up.  I paid the bill and said I would be back.  Those pizzas were to die for.  We had ordered another just before leaving, to take back for her mother.

If she was there.

Cecelia had gone ahead to make sure there wasn’t an ambush waiting for us, and when we reached the door of her apartment, she was waiting in the shadows.

Juliet got out her key and opened the door, and after opening it, yelled out “I’m home.”  Then she went in, and I followed.

There were two guns pointed at me as I stepped into the room, Vittoria was pointing one at me, and the countess was pointing the other at Cecelia.

© Charles Heath 2023

The 2am Rant: A blank look means you’re in another world

I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one.  That’s why, I guess, so many writers have an animal as a pet, someone to talk to, or just feel as though you are not alone in this quest.

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometimes the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.

Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

I’m sure his thoughts are not vague or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.

The cat’s world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna.  I am not that cat!

Unlike other professions, there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time.  Not while you are writing that next masterpiece.  It’s a steady sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.

Stories have to be written from beginning to end, not a bit here and a bit there.

It’s a bit like running a marathon.  You are in a zone, the first few miles are the hardest, the middle is just getting the rhythm and breathing under control, and then you hope you get to the end because it can seem that you’ve been going forever and the end is never in sight.

But, when you reach the end, oh, isn’t the feeling one of pure joy and relief.

And, yes, perhaps you’ve just created another masterpiece!

What I learned about writing – Could you apply real-life work information to a story?

One of the how-to books I was reading once made several statements about what you could write about.

The first was to write about what you know. To me, that means if you were in the military, you would have the inside knowledge on how the army, navy or air force worked and you could apply that to the scenarios, the situations and the people.

Then there’s the idea that your work environment could provide you with enough inspiration and authentic information to make the story sound realistic.

I’m going with the latter because the place where I worked, in one instance, provided the detail to incorporate into a story. That workplace is a phosphate mining company, and the place where that mining took place is on a small Pacific Island.

I was also lucky enough to work on a history of the company for several years as the principal research officer. It wasn’t long before I began writing a parallel story, which I had tentatively called The phosphateers, and as each piece of research yielded yet another gem of information, so began the story.

It started in the aftermath of World War 1, and the first volume was to end when the island was evacuated, after several of the company’s ships were sunk by a German raider in World War 2.

But that was not the only story…

My acquisition of knowledge about computer systems, and in particular in those early days, the primitive sort of networking available with cables, connectors and network cards, was the basis for another story.

So, yes, a real-life job can be a gold mine of information.