This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.
Coming soon!
Month: October 2019
“The Devil You Don’t”, be careful what you wish for
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favor for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favor’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follows.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
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Short story writing. Don’t try this at home! (2)
This is not meant to be a treatise on short story writing. Far be it for me to advise anyone on the subject. I prefer to say how it is that I do it so you can learn all of the pitfalls in one go.
I like to think I fly by the seat of my pants, you know, like the reader who takes up the story and starts reading, not having a clue where it’s going to go.
I prefer that blissful ignorance, of course, until I have to start editing it into something that resembles a logical story,
It was a revelation when I discovered there are two types (possibly more) or writer, pantsers and planners.
I’ve tried both. Both work. But in the case of the latter, you need to know where it’s going to start what’s going to happen in the middle and have the end firmly planted in your mind. Not much good if a rotten character is pissing you off and you want to kill him, excruciatingly.
Flying blind gives you a little more creativeness, and be able to go around a corner and see what’s there. it also allows for those complete changes of direction you come up with in the shower, that place that is a fertile ground for new ideas just when you’re running out of them.
But, it can sometimes play havoc with word counts and if you’re trying to fit into 2,000 words, 5,000 words, or a lot less, taking the story where it wants to go is not a good idea, and sadly, I tend to let stories run their course.
And sometimes I like the idea of writing three different endings, and then can’t choose which one I like the best.
So, role model I am not. I like writing, and when I’m in the ‘zone’ it’s like I’m in another world.
But, then, isn’t that the case for all of us?
More unclarity tomorrow!
A new start for my next Zoe the Assassin novel, ‘First Dig Two Graves’
Here’s the thing.
I’ve written the story, now I’m editing it after leaving the story for about a year, and it’s coming along.
But…
Yes, there’s always a but in there somewhere.
But, I don’t like the start, or for that matter, I can’t get a feel for it. I have about five different starting points, but none of them feel right.
I’ve been thinking of writing it from John’s perspective, but there are so many peripheral characters that need to be drawn in, people he doesn’t really know much about, or that some have a vested interest in his current girlfriend if she could be called that.
So I thought I’d throw a few words down and see how they sit:
You would not know by looking at MaryAnne that she was probably one of the best assassins in the world. You would be more inclined to consider she was just another spoilt American brat on the loose on holiday.
She was certainly one of the most beautiful women I’d ever met.
And she was certainly one of the most deadly. I could personally attest to that having seen her in action.
I could also attest to the fact that somewhere under that hard, conscienceless exterior, there was a heart, and sometimes it was visible. After all, I was a target, her target, once, and I’m still alive thanks to her.
It was a small detail I omitted when I introduced her to my parents, but that was one little step on a long road that I thought was going somewhere.
Perhaps, after all this time, I’d misinterpreted the signs and I was wrong.
We were sitting on the balcony of our hotel room on the 45th floor of the hotel we were staying at in downtown Surfer’s Paradise, a mecca for holidaymakers from the rest of Australia, and overseas.
It was perfect for tourists.
The champagne was cold, and although it was a hot 35 degrees Celcius out in the sunlight, the mood on the balcony was as decidedly cool as the champagne.
Today was the six month anniversary of the first day we had spent together as, well, I was not sure, now, what we were.
She turned to look at me. She was nothing like the Zoe of old, and I had finally got used to Mary Anne. It was an amazing transformation, but with it, I had thought she had finally shrugged off the Zoe persona.
She hadn’t. That hardened expression that I had hoped would be gone forever, had returned.
“It’s time to go back home, John.”
It was also that tone, the one when she spoke, that sent shivers down my spine, not the good shivers, but the one that told me trouble was ahead. Deadly trouble.
“I need to do something. Don’t get me wrong, this had been a delightful rest, and I could not ask for a better companion, but it’s time. We both knew this was going to happen.”
I noticed her features had softened a little when she mentioned my name, but the message was the same. We had talked about this moment at the outset. There was always going to be a use-by date on this adventure, for me at least.
It was also the time when she would, she said, decide where I would fit, if I fitted, in her future. When we originally spoke about it, she was still unsure of her feelings towards me. Over time, I had also hoped that they would be the same as mine for her.
Perhaps I had been expecting too much.
“When did you decide?”
“About thirty seconds ago. That’s when I realized it doesn’t matter where we are in the world, I still want to be with you. So, how do you like the idea of going into the assassination business?”
I’m not sure what John might think of this development, but I think you will agree with me, so long as he is with Zoe, he’s happy.
© Copyright, Charles Heath 2018
Past conversations with my cat – 17
Am I seriously reading my work to a cat, as an aid to correcting errors and grammar
This is Chester, he helps with the proofreading.
It’s not his favorite job, and truth be told he’d rather be outside being chased by a dog. But that’s why he’s not allowed outside.
He mistakenly wanders into my writing room ready to take up a spot on the seat near the window.
I watch him, and he’s pretending not to care if I’m watching him. A wide yawn, and a dour look in my direction. Yes, I can hear him now, “do your worst.”
For a moment while I read, trying to add the right amount of inflection and accent into the voices of the various characters, I realize that some of the conversational pieces seem a little awkward.
I think, judging from the expression on Chester’s face he agrees
Stilted, forced, or ‘mate, you’ve got a bloody awful accent, that sounded nothing like an Italian using English as a second language’.
OK, so I can’t write accents very well. Note to self, find an Italian and spend some time talking to them.
So, the conversation needs a little rework, let’s move on.
The next part is a little descriptive, just to set the scene.
‘Flowery’ is the word Chester uses. Flowery? It isn’t describing a garden. Oh, overly descriptive with too many comparisons.
What’s wrong with the sky is as blue as the ocean?
Have you seen the ocean?
Yes.
I doubt it. The ocean is green.
How do you know, you’ve never seen an ocean? This cat is starting to annoy me.
A gentle shrug, he gets up off the floor and heads towards the door. A condescending look over his shoulder and he’s gone.
What’s the definition of madness? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.
It’s official. I’m mad!
I’ve always wanted to go on a Treasure Hunt – Part 29
Here’s the thing…
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
“Where is he?” I asked, hardly disguising the annoyance in my tone.
“In the toilet.”
A minor relief, but what the hell was she doing in his room?
“You do know Vince is responsible for Boggs being attacked, and me too, by the way. There was no mistaking that thug even if he was hiding behind a balaclava.
“You’re not telling me anything I didn’t know already. And it might be my fault. I told him, no, he all but beat it out of me, about the map and Boggs, and you, and Alex.”
“So, I can expect to see Alex in here sometime soon?”
“No. The Benderby’s have their own private hospital. No one will get to hear about it, except maybe when there is the retaliation. This who map and treasure thing is about to get a whole lot more problematical.”
Boggs chose to return from the bathroom and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me. “How did you manage to get past the head of Gestapo, Nurse Jamieson?”
“I had an angel show me the way. How are you?”
“This is a hospital; how do you think I feel.”
The nurse was right, he looked worse than he was. The bruising was going to be very colourful in the coming days, before everything settled down.
“Vince?”
“Like I could tell who it was. Only Vince can sound like Vince even where he’s trying not to sound like Vince.”
“Did he get the map.”
“One of them, but not necessarily the right one, just a better one.”
Boggs got back onto the bed and lay back. I got the impression he was putting on a brave face for Nadia. But it didn’t explain why she was there.
“What are you doing here,” I asked, with just a shade less annoyance.
“I heard what Vince did and I cam to apologise. You were next,.” She said to me, “But, seriously guys, you were the masters of your own destinies with this map thing. You don’t even know if it’s real or just another of a host of hoaxes. Old man Cossatino reckons that Boggs’s dad created a lot of different variations, in the hope of selling them as the real thing. He was, after all, just a common con man, and not very good at it.”
The patriarch of the Cossatino’s the one she referred to as Old Man Cossatino, was Nadia’s grandfather, and although Nadia’s father was nominally in charge of the clan, everyone knew who the real leader was. And Old Man Cossatino was someone you didn’t cross, and that went for the Benderby’s too.
Boggs’s dad had worked for the Cossatino’s at one time, and it would not surprise me if it was Cossatino’s idea to create all the bogus maps, just to make money. I couldn’t see Boggs’s dad having the brains to mount a scheme such as Nadia described.
It surprised me that I had forgotten about that. Way back, when my father was still picking a side, he had said there’d been a rumour going around that a new map for the treasure had been found, and that both the Cossatino’s and the Benderby’s were in a bidding war for it, along with some other unsavoury characters.
And the rumour died as fast as it had risen, and not long after Boggs’s dad disappeared, later to turn up dead. One rumour, he had gone looking for the treasure, though no one proffered an answer as to how he might have come across the original map which he had, at one time, claimed, and another, Cossatino had him make it up, then killed him so he would never reveal the truth.
That original map had never seen the light of day, nor mentioned since.
It didn’t explain why Vince was on the warpath.
“What’s Vince up to? I thought you guys had the original map?”
She looked surprised. “First I’m hearing about it.”
I realised then she would have been as young as I was, and Boggs, which was about five or six. Precognitive memories. She might have been too young to remember. I only remembered it because my father had continually bagged Boggs’s father as a fool who should have got a real job and support his family, rather than let others do it for him, a veiled reference about the times Boggs stayed over and ate with us.
But it was not lost on Boggs.
“There’s any number of maps, yes. I found a lot of them in Dad’s stuff in the shed. I suspect those were the ones created for the Cossatino’s to sell privately, and I also think he double-crossed them and kept one particular map, the one he called ‘the map’ for himself, which may have been the original.”
That I was guessing, was the map Boggs had now. “And you’re telling me that’s the one you said you found, and…”
“I still have it. Vince has one of the half dozen that all seem to be slightly different, different enough from the original to keep him happy for a while.”
“What was the point of sending him to me?”
“I needed more time to figure out which variation to give him. I’m hoping now, if he thinks it’s the original, he’ll start looking for it. Save us a lot of time and effort if he does the groundwork. And I’m sorry about what happened to you. If it’s any consolation, I knew he wouldn’t hurt you.”
It seemed to me, judging from the expression on Nadia’s face, that discussing the fact Vince didn’t have the right may prompt her to tell him. She was a Cossatino first, after all, and had for years toed the family line.
Maybe she’d changed, but I wish Boggs was not so trusting.
“That’s nonsense Boggs,” Nadia said. “My brother doesn’t go easy on anyone.”
“How did you get in here?”
No mistaking that voice of authority. The head of the hospital Gestapo had arrived. She glared at me. “You’d better leave before I call both the hospital security staff and the police.” Then she looked at Nadia, who was getting out of the seat. “You should know better.” Much kinder voice for Nadia, suggesting they were acquainted.
She probably helped old man Cossatino with his interrogations.
“Had you told me how Boggs was, I would not be here.” I’m not sure why I decided to take a stand with her.\
“Don’t be impertinent. You can see how he is, now leave while I’m in a good mood.”
I’d hate to see her when she was in a bad mood.
“Tomorrow,” Boggs said. “I’m sure they’ll let me have visitors by then.”
I waved and left. Nadia stayed back for a moment, then joined me in the passage.
“What were you really doing here,” I asked her. “It’s bot as if you had any reason to visit Boggs, other than to cause trouble.”
“I came to apologise. My brother can be a moron sometimes.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“No. And I want to keep it that way.”
“It’s Vince we’re talking about, or has he gone soft. From what I witness during our encounter, it seems he’s got worse.”
“Which is why I don’t want to see him. You want to come back to the room and have a few drinks. Maybe we could talk about old times, you know, trash Alex?”
“Sounds good to me.”
A nightcap with Nadia. I would never have thought that possible, even in my wildest dreams. Had she changed, or was she up to something?
Time would tell.
© Charles Heath 2019
Short Story writing: don’t try this at home!
This is not a treatise on how to write short stories. Everyone has one in them, possibly more, and me, well, it’s how I keep the wolves from the door.
Yes, I read my stories to them and they fall asleep.
Or maybe not, I’m never quite sure what effect anything I write has on anyone. And, reading a lot of the posts on how to handle bad reviews and rejection, such a recurrent theme, I don’t think I want to.
Ignorance is bliss, is it not?
Well, one day I’m sure something will happen. It’s probably in the seven stages of writing:
Euphoria
Planning
Research
Writing
Failure
Search for the guilty
Distinction for the uninvolved
I guess you don’t fail if you don’t put it out there. Searching for the guilty, well, there’s only one person to blame, the editor, and distinction for the uninvolved, didn’t your friend, relation, confidente, significant other, say it wasn’t going to work?
But, despite everything, I like writing short stories and try to produce one in a single sitting. I try to keep the word count down, but the stories, somehow they just evolve in my head and don’t want to end the main character’s story.
In reality, there is no end to the story unless they die, and then, of course, the story branches off, just like a family tree,
Some stories are so intricate, they need another story to fill in the gaps, and then another because the plot is running through your head at a thousand miles an hour and your fingers won’t stop typing, because if you do, it will all dissipate into thin air like smoke.
Stories can, you know, dissipate like smoke, one minute your mining a rich vein the next, you’ve hit a ton of worthless quartz.
Then all the constraints come into play, nagging at the back of your mind, and you find yourself waking up in a bath of sweat crying out, I didn’t do it, the crime that is, not lose the best 2,000 words you’ve ever written.
But that’s all of those words you write, isn’t it?
But I digress, and I’ll write some more on the subject, what was it again?
Conversations with my cat – 55
This is Chester. He’s keeping an eye on the weather.
This is the second day of Spring where it has started warm, and by mid-afternoon, it has reached a high of over 30 degrees Celcius.
It’s the start of the heatwave that basically starts in October, and doesn’t go away until April next year.
But it’s not the heat that’s the problem, it’s the humidity, and having a day that’s 35 degrees with 1000% humidity, is like being roasted in an oven.
I see the look on Chester’s face when he comes into the writing room, a sly glance up to the roof to see if the fan is going, and a slight shake of the head when he sees it is not.
Not that hot yet, I say.
What did we get the air conditioning for or the solar panels?\
He’s sharp and doesn’t miss a trick. It’s now more a benefit to run the airconditioning during the day when solar power is being generated.
We’ll be using it soon, I say. But, just as a matter of interest, don’t you cats like the heat? After all, in winter, you’re just about sitting in the fire.
A glare, no an insolent stare. That’s in winter. This is Summer.
No, it’s Spring. Let me know when it’s Summer and I’ll be happy to help.
He flops on the ground.
At least you put tiles in, it’s nice an cool down here on the floor, he mutters, feigning going to sleep.
And a wide yawn just to emphasise the fact the conversation’s over.
Why not. I turn the fan on high. Just to annoy him.
Yes,, I can feel his eyes burning into my back.
Sending a final draft to the editor, isn’t quite the end, is it?
Can you actually say you know the exact moment a story is done, finished, and that’s it?
For me, the end never quite seems to be the end, that point where you finally draw a line in the sand and say, that’s it, I’m done, step away from the typewriter.
But are we ever satisfied the story is done, can we not make one more change, it’s just a little tweak, it won’t take long.
Please!
My editor tolerated three ‘minor’ changes.
Firstly, a change of name for a character
Secondly, consistency of word use, such as times and contractions
Thirdly, I wasn’t happy with the overall story, and it needed some more action. More writing, more editing, more prevaricating.
It took three weeks to sort out all of those issues, and last night I send the final draft to the Editor.
It’s like watching your child go to school on their first day. Not knowing what will happen but expecting everything will be fine.
But, knowing me, I’ll probably react to a suggestion, and it will create more words rather than less, or some slight dissatisfaction.
I’m not a perfectionist, far from it, but it is hard to finally let go.
Now the draft is gone, it’s time to work on the second book in the series, which had been over half done. I need to sit down, read, fix, read more, add or subtract as the case may be, and then continue writing.
I think I’m getting the hang of it.
Until I go to bed trying to sleep and thinking of everything that might need fixing.
Damn.
A matter of life and … what’s worse than death – Episode 20
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
Wallace was furious, and despite his attempts to stay clear of his commanding officer, Thompson discovered he couldn’t hide forever.
“Where is Atherton?” Wallace asked the moment Johannsson walked into the room.
It was a question he couldn’t answer and had been equally as furious as Wallace when he learned of what had happened. It was not supposed to go the way it did. Atherton was to lead them to the remnants of the Resistance, and then Burke and Richardson had orders to kill them all.
The first part of the plan had worked as Burke had said it would. It was his idea to ‘break’ Atherton out and then he would lead them to the resistance. London would know where they were, and Atherton would also know, nay not exactly where they were, but how to contact them. There were only about six left, according to Leonardo.
But he had been wrong before. He’d labelled the remnants of the resistance as useless but to his chagrin discovered they were anything but. He had three dead men to prove it. And given the restraints on his current mission, he couldn’t go into the village and execute a like number of villagers for those men.
That would give away the fact they were not British, but Germans in disguise. Best, he had been told, to let the matter be until their current mission was completed. Then, Wallace told him, he could do what he liked with the villagers.
But like all plans, this one had gone awry. Burke had lost Atherton approaching the village, and a thorough search of every building hadn’t found him. Atherton, according to Burke, had completely disappeared.
Now Wallace was on the warpath because he didn’t like loose ends and not one as dangerous as Atherton.
“My men lost him by the time they reached the village. They did a thorough search but he wasn’t there.”
“And you believe that?”
“I trust my men. Atherton is a fully trained soldier with a few extra tricks up his sleeve, otherwise, London would not have sent him out. There is a positive in this if he’s out of the way he can’t stir up any trouble.”
“But those so
Called remnants of the resistance can, and I assure you, will. And more so now they know that we’re not exactly the British liberators they were hoping for.”
“You can’t believe that he found them. We’ve seen none of them since Leonardo defected. He told us he killed them all.”
“Well, he’s a liar. Here’s an idea, get him and tell him to take his men down the hill and find them. Promise him anything, as long he brings back Atherton and the rest of them dead or alive, preferably dead. Unless you think you can do a better job.”
“Sir…”
A soldier came running in, then stood to attention until Wallace addressed him. “What is it?”
“Carmichael hasn’t returned.”
“What do you mean, hasn’t returned. I thought everyone was confined to the castle?’ He turned around to look at Johannsson. “What the devil is going on?”
“Some men don’t exactly respond well to curfews. Carmichael was one of them.”
“Carmichael? Isn’t he the one who knows the Reich Marshall by sight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now he’s missing. You still don’t think there is resistance out there, and making us look like monkeys? This has Atherton written all over it. How much did he find out? I thought you had that situation covered.”
“I couldn’t exactly put him under house arrest, could I, not unless you wanted to hand out a sign that said German outpost.”
“Don’t get snippy with me Johannsson. Just get a team of five or six and find the bastard. And while you’re at it, find this Carmichael. Take those two fools that lost him, and if you accidentally shoot them, we’ll call them casualties of war.”
“Yes, sir.” And how long before I share their fate, he thought. Blame was transferable, so he’d kick it down the line. “Jackerby,” he yelled out. I’ve got a job for you.”
© Charles Heath 2019
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 