Month: January 2023

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume Two

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

And, the story:

Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?

Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave.  Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.

But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision.  She needed the opportunity to spread her wings.  It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.

She was in a rut.  Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.

It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper.  I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.

And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere.  Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication.  It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.

So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock.  We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.

It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one.  Starting the following Monday.

Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.

I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.

What surprised her was my reaction.  None.

I simply asked where who, and when.

A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.

A week.

It was all the time I had left with her.

I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.

She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.

Is that all you want to know?

I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.

There’s not much to ask, I said.  You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place,  and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.

Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would.  And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.

One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.

So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.

Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology.  It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you.  I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.

Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.

I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me,  you can make cabinets anywhere.

I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job.  It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.

Then the only question left was, what do we do now?

Go shopping for suitcases.  Bags to pack, and places to go.

Getting on the roller coaster is easy.  On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top.  It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.

What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.

Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.

There was no question of going with her to New York.  Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back.  After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind.  New friends new life.

We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.

Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever.  I remember standing there, watching the taxi go.  It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.

So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.

Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.

People coming, people going.

Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was.  Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.

As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.

Perhaps it was.

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Coming soon.  Find the above story and 49 others like it in:

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 11

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 worlds 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…

 

There were tyre tracks leading up to the doorways from trucks that had recently made deliveries, or taken people away, maybe.

It was a short lane leading to another narrow roadway which I could see led away towards the front of the castle and the main road.  It was not part of the original castle and the track had been made recently, no doubt because of the need for secrecy.

We went across the laneway and continued into the trees where we would have enough coverage to reach the stream, it was a stream now but in winter I was sure it would be a river and able to allow a boat to navigate. 

Jack seemed to know where he was going, but he, like me, probably just wanted to get as far away from the castle as we could.  The undergrowth was denser as we approached the stream bank, and I had to pick my way carefully, and as quietly as I could.

It had sounded like a herd of elephants passing by.

At the stream edge, I looked at the water level.  Not very deep, and in places just thinly connected pools of stagnant water.  A boat could not be launched, not even a small rowboat.

I had previously committed a map of the area to memory, and I remembered the stream lead towards the village, veering off in two directions about half a mile before it got there.  I wanted the right branch, which I was hoping had more water in it, and hoping I might find a house with a boat.

Jack seemed nervous, coming up to me and moving his head, as if to say, let’s get moving. 

He was right.  I had no doubt it wouldn’t be long before they found me missing.

I had no idea who my saviour was, or why he had helped, but I was sure he was one of the men who’d parachuted in the day before.  How had my superior, if it was him, manage to get a man to infiltrate that group?

Or was it something else?

Had this been orchestrated so they could let me lead them to the other members of the resistance, and take care of that problem.  I doubted, with the compartmentalisation that ? would have insisted on, that the whole resistance in this area had been caught and neutralised.

Damn.

I hadn’t thought that far, or consider the possibility.

I would have to be careful.

I stopped, and immediately Jack came over to me.  His eyes were telling me, no stopping.  

Unfortunately, I would have to, and, worse, might have to backtrack to test my theory.

I knelt down beside him.  “Sorry.  I have to go back a little to see if we’re being followed.  You stay here and keep an eye open.”

He just looked at me.  Perhaps he only understood German.

I started moving back the way I had come, and he followed.  I stopped, he stopped.   Then I heard it, a laugh, and the cracking of a dry branch.  I’d been trying to avoid them.

There was a sort of track beside the stream we’d been following.  It wasn’t very distinguishable because I didn’t think it had been used in years, and it was hard to say if it was one that led from the castle to the village, but if I was to guess, it probably was the means for the castle owner to take a shortcut, as the crow flies.

No point going back now, we headed in the opposite direction, with haste, until we reached a small offshoot of the stream that leads into the woods, but there was no path beside it, so obviously there was nothing of interest along it.  I slid down into the stream and walked on the rocks in the water along the offshoot.

I hoped it covered my tracks.

Jack and I managed to get about twenty yards along, having in the last five, pick our way through the undergrowth, to a point where it stopped at the side of a hill.  Water ran down the hillside into the stream, but not today.  It was dry, but it would be a different story if it was raining, and with the rocky outcrop I suspected there might be something akin to a waterfall.

At least it proved cover and my pursuers would have to climb through the undergrowth to get to me, and then they would have to contend with Jack.

I could only hope they just kept on going.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Writing about writing a book – a novel twist

I have decided to write about the process for me to write a book, working on the book at the same time.  The character writing the book is fictional and bears no relation to me, well, mostly not.

You will join me on the rollercoaster.

It will be appearing a bit at a time over the coming months, with the first instalment below.

Day One

I woke to a day where the sun was shining through the crack in the curtains.  It was not so much the brightness, but the fact it was moving, the gentle breeze moving the curtains and creating a strobing effect.

It was the first day of the rest of my life.

I was about to start the next Pulitzer Prize for literature.  Or something like that.

For so many years now my life had been weighed down by the monotony of a job I hated, a life that was going nowhere, and the pursuit of that no existent fortune that I believed was the answer to all my problems.

Those prayers to the great God Money were never heeded.

So, contrary to the well-meaning advice everyone gave me, I ignored them all, sold off the albatross around my neck, a house with a gigantic mortgage attached, and moved into a small but comfortable garret in a picturesque part of town.

It was called a ‘renovators’ delight.  What did it matter the wallpaper was peeling the paint fading and the carpet had seen better days.

It was mine.

Whether or not in the coming days, weeks, or months, I was a ‘renovator’ would be interesting.

My wife, Anne, had often said I wouldn’t know which end of the hammer to use.

Oh, and did I tell you, I moved on from her, or probably it was the other way around.  I’d let her down one too many times, she said, and found someone else more ‘reliable’.

Good for her, my brother had always said she deserved someone better, and it surprised me the marriage lasted as long as it did.  I still loved her, I always would.

I sprung out of bed and opened the curtains.  Spread out in front of me was a blue sky, bright sunshine casting its glow over the park and gardens opposite.

On my darkest days, I used to sit on a bench and watch the ducks swimming in the pond.  I wanted a carefree life like they had, and that was my dream.

Now I was living the dream.

Or would be till the money ran out.

I had enough for a year.

The second bedroom was the writing room.  The walls were lined with shelves, books by my favourite authors, books on writing, all dog-eared and well-read.

The typewriter was sitting on the desk waiting for the first words to be written.

I had a computer, but I was not going to use it for the second draft.

I had a supply of writing pads.  Like the great authors, I was going to write the first draft by hand, revise, and then type it.

I was going to be old school.

 

I sat down, picked up a pen, and scratched my head.

I began writing, ‘It was a dark and stormy night’.

That was a far as I got.

Maybe this was going to be harder than I thought.

Perhaps after coffee and toast …

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

Searching for locations: Auckland, New Zealand, a rare day for the port

We were staying at the Hilton and advised there would be a large cruise liner berthing next to the hotel.  There was the Arcadia.

2013-03-08 11.51.48

This is the view from the other side of the hotel.  Where our room was, we could almost walk onto the aft end of the ship.

We were also told this was a rather extraordinary day because there were two cruise ships in the port. particularly because it was near the end of the cruising season.

The other ship was two berths along, the Sun Princess.

2013-03-08 11.56.17

Not as big as the Arcadia, up close it was still very impressive.

The cinema of my dreams – It all started in Venice – Episode 13

Cecilia changes the subject

…

Being an up-and-coming movie start was not all beer and skittles, as the saying goes.

Juliet gave her a look that I thought was her death stare, annoyed by her arrival at what might have been a critical point in the conversation.

Cecilia saw her and shook her head.  “Oops, I’m intruding.  Sorry.”  She stood

“You’re not,” I said, which earned me a harsh look too, “We’re just having coffee, but you might want something stronger.”

“No, I’d better go.”  She was looking directly at Juliet, putting the onus directly on her.

“Stay.  We’re just having coffee.”

Cecilia waved to a waitress and sat down again.  “Great, I wasn’t looking forward to going back to an empty room.”

For effect, she touched me on my arm, her seat being closer, and I could see what she was doing. 

We opted for more coffee, Cecilia ordered a bottle of champagne, and three glasses, an attempt to smooth the rocky waters.

Juliet was definitely annoyed.  Another death stare in Cecilia’s direction, then, “would I have seen anything you’ve starred in?”

“Me?  I’m not a star, not a big name, just bit parts in series like Midsommer Murders, and Silent Witness.  I get to play dead bodies and murder victims.  My last role was a little better, I got a half dozen lines.  But I’m just one of the hundreds of hopefuls out there.”

“Do you have a day job, then, if parts are so few and far apart?”

Interesting question, Juliet was thinking on her feet.

If she was trying to catch Cecilia out, but she was ahead of Juliet.  “I do.  I’d like to say that it’s being a high-class escort, but they make more money than I’d know what to do with, so I toil away as a supermarket checkout girl.  Gives me the most flexibility regarding time off, and I get to meet so many different people, who become part of my repertoire of characters.  What do you do?”

“Pathology.”

“A doctor.”

“A disgraced doctor that can’t practice medicine.  Perhaps that might be material enough for another of your characters.”

Cecilia had one glass of champagne the moment it came, and then refilled for a second.  She offered it to us, and I nodded, taking half a glass.  Juliet declined.

“Played a hospital patient, a bomb victim, swathed in bloody bandages, been a doctor in the background once, got to spill coffee over another doctor.”

“What is the best part you’ve had?”

 “A fallen nun.”

The best said about that the better, but not before my mind went to places it shouldn’t.  I changed the subject.  “What will you be doing after the festival is over?”

“Going home.  I have an audition for a part in a film about mercenaries, they want me to be a mercenary would you believe?”

Apparently Juliet didn’t think so.

“But I have a spare few days if you want to show me more of Italy.  I’d like to see a little of Tuscany, try some wine.”

Another touch and a smile.

“I thought you were going to Sorrento.”  Not unexpected from Juliet.

“It can wait.  I’ve been thinking of going home, and can take Cecilia to Tuscany, send her on her way, and go visit Larry’s mother at Sorrento “

“And if I take up your tour offer to come with you?”

Cecilia gave me a Juliet look.

“Then I’ll send you a text saying where and when I’ll meet you.”

Change bottle empty, Cecilia gave me one last look, one that would no doubt get a reaction from Juliet, and sauntered away.

Juliet watched her leave, and after she disappeared out of sight, said, “it seems to me she’s more than just a friend.”

“That’s just her, no doubt playing a role.  She asked me if you were a girlfriend, and I said, once maybe, but not now.  Seems she didn’t quite believe me.”

“I think we both know where that ship is headed.”

The rocks, perhaps.  “It’s too soon after Violetta to contemplate anything like that.  But, that doesn’t mean I can’t be friends for now, and see what the future brings.”

“Not much if what you say about this Larry character is true.”

“That said, you might also want to be careful.  Larry’s not averse to using or killing close contacts of only to send a message.  So, if feel unsafe, or he makes an overture, tell me and I’ll pass it on to my minders.”

“If he does, I’ll definitely let you know.”

“Good.  It’s getting later.  We should get back to the hotel.”

© Charles Heath 2022

This is beginning to sound a lot like…

It’s odd how art sometimes imitates life, but it’s much, much worse when life imitates art.

I mean, in a sense, it’s good that life imitates Star Trek because we need lasers to ward off unfriendly aliens when they finally arrive, as well as having intergalactic warp-speed vessels.

But it’s very, very bad when a contagion pops up, and the scenario that follows is right out of the script for the movie Contagion.

Or Outbreak, not that any President would ever nuke a US City, which was the premise in that film.

Or follow along the lines of The Omega Man, where a virus turns everyone into a zombie-like creature, with the last surviving human finally running out of luck.

There’s been quite a few doomsday scenario films, the most interesting one involving walking plants (The Day of the Triffids) but scary as they might be, what’s happening now is equally scary.

And the thing is, with the benefit of hindsight, the COVID pandemic was predicted, so it seems sci-fi writers, and screenwriters knew long before us what was going to happen.

So, what’s the next thing sci-fi writers have in store for us?

Time travel?

It’s been getting a lot of reports, and photographs of people in the 1930s or 1940’s supposedly with mobile phones in their hands.

Were they just ‘visiting’ or were they there to change the course of history.  It doesn’t seem like there have been any changes so maybe it’s just about interpretation.

How about travelling through portals, one minute you’re in Sydney, and the next you’re in New York, on the other side of the planet.  That would be good, but then we’d be upsetting the plane manufacturers, so if there was such technology, wouldn’t they buy it and shelve it?

It’s what the oil people did every time someone invented a car engine that ran on water.

What else is there that people with vested interests have shelved – a cure for cancer maybe?

I guess that’s why we have science fiction, and how some authors’ ideas become reality.  I’m guessing somewhere in a laboratory there is a spaceship with a warp engine capable of travelling at the speed of light.

And there might be colonies of humans living on the moon, or on Mars – we just don’t know about it yet.

Or that aliens from other worlds live on earth, or that a select group of people on earth have met people from other planets, not necessarily in this solar system, because we know there are livable planets out there.

But the thing is if they told us the truth, would we believe it?

What the hell time is it anyway, and why should I care?

And why is a coyote baying?

Oh, that’s right, at the time we were in Canada, and the ice hockey channel was running in the background while I was trying to work.

It brought to mind, then, the interesting concept of movement through time zones, and how it was possible to live the same day for nearly two days, which is as close as I was going to get the ‘Groundhog Day’.

It’s not something that I’ve considered when writing stories because usually we are grounded in one particular time zone, or if we’re travelling, we just go from one chapter to the next, each a different location, and the reader is no wiser.

Except the editor is and pulls me up when it appears I think it’s during the day, when in reality it’s really 3am.

But, just to illustrate my point, the following is what I wrote two Christmases ago, and boy was it confusing at times.

Alright, we’ve arrived in Lake Louise from Kamloops, and there’s been a time change.  Being from Australia, we lost or gained so many hours I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.

Yes, I left on the 26th of December, travelled around half the planet, and it’s still the 26th, after a stopover in Shanghai where it was the 27th.

Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?

On another day in Canada, it was the 30th.  The day before, back home, it was my wife’s birthday in Australia and we got a number of calls on the 29th, which was amusing, to say the least.

Now, we’ve gone from Kamloops to Lake Louise, and apparently now that we are in Alberta, it’s an hour later.

The rental car we’re driving didn’t get it, and we’re still an hour behind.

My phone didn’t get it, but it is understandable because I didn’t connect it to the Canadian network to give us an internet connection because it was going to cost money.

It did on my wife’s phone which is connected to the network and it’s the only device we have that tells the correct time.

And why do we really need to know what time it is?

So we make the plane the day after tomorrow, from Calgary to Toronto.

I never realized that time was so important, and I wonder how people who travel the world remain sane with all the changes to the time zones.

Just how do road warriors get on?

In a word: Prize

What you win, first prize in a raffle, though I don’t think I’ve ever won first prize.  Second maybe.  But, aren’t all raffles rigged?  

But despite my unfortunate run of luck, a prize is generally give to someone who works hard, or wins a race

Or I could have been a prize fighter but lacked the size and the strength, and out of curiosity how many prize fighters didn’t win a prize?

And if I had been a pirate, I could have sailed the seven seas to find a prize, namely a ship to attack and take as my own.

And as a prime example, a Chelsea supporter walking into a bar full of Manchester United fans could be called a prize idiot.

This is not to be confused with the word prise

Don’t relatives prise the last dollar out of a dying man’s hand?

Or prise the truth out of a witness, or a perpetrator

Or prise a window open like thieves do when we forget to lock them properly?

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent.  We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on.  Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter.  He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing.  Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain.  He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile.  We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it.  Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do.  The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.

Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster.  We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility.  The car was empty, and no indication where he went.

Certainly not up the road.  It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit.  Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up.  Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly.  “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him.  It’s just a matter of time.”

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”  available soon.

InspirationMaybe1v1

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 20

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe 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, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.

…

Lallo gave me a minute or two to read what amounted to two lines, that my co-operation was expected, and to be given.  It wasn’t exactly addressed to me personally, but a blanket authorization to interview anyone involved in that operation.

I handed the letter back, but not before I noticed it had been unfolded and refolded several times as if it had been used before.  Had Lallo already interrogated Treen, the only other survivor?

Lallo’s first question: “Do you know who was responsible for organising that operation?”

It was rather an odd question, asking a Sergeant who was assigned at the last minute.

“Look, at the time I was assigned to non-combat duties, not as an on-call commando.  I was a late replacement for the member of the team who had to withdraw due to an accident. I was simply ordered to join the team at the airfield.  Given the results, I’m hoping whoever it was that organized and authorized that operation got the bollicking they deserved.”

I had been annoyed at the time, but I’d got over it.  In keeping with a lot of the operations I’d been involved with; very few had a successful outcome, but usually with fewer casualties.

He gave me a sidelong glance, close to an admonishment.  “Just stick to the facts when answering questions.  The other survivor was Lieutenant Treen, correct?”

Not a happy man was the Lieutenant.  Not happy that the operation was changed at the last minute or the fact the odds had been stacked against us, and not happy I’d been flown in as a replacement what he regarded as his personal group.

“Yes.”

“Are you aware he requested an investigation into that operation?”

It came as no surprise.  On the flight over, he had expressed more than one concern about the lack of intelligence and what the real situation was like on the ground.

“No.”

“Were you aware that a week ago Lieutenant Treen was found dead in his quarters, from an apparent suicide?”

Treen if anything was a soldier’s soldier, and the last man to contemplate suicide for any reason.  Surviving, just, that botched operation would not be a catalyst for such an event for such a man.

“No.”

“Odd then, don’t you think, you are nearly sent to your death the day after?”

If that was the case, and on the face of it, it seemed so, that wasn’t the only oddity about this whole affair.  I remembered the date of the General’s letter, the one telling me to be co-operative. It was the day before Treen’s suicide.

I didn’t think it was a coincidence?

It was quite clear someone didn’t want the General or whoever Lallo was working for, to question the last two survivors.

The question now was: what did we know, or what they thought we knew that was so important, that silencing us was necessary.

And would ‘they’ try again?

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2022