So, as far as I’m concerned a ‘spark’ can happen when electrical wires cross and the resultant ‘spark’ can start a fire, or the fire is already alight and ‘sparks’ fly making it worse by starting more spot fires.
But…
Another meaning is that a ‘spark’ is created by a ‘spark plug’ in order to force the pistons of an engine to drive the crankshaft
This leads to…
There is no spark in this relationship, so perhaps it’s going nowhere. No, we’re not looking for a fiery spark, but a small amount of very intense feeling
Spark?
I was watching God Friended Me last night and I’m sure like many others we were waiting to see that spark that would change their relationship from the friend zone, to something else.
And…
it’s there, but something seems to be holding them back.
As for the word spark, well there several different meanings, one of which I am familiar with when I was young.
Being called a ‘bright spark’
Depending on who used that remark, it could either mean you were clever or you were a smart ass, which I suspect the latter was the reference to me.
Then, moving on
Saying something inflammatory ‘sparked’ the crowd into action. A single remark can be equated to a literal ‘spark’ that can ignite a reaction.
A lynching perhaps?
And what about, once upon a time, a ship’s radio officer, he was called ‘sparks’ or ‘sparkie’, also a name that sometimes refers to an electrician.
I can see plenty of uses for this word in a story.
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.
I used to have these strange ideas about upper management, and in some cases, how they lived in offices up in the clouds.
The perks, I guess, of making it to the top, a combination, sometimes, of good luck and in others hard work.
Perhaps I make too much of it, but it is only an observation from someone who never quite made it to the top of the pile. Alas, I didn’t have that killer instinct, nor the desire to use others on my way to the top.
But, those notions stuck with me and had found their way into this story.
It also introduces a new character, one that has an idea he might be in trouble though not quite why.
…
I stopped for a moment to take in the vista It was like stepping into a different world. Everything was new, clean and fresh. Strategically placed flowers, carpets deep piled and clean, expensive landscape paintings adorned the walls, and the support staff tucked away on various nooks and crannies, usually smiling and happy. And why not? They were far, far away from the problematic day to day running of the company. Here the tea, coffee, and sugar didn’t come from tiny paper packets and taste like floor sweepings.
Merrilyn, Aitchison’s personal assistant, had the gift of being able to dress to suit the weather or mood. This particular day, the bright colors were in deference to the coming of spring. Added to this was her impeccable manner and attitude. It was hard to believe she was still in her early twenties.
She smiled as I turned the corner and headed towards Aitchison’s office, in a manner that infused all who came near her with equal joy and enthusiasm. It brightened my morning.
“How do you di it?” I asked. It was a standard question.
“Do what?” It was the standard reply.
“Manage to look so good on a Monday morning.”
“It’s called grooming, Bill. “What can we do for you?”
“Mr. Aitchison wishes to see me. Perhaps it will finally be a promotion to these lofty heights.”
“There’s a long queue before you.”
“Sad, but true.” I shrugged. “But you never know. I live in hope if only to be near you.”
She smiled again. “Perhaps one day.” Then, in an instant, she switched to somber, efficient, business mode, “Go on in. I’m sure he’s expecting you.”
I knocked on his door, waited for the muffled “Enter”, and went in.
Thick carpet, velvet wallpaper, mahogany furniture, the best examples of comfortable easy chairs arranged around a coffee table, the office was one of the perks of the job. There was a carefully hidden private bar somewhere in the room, and the subject of much lower floor speculation. Everyone who lived on the lower floors aspired to this level of luxury and recognition of personal achievement.
He pointed to the chair in front of his desk without looking up from the file he was reading. On his desk were two glasses and a bottle of Scotch. He leaned forward, took a sip out of one, and then returned his original position, leaning back as far as the large, leather-covered and padded seat would let him. He looked agitated, far from his usual self-assured and calm demeanor.
He was one of the very few in the executive who frequently came down to visit us, and always had an amicable manner, whether the news was good or bad. That amiable manner was missing this morning, replaced by something I’d not seen in him before.
Or in anyone else for a long, long time. Fear.
He looked up, took his reading glasses off and placed them carefully on the desk. “Did Benton tell you what happened?” His tone was constricted, tinged with worry. Yes. The eyes gave it away. I’d seen the look before, in a momentary flash, a detail in memory rising to the surface.
“Yes. Briefly. He said it was something to do with Richardson. Rather melodramatic to be suiciding in his office, or words to that effect.”
“Well, the police might be calling it a suicide, and that fool Benton would like it to be suicide, but in my opinion, it’s a case of murder.” He emptied the glass and poured another. The rim of the bottle rattled on the rim of the glass. He was shaking and trying to keep it under control. “He’s dead. Very dead.”
It took a few moments before I realized the importance of his statement. Dead was serious, very dead was very serious.
“How?” My voice moved up one octave. I wondered where this was heading. Why he was telling me?
“One shot to the head. He was supposedly holding the gun when they found him, making it look a perfectly normal suicide.”
I quickly reviewed the rest of what I knew about Richardson, albeit second hand.
His wife had walked out on him. He spent a few months trying to climb into the bottle, came out of it fairly well, and had recently struck up a friendship with one of the many middle-aged women who worked in the office. Speculation had it she was already married. It was not a course I would take in similar circumstances, but he was closer to a number of them than most. Suicide seemed a bit out of character.
Was Aitchison also was suggesting that might be the case?
Or did he know something about Richardson the rest of us didn’t?
“He didn’t seem the type,” I said, expecting a rebuke. I was not sure if Aitchison was asking for an opinion.
“No he was not, and I agree you. Everyone seems to have thrown caution to the wind, and want this case settled, and the police out of here. But, not at the expense of a good man’s name.”
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
…
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 still a battle of wits, but 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 the enemy if it is the enemy, doesn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
If at first, you don’t succeed, try a few threats, or leverage.
Or just get rid of the problem
Back in my cell, delivered more forcibly than when they escorted me to the interrogation room, I had time to consider his words.
A tactic, I told myself. Classic divide and conquer.
It was obvious that he wanted me to corroborate his suspicion that Breeman had sent the helicopter out to find his operation. Did it sound like something she would do or any other commanding officer whose jurisdiction this operation fell under?
Why hadn’t they told her? If t was military and being run by our side, why would they keep it secret from their own people, especially when something like what just happened, could happen?
It didn’t make sense.
Unless, of course, it was the CIA. They seemed to be a law unto themselves, except in this case they needed something to incriminate her with in order to have her removed, and replaced with a more sympathetic commanding officer.
It was all too much for a gunnery sergeant like me to understand.
At least I didn’t know anything so I couldn’t tell them anything. A little solace perhaps, but the trouble was, they’d never believe me.
I sighed. Perhaps some sleep before they returned for the next round.
They came in the middle of the night. Or day, I had no idea what it was outside because there were no windows in my cave cell.
They had no intention of being polite, I was dragged up by the scruff of the next and tossed in the direction of the door. When I stumbled, still half asleep and unable to see properly, one of the guards kicked me and said he would do it again if I didn’t get up.
He did anyway because I took too long.
My ribs were hurting when I breathed, as I staggered in front of them, one behind me giving me a shove every two or three steps, perhaps hoping I’d stumble again so he could kick me.
At the interrogation room, a different one this time, he shoved me in and shut the door. I didn’t hear a key in the lock, so perhaps they were hoping I’d try to escape.
There was only one chair in the room, and I sat in it. I couldn’t sit up straight because it hurt, so I had to slump over.
A half hour later a man and a woman, both with white coats like a doctor would wear, came in. Nothing was said. The man took up a position behind me, then held me so I couldn’t move.
The woman then joined him, produced as a syringe, and jabbed it in my neck.
The man let me go, and a few seconds later I fell off the chair onto the floor hitting my head in the process, and a few more after that, it was lights out.
We have stayed in two different types of accommodation in Coffs Harbour, New South Wales, Australia, as a timeshare owner who can trade their week for a week anywhere in the world.
Both are resorts, but different sorts of resorts. The first was a typical RCI resort, where everything is laid back and relaxing, with all the amenities one can expect from a resort.
The other, this one, the Wyndham in Coffs Harbour, is very different, and you notice it when you walk in the front door. You are virtually assaulted by hard-nosed timeshare sales staff who really don’t take no for an answer, and then when you finally escape, ring you every day to make an appointment.
I left the phone off the hook.
Aside from that, the place is excellent, the accommodation very good, and the situation one of the best with what could be called a private beach. There are also a number of bushwalks that cater to old people like me.
As you can see, lakes and greenery, and even a putting green.
And in places, they try very hard to hide the ugly multi-story buildings in amongst the trees
It is only a short walk to the ‘private beach’ and it is sufficiently long enough for a morning walk before breakfast. You could even try to catch some fish for breakfast, though I’m not sure if anyone actually caught anything
Or you can just stare out to sea
And, back in the room, this is the view we had from our verandah
I’m finding it hard to get into the groove. I suspect I have not been in one lately, but I was writing, and the stories were coming together.
My most significant accomplishments seem to come when I write 50,000 words or more for a NANOWRIMO book. It’s interesting that it appears to be the only time I can focus my mind on writing. Last November though, is the first that I didn’t finish it, even though I’d got about 65,000 words done.
I have no idea why on those occasions the creative mind is organised and the ideas and words flowed. I know it was just supposed to be raw writing, but on one occasion I even had time to rewrite the start. As we all know, by the time you get to the end, a lot of stuff at the start needs to be fixed, especially in light of plot changes and continuity.
Unless of course, you’re a planner, which I’m not.
Now, looking at one of the novels on the screen, I have the job of editing and re-writing, after waiting the requisite few months between finishing the rough draft and starting on the polishing.
It seems that April is the month to be doing the first editing, and I may be still on track for that to happen as I’ve continued writing past November, through January, and now have written nearly 140,000 words. It was not supposed to be this long, but it is the story writing itself. There are only a few chapters to go, so it’s looking good to finish this month and give it a rest before April.
In the meantime, and slipping further and further on the schedule is the sequel to What Sets Us Apart, called Strangers We’ve Become, I’ve finally got to editing several times, and it’s nearly done.
But here’s the thing.
It’s all but done and dusted, and I was doing a final read before handing it to the editor for one last check. That was a mistake. I seem to be one of those writers that can’t let it go. I should not have picked it up for a re-read!
I don’t know if anyone else has the same problem, but as soon as I had finished it, I had a feeling (oh no not one of those feelings, I can hear the editor saying) and something was not quite right. Perhaps I’ll put it back down again, and think some more about it.
Perhaps I should just pour another drink and go back to watching ice hockey because the Maple Leafs are doing well at the moment.
OK, I just had an idea for the third book in the series.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
…
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 still a battle of wits, but 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 the enemy if it is the enemy, doesn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
If at first, you don’t succeed, try a few threats, or leverage.
Or just get rid of the problem
Back in my cell, delivered more forcibly than when they escorted me to the interrogation room, I had time to consider his words.
A tactic, I told myself. Classic divide and conquer.
It was obvious that he wanted me to corroborate his suspicion that Breeman had sent the helicopter out to find his operation. Did it sound like something she would do or any other commanding officer whose jurisdiction this operation fell under?
Why hadn’t they told her? If t was military and being run by our side, why would they keep it secret from their own people, especially when something like what just happened, could happen?
It didn’t make sense.
Unless, of course, it was the CIA. They seemed to be a law unto themselves, except in this case they needed something to incriminate her with in order to have her removed, and replaced with a more sympathetic commanding officer.
It was all too much for a gunnery sergeant like me to understand.
At least I didn’t know anything so I couldn’t tell them anything. A little solace perhaps, but the trouble was, they’d never believe me.
I sighed. Perhaps some sleep before they returned for the next round.
They came in the middle of the night. Or day, I had no idea what it was outside because there were no windows in my cave cell.
They had no intention of being polite, I was dragged up by the scruff of the next and tossed in the direction of the door. When I stumbled, still half asleep and unable to see properly, one of the guards kicked me and said he would do it again if I didn’t get up.
He did anyway because I took too long.
My ribs were hurting when I breathed, as I staggered in front of them, one behind me giving me a shove every two or three steps, perhaps hoping I’d stumble again so he could kick me.
At the interrogation room, a different one this time, he shoved me in and shut the door. I didn’t hear a key in the lock, so perhaps they were hoping I’d try to escape.
There was only one chair in the room, and I sat in it. I couldn’t sit up straight because it hurt, so I had to slump over.
A half hour later a man and a woman, both with white coats like a doctor would wear, came in. Nothing was said. The man took up a position behind me, then held me so I couldn’t move.
The woman then joined him, produced as a syringe, and jabbed it in my neck.
The man let me go, and a few seconds later I fell off the chair onto the floor hitting my head in the process, and a few more after that, it was lights out.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 