This morning we wake up to rain. Or so we thought. Taking a closer look out the window of our room on the 16th floor, we notice the rain is speckled with snowflakes. As the morning progressed the snow got harder until there were flurries.
Later we discover this is called wet snow by the local Vancouverians, and whilst they winge a lot over the endless rain, to them rain is infinitely better than snow.
To us, by the afternoon, it was almost blizzard conditions, with lots of snow. Then the only thing is that it does not accumulate on most of the ground so there are no drifts to play in.
Because the weather is so dismal we decided not to go into Vancouver to do some sightseeing because the clouds were down to the ground and then the snow set in.
Another interesting fact is that construction workers do not go off the job if it’s raining, or worse when it is snowing. Our room overlooks a new apartment complex under construction and the workers battled on through what seemed like appalling conditions.
At four in the afternoon, the Maple Leafs are playing the Ohio Blue Jackets, in Ohio. It is a game we expect they will win. Sparks is the goalkeeper, not Anderson, they’re playing back to back games and Anderson’s starting tomorrow.
They win, four goals to two.
Just before darkness falls, about four thirty, the snow stops and there is a little rain, which melts the snow.
Time to go up to the executive lounge to get some snacks and coffee, then sleep because the next day we’re taking on the Trans Canada highway from Vancouver to Kamloops.
The forecast is for snow, more snow, and just for a change, more snow.
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.
This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.
And so it begins…
…
Heading into the second week, the statistics are telling the story, in one sense.
After 8 days, 16,685 words, an average of 1,853 words a day, an average of 1,515 words a day to meet the 50,000-word target, and to do that I will be finished on schedule.
Of course, that would be true, but who writes a novel that is exactly 50,000 words?
It would be novel (pardon the pun) if you could do just that, it’s worth a moment’s thought before discarding.
The words finding themselves having been grouped into chapters are now making a lot more sense on the second run-through, and the story is taking shape with the first section almost done.
Day 8 has seen the start of the second section, and all I can say about the theme is be careful what you wish for, in more ways than one!
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
Like leg, arm is a word that is mostly associated with a body part.
Like being legless, another description for being drunk, being rendered ‘armless’ means you are no threat, in a rather awful but funny way by saying it.
I guess we all have a dash of ‘sick’ humour in all of us.
However, arm can also be used to describe a part of a structure too.
It could also describe the arm of an ‘armchair’.
But…
Arm also means to give people weapons like guns, usually from an armoury.
I’m guessing that a whole lot of people with arms is an army!
You can also say that taking those weapons away would be to disarm them.
It might take the long arm of the law to do it, too.
And to disarm someone doesn’t necessarily mean to take away their arms, but to ‘charm’ them with your wit and humour.
An arm can also be a river or streams tributary, so I could say instead of staying on the main river, I’ll take the ‘named’ arm, but just remember, sometimes this can be dangerous, getting off the main route.
On a boat, there is a yardarm, and this was once used to hang seamen who committed serious crimes such as mutiny.
A call to arms was to declare war,
And lastly, an arm of the defence services could be any one of Army, Navy, Marines or Airforce.
Just steer clear of the Navy for the aforementioned reasons.
It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t. It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…
She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room. It was quite large and expensively furnished. It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.
Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917. At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.
There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.
She was here to meet with Vladimir.
She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.
All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring. Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.
That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.
It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years. She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.
They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.
It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.
They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity. She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.
The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined. After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.
Then, it went quiet for a month. There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited. She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.
A pleasant afternoon ensued.
And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.
By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends. She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy. Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.
She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful. In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.
After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit. She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.
It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine. She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.
A Russian friend. That’s what she would call him.
And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue. It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.
Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour. It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.
So, it began.
It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.
She wasn’t.
It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country. It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms. When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.
Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report. After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.
But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report. She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.
It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen. Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.
And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.
She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room. She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.
Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.
There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit. She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.
Later perhaps, after…
She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.
A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival. It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality. A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.
The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.
She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.
I’m back to writing Bill’s backstory, and how he got mixed up in the war, and a few other details which will play out later on.
This will be some of it, in his own words:
I think I volunteered for active duty in Vietnam.
It was either that, or I had been volunteered by my prospective father in law. I was serving under his command in an Army Camp for some time, and unbeknownst to me for a time, I had been dating his daughter.
The daughter of a General. It was like that old adage, ‘marrying the bosses daughter’. Only this boss was the bastard of all bastards. When he found out, my life became hell. He told me, as a Corporal, I was far beneath his expectations of the right man for his daughter. He thought she would be better off with a Colonel.
Then I got my orders. I was to join the latest batch of nashos on their way to the latest theatre of war. But before that, Ellen, a woman with a mind of her own, and sometimes daring enough to defy her father, said we should get married, and I being the young fool I did, in a registry office, the day before I left for the war.
I promised to be faithful, as all newly married men did, and that I would come back to her. We had all heard the stories coming out of South East Asia, where the war was not going so well, for us, or the Americans, and that this was a last-ditch effort.
When we landed, we were greeted by the men leaving. They were glad to be going home. And some of the stories, I chose not to believe them. Nothing could be as bad as they painted it.
Could it?
I’d been trained for war. I could handle a weapon, several actually, and or I could if I had to kill the enemy. After all, it was my job. I was defending Queen and country.
I was a regular soldier, not a nasho. Not one of the mostly terrified boys who’d hardly reached anything approaching manhood, some all gung-ho, others frightened out of their minds. As a regular soldier, this was where I was supposed to be.
But being sent to a war to fight, and having to fight, I soon discovered were two very different things. On the training ground, even training with live ammunition, being shot at, mortared, and chased through the jungles of North Queensland, it was not the same, on the ground in Saigon.
It was relentlessly hot, steamy, raining, and fine. Or dry and dusty. But in any of the conditions, it was uncomfortable being hot all the time. During the day, and during the night.
Then we were sent out to join various units. Mine was north, where, I wasn’t quite sure, where the motley remains of the group were bolstered by us, new people. Morale was not good, as we arrived in the torrential rain in an air transport that had seen better days, and notable for two events, the fact we were shot at several times and taking out the first casualty before we arrived, and the near-crash landing when we did.
I soon learned the value of the statement, ‘any landing you walk away from is a good one’.
Yes, seems like a good start to a bad end. More on this tomorrow while I’m in the mood.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some years 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…
This is Chester. Back on the bed.
Another argument lost, another smug ‘I’ve got the better of you, again’ look.
Time to move on, pick a battle I think I can win.
Food. There’s the old wives’ tale, that cats love fish, and it’s true to a certain extent.
Chester doesn’t believe fish live in cans or plastic packets, despite how it’s dressed up. Fresh fish, he’s into it, but there always seems to be a measured reluctance to eat something out of a can.
I think he regards us, humans, with disdain when our food comes out of a can or packet.
He refuses to eat the leftovers!
Then there’s chicken, or its more expensive neighbour, turkey.
He loves turkey.
I’m sure he’d eat quail and spatchcock too, but no, he’s a cat, and cats have to get used to eating chicken. We’ve had this discussion, one too many times.
And just for good measure, I told him if he thinks he’s coming to Italy with us, he’d better get used to the idea of eating pasta.
Of course, always with the last word, he said, quite nonchalantly, ‘then you’d better call me Garfield’.
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.
…
The aftermath and goodbye
…
No one in the room, of those who had been forced to remain, could quite comprehend what just happened.
You could read about it in a newspaper, or hear about it on television during the news hour, and think, well, I wasn’t there but it must have been traumatic for those who were, but traumatic didn’t even begin to describe what I just witnessed.
It took everyone more than a few minutes to process those last few seconds before they could move, let alone think about what they were going to do. With the threat incapacitated, there was no reason to, at least, not straight away.
I was surprised then, that after however long it had been since those events, I heard Charlene’s voice cutting through the fog.
“Are you alright?”
She was shaking me by the shoulder, sitting on the floor next to me, and she looked, and sounded, visibly upset. I was surprised she was still in town much less anywhere near here.
“I wasn’t the target,” I said, and then realized that was hardly relevant to anything; it was just the first response that popped into my head.
I could then suddenly hear everything as if someone had turned up the volume, and the first background sound was Benderby’s daughter crying.
“You were almost in the line of fire for one of the marksmen. I thought he’d misaimed. For a moment there, when I saw you fall…
She still cared, which was something I should appreciate. I took a moment before lifting myself off the floor to sit beside her.
“This was a disaster. Your father should have realizeda woman with a gun would be hell-bent on revenge and wasn’t going to be talked down. She probably used the time it took to get me to mentally prepare so she could kill the pair of them. And I’m surprised you didn’t see it coming.”
“It might not have come to this if she hadn’t known Alex and Vince were suspected of killing her son. Did you tell her about Alex and Vince?”
It was a meaningful look, one that conveyed disapproval because she was right, it had to come from me because I was only one of a very few who knew the actual facts of the matter.”
Better then, to admit it. “No. But I told my mother, while I was in hospital before I had time to consider the ramifications. That was some deal Benderby pulled off, to have Vince strung up and a signing a confession to get Alex off the hook.”
“He didn’t exactly get away scot-free. He still has a string of minor charges to face, and there will be jail time, one way or another.”
I glanced over at Mrs. Boggs spread out on the floor where she had collapsed after being shot at least twice.
Almost before she hit the floor, two deputies were beside her, removing the gun, and checking if she was still alive. I imagine the sheriff, by the door, phone to his ear, had called for medical assistance, perhaps out of deference to a woman who was a friend, or because he had to show all care and respect for her so a good defense attorney didn’t find a reason to have the case dismissed for lack of respect. There had been problems handling perpetrators in the past, perpetrators who got off on technicalities.
But all that was moot if she was dead. She seemed to be alive when she hit the floor, and then hadn’t moved in the last few minutes. My first thought was that they had killed her, but I saw her hand move, which meant she was still alive, incredibly good shooting on the part of the marksmen considering the obstacles, and the inclination to stop the perpetrator permanently.
Around us, several other deputies were escorting the remainder of the patrons out of the room, now officially a crime scene designated by the ‘do not cross’ tape lines going up.
The sheriff had made it his job to escort Mrs. Benderby, and her daughter, out of the room, and, no doubt get a statement after being checked out by a paramedic.
I could hear sirens in the distance, so they would be arriving imminently.
A. Minute or so later, I was the last civilian in the room.
I turned to Charlene, “You do realize that both Boggs senior and Ormiston were in that cave, before Alex and Vince cleaned up.”
She smiled. “Actually, as a matter of fact, I do. I took a forensic team back to see if we could find either of Alex’s or Vince’s DNA, and not only did we fund it, but the skeletal remains of what appears to be four individuals.”
“Boggs, Ormiston, and two pirates. One had a sword through the rib cage so I suspect there was a little dissent when the treasure was being divvied up.”
“I’m sure that will be confirmed soon. I wanted to nail Alex’s ass to the wall, now it appears we might have enough evidence to put old man Cossatino away too. He was picked up at the airport trying to leave the country. An all-around good day for team justice.”
“Except for Mrs. Boggs”
“I’m sure she’ll plead temporary insanity, overcome by the grief of losing her son.”
Flippant, perhaps, or just cynical? It was a bit early in her career to be like that, so perhaps that might be a little of her father rubbing off.
“Perhaps she was hoping the police would kill her. After all, she has very little left to live for. I doubt pleading insanity was her first thought when she walked into this room. You might want to study up on the human condition a little before you start labeling people, and especially if you are thinking of continuing on this detective thing.”
That came out wrong, more a rebuke than an observation, and judging by her expression, she took it as the former.
“There will always be a lot of things we could do better. You might consider next time to dissuade your friends from doing stupid things, like Nadia kidnapping Alex and Vince in the first place.”
“If you had done your job…”
Neither of us had seen the sheriffcome over, and he was there long enough to be privy to the last comments. “I’m sure at the end of the day, justice will prevail despite the convoluted route it took us to get there. But for argument’s sake, neither Alex nor Vince would press charges against Nadia, so it was not kidnapping, and since the mall belongs to the Benderbys, neither wanted to press for trespass, so, all in all, no harm done.”
He glared at his daughter. “I asked you to get his statement, not debate the legalities of the situation. Get it done and get back to the station.”
With that said, he left.
Charlene stood up, glared at me, then said, “no good deed goes unpunished. Do you want to give it here, or at the station?”
This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.
And so it begins…
…
It’s the end of the first week
Is it plain sailing? No.
We’ve circled back to Chapter 9 and it is problematical. I read it, and I don’t like it.
So, I went to one of my beta readers, gave her a copy, and asked for an opinion. I knew that fishing with crocodiles was going to be more fun, but I couldn’t afford to go to Florida.
Two days later I got a three-page critique.
She could have sugar-coated it. You know, yes it suits the flow but there are a few tweaks required, not the last paragraph in capitals saying, IT NEEDS REWRITING.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 