Looking for something to suit my mood.
I’ve been reading the headlines and it seems that nothing else is going on except COVID 19, bar a plane crash, and residual fallout from the explosion in Beirut.
All bad news unfortunately, so I need to find something uplifting.
There’s nothing like a walk in the park on a bright sunny day.
Is there?
What could possible happen?
Month: February 2024
Memories of the conversations with my cat – 42
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…
This is Chester. Somedays, like today, he is an accomplice.
In what, you may ask.
I got a DM (a direct mail in Twitter) from someone who wants to ask a few questions and write a little piece about me in their blog.
Why? Chester asks. He’s been sitting beside me staring at the same screen I have, and it finally got the better of him.
They asked I replied.
But what about the last person who tried to get simple answers to simple questions?
I was in a frivolous mood, I tell him.
That’s most days, isn’t it? Unless, of course, you’ve dozed off after a long night trying to get words on theoretical paper.
OK, so he’s trying to annoy me. It’s working.
The first question, tell us a little about yourself.
So, what do I say? Suave and sophisticated.
A sidelong look from an obviously amused cat. I can tell by the expression on his face.
And then the words, don’t use words of more than two syllables, and worse, use words you don’t know the meaning of.
That’s why I have a thesaurus and dictionary on the computer.
He lets that pass.
So I have been around long enough to have many experiences, go to many places, see many people, and do stuff.
Do stuff? What the hell is ‘stuff’?
You know, stuff. Looking at stuff, eating stuff, sitting on stuff.
Groan.
He gets up, gives me that pitiful look of disdain, and leaves.
I shrug. Maybe tomorrow, when he’s in a better mood.
The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 38
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, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
“So, Jacobi, tell me what I don’t know.”
I was taking the track slowly and keeping within a short distance of the cars behind me. The road was little more than a dirt track, and in places, there were almost un-navigable ruts. We would not have got a truck down this road.
He looked sideways at me. “You know as much as I do.”
“That’s not possible. I know nothing. You set this up. Tell me about the leader of this group. Is he the heard of his own militia group?”
“An area commander of a larger group spread out across the top of the Republic, bordering onto Sudan. They get their guns and other military hardware across that border. Where we’re going, it’s their main camp in this location.”
“How many men will be here?”
“Twenty, thirty. Sometimes they train new recruits.”
“Those militia back there, were they his people?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do, Jacobi. And I think if you want to come out of this alive, you might consider giving me all the facts. If they were his men, there could be ramifications if they don’t report back, especially if he was expecting to add to his payday.”
“Even if they were, there’s no communication lines out here. They would have to report back to the camp first. And then there’s the possibility with all the money they were supposed to collect, there might be a detour. It’s why I think they asked for 10,000 rather than the 5,000. The commander was going to take a cut. Loyalty only goes so far in these places.”
“No likely surprises?”
“None that I’m aware of. You killed them all anyway. Dead men do not get up, walk back to come and inform.”
No, they didn’t.
A mile to go I saw the rear car stop for a few seconds and Monroe and Stark get out and disappear into the bush. The chances were they could walk through the bush faster than we could drive on the track, and beat us there.
And, then, the checkpoint was in sight, a pair of empty petrol drums with a piece of wood across the road, each end resting on a drum. Behind the barrier were three men, one I presumed to be the commander, the other two, guns at the ready, his guard. Behind them was a clearing with several buildings and to one side several huts that might belong to some villagers. There were a truck and two Toyota tray utilities parked to one side.
All in all, I could see about ten men.
When I reached the barrier, I stopped but left the engine running. Just before we arrived, I gave the order to hide the hand weapons. It was risky going in unarmed, but the chances were they’d take the guns if we were wearing them. This way, if we needed them, there was a slight chance we might be able to retrieve them.
Both Jacobi and I got out. I left my door open. Jacobi closed his.
“Sergeant James, I presume.” Good English, beaming smile, friendly manner.
“I think I know how Dr. Livingston felt. I am he.”
A puzzled look for a moment, then the resumption of good nature. He didn’t understand the nuances of British history in Africa.
There was no handshake, none was expected. Jacobi stepped forward. “I assume the packages are here, and in good condition.”
“Of course. I assume that you have brought the exchange material.”
“We have. Now, if we can just park these cars, we can get on with the exchange.”
“In a hurry, Jacobi? Somewhere else to be?”
“Yes, as it happens. I’m a busy man, as you are aware.”
Politeness disappeared from his face as quickly as the sun sometimes went behind a cloud.
The commander looked over towards a hut just back from the road, one I hadn’t seen from the car because it was hidden by a grove of bushes. Two men came out.
“Move the barrier.”
As they did, he said to me, “Tell your men to get out of the vehicles and come slowly up the track. My men will bring the vehicles into the camp. Tell them also not to make any sudden or suspicious moves, or there will be trouble.”
A glance back showed another four of his men, also armed, appearing out of the bush towards the driver’s side of the cars.
I’d brought the radio and gave them the instructions the commander had given me.
Five minutes later we were standing outside one of the huts, the cars were parked neatly in a row, and each of us had been frisked as I thought we would. The four who acted as drivers were now our guards, not with weapons trained on us, but they could be very quickly.
The commander waited until the guards at the checkpoint had replaced the barrier, then came striding towards us. I could see he was counting heads and seemed perplexed by the time he reached us.
“There are men missing. Where are they?”
© Charles Heath 2019-2020
“The Enemy Within” – the editor’s second draft – Day 16
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…
…
Evelyn is just a researcher, or is she?
…
We know that Jack and Evelyn have a history. Their back story is an interesting one, because he met her quite by chance, or was it, before he became a field agent.
She could not tell him what she did, other than some bland research job for a government agency.
Jack couldn’t tell her what he did, even though his name was familiar to her, but exactly what he did was above her pay grade.
When they did find out, it was across the table at a briefing, and both had to keep poker faces.
Later, this relationship will have some significance, particularly when it’s decided she had to b e debriefed, and then interrogated.
But while she may not know as much as they think she does, they completely underestimate her resolve and resourcefulness.
The moral of the story is don’t judge a book by its cover.
Is that a pun??
Searching for locations: San Gimignano, Italy
We have visited this town on a hill, famous for its fourteen towers, twice. The first time we stayed in a hotel overlooking the main piazza, and the second time, for a day visit, and return to a little restaurant tucked away off the main piazza for its home cooking.
No cars are allowed inside the town and parking is provided outside the town walls. You can drive up to the hotel to deliver your baggage, but the car must return to the carpark overnight.
This is one of the fourteen towers
I didn’t attempt to climb to the tower, which you can do in some of them, just getting up the church steps was enough for me. Inside the building was, if I remember correctly, a museum.
Looking up the piazza towards some battlements, and when you reach the top and turn left, there is a small restaurant on the right-hand side of the laneway that had the best wild boar pasta.
Another of the fourteen towers, and through the arch, down a lane to the gated fence that surrounds the town. The fortifications are quite formidable and there are several places along the fence where you can stand and look down the hill at the oncoming enemy (if there was one).
Part of the main piazza which is quite large, and on the right, the wishing well where my wish for a cooler day was not granted.
Officially, the Piazza della Cisterna is the most beautiful square of the town, San Gimignano. The well was built in 1273 and enlarged in 1346 by Podestà Guccio dei Malavolti.
And not to be outdone by any other the other old towns, there is an old church, one of several. It is the Collegiate Church or the Duomo di San Gimignano, a monument of Romanesque architecture built around 1000 and enlarged over time.
Next door is the Museum of Sacred Art.
And I guess it’s rather odd to see television aerials on top of houses that are quite literally about a thousand years old. I wonder what they did back then for entertainment?
Writing stories can be fun
There is more going on in the story front, and just to keep my mind active, or tortured, as the case may be, there are a number of other stories I’m working on.
In particular, there is the story with the description, what happens after an action-packed start.
Quite a lot. In the third section of the story, after being shot out of the sky, interrogated, flown into northern Nigeria, and then crossed into the Democratic Republic of the Congo, to search search for two men being held to ransom, our players finally made it home.
Previous attempts to rescue them had failed, this one had to succeed. It’s a matter of dealing with local militias who are tricky to deal with and then get out of the country after affecting the rescue.
At times, while writing it, looking at a map and using google earth to see what it is like, I felt like I was there looking down the barrel of a gun, and then, in the helter-skelter of getting to the evacuation point, I’m sure my heart rate had lifted considerably, particularly when the battered DC3 was about to be shot at with air to air missiles.
Just imagine this …
A DC3 versus a very maneuverable helicopter. I was on the edge of my seat.
Next is the surveillance story where nothing is as it seems, which in the espionage business is nothing unusual. Nor is the fact you cannot trust anyone.
It starts out as a routine surveillance operation until a shop front explodes a moment or two after the target passes it. In the ensuing mayhem, the target reappears, now in fear of his life, and our main character tracks him to an alley where he is murdered before his eyes.
Soon after the two men whom our main character is working for appearing and start asking questions that make our main character think that they had perpetrated a hit on him, and decides that something is not right.
From there, the deeper he probes, the more interesting the characters and developments. Who was the target? What was he doing that got him killed? What does he have that everyone wants?
I’m about to start on the next phase of this story…
Then there is what I call comic light relief, the writing of stories inspired by photographs I’ve taken. Some, however, have exceeded the 1,000-word limit that I’ve set, only because I want to explore the story more, and some are spread over a number of stories.
The first book of stories, 1 to 50 are to be published soon. Currently, I’m working on number 148 of the third volume of stories, but number 88 is my favorite so far, simply because it involves a starship.
An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress
Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
© Charles Heath 2018-2020
Searching for locations: Murano, Italy
The first time we visited Venice, there was not enough time left to visit the glass-blowing factories on Murano. We saved this for the next visit, and now more comfortable with taking the Vaporetto, boarded at San Marco for the short journey.
The view looking towards the cemetery:
The view looking down what I think was the equivalent to the main street, or where several of the glass-blowing factories and display shops were located:
Looking towards a workshop, this one costs us each a Euro to go in and observe a demonstration of glass blowing, and it still surprises me that some people would not pay
The oven where the glass is heated
And the finished product, the retail version of the horse that the glassblower created during the demonstration:
Then we bought some other glassware from the retail storefront, a candle holder
and a turtle.
‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta readers view
There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?
A retired spy, well not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.
But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.
And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.
Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest. Then, inexplicably, she disappears. That might have been the end to it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum, find her or come back to work.
Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!
A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.
When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.
I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.
Bring it on!
…
The book can be purchased here: http://amzn.to/2Eryfth
…
“The Enemy Within” – the editor’s second draft – Day 16
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…
…
Evelyn is just a researcher, or is she?
…
We know that Jack and Evelyn have a history. Their back story is an interesting one, because he met her quite by chance, or was it, before he became a field agent.
She could not tell him what she did, other than some bland research job for a government agency.
Jack couldn’t tell her what he did, even though his name was familiar to her, but exactly what he did was above her pay grade.
When they did find out, it was across the table at a briefing, and both had to keep poker faces.
Later, this relationship will have some significance, particularly when it’s decided she had to b e debriefed, and then interrogated.
But while she may not know as much as they think she does, they completely underestimate her resolve and resourcefulness.
The moral of the story is don’t judge a book by its cover.
Is that a pun??
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 