Is that depression speaking, or am I just tired from all the late nights?
Unlike most writers, authors and bloggers I don’t have a day job. You could say it’s one of the benefits of getting old, this retirement thing, but after a while, not having a reason to get out of bed starts working on your subconscious.
The idea of having a job, and going to work, is a good reason to drag yourself out of bed every morning. And because of this, the idea of sleeping in takes on a whole new meaning.
You know, I’ll just lie here for a few more minutes, and then I’ll get up. Having turned off the alarm, the eyelids flutter, and before you know it, half an hour had passed, and you wake up in fright, knowing you’re going to be late.
In retirement, that doesn’t happen. There is no alarm, there is no guilty pleasure in spending those extra minutes in bed.
Of course, this tardiness, or lack of desire could be because I find I do my best writing in the dead of night, often not getting to bed before 2 a.m. Last night it was a little later because of a story I’m working on came to life with a new idea.
It had been stagnating because it’s part two and whilst I had an idea about where it was going to go, in the end, we’re off in a different direction, and the words flowed. You just don’t stop writing when you hit a vein.
But this isn’t always the case. This morning I have an excuse to stay in bed, but most others I don’t.
Perhaps I should find something else to do, something that will give me that same reason I used to have to get up every morning.
Or maybe I should be more organized in my retirement life, you know, set a schedule and do things according to a timetable. I was never one for being organized, but perhaps it’s time to start.
Just let me lie here for a few more minutes and think about that.
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:
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.
After leaving the hotel in Zhengzhou, which was once one of the eight ancient capitals of China, we are going to Dengfeng city, the home of China’s most famous martial art – Shaolin Kung Fu.
The Shaolin Temple nearby is the origin of Chinese Zen Buddhism, and the Songyang Academy, called “the Centre of Heaven and Earth” is located 87 Km from Zhengzhou, or, as we were advised, a 2-hour drive. It will be scenic because we are heading towards the mountains.
As one of the four ancient Song Dynasty Academies, Songyang Academy is one of many schools in the province. It is both on a large scale, is quite spectacular, and is a comprehensive Wushu training base where students are trained to spread the Shaolin Wushu Kung fu style at home and abroad.
There is a 500-seat demonstration hall where you are able to observe 30 minutes of various martial arts in shows starting on the hour.
Outside there is a specific area that generally has about 600 trainees learning kung fu elements during the day but can hold 5,000 people when outdoor performances are required.
The kung fu school
The thing you notice most about the kung fu school is its size and then the number of buses which tells you that it is a popular tourist stop.
And with that size comes long distances between the car park and the venues we need to go to, the first of which is about half a km, and that’s just to get to the ticket plaza.
But, it is pleasantly set out and is quite a large number of shops for both souvenirs and food
We pass by some of the students going through their paces
From there it’s another long, long walk to the show arena, where we’re supposed to see various kung fu elements on display. We watched this for a few minutes, then headed off towards the hall for a more intense demonstration of kung fu, and because there is limited seating we have to start lining up at the head of the queue to get a seat.
But…
Everyone else has the same idea and we join the throng which then becomes a ride, and true to the Chinese they start finding ways to push in, even using the imaginary friend somewhere ahead in the queue.
The doors open and then it’s open slather, with the hoards pushing from behind and sliding up the side to get in first. We go with the tide, and manage to get in and find a seat though we were separated from three of our group.
It was an interesting show even though not one word of English was spoken, which from our point of view was a disappointment because we had no idea what was going on.
However…
It wasn’t hard to follow
What the performers were doing was relatively self-explanatory, and quite fascinating, especially the guy who broke a sword over his head, and the guy who stopped two spears penetrating the neck, both examples of very disciplined men.
Boys gave a demonstration of kung fu moves, and intensity and age increased as this progressed to the end.
Next, we were taken in hand by an instructor in Tai chi or an equivalent, I was not quite sure what it was called, and went through the twelve or maybe more moves that constituted a morning or afternoon exercise session or it could be just for relaxation. I lasted the first session but it was a little difficult to do with my sore limbs and a bad back.
Not that I could remember any of it now other than hands overhead, hands in front, bent knees, and a few gentle kung fu hand moves.
Perhaps when I get home I might seek out someone to show me the moves.
Whilst the others were following their training instructor, I wandered about, finding a large statue
And some smaller statues
Lunch in the Zen Restaurant
After all that exercise it was time to have lunch purportedly the same food as the king fu masters. It’s in the Zen restaurant, aptly named, and the food when it came, came thick and fast, but some of it wasn’t very nice, meat with bones, tofu, a tasteless soup, but some good dishes like the vegetables and noodles with meat, without bones.
The only problem was nothing to drink except a pot of hot water. No tea, no cold water, and if you wanted a cold drink you had to pay for it. After paying 550 yuan why should we have to pay more for a drink when we have not had to so far.
But no cold water? That was just not on, and when we brought this to the attention of the tour guide she just simply ignored us. We just didn’t get anything.
That basically tainted the whole experience.
After lunch, there was the Shaolin Temple and the Pogoda Forest to visit.
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.
…
OK. So the story is about Alistair’s mother seeking revenge on Zoe for killing her son.
She’s not the only one.
Zoe is or was an assassin. She had a substantial number of kills to her credit, she doesn’t share numbers so we won’t find out exactly how many, and there are others who seek revenge too.
One is co-incidentally, the head of the intelligence service John’s friend Sebastian works for, a man by the name of Worthington, who had a twin brother whom she killed by mistake.
He has been using his position in intelligence to track the woman who executed his brother for some time, and being in Venice at the time of the Alistair affair, catches sight of Zoe recovering in a hospital after requesting to meet Sebastian’s newest recruit.
Of course, Sebastian is playing fast and loose with the truth, as always, but the damage is done.
Zoe aka Mary Anne aka Chantal is not being hunted by three different people and has just had a bounty put on her head guaranteeing even more people searching for her.
All while heading to a meeting in Marseilles about a freelance hit.
“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.
When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.
From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.
There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.
Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.
Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?
Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?
Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?
I’ve stayed in a few places where ghosts were purported to be roaming the passages at night, but apparently not the night I was staying.
And that’s something else that I have a problem with, why is it ghosts only come out at night, or is that just the perception I have got from reading up on the subject.
Maybe my view of ghosts is somewhat stilted, after all, I think my first introduction to ghosts was watching The Centerville Ghost, a movie I saw on t.v. when I was very young.
You have to admit Hollywood’s perception of ghosts is quite interesting.
But…
Do you think they are real? Do I think they are real?
I think I would have to be presented with some fairly solid evidence they exist, but perhaps not to the point of meeting one.
There are, it seems countless examples of ethereal forces, you know, wind blowing where there’s no wind or draught outside, room temperatures dropping for no apparent reason, knocking, rattling of chains, strange noises like low moaning.
And yet…
There are hotels you can stay in such as the Chelsea Hotel in New York, where it’s possible to run into Sid Vicious.
Sorry, not staying there any time soon.
Then there’s the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel in Los Angeles where it’s possible to run into Marylin Monroe, who lived in room 229.
That could be an interesting encounter.
Another is the Westin St Francis in San Francisco where the actress Virginia Rappe died while attending a party held in Fatty Arbuckle’s room, Arbuckle’s room, who was later accused of assaulting and murdering her, and whose career tanked after the incident.
Her ghost is seen moving about the hotel tearing her hair out. It seems all of the spectral activity occurs on the 12th floor.
Good to know if I decide to stay there. I wonder if they have a 13th floor?
Perhaps in too old to be running the gamut of paranormal experiences, the old heart is not as strong as it used to be.
What happens when your past finally catches up with you?
…
Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.
Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.
This time, however, there is more at stake.
Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.
With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.
But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.
This is what we saw driving along the Coquihalla Highway in Canada, a rather infamous stretch of road featured on the Discovery Channel, and yes, we saw a number of cars and trucks off the side of the road, and not in a good way
The road was iced over in place, and driving was difficult, but on the plus side the scenery was spectacular, and it was hard not to be distracted when driving.
But, inspiration for a story? It might go something like this:
…
Arty was adamant that he knew the best where man in the business.
That might gave been true if he was in the middle of the city where there were endless tests and turns that could be used to lost chasing police vehicles.
But that didn’t apply to the open road, and one that was think with ice and snow, even if it had recently been cleared.
But that wasn’t as bad as the fact that we had got free of the city, lost the pursuing cars, changed vehicles, and got away free.
All he had to fo was follow the road.
Except Arty had a temper, and getting stuck behind an old van going ever so slowly on the road, caused him to first blast them with horn, then start doing dangerous accelations up behind them, and then attempt to overtake on a bend in the road.
That might not have been so bad if there had not been an oncoming car, but there was.
Even that might not have been so bad if the car had not been a police vehicle.
But the real kicker: Arty lost control of the car and we went sailing off the edge of the road into a ravine, landing on soft ice which after a minute started cracking and then gave way.
The last place I wanted to be was to be sinking into a freezing cold river, but there we were, all frantically trying to get out.
Fortunately, I did, but not before I was soaking wet, and almost frozen. The rest didn’t make it.
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. He’s decided to watch the ice hockey with us.
It’s hockey night in Canada, and the Bruins are playing the Maple Leafs, our team. Chester seems unimpressed.
After several minutes he says, it’s a lot of going back and forth with not much happening, and, where’s the ball?
This is ice hockey not football on ice, I tell him. It’s called a puck and it’s a disk, and you hit it with a hockey stick.
I can see this is going to be a long difficult night.
After a few minutes, the Bruins scored and the horn sounds. It nearly scares him out of his skin.
What just happened.
I explain.
Then your team is not very good are they, letting the other team score. Wouldn’t it be better if they all stood in a line across the front of the goal?
Then nothing would happen.
At least the other team wouldn’t score.
I shake my head. I don’t think cats quite understand the nuances of the game.
Another few minutes Chester shakes his head and walks off muttering, let me know when the mouse catching championship is on.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
A body and a whole bunch of questions.
A full minute passed, with only one car passing, the rest of the time there was a strange sort of silence.
The man on the ground didn’t move. Whoever shot him had shot to kill. I took the few steps to stand beside him and could see the hole and the bloodstain of the wound. Shot in the heart, instant death.
Usually, if it was a sniper, it was a head shot. Less chance of missing a vital organ and leaving the target alive.
Odd too that it was just before he told me where some ‘evidence’ was located. And who the hell was this Alfred Nobbin?
I heard a car turn into the alley and come towards me. Halfway, it stopped, the engine switched off, and the doors opened.
Two men. Maury, my handler, and Severin, the instructor. Neither was carrying a gun, so neither had shot him. That meant someone else was still in play.
I said, “I had him, but someone shot him.”
Stating the obvious, Maury’s expression told me.
“You’re not dead.”
“Perhaps I wasn’t a target.”
“Today. Did he say who he was?”
“No.”
No hesitation or they’ll think I’m lying, which I am. I was not sure why, but was it because I detected a note of sincerity in the target’s tone?
“Checked for identification yet?”
“Just about to.” I knelt down and went through his pockets. Nothing. I told Maury that.
“Pity.” He hadn’t moved from where he stopped. Severin had been looking back up the alley, no doubt looking for where the bullet came from.
Had he reached the same conclusion I had, a balcony on the third floor of the left-hand building? The shooter would be long gone by now.
A white van pulled into the lane and pulled up behind Maury’s car. The cleaners.
It raided questions. How did Maury know we’d be here, and that the target would be shot dead? Or had he assumed I’d all but kill him in revenge for what had happened to the others.
What had happened to the others?
“The rest of the team,” I asked.
“Two dead, one critical. One safe. Let’s go. We need to have a debriefing.”
I took a last look at the body, the joined Maury and Severin in the car. I had questions of my own.
“A bad day’s work,” Severin muttered, as he drove off.
“But conclusive proof we have a traitor, the last thing we need right now.”
I was surprised they were discussing high-level matters that I considered above my pay grade. And, I had to say, it worried me.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 