Month: February 2026

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 25

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 prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Chasing leads, maybe

 

Jan hailed a taxi and had it drop us off a block from her building.  It was agreed that we would not just arrive out the front and trust to luck that everything would be fine.

I had a feeling that Nobbin would have come to the same conclusion I had, that it was possible the USB might be in the neighbor’s flat.  I’m sure Josephine hadn’t thought of that possibility.  Severin had, but I suspect he might not know of the cat.

Nor would Nobbin.

We did a circuit of the building before going in.  There were no suspicious cars, nr anyone lurking in the shadows.  If we had surveillance, it was really good, or there was none.  I preferred to think the latter option was right.  After all, neither Nobbin nor Severin knew exactly where I was.

Jan unlicked the front door and we went into the brightly lit foyer.

During the day there was a concierge sitting at the desk.  At night, it was empty.  The building manager couldn’t afford 24-hour security, beyond the bright lights, and camera in each quadrant recording the comings and goings of residents.  I’m not sure how Josephine got in, but I would have like to have the time to go through the old footage to check on O’Connell in the past, and Josephine, if she came through the front door, recently.

I glanced at the monitor, at present on screen saver mode, then followed Jan to the elevator lobby.

She pressed the button to go up, and the doors to the left-hand elevator opened.  We stepped in, she pressed the floor button, the doors closed, and we slowly went up.

It hesitated at the floor, jerked up about an inch or two, then a click signified it was level and the doors opened.

I could see her door from the elevator.  As we got closer, I could see it was open, ajar by about half an inch.  There was no tell-tale strip of light behind the opening so it could mean someone was in her flat searching by torchlight, or there was no one there.

After a minute waiting to see if there was a moving light somewhere in the flat, it remained dark.

Standing behind me, I could see she had pulled a gun out of her handbag and had it in one hand ready to use.  She could have used it any time since we first met, but she hadn’t.  

I pushed the door open slowly, and thankfully it didn’t make a creaking sound.  Wide enough to walk in, I took a few tentative steps into the first room.  There was little light, and my eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness.  

I could feel her going past me, further into the room, and with the gun raised and in two hands to steady the shot.  She took more steps, slowly towards the passage leading to her bedroom, I assumed, as it was a reverse copy of that next door, O’Connell’s.

There was no one in this part of the flat, and she had disappeared up the corridor and into her room.  Nothing there either.

“Clear,” she called out.

I stepped back to close and lock the door.  At the same time, she switched on the main room light and for a second it was almost blinding.

When my sight cleared, I could see the signs of a search, furniture tipped over, books dragged from the shelves, other items tossed on the floor, one of which was a vase, now broken into a number of pieces.

“Looks like they were in a hurry,” she said.

“Or frustrated.”  I could see clear marks of an item that had been thrown against the wall and dented the plasterwork.  The broken shards of the ornament were on the ground beneath the indentation.

I heard her sigh when she saw the broken pieces.

“Not the best way to treat a genuine Wedgewood antique.”

She disappeared into the bedroom again, and I could hear her calling the cat, Tibbles.  Interesting name for a cat.

I didn’t hear it answer back.  It was probably traumatized after the breaking and the smashing of crockery.

I had a quick look in places I thought the cat might hide, but it was not in any of them.  And, oddly enough, no traces of cat hair.  Usually, cats left fur wherever they lay down.  At least one cat I knew did that.  

She came back empty-handed. 

“I think it’s done a runner,” she said.  “He’s not in the usual place he hides, nor under the bed, or under the covers, as he sometimes does, usually when I’m trying to sleep.”

“Well, it was a good idea.  We might have to search outside.  The cat was allowed to go outside?”

“He’d escape, yes, but no.  O’Connell thought if he got out, he’d get run over.  It’s a reasonably busy road outside.”

“Better out there than in here, though.  Open windows?”

She did a quick check, but none were open.

“Did O’Connell ever come in here?”

“Once or twice, but he only dropped in if he was going away to ask if I would look after the cat, or when he came back.  Never further than the front door.”

“Knowing who is was, now, do you think he might have come in and hidden the USB in here?”

“He might, but there isn’t anywhere I could think he could put it.”

“But that doesn’t mean he didn’t.”

Both of us heard the scratching sound at the front door, not the sort made by a cat trying to get in, but by someone using a tool to unlock the door.

Someone was trying to break in.

© Charles Heath 2019-2020

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 19

Day 19 – Which character should tell the story

…

Who Should Tell the Story? Choosing the Right Narrator for Maximum Impact

Every story begins with a voice. Whether it’s a whisper from the shadows, a confession shouted from the rooftops, or a quiet journal entry scribbled at midnight, the way a story is told is just as important as what happens in it. One of the most crucial decisions a writer makes—often before writing a single sentence—is who will tell the story.

Will it be the protagonist, standing front and centre, eyes wide open to every triumph and tragedy? The casual observer, sipping tea on the periphery while chaos unfolds nearby? Or perhaps a bit player—the stagehand who sees everything but is barely seen?

Each narrative perspective offers unique strengths, limitations, and emotional textures. Let’s explore the three classic choices and discover when each one shines.

1. The Protagonist: The Heart of the Storm

When the main character narrates their own story, readers are granted intimate access to their thoughts, fears, dreams, and flaws. Think of Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird, Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye, or Katniss Everdeen in The Hunger Games. We don’t just witness the journey—we live it.

Strengths:

  • Deep emotional connection. Readers bond with the narrator through raw honesty and vulnerability.
  • A strong voice and personality can elevate the entire tone of the story.
  • Immediate stakes. When the protagonist speaks, every danger feels personal.

Best Used When:

  • The story is about personal transformation or internal conflict.
  • Voice is a critical element (e.g., a sarcastic teen, a traumatised veteran).
  • You want readers to empathise deeply with the character’s choices—even when they’re flawed.

Caution: A protagonist-narrator can be limited by their own biases and blind spots. You lose the ability to show scenes they weren’t present for, and if the character isn’t compelling, the whole narrative risks falling flat.

2. The Casual Observer: The Quiet Witness

This narrator isn’t swept up in the central action, but stands just close enough to see—and interpret—it all. Think of Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby, watching Gatsby’s rise and fall with a mix of fascination and detachment. Or Dr Watson, chronicling Sherlock Holmes’ genius with admiration and occasional bewilderment.

Strengths:

  • Offers a more objective lens while still being emotionally engaged.
  • Can provide commentary and reflection, adding layers of meaning.
  • Freedom to step back and describe the bigger picture or societal context.

Best Used When:

  • The protagonist is mysterious, unreliable, or larger-than-life.
  • You want to explore themes like perception, memory, or social critique.
  • The story gains power through contrast—what the observer sees versus what they understand.

Caution: It’s easy for an observer to become passive. To work well, they still need their own arc, stakes, and reasons for telling the story. Otherwise, they risk feeling like a camera on a tripod—recording, but not quite living.

3. The Bit Player: The Unlikely Truth-Teller

These are the characters we might overlook—the secretary, the neighbour, the childhood friend who drifted away. Yet when they take the microphone, their perspective can be revelatory. Consider “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd” by Agatha Christie, in which the seemingly minor character of Dr Sheppard upends everything through his narration.

Strengths:

  • Surprise factor. Readers don’t expect depth or insight from minor characters—so when they deliver, it’s powerful.
  • Access to multiple characters and private moments without being the centre of attention.
  • Can subtly manipulate tone and truth, especially if they have hidden motives.

Best Used When:

  • You want to subvert expectations or play with unreliability.
  • The story benefits from a grounded, realistic perspective amid larger-than-life events.
  • The theme involves invisibility, power dynamics, or the unnoticed threads that hold society together.

Caution: A bit player narrator must be given enough presence and reason to tell the story. Why them? What stakes do they have? Without proper setup, their narration can feel contrived.

So, Who Should Tell Your Story?

Ask yourself:

  • Whose journey matters most? If it’s deeply personal, go with the protagonist.
  • Is the truth elusive? An observer or bit player might reveal it more effectively.
  • What tone do you want? Intimate and urgent? Detached and reflective? Ironic and unreliable?

Sometimes, the magic isn’t in who lives the story, but in who tells it. The same event—a betrayal, a wedding, a war—can feel entirely different depending on whether it’s recounted by the hero, the bystander, or the one who cleaned up the aftermath.

The voice you choose doesn’t just shape the narrative—it shapes the reader’s soul.

So next time you begin a story, don’t just ask, What happens?
Ask, Who gets to say it happened?

Because in storytelling, perspective isn’t just everything—
It’s the only thing.

If I only had one day to stop over in – Venice – what would I do?

A Day in Venice: Making the Most of Your 24-Hour Stopover

Venice, the City of Water, is a place that has captivated the hearts of travellers for centuries. With its stunning architecture, rich history, and unique culture, it’s no wonder that Venice is a top destination for many. But what if you only have a day to spend in this enchanting city? Is it possible to make the most of your 24-hour stopover and create unforgettable memories? The answer is yes, and it all starts with visiting one iconic place: St. Mark’s Square.

The Heart of Venice: St. Mark’s Square

Located in the heart of Venice, St. Mark’s Square (Piazza San Marco) is the city’s most famous landmark and a must-visit destination for any traveller. This stunning square is surrounded by breathtaking architecture, including the magnificent St. Mark’s Basilica, the Doge’s Palace, and the Campanile di San Marco (St. Mark’s Bell Tower). As you step into the square, you’ll be struck by the sheer beauty and grandeur of your surroundings.

Why St. Mark’s Square is a Must-Visit

So, what makes St. Mark’s Square the perfect place to visit during your one-day stopover in Venice? Here are just a few reasons:

  • Unparalleled Architecture: The square is home to some of the most stunning examples of Byzantine architecture in the world, including the intricate mosaics and golden domes of St. Mark’s Basilica.
  • Rich History: St. Mark’s Square has been the centre of Venetian life for centuries, with a history dating back to the 9th century. You can almost feel the weight of history as you walk through the square.
  • Cultural Significance: The square is a hub of cultural activity, with street performers, musicians, and artists adding to the lively atmosphere.
  • Accessibility: St. Mark’s Square is easily accessible by vaporetto (water bus) or on foot, making it a convenient destination for travellers with limited time.

Tips for Visiting St. Mark’s Square

To make the most of your visit to St. Mark’s Square, here are a few tips to keep in mind:

  • Arrive Early: Get to the square early in the morning to avoid the crowds and enjoy a more peaceful atmosphere.
  • Dress Modestly: Remember to dress modestly when visiting the basilica, as it’s a place of worship.
  • Take a Guided Tour: Consider taking a guided tour of the square and its surrounding attractions to get a deeper understanding of the history and culture.
  • Enjoy the Views: Don’t forget to take in the stunning views of the square from the top of the Campanile di San Marco, which offers breathtaking vistas of the city.

Conclusion

In conclusion, St. Mark’s Square is the perfect destination for travellers with a one-day stopover in Venice. With its stunning architecture, rich history, and cultural significance, this iconic square is sure to leave a lasting impression. By visiting St. Mark’s Square, you’ll be able to experience the essence of Venice and create unforgettable memories of your time in this enchanting city. So, make the most of your 24-hour stopover and head to St. Mark’s Square – you won’t regret it!

What I learned about writing – Sometimes it can solve problems

Today, under the guise of words of wisdom, we have a concept that if he wrote it, he could get rid of it.

OK, does that mean the writing goes from the pad straight into the bin? I’m sure all of has had a moment like that more than once.

Or is there something a lot deeper going on here?

I’m going with deep because there is another line. He had gotten rid of many things by writing them.

So does that mean if I write about the things that bug me, they’ll go away?

Sounds interesting.

My slant on this is. If you could write out all your problems and imagine a different, happier ending to all of them. I mean, I don’t really want to send my younger brother to the moon, but the thought is there.

I’m thinking that it might be a way to not pay expensive shrinks to analyse your problems, you could do it yourself, write the problems down like a quadratic equation, and solve them yourself.

Or work out how to send your brother to the moon yourself without having to plead with or pay millions of dollars to NASA.

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

If I only had one day to stop over in – Paris – what would I do?

 Parisian Odyssey: Making Memories in 24 Hours at the Eiffel Tower
Subtitle: How to Craft an Unforgettable Day in the City of Light

Paris—the city where every cobbled street hums with history, every café table holds a story, and every landmark feels plucked from a dream. But when time is your most coveted luxury (and you’re stuck with just 24 hours), where do you begin? While the Louvre, Notre-Dame, and Montmartre all clamour for attention, there’s one icon that transcends mere sightseeing: the Eiffel Tower. More than a landmark, it’s the heartbeat of Paris. Here’s how to make your brief stopover a day you’ll remember forever.

Morning: Conquer the Iron Lady

Start your day early at the Eiffel Tower to avoid crowds. A pre-booked ticket to the top is non-negotiable—trust us, skipping the queue will save precious minutes. Ascend the 125 meters to the second floor for a panoramic view of the city: the Seine slicing through neighbourhoods, the distant dome of Sacré-Cœur, and the green sprawl of the Bois de Boulogne. If you’re energetic, the 164 steps to the first level (1,710 total to the top) are free, though the lift is worth it for efficiency.

Pro Tip: Grab a pastis or croissant from one of the restaurants on the first floor. It’s breakfast with a view!

Midday: Stroll the Champs-Élysées Backdrop

The Eiffel Tower isn’t an island—it’s a focal point for some of Paris’s most iconic scenery. Walk west toward the Champs-Élysées, a 1.2-mile boulevard that’s the epitome of Parisian glamour. Stop at the Arc de Triomphe for a photo (and climb for an even more divine view), then cruise past luxury shops like Dior and Louis Vuitton. You don’t need to spend a cent—just bask in the je ne sais quoi of Parisian elegance.

Unexpected Detour: Veer south to Trocadéro Gardens, a sprawling park with fountains and shaded paths. It’s a peaceful respite and the perfect spot to picnic with a baguette and fromage from a nearby market.

Afternoon: Seine Secrets and Hidden Gems

By 3 PM, head to the Seine River. The Eiffel Tower is visible from nearly every bridge here, but two spots are must-sees:

  1. Pont d’Iéna (military museum) for a photo-perfect view of the tower against the sunset.
  2. Rive Gauche Promenade for a leisurely walk past Left Bank cafés and the Institut de France.

If time allows, hop on a 1-hour Seine River cruise. As the boat glides past bridges and monuments, the Eiffel Tower will loom like a guardian, its silhouette contrasting with Haussmann-era architecture.

Evening: Twilight Magic and Farewell Glows

As dusk falls, make your way to Port de la Conférence (just south of the Eiffel Tower) or Pont National. Here, you’ll witness the tower’s daily ritual: a sparkling display every hour, where over 20,000 bulbs twinkle for five minutes. It’s romantic, awe-inspiring, and utterly unique to Paris.

Culinary Finale: Dine at a Seine-side restaurant like Le Jules Verne (inside the Eiffel Tower, reservations essential) or Café de l’Escargot for a jazz-tinged bistro vibe. Either way, you’ll cap off your day with the tower as your backdrop.

Why the Eiffel Tower?

In a day, you can’t do everything in Paris. You can’t visit every museum, every bakery, or every cabaret. But with the Eiffel Tower as your anchor, you’ll experience the city’s soul:

  • Iconic Energy: It’s the symbol of Paris you’ll recognise in movies, music, and literature.
  • Versatile Vibe: From bustling tourist hub to tranquil riverside retreat, it adapts to your dream.
  • Time Efficiency: Its centrality lets you explore adjacent neighbourhoods without exhausting yourself.

A 24-hour stopover is fleeting, but a day spent weaving through the Eiffel Tower’s orbit? That’s an hourglass filled with light, history, and memories.

Final Thought: Paris isn’t just seen—it’s felt. Choose the Eiffel Tower, and let it sweep you off your feet. After all, you’re not just visiting a city. You’re stepping into a masterpiece.

Bon voyage, and bon appétit! 🇫🇷

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

I remembered a bang.

I remembered the car slewing sideways.

I remember another bang, and then it was lights out.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.

Or I could be underwater.

Everything was blurred.

I tried to focus but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.

What happened?

Why was I lying down?

Where was I?

I cast my mind back, trying to remember.

It was a blank.

What, when, who, why and where, are questions I should easily be able to answer. These are questions any normal person could answer.

I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.

I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.

“My God! What happened?”

I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.

I was blind. Everything was black.

“Car accident; hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”

Was I that poor bastard?

“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.

“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”

“What isn’t broken?”

“His neck.”

“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”

I heard the shuffling of pages.

“OR1 ready?”

“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”

“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”

Magic.

It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.

Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time underwater.

Or somewhere.

I tried to speak but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.

Was it night or was it day?

Was it hot, or was it cold?

Where was I?

Around me, it felt cool.

It was incredibly quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or that was the sound of pure silence.  And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.

I didn’t try to move.

Instinctively, somehow, I knew not to.

A previous unpleasant experience?

I heard what sounded like a door opening, and noticeably quiet footsteps slowly came into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.

My grandfather.

He had smoked all his life until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way, down the same path. I could smell the smoke.

I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.

I couldn’t.

I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later the clicking of a pen, then writing.

“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a bad accident. You cannot talk, or move, all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days and just came out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She had a very soothing voice.

Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.

“Everything is fine.”

Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.

“Just count backwards from 10.”

Why?

I didn’t reach seven.

Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning, I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.

It rose above the disinfectant.

She was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.

It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.

The next morning, she was back.

“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very severely injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”

More tests, and then when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. This was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.

The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face, and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”

Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accidents, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.

How could that happen?

That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment was the fact I could not remember before the crash either, or only vague memories after.

But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised, I could not remember my name.

I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.

I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I will remember tomorrow. Or the next day.

Sleep was a blessed relief.

The next day I didn’t wake up feeling nauseous. I think they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that but not who I am?

Now I knew Winifred the nurse was preparing me for something unbelievably bad. She was upbeat, and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”

So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.

But there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.

This time I was left awake for an hour before she returned.

This time sleep was restless.

Scenes were playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Others, people I didn’t know. Or I knew them and couldn’t remember them.

Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.

The morning the bandages were to come off she came in early and woke me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.

“This morning the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly, or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”

I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.

I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender; the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.

I was amazed to realise at that moment, I wasn’t.

I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.

I felt the bandage being removed, and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.

Then a moment when nothing happened.

Then the pads are gently lifted and removed.

Nothing.

I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.

“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. There was ointment or something else in them.

Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.

She wiped my eyes again.

I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.

I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.

Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.

I nodded.

“You can see?”

I nodded again.

“Clearly?”

I nodded.

“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”

I couldn’t wait.

When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring, there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the most handsome of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.

I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.

They came at mid-morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. She was the distraction, taking my mind off the reality of what I was about to see.

Another doctor came into the room before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon who had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.

I found it hard to believe, if he were, that he would be at a small country hospital.

“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months.”

Warning enough.

The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.

Then it was done.

The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with his work. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.

I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand and was reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the result. The doctor said it was going to heal with little scarring. You have been extremely fortunate he was available. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

She showed me.

I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess, I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.

And I still could not talk. There was a reason, he had worked in that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.

“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement in last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”

A new face?

I could not remember the old one.

My memory still hadn’t returned.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 19

Day 19 – Which character should tell the story

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Who Should Tell the Story? Choosing the Right Narrator for Maximum Impact

Every story begins with a voice. Whether it’s a whisper from the shadows, a confession shouted from the rooftops, or a quiet journal entry scribbled at midnight, the way a story is told is just as important as what happens in it. One of the most crucial decisions a writer makes—often before writing a single sentence—is who will tell the story.

Will it be the protagonist, standing front and centre, eyes wide open to every triumph and tragedy? The casual observer, sipping tea on the periphery while chaos unfolds nearby? Or perhaps a bit player—the stagehand who sees everything but is barely seen?

Each narrative perspective offers unique strengths, limitations, and emotional textures. Let’s explore the three classic choices and discover when each one shines.

1. The Protagonist: The Heart of the Storm

When the main character narrates their own story, readers are granted intimate access to their thoughts, fears, dreams, and flaws. Think of Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird, Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye, or Katniss Everdeen in The Hunger Games. We don’t just witness the journey—we live it.

Strengths:

  • Deep emotional connection. Readers bond with the narrator through raw honesty and vulnerability.
  • A strong voice and personality can elevate the entire tone of the story.
  • Immediate stakes. When the protagonist speaks, every danger feels personal.

Best Used When:

  • The story is about personal transformation or internal conflict.
  • Voice is a critical element (e.g., a sarcastic teen, a traumatised veteran).
  • You want readers to empathise deeply with the character’s choices—even when they’re flawed.

Caution: A protagonist-narrator can be limited by their own biases and blind spots. You lose the ability to show scenes they weren’t present for, and if the character isn’t compelling, the whole narrative risks falling flat.

2. The Casual Observer: The Quiet Witness

This narrator isn’t swept up in the central action, but stands just close enough to see—and interpret—it all. Think of Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby, watching Gatsby’s rise and fall with a mix of fascination and detachment. Or Dr Watson, chronicling Sherlock Holmes’ genius with admiration and occasional bewilderment.

Strengths:

  • Offers a more objective lens while still being emotionally engaged.
  • Can provide commentary and reflection, adding layers of meaning.
  • Freedom to step back and describe the bigger picture or societal context.

Best Used When:

  • The protagonist is mysterious, unreliable, or larger-than-life.
  • You want to explore themes like perception, memory, or social critique.
  • The story gains power through contrast—what the observer sees versus what they understand.

Caution: It’s easy for an observer to become passive. To work well, they still need their own arc, stakes, and reasons for telling the story. Otherwise, they risk feeling like a camera on a tripod—recording, but not quite living.

3. The Bit Player: The Unlikely Truth-Teller

These are the characters we might overlook—the secretary, the neighbour, the childhood friend who drifted away. Yet when they take the microphone, their perspective can be revelatory. Consider “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd” by Agatha Christie, in which the seemingly minor character of Dr Sheppard upends everything through his narration.

Strengths:

  • Surprise factor. Readers don’t expect depth or insight from minor characters—so when they deliver, it’s powerful.
  • Access to multiple characters and private moments without being the centre of attention.
  • Can subtly manipulate tone and truth, especially if they have hidden motives.

Best Used When:

  • You want to subvert expectations or play with unreliability.
  • The story benefits from a grounded, realistic perspective amid larger-than-life events.
  • The theme involves invisibility, power dynamics, or the unnoticed threads that hold society together.

Caution: A bit player narrator must be given enough presence and reason to tell the story. Why them? What stakes do they have? Without proper setup, their narration can feel contrived.

So, Who Should Tell Your Story?

Ask yourself:

  • Whose journey matters most? If it’s deeply personal, go with the protagonist.
  • Is the truth elusive? An observer or bit player might reveal it more effectively.
  • What tone do you want? Intimate and urgent? Detached and reflective? Ironic and unreliable?

Sometimes, the magic isn’t in who lives the story, but in who tells it. The same event—a betrayal, a wedding, a war—can feel entirely different depending on whether it’s recounted by the hero, the bystander, or the one who cleaned up the aftermath.

The voice you choose doesn’t just shape the narrative—it shapes the reader’s soul.

So next time you begin a story, don’t just ask, What happens?
Ask, Who gets to say it happened?

Because in storytelling, perspective isn’t just everything—
It’s the only thing.

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

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In a word: Course

Yes, of course there’s a golf course.

Firstly, of course, means definitely so, and can be said when a revelation is realised, or sarcastically if the answer is obvious.

Then there’s a course, like a golf course where people chase a small usually white ball, sometimes to be found on a fairway, but more often than not in a bunker, in the water, or in the thicket.

It’s meant to be calming, but I’m betting more than one heart attack has been brought on by a slice, a six shot bunker exit, or any more than three putts on the green.

There’s also mini golf courses, less challenging, sometimes.

That course could also be the part of a creek or a river.

It can be a set of classes that makes up a course, I did a course in English literature

Then, rather topically, over the course of the election there was [you fill in the rest]

Then there’s my favourite, a four course dinner

Or when I’m unwell a course of antibiotics.

And lastly, in a supermarket how often does the trolley in front of you unexpectedly and randomly change course?

This is not to be confused with coarse

Which to be honest can be used sometimes to describe people who swear or are abrupt.  They were coarse people, that is unrefined.  These people often use coarse language and tell course jokes, meaning crude and offensive

It had a coarse texture, ie it was rough not smooth

And then there’s Corse which is not exactly an English word, but can refer to a corpse or dead body.