The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation. I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample. I was going to give them the re-worked short story. Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself. We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected. I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party. I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble. No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

In a word: Lot

I’ve got a lot of time on my hands…

Or not. It’s just an expression, where a lot means plenty. Only the rich and idle seem to have a lot of time on their hands, and a lot of money, sometimes more than they know what to do with.

It spawns another saying, the devil finds work for idle hands.

This is distinct from the other form of a lot; a piece of land that can be used to build a house, an office building or warehouse, or just land to graze cattle or sheet.

For those with a lot of money, they can buy two lots or four lots.

Lot can also mean everything, i.e. he bought the lot.

Now it’s getting confusing, as only the English language can.

How about, there’s a lot of love in the room. Well, it’s certainly not at a political debate that’s for sure!

Then, still having more money than sense I went to an auction and bid for two lots. Unfortunately, there was someone else who had more money than I did.

My mother had a lot of quaint expressions; once we were sitting opposite a man of dubious character and she said, he’s a bad lot.

Back in the old days, and sometimes these, the word lot was used instead of lottery when names were put in a hat and one drawn as the winner. Today its a little more sophisticated, balls are put in a cage.

And I was never happy with my lot in life. Not till I got older, anyway.

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

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The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 34

A brief moment of respite

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The simulation of nighttime on board the ship was as realistic as I remembered it when back on earth.

I was on my usual rounds after midnight, with the 2IC of security, Nancy Woolmer, who had been a NY detective until a better offer came along.

This ship.

Like me, she had little to keep her back home, her husband who had also been a detective, had been killed on the job, and that had been the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Not blessed, or as she put it, cursed, with children, her parents had passed on, and any family left were not enough to keep her home. This ship, she had said, would be her savior.

But she had the look of a person running away, and that, one day, would come back to bite her. In the meantime, if we ever needed a detective, she was it.

“They’ve really got this night thing going, haven’t they. You could almost imagine you’re in a leafy suburb out for a walk at night.”

“I doubt the streets would be as safe.”

The world we had left behind was in crisis, where there were deep divides between those in work and those who were not, and those with wealth and those without, and a bigger fight between countries over the space program. It had started out with good intentions, but people being people, it didn’t stay that way.

We had an international crew, but there was always the lingering doubt of what some people’s intentions were. Out in space where everyone depended on everyone else, a small problem could become a big one very quickly.

“No, perhaps not. But it’s good to hear the breeze rustling in the trees.”

Though the simulation lacked real trees, the projection on the passage walls of what either side of a street. With pavements, trees and houses, and for the night, the eerie glow of street lamps, was close enough.

The once around the perimeter passage on each deck took about two hours at a leisurely pace, considering there were ten decks.

I could have passed the job onto one of the watch officers, but it was about the only time I got to see the crew, those that were basically out of sight, keeping the ship running.

I had set the lofty goal of meeting every one of the over 2,000 crew members within the first year, but a few months in, that was looking unlikely.

There was a sudden vibration emanating from the deck, followed by the sort of movement I would have associated with the ship coming off speed, like the jerk in a car when taking the foot off the accelerator. The dampeners were designed to handle that and make increases and decreases in speed unnoticeable, but there was still an indication it had happened.

Ten seconds later my communicator vibrated. I didn’t like the ring tone built-in, but it was more likely because most calls were bad news.

“What happened,” I asked, knowing it would be the duty officer of the watch

“Engineering are reporting a glitch, sir.”

There’s a word I hadn’t heard for a long time. My father used to refer to anything that went wrong around the house as a glitch.

“Serious?”

“Don’t know, but you’re within a stone’s throw, so I thought you might want to pay them a visit.”

He was right, I was on that deck, and not far from the central control room. The bridge must be tracking me, even though I’d asked them not to. Standing orders dictated all officers and important personnel whereabouts were known at all times, I’d been told.

“I will.”

To Nancy, “You might want to continue on without me, and I’ll try to catch up later.”

She smiled. “Tell them they should have bought the premium quality rubber bands.”

Previous conversations had highlighted a certain cynicism towards the fixtures and fittings, some of which were quite shoddy, which was disappointing but there was no doubt corners were cut in order to get the ship into service.

We all just hoped that cost-cutting didn’t extend to the main items, and if there were, it had been picked up in the trials.

As I stepped into the control room, a brightly lit room with banks of control panels and engineers sitting at them, there were a number of people huddled around one in particular, including the chief engineer.

The conversation was quite lively, and one voice stood out above the others, “… and had the builders rep actually listen to someone who knows what they’re talking about, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

It was the same voice I’d heard in the captain’s day room my first day aboard, pontificating, as the captain put it, over a list of problems he was having with the shipbuilders representative.

“We’re in this situation,” the Chief Engineer said, “because everything we have here is new, and some of it untried. If you’re going to push boundaries, then sometimes there’s a problem. Rather than complain, find a resolution.”

The group broke up, and the Chief saw me coming over. He met me halfway.

“Half this new breed they’ve sent me and more teaches rather than hands-on, always on about the code or some such. Good, maybe, for diagnostics, but not for problem-solving. I suspect it’s tainted coolant, seems the original batch wasn’t cleaned out after the first run, and it’s overwhelmed the filters. It’s down to the bowels I’m afraid, and we’ll be up and running before those nincompoops work out the real problem.”

“Good. Just let the bridge know when you’re done.”

One last look at the nincompoops, and I headed back out to resume rounds.

…

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 50

What story does it inspire?

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…

There is always something not quite right when you literally reach the end of the road.

At the time we were looking for a place called Never Never.

Yes, you read that correctly, Never Never. It is a place on the map, and the GPS navigator knew where we were going, and took us to where it thought it was.

That place you can see is identified by the red plastic fencing across the road. The truth of the matter, we were not allowed to go to Never Never.

So, as for inspiration, it seems we have Never Never, the Americans have got Area 51.

And no, I’m not hanging around to see if spacemen and UFOs are coming to visit after darkness falls.

“Trouble in Store” – Short stories my way: Point of view

If this story were being written in the first person, the only perspective or point of view would be that of the narrator.

Since we need to have several perspectives, it is better done in the third person so we can change between characters and try to understand their motivation.

We might look at the first-person perspective for each of the characters later.

The second of the protagonists is the girl with the gun. How did she get it? How did the situation deteriorate so quickly? What is she going to do?

This is a short story, and we need to know something about her, so we must get to the heat of the matter quickly, let’s start with:

Her mother said she would never amount to anything, and here she was, with a broken drug addict coming apart because she had been cut off from her money, dragged into coming to this shop to leverage drugs from his dealer at the end of a gun. It was her fault, Jerry said and made her feel responsible, much the same as her parents and everyone else in her life.

One of life’s losers or just a victim? This theme can go in any direction.

Then a moment to reflect on why she was here:

Why had she agreed to go with Jerry? At that moment when she picked up the gun off the floor, she realized it was not out of responsibility or fault, it was out of fear.

That gives us the why; he had obviously tried to make her feel responsible and when that failed, he threatened her. But now there’s a bigger issue, the gun and a situation spiralling out of control. The thing is, she has the gun and the power to walk away or make matters worse.

The problem was that she had outed the shopkeeper as a dealer in front of someone who had not known. That now made him a victim as much as she was.

She looked at the two men facing her, a shopkeeper who was a dealer and a customer scared shitless. As much as she was. Her gun hand was shaking.

The scene is set, and something has to give.

Time for the shopkeeper to weigh in.

“I have no idea what you are talking about. Please, put the gun down before someone gets hurt.”

It’s a typical response from a man who realizes he’s in trouble and is trying to make time while he thinks of how to rescue himself from a potentially dangerous situation.

Time to change the perspective again and explore the shopkeeper.

If only Jack hadn’t come in when he did. He would have the gun, call the police, and brazened his way out of trouble. Who would the police believe a pair of addicts or a respectable shopkeeper?

Now he had to deal with the fallout, especially if the girl started talking.

Next, actions have consequences, building the tension.

This section was rewritten, moving from Jack as the narrator to the girl, and then to the shopkeeper:

Annalisa looked at the two men facing her, a shopkeeper who, despite his protestations, was a dealer and a customer scared shitless.

The poor bastard was not the only one. This was meant to be simple, arrive at the shop just before closing, force the shopkeeper to hand over the shit, and leave. Simple.

Except …

The shopkeeper told them to get out. Simmo started ranting waving the gun around, then collapsed. A race for the gun which spilled out of his hand, she won.

He was getting the stuff when the customer burst into the shop.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, she thought.

Why had she agreed to go with Jerry? It was her fault, Jerry had said, and he made her feel responsible for his problems, much the same as her parents and everyone else in her life.

Her mother said she would never amount to anything, and here she was, with a drug addict coming apart because she had been cut off from her money, dragged into coming to this shop to pick up his score from his dealer at the end of a gun.

She heard a strange sound come from beside her and looked down. Simmo was getting worse, like he had a fever, and was moaning.

The shopkeeper saw an opportunity. “Listen to me, young lady, I have no idea what you are talking about. Please, put the gun down before someone gets hurt. Your friend needs medical help and I can call an ambulance.”

The girl switched her attention back to him. “Shut up, let me think. Shit.”

The storekeeper glanced over at the customer. He’s been in once or twice, probably lived in the neighbourhood, but looked the sort who’d prefer to be anywhere but in his shop. More so now. If only he hadn’t burst in when he did. He would have the gun, call the police, and brazen his way out of trouble. Who would the police believe a pair of addicts or a respectable shopkeeper?

Now he had to deal with the fallout, especially if the girl started talking.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 64

Day 64 – Pick a side

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Speak Yourself Your Own Way – In Other Words, Pick a Side

“The most courageous act is still to think for yourself. Aloud.”
— Coco Chanel

In a world that rewards smoothness, consensus, and “politically correct” chatter, it can feel dangerously easy to slip into the comfortable grey zone of “neutrality.” We skim the headlines, like‑share the most palatable meme, and keep our opinions tucked away in the safety of the private inbox. Yet the very act of living—of showing up in the world—requires us to speak ourselves our own way. In practice, that means picking a side and letting that choice shape the language, the tone, and the conviction behind our words.

Below is a roadmap for anyone who’s ever felt the tug‑of‑war between wanting to belong and yearning to be heard. It’s a call to step out of the echo chamber, sharpen your voice, and own the space you occupy—both online and offline.

1. Why “Neutral” Is Actually a Position

Neutrality isn’t a blank page; it’s a faint watermark.

When you decide not to take a stance, you implicitly endorse the status quo. If you stay silent on climate change, you’re indirectly supporting the systems that keep emissions high. If you never voice your discomfort with workplace micro‑aggressions, you let the culture that tolerates them persist.

The hidden cost:

Moral fatigue – you expend mental energy worrying about offending, which erodes authenticity.
Lost influence – decision‑makers notice those who speak up; the quiet ones fade into the background statistics.
Identity drift – without a declared side, your personal brand becomes a vague, undifferentiated blur.

Understanding that “neutral” is a covert side helps the first step: recognising the need to speak for yourself, your own way.

2. Discover Your Core Compass

Before you can speak confidently, you need a compass—a set of values that feels as unshakeable as a lighthouse in a storm.

Exercise	What It Looks Like	Outcome
Values Inventory	Write down 12–15 values (e.g., justice, curiosity, humor). Highlight the top 5 that feel non‑negotiable.	A distilled list that guides every decision.
Story Mining	Recall moments when you felt most alive, proud, or outraged. What values were in play?	Patterns that reveal hidden convictions.
Future Letter	Imagine yourself 10 years from now, looking back. What would you be proud to have stood for?	A forward‑looking “mission statement.”

When you can articulate why you care, you’ll know what side you’re picking.

3. The Anatomy of an Authentic Voice

A voice isn’t just what you say; it’s how you say it. Below are the elements that, once calibrated, make your speech unmistakably yours.

Component	Guideline	Examples
Tone	Match the emotion of your message. Empathy for personal stories, urgency for calls to action.	“I feel deeply about this” vs. “We must act now.”
Vocabulary	Choose words that are true to your background—no need for pretentious jargon.	A tech‑entrepreneur might say “scalable,” while a teacher says “student‑centered.”
Pacing	Vary sentence length to keep listeners engaged. Short bursts for impact, longer sentences for nuance.	“Enough.” (pause) “We need change.”
Storytelling	Anchor abstract ideas in concrete anecdotes.	“When I first saw the polluted river, I thought….”
Consistency	Reinforce your side across platforms—social media, meetings, email signatures.	A sustainability advocate consistently shares zero‑waste tips.

Practice these elements in low‑stakes situations (Twitter threads, group chats) before moving to higher‑visibility arenas.

4. Picking a Side Without Burning Bridges

You might wonder, “Will I alienate friends, colleagues, or customers?” The answer is yes—but not necessarily in a bad way. When you clearly declare a side, you attract people who align with you and filter out those who don’t. That’s the secret to building a community that actually supports your mission.

Tips for a graceful side‑pick:

Start with “I.” Frame statements as personal convictions rather than universal mandates.
“I believe we need a living wage” sounds less confrontational than “Everyone must agree we need a living wage.”
Invite Dialogue, Not Debate.
Offer a why and ask what others think.
“I’m curious—how do you see the impact of remote work on work‑life balance?”
Show Humility. Acknowledge you’re still learning; be open to data that refutes your stance.
“I’m still reading up on this, but here’s why I’m leaning toward X.”
Find Common Ground. Even on polarised topics, there’s usually a shared value (e.g., safety, fairness). Anchor your side there.
“Both of us want safer streets; I think redesigning traffic flow is the most effective route.”
Set Boundaries. If a conversation turns toxic, politely disengage. Your reputation benefits more from consistency than from endless argument.

5. Real‑World Examples: When Speaking Your Own Way Made a Difference

Person	Side Picked	Impact
Greta Thunberg	Climate crisis urgency	Became a global catalyst for youth climate activism; policy discussions shifted.
Malala Yousafzai	Girls’ right to education	International legislation and funding for girls’ schools surged.
Simon Sinek	Leadership rooted in “Why”	Companies adopted purpose‑first strategies, boosting employee engagement.
Megan Rapinoe	Gender equality & LGBTQ+ rights in sport	Accelerated NFL and FIFA policy reviews on equality.
John Green (author)	Mental‑health openness in YA literature	Destigmatized depression among teens; inspired school counseling programs.

These figures didn’t shy away from controversy. They picked a side early, refined their message, and let authenticity drive their influence.

6. Action Plan: 7 Steps to Speak Yourself Your Own Way Today

Write a One‑Sentence Declaration – “I stand for ___ because ___.” Keep it visible (phone lock screen, notebook cover).
Pick One Platform – Twitter, Instagram Stories, a team Slack channel—choose where you’ll post your first statement.
Craft a Mini‑Story – Share a personal anecdote that illustrates why that side matters to you.
Invite Feedback – End with a genuine question that prompts others to share their view.
Schedule Follow‑Up – Set a reminder to revisit the conversation in a week; iterate based on responses.
Audit Your Presence – Look at past posts; remove or revise anything that contradicts your declared side.
Celebrate Small Wins – Did a colleague thank you for your perspective? Did you feel lighter after posting? Acknowledge it.

7. Overcoming the Fear of “Being Labelled”

The biggest mental block is the fear that once you pick a side, you’ll be pigeonholed forever. Remember:

Labels are tools, not prisons. “Activist” can open doors to collaborations you’d otherwise miss.
Your side can evolve. As new information arrives, you can pivot—just be transparent about the change.
People respect consistency more than conformity. A brand that constantly flips its stance loses trust faster than one that stands firm, even when unpopular.

Closing Thought

“Speak yourself your own way” isn’t a call for loudness; it’s a summons for honesty. It’s the invitation to pick a side, not because the world demands it, but because your inner compass demands it. When you do, you carve out a space where others can find you, understand you, and, most importantly, choose to walk alongside you.

So, what side will you claim today? Write it, shout it, tweet it, discuss it over coffee—just make sure it’s yours, unmistakably and unapologetically.

Your voice is the most valuable currency you have. Spend it wisely.

Ready to take the first step? Drop a comment below with your one‑sentence declaration. Let’s start a dialogue that proves speaking for yourself, your own way, really does change the conversation.

What I learned about writing – Do you have a pet writing project or subject

In my case, I do. The history of my family. This had only become a project in the last few months, and it is one of those things that we would all like to know something about, and probably think it’s too hard to do.

After all, time passes, the first-hand sources of material die, and you have to go the hard road and start digging for information. I’m lucky in a sense, my older brother has been doing this for a few years now and has been visiting the places where we came from.

But, from my standpoint, this is an excellent exercise in characterisation, especially if you want to write historical fiction. It has led me down a path of searching for records in the most unlikely places, discovering just how much information from the past has been digitised and is accessible.

It has also led to the discovery of newspaper archives, one of the more interesting sources of information, and just a little thrill every time I uncover another snippet about one of my ancestors.

And no, not yet, have I discovered a true gem of a discovery, though one path led to a possible connection, very remote, to J R R Tolkien, and another to Harriet Beecher Stowe.

They have yet to be proved, but I don’t think we could be that lucky.

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself, as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters, Harry and Alison, other issues are driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact that he has a beautiful and desirable wife, his belief that she is the object of other men’s desires, and, in particular, his immediate superior’s.

Between observation, the less-than-honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, and she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, is that nothing is ever what it seems.

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Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

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An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

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With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.

At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6^th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.

Just in case.

newechocover5rs

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words