Author: aloysius5

Over the years, I have traveled extensively and kept journals, with the idea that one day all of those places would become locations in books. Notebooks filled with odd characters, people and incidents observed, and whole tracts of stories written when the on the spot inspiration has been a driving force. All of this is the basis of the first three novels, Sunday In New York, set, of course, in New York, probably my favorite city in the world, “Echoes From The Past’ equally set in New York, Brooklyn Heights and Philadelphia. The third, The Devil You Don’t, travels through Europe, starting in Geneva, moving to Rome, then Sorrento, and then to Venice. Now, my passion to write is fuelled by travel and fine dining. When I take a break from these, I get to torment my three wonderful grandchildren whom I actively encourage to read as much as they can, and more recently to also write. As for almost every other writer, I would not be able to do any of this without my wife who has put up with my moodiness, the times when I'm locked away in a room trying to push out another 2,000 words, and yet despite everything still puts up with me. I wish I could say the same for our cat. Alas, I am still trying to work out how to be his friend!

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

One Day in Santiago? Make It Unforgettable With One Iconic Stop

Your 24‑hour layover, a single must‑see spot, and a story you’ll retell forever.

Why One Place Can Change a Whole Day

A layover is a sprint, not a marathon. You’re juggling luggage, flight‑times, and the inevitable jet‑lag, so the temptation is to “see everything.” The truth is, quality beats quantity. Pick a destination that captures the soul of the city, offers a splash of culture, a pinch of adventure, and an unbeatable view for that Instagram‑ready shot — and you’ve got a day you’ll remember long after you’re back on the tarmac.

In Santiago, that place is Cerro San Cristóbal, the crown jewel of the city’s sprawling Parque Metropolitano. It’s a natural high point, a cultural hub, and a shortcut to the essence of Chile’s capital, all wrapped into one unforgettable experience.

Cerro San Cristóbal: The One‑Stop‑Shop for a Memorable Stopover

What it offersWhy it matters for a 1‑day layover
Panoramic 360° city viewInstantly see Santiago’s skyline, Andes backdrop, and the Pacific Ocean on a clear day.
Easy access via funicular or cable carNo need for a long trek; you’re up in minutes.
Cultural landmarks (Statue of the Virgin, historic shrine, Japanese garden)A taste of Chilean faith, history, and international flair.
Botanical garden & zooA quick stroll among native flora or a peek at local wildlife if you have extra minutes.
Food & drink (Café San Cristóbal, food trucks)Refuel with a Chilean coffee, a “completo” hot dog, or a fresh fruit jug.
Free or low‑cost entryKeeps your budget intact for the rest of the trip.

How to Turn the Visit Into a Perfect 24‑Hour Itinerary

1️⃣ Before You Land – Set Yourself Up for Success

ActionDetails
Store your luggageUse lockers at Estación Central (metro Line 1) or the SCL Airport “Baggage Concierge” (≈ USD 4 per bag, 8‑hour limit).
Grab a Metro cardPurchase a Bip! card at the airport (cash or card) – it works on Metro, buses, and the funicular.
Check the weatherSantiago’s climate is Mediterranean: sunny most of the year, cool evenings in winter. Pack a light jacket for the summit.
Download the “Metro de Santiago” appReal‑time train arrivals, route maps, and fare calculator.

2️⃣ Morning – Touch Down, Freshen Up, Head to the City

  • 07:00 – 08:00 – Clear customs, store bags, and catch the Airport Express Bus (Bus 184) to Estación Pajaritos (Metro Line 1).
  • 08:30 – Hop on the Metro (green line) toward “Los Dominicos.” Get off at “Baquedano” (the interchange for Line 5) and transfer to Line 5 (green) toward “Plaza de Maipú.”
  • 09:00 – Arrive at “Plaza de Maipo” station – a short 5‑minute walk to the base of Cerro San Cristóbal.

3️⃣ Mid‑Morning – Ascend to the Summit

  • 09:10 – Purchase a funicular ticket (≈ CLP 650, ~USD 0.80). The ride is a nostalgic wooden carriage that climbs steeply in ~3 minutes.
  • 09:15 – Step out at the Cerro San Cristóbal station and follow the paved path to the Statue of the Virgin Mary (the highest point).
  • 09:30 – 10:30 – Take in the view. Snap panoramas of the Andes, the Mapocho River, and the bustling downtown. If you’re lucky, you’ll see snow‑capped peaks—perfect for those “I’m in the Andes” photos.

4️⃣ Late Morning – A Taste of Chilean Culture

  • 10:30 – 11:30 – Wander down to the Santiago Metropolitan Park:
    • Japanese Garden – A serene oasis with koi ponds and traditional tea houses.
    • Santuario de la Inmaculada Concepción – A small chapel with historic murals.
    • Botanical Terrace – Spot native flora like caupolí and copihue (Chile’s national flower).

5️⃣ Lunch Break – Eat Like a Local

  • 11:30 – 12:30 – Head to Café San Cristóbal (right near the funicular exit). Order a “café con leche” and a completo (hot dog topped with avocado, mayo, tomato, and sauerkraut). Pair it with a freshly squeezed “mote con huesillos” (a sweet peach‑nectar drink) for a truly Chilean experience.

6️⃣ Early Afternoon – Quick City Sweep (Optional)

If you have a few extra hours before your next flight, you can:

  • **Take the Cerro San Cristóbal cable car (Teleférico) down to Pío Nero station and hop on Metro Line 5 to “Baquedano.”
  • Stroll through Plaza de Armas, the historic heart of Santiago, to see the Catedral Metropolitana and Museo Histórico Nacional (both free).
  • Grab a quick pastel de choclo (corn pie) from a street vendor.

7️⃣ Return to the Airport

  • 13:30 – 14:30 – Retrieve your luggage at the locker, catch the Metro back to Estación Pajaritos, then the Airport Express Bus to SCL.
  • 15:00 – Arrive at the terminal, giving you plenty of time for security and a relaxed boarding.

Insider Pro Tips – Make the Most of Your Cerro San Cristóbal Visit

TipWhy It Helps
Visit on a weekdayFewer locals and tourists mean shorter lines for the funicular and more space for photos.
Bring a compact rain jacketEven on sunny days, a sudden drizzle can roll in from the Andes.
Carry a small power bankYou’ll be snapping photos and using maps non‑stop.
Buy a “Bip!” card before you landSaves you from hunting for a ticket booth after a long flight.
Ask the funicular operator for the “best photo spot” – usually the bench right in front of the Virgin statue.Locals know the golden hour lighting.
Don’t skip the Japanese Garden – it’s a hidden gem that many tourists miss.Adds a tranquil break to your high‑altitude adventure.

The Bottom Line: One Stop, Unlimited Memories

When you have only 24 hours in a vibrant capital like Santiago, you don’t need to cram every museum and market into your schedule. Cerro San Cristóbal delivers a panoramic snapshot of the city, a dose of Chilean culture, and a dash of adventure—all accessible within an hour of the airport.

Takeaway: If you can only see one place during a brief stopover in Santiago, climb Cerro San Cristóbal. From the moment the funicular pulls you up to when you sip a glass of fresh juice beneath the Andean peaks, you’ll carry a piece of Chile home with you.

Ready to make your layover legendary?

Pack a light jacket, grab a Bip! card, and set your sights on the hill that watches over Santiago. Your one‑day adventure starts at the top — and the memories will stay with you forever. Safe travels! 

✈️🌄

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 them.

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’.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – Beyond the second novel

The art of the series finale

…

The Art of the Series Finale (Without Actually Ending): How to Resolve Every Story on Its Own Terms

If you’re writing a book series, you’re playing a delicate psychological game with your readers. On one hand, you want to hook them so deeply that they immediately pre-order the next instalment. On the other hand, you have to deliver a satisfying reading experience for the book they just spent hours devouring.

Many aspiring series authors fall into a common trap: they treat an individual book as merely a glorified chapter in a massive, unending epic. They leave major storylines dangling, refuse to give the protagonist a definitive win, and roll the credits on a frustrating cliff-hanger.

The result? Disgruntled readers who feel cheated out of a complete narrative arc.

So, how do you keep the overarching plot of your series chugging along while still giving readers the satisfaction they crave? The secret lies in a golden rule of serialised storytelling: Make sure each story is resolved on its own terms.

Let’s dive into why this matters, the common pitfalls to avoid, and how you can master the balancing act of episodic resolution within a grand series arc.

The Myth of the Endless Middle

Some writers balk at the idea of providing a resolution at the end of each story in their series. “Surely,” they think, “the whole point is to keep the plot going, right?”

Well, yes… and no.

It is true that series fiction relies on momentum. You want readers to turn the final page of Book 1 and immediately race to buy Book 2. However, stretching a single plotline across multiple books without providing intermediate victories is a recipe for reader fatigue.

If you don’t provide some kind of resolution at the end of each novel, your reader will be left feeling frustrated that the story didn’t go anywhere. Without a self-contained narrative victory, the ending will probably come off as abrupt, meandering, and—worst of all—incomplete.

Readers are willing to invest their time in a multi-book journey, but they want milestones along the way. They want to feel like the protagonist’s struggles in this specific book mattered.

The Balancing Act: Resolution vs. Continuation

Of course, you don’t want to resolve everything, either. If you tie up every single loose end, answer every lingering mystery, and defeat the ultimate evil once and for all, you’ve just written a standalone novel—not a series.

You still need to keep elements of your overarching plot going for the next installment. So, what is an author to do?

The key is to resolve a key element of that individual story, without resolving the plot of the whole series.

Think of it like a single season of a great television drama. By the end of the season finale, the immediate threat of that season is dealt with, and the characters catch their breath. But the larger, series-spanning mystery deepens, or a new threat emerges just as the credits roll.

In novel terms, this might look like:

  • The Villain: The antagonist’s specific, localised evil plan for this book is foiled, but the villain manages to escape and live to fight another day.
  • The Protagonist: Your hero achieves a crucial, hard-fought goal—like rescuing a specific mentor or finding a magical artifact—but realises this artifact only points the way to a much larger war.
  • The Romance: The two main characters finally admit their feelings and get together, but now they must face an external kingdom-wide crisis side-by-side.

By wrapping up the micro-plot while keeping the macro-plot alive, you give the reader the best of both worlds: the dopamine hit of a satisfying conclusion, and the irresistible itch of anticipation for what comes next.

The Setup: Why Timing is Everything

You can’t just slap a random resolution onto the end of your book and call it a day. For a resolution to feel earned, it has to be integrated into the DNA of the story from the very beginning.

To pull this off successfully, follow these rules:

  1. Establish the stakes early: Set up the specific element that you’re going to resolve towards the beginning of your story.
  2. Keep it central: Ensure this objective remains a central issue throughout the narrative.
  3. Avoid last-minute reveals: It won’t feel like a true resolution if the thing you’re resolving only comes into focus in the final three chapters, or if it never really seemed all that important to begin with.

When a reader looks back at the journey, they should see a clear trajectory: Problem introduced, obstacles faced, struggle ensued, problem solved (with new complications on the horizon).

Final Thoughts: Satisfy Today, Hook Tomorrow

Writing a series is an exercise in pacing and promises. Your primary promise to the reader is that if they invest their time in your book, they will get a complete, emotionally resonant experience.

By making sure each story is resolved on its own terms, you honor that promise. You leave your readers feeling triumphant, deeply connected to your characters, and emotionally satisfied—which makes them more than eager to follow you into the very next adventure.

…

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

I remembered a bang.

I remembered the car slewing sideways.

I remembered 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 that I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment, was the fact that 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. Other 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 that if he were, 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 it. “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 that 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  2024-2026

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 64

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, 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.

Things are about to get complicated…

There were so many pieces to this puzzle that most of it defied logic.

According to Quigley/O’Connell, Severin and Maury were the security guards at the lab where the USB secrets originated.  Their job had been to make sure the data wasn’t stolen and failed miserably.  But the inference was made that they had helped the person smuggle the data out.

At that time the data was stolen by a male scientist and put on the USB.  That scientist had a wife, Anna. Sometime after the data removal, the male scientist was murdered, and Anna, his wife, got a hold of the USB.

Quigley/O’Connell also asserted that he believed Severin and Maury helped her smuggle the data out of the facility.  Was it possible she was having an affair with one or the other, possibly Severin.  He seemed the more potential candidate.

So fact: data is stolen, data finds its way to Anna, and Severin let her leave the complex with the data.

The next question:  when did the data go up for sale, or, as Quigley/O’Connell said, become available for the newspapers to bid on?  And, following that, when did Dobbin find out, and use O’Connell to arrange for the purchase and delivery of the data.

That then led to when Severin and Maury realised that Anna had double-crossed them because that would be the only reason why they would set up an oversight surveillance team to follow the man they assumed was going to buy the data from Anna.

Why was there a six-month hiatus?  Was it because Anna had to stay in hiding until the ruckus about the theft blew over.  Did the owners of the lab actually tell anyone what had happened?  No, it seems.

So, need to find out why it took six months to seal the deal.

Next fact, Severin’s surveillance operation swings into action when O’Connell; goes to pick up the data.  The date was specific because it had been on Severin’s calendar at the training facility.

The surveillance goes awry.

The café where the meeting is to take place explodes when a bomb goes off.  O’Connell did not go in and was spared.  Whoever was in the café was thought to be killed and the USB was lost.  Later analysis of the CCTV footage at the time showed Anna rising from the ashes.  She still has the USB.

But…

Everyone believed because O’Connell survived the explosion, he had obtained the USB and became the focus of their attention.  And forces the continuation of the surveillance operation, when I tracked him to an alley where he was shot and killed.

Question:  How did the sniper know to be at that alley for the shot?

It is at this point that O’Connell advises he is working for Dobbin.  Thus, Dobbin knows about the USB and the history of it.  Dobbin had arranged to meet O’Connell at that alley, and had he been killed by the sniper or not, was taking him away.  Dobbin no doubt discovers at this point there is no USB in O’Connell’s hands.

Inference:  Dobbin was tracking O’Connell.  He had to be, to know where he was and for his squad to get there so quickly.

New Twist:  O’Connell discovered something about Dobbin, and disappears, presumably to re-hook up with Anna, who is now Josephine.  Dobbin employs me to find O’Connell and the USB but doesn’t say why O’Connell had gone rogue.

Assumption:  Josephine/Anna kills both Severin and Maury.  Why then does she torture Maury before killing him.  He doesn’t have the USB or any information useful to her.

Fact:  Dobbin has Jan on secondment from MI6.  Why, and for what purpose.  Jan is also working with Severin.  Why?  Dobbin says she is using initiative, but what is she after?

Supposition, did Jan kill Severin and Maury.  Based on what I saw at the park when I went to see him, it looked like Jan, but when we caught her, she furiously denied the accusation.  A good act or the truth? 

And if it wasn’t her, then who did kill them, and then more recently O’Connell, and why?

Fact:  Anna still had both the USBs and was running.

Fact:  O’Connell was with Anna up to the point where he was killed.  Logically it had to be Anna, not wanting to share the five million.  Greed trumps common sense.

What was left out of all of this was Monica and what she knew of and was party to, along with her operative, Joanne.  She had always been lurking on the fringe of my investigation, but I was beginning to think I’d been tiled by Joanne the whole time.

They were not in the room, so I had only the people in front of me to fill in the gaps.

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© Charles Heath 2020-2023

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

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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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The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 29

Sometimes the easiest solution…

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If I was to assume the recent visit by one of the so-called pirate ships as a benchmark for transporting a person between ships, then we’d have to get closer to the larger transport vessel where our crew member, logically, was being held.

The fact I was contemplating it was after the discussion with O’Mara, which, quite frankly, was like something out of a science fiction novel.

He’d started it with, “We have been working on a plan “

The same plan, I presumed, that the Lt Colonel had been referring to, only this time with more detail.

“You might not be aware that every member of this crew has a specific marker in their system that both enables us to track where they are, within a reasonable distance, and monitor their well-being.”

I was going to ask exactly what he meant by that, but amongst the reading material I’d been given before boarding, was a paper on the advances in medical science and how this related to space travel.

We all had a series of vaccinations, and I assumed one was to give us that specific marker. I suspect another was to give us nanites that would aid in our recovery as well as maintain our health in somewhat trying circumstances.

And, no, we’re were not meant to become super-soldiers, though work was being progressed on that too.

“It gives us the ability to track our people, and, yes, the two crew members’ life signs came back when we arrived here, and we are currently monitoring the scientist. That’s to say we know where she is, and that she had not been harmed.”

There was only one point about the plan that held any concern, we just didn’t transport people, not because we couldn’t, but because of the risk. Cargo was fine, but people were a little different. There had been testing, and it had worked, but then problems occurred, and it took only the slightest of issues during the transfer, for it to go wrong. After three accidental deaths, it was decided to ban it until the process could be more refined.

Of course, in line with everything else of this ship, the transporters were the latest versions with considerably upgraded hardware. The distance was still a problem, but getting a lock onto an individual was easier with the new markers provided to this crew.

We were, for all intents and purposes, guinea pigs for the new system, something else I didn’t know until now.

The question was, would she want to be transported? The fact the pirate ships were able to transport people with success was interesting given they would only have the old equipment, but they had an incentive to use it, it was a primary means for them to escape.

And that, too, had raised another issue, they had to have a marker, not necessarily the result of a vaccination, it could be a small device, and that could only be given to them by the guards, which meant it was likely the off-world prison authority was corrupt, not unheard of since it had been contracted out. It was just another paragraph in a report that was growing exponentially in size.

The Admiral was surprised to hear from me. I thought it best, in one of those cover your rear moments, to give him a heads up on what we were planning to do.

But to a more important matter I was sure he would be interested in hearing, “The trial for running at a much faster speed was a success, and that we are closer to travelling at the speed of light. But it seems we are not the first people to do so. It seems the people who stole the plutonium have the same capability.”

“The aliens?”

“No. Our scans of their ships and personnel show they are not. We believe the ships are older vessels discarded on the edge of space, refitted, and manned by escaped convicts from the Mars mining prison.” Saying it out loud didn’t quite sound the same as it had in my head.

“Or it is the result of a country that is not exactly playing by the rules that everyone agreed to for the exploration and exploitation of space.”

“So it was known we might run into some people who have another agenda?”

“Not in that direction, no.”

“Well, it seems they have a base on or under the surface of one of Uranus’s moons called Oberon. I suspect the plutonium is to fuel their base, which is far enough out of the mainstream that we might not have discovered it for years.”

“You then have to wonder why they told you about it?”

That answer was provided in a sudden and alarming manner.

“Bridge to Captain, we have three incoming vessels, and I think they are not here for a social visit.”

To the Admiral, “I have to go. Let’s hope the weapons we have are adequate.” I cut the call, saying, “Be there ASAP. Is the gunnery sergeant at her post?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell her she has permission to return fire if they attack.”

“Very good.”

I had considered why they hadn’t attacked when they had the chance earlier, but perhaps that visit was just to return the Captain’s body. If they were privy to information about our vessel, they might know of its capabilities, and not wish to engage. Of course, there was another reason, perhaps they were waiting until all three ships were free, and assume there was safety in numbers.

Whatever the reasons, we’d soon find out.

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© Charles Heath 2021

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 11

I remember hearing one day, a line from a poem, ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’.

Little did I know at the time it was the first line of a poem by William Wordsworth, and mentioned something else, daffodils, and I had a moment where a memory came back from when I was about five, gathering daffodils in a field behind the house we lived in.

But, how often is it we look at clouds and try to make them into something else we’ve seen before?

Clouds are the subject of many conversations, like he’s got his head in the clouds, not literally of course in this instance, just that he, or it could be a she, if far removed from reality.

Dark clouds are associated with ill will and infamy, e.g. he was born under a dark cloud. I heard my grandmother use that expression once, and wondered what she meant by it, because, being a child, it was a literal interpretation, that dark clouds brought heavy rain, and he go ‘very wet’.

I’ve been caught out by dark clouds too, misjudging how long before they arrive, and it always seems like next to no time before you, and the washing on the line get a thorough soaking.

These days, the cloud now means something else entirely, though based on an old analogy, that we store our computer files in the cloud, which simply means at a remote location on someone else’s computer. With file sizes the way they are, it’s not practical to store them on our own smallish computers.

And, isn’t it fun when you are flying through the clouds?

Not!

In those cases, going up or going down in a plane, it’s a very bumpy ride, and isn’t it quite strange when you are flying above the clouds, or can just see mountain tops appearing through the blanket of white.

Of course, you can have your head in the clouds and not be off with the fairies, if you are on a mountain when the clouds have come down so low you can touch them. Sometimes it’s called mist or fog, but there are such things as low clouds. I’ve seen them.

And, as for a single cloud as inspiration…

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The story starts,

I was sitting down in a quiet corner of the park, the sound of children playing just audible in the background, along with a lawn mower, and the distant sounds of civilization.

I wanted to get as far away as possible, but in the concrete jungle that was not possible.

IT had bene a difficult morning, juggling customer complaints with the the call from the girl I thought was the one, but who had decided we were going in different directions and it was time.

Yes, we were literally going in different directions, she was heading off to Boston to start a new job, one that she only just decided to tell me about.

Was I disappointed? Just a little. Was it inevitable? My best friend thought so, and had said he had noticed a change in her. I had too, but was hoping it was a passing phaze.

I looked up, and there was a single cloud moving slowly across the sky, perhaps chasing after others that had passed before it.

Was it an omen. Would I become like that cloud, alone, always chasing after the impossible dream?

My phone vibrated, and I took it out. A message.

It was from the girl once of my dreams. I had not expected to hear from her again.

It was a short message, just one word.

“Help”

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© Charles Heath 2021

What I learned about writing – You cannot force yourself to write

Yesterday, the dark clouds were swirling overhead, and there was an air of impending doom all around.

Much like those few hours before a storm is about to hit, one of those really big ones with very loud thunder that feels like it’s over your roof and not moving, and, a short time later, the deafening sound of torrential rain.

You know the feeling, you could cut the air with a knife.

I’ve been in that state of mind for some time now, but yesterday something changed.

It wasn’t the internet, that was still as dreadful as ever, despite the assurances we get that we will have the best internet in the world.  The best joke, I think they mean, after spending $50 billion on it, I had better speeds on my 300 baud modem 20 odd years ago.

Sorry, I had to have another whinge about it.  Politicians are such liars.

No, it was not something I could put my finger on.

But…

What was it?

Yes…

I found I could write again.

Well, I could always write, but it was a matter of forcing myself to sit down and do it, as if it were a chore I really didn’t want to do.   And how easy it was to get sidetracked on social media.

Not today.

Today, I simply looked at the writing I wanted to do, and it all came to me without having to stare at the blank screen, waiting for the words to appear, and then find myself deleting them over and over.  Yesterday, writing 500 words really meant writing 5,000 crappy words and continually revising.

Today I am going to write 5,000 words, and it will be all good.

Let’s hope it continues into tomorrow.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 275

Day 275 – To win or not to win literary contests

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Get to the Point, Make ‘Em Laugh, and Ignore Fay Weldon (A Little Bit)

Let’s rip the bandage off right away: The most boring book wins literary contests.

That gem of a quote comes from the fiercely witty British novelist Fay Weldon. And honestly? She wasn’t wrong. Think about the last time you read a critically acclaimed, prize-winning heavyweight novel. Did it feel like a brisk jog through a comedy club, or did it feel like trudging through an intellectual swamp of heavy metaphors, agonizing grief, and sentences that stretch across three paragraphs?

Exactly.

We live in a culture obsessed with efficiency. Get to the point! Cut the fluff! Give me the TL;DR! But writing—especially the kind of writing you actually want to read and write—often rebels against this sterile efficiency.

So, what is the ultimate writing philosophy? Should we cut straight to the chase and inject a healthy dose of humor, or should we embrace the sprawling, solemn boredom that wins awards? Let’s dive in.

The Cult of “Get to the Point” (And Why Humor is Our Savior)

In the digital age, attention spans are shorter than a TikTok loop. If your opening paragraph doesn’t hook the reader, introduce a conflict, and promise emotional payoff, they’re gone. Click. Back to Instagram.

Because of this, modern copywriters, bloggers, and even fiction writers are told to get to the point. Brevity is king.

  • The Problem: Being purely concise is dangerously close to being boring. A user manual is concise. A tax form gets straight to the point. Nobody stays up until 3:00 AM crying over the IRS instructions.
  • The Solution: Humour.

Humour is the spoonful of sugar that helps the conciseness go down. It’s the human element. When you get to the point while making the reader snort coffee out of their nose, you’ve won. You’ve respected their time (by not rambling) while entertaining their soul (by being funny).

If Fay Weldon says boring books win prizes, humour is the rebellion against the prize committee. It says: I want people to actually enjoy this.

Why Fay Weldon Was Right About “Boring” Books

Let’s not throw Fay under the bus just yet. She knew the literary establishment’s inner workings better than most.

Literary prizes—think of the Booker, the Pulitzer, or heavy-hitting academic nods—often reward gravitas. A book about a happy couple who communicate well, pay their mortgage on time, and occasionally go to brunch does not win awards. Why? Because it lacks suffering and significance.

To win a literary contest, a book usually needs:

  1. Misery: Preferably historical, existential, or deeply psychological.
  2. Slow pacing: Often disguised as “rich atmospheric development.”
  3. Sentences that require a semicolon and a master’s degree to decode.

Weldon’s warning is a liberation for everyday writers. She is essentially telling us: Stop writing for the judges in ivory towers. Write for the human beings on the subway.

If your book is so thrilling, funny, and fast-paced that it disqualifies you from winning a dusty trophy in a wood-paneled room in London or New York… take it as a compliment.

Can You Have It All? (Point + Humor + Depth)

Is it a zero-sum game? Must we choose between being a humor-filled, punchy writer who people actually read, and a solemn literary genius who wins medals that nobody checks out at the library?

Not necessarily. The sweet spot of modern writing lies in the intersection of clarity, wit, and depth.

You can get to the point quickly, keep the reader laughing, and still deliver a profound emotional punch. Think of authors like David Sedaris, Nora Ephron, or Kurt Vonnegut. They didn’t write boring, prize-winning snoozefests. They wrote punchy, hilarious, deeply moving works that outlived the prize committees anyway.

How to Apply This to Your Writing:

  1. Respect the reader’s time: Get to the point. Don’t spend three pages describing a tree unless that tree is plotting a murder.
  2. Disarm with wit: Use humour as a vehicle for truth. If you have a heavy point to make, a joke is the best shock absorber.
  3. Ignore the gatekeepers: If you write something genuinely entertaining, fast-paced, and funny, the literary establishment might sniff at it. Let them. You’ll be too busy having an audience to notice.

The Verdict

So, what is the best thing to do?

Fay Weldon gave us great advice: don’t write the boring book just to impress the critics. But we also don’t need to live in a world of purely rushed, hyper-efficient bullet points, either.

The best thing to do is write the book you would want to read. Get to the point, make ’em laugh, and leave the boring, prize-winning misery to the people who enjoy sitting in silence.

What’s your take? Do you prefer a laugh-out-loud page-turner, or do you secretly love a 600-page historical epic about melancholy? Let us know in the comments below!

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