Category: #amwriting

“What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.

Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.

They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?

When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.

When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.

Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.

Find the kindle version on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 18

Can we say, full steam ahead?

…

The captain and the Chief Engineer were a team. I was on the outside, and I doubted being temporarily being promoted would change that.

And while it might not hamper the running of the ship, there might be pushback on some of my decisions, so it was going to be important to have his support.

But it was time to bring up the reason for my visit. “The Admiral said we have a faster ship than most of us were aware of.”

“Project Alpha. It was need to know, as you can understand.”

“Who exactly is aware of the fact?”

“Three engineers. The captain, the navigator, helmsman, and six engine specialists. Van was going to tell you before the general announcement in a day or so once we’ve gone through the preparations before a short test.”

“It didn’t happen in the trials before the handover?”

“It did, but it was not the resounding success we were expecting. It’s the reason for the delay in departure.”

And the reason I was on the ship at all. Had the ship left when it was.intended, I would have still been on the moon base waiting for transport. The fact I made it at all was all down to fate. Which, for once, was on my side.

“You were on board for the trials?”

“As was Van. You would gave been,too, if you hadn’t got stuck at the moon base.”

“The problem, if it was it was problem, I assume has been fixed?”

“Let’s hope so. We’re going to need it, if what I hear is true.”

“Last question, when?”

“By the time you get back to the bridge. We’ll need to have another talk later.”

“Of course.”

There were so many questions the chief engineer, and obviously the captains best friend certainly on-board the ship, didn’t ask, starting with information on the alien.

I suspect he already knew as much about the alien ship as he needed.

Back on the bridge it was hard to tell whether anything was happening. Unlike a freighter where there was no more than three present any one time, out of a crew of about twenty. Here, there was about twenty or so, each quietly monitoring systems.

The second now first officer .jumped out of the captains chair the moment he heard the elevator doors open.

“No change, still on course for Uranus.thw two shipyard still there, effectively in our path, no sign of the other ship, but we believed it is cloaked, or at the very least, obscured from our scanners.”

“Very good.”

I took the.few.steps.to the navigation console.where.i could see our trajectory, and.the planet Uranus which intersected.our path.

“Mr Saville.”

He preferred being called by name, not rank.

“Sir?”

“I assume you’re across Project Alpha?”

“Yes.” He had a quizzical expression, that said, how do you know about it?

“Stand by, were about to see if it works this time.”

Quizzical expression to total concentration. I saw him enter code, and the console change to a different screen.

As I turned to return to the captains seat, not that I felt like sitting in it, I saw a message flashing at the top of his screen, “System awaiting command”.

Umpteen billions worth of research, technology, and man power was sitting on the end of a green button that had the word “go” on it.

We were according to my console, sitting on an SSPD of 3.25. It was close to the tip speed I knew we were capable of, and just under cruise.

I sat. A short announcement. I was not sure what to expect when we moved to a higher speed, but I was guessing it would be similar to what it was like now, a gradual increase in speed, to the maximum.

We’d soon find out.

“Attention all personnel. We are about to run a test on our propulsion unit.”

“Mr Saville.”

“Sir.” He turned to look at me.

“It’s the moment of truth. Let’s go.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

A photograph from the Inspirational bin – 36

This is an inlet near Port Macquarie in northern New South Wales. It is adjacent to a caravan and camping park, close to the ocean and parklands.

But, for our purposes, this scene is going to have a few more interesting connotations than just a few campers going for a jog along the beach, fishing in the estuary, or further out to sea on the other side of the wall in the background.

Firstly, to my favorite kind of story, a spy story…

It’s basically the evil billionaire’s backyard to his island hideaway, and our hero intends to come ashore at night and do battle with the guards, break into the underground holding cells and save the girl.

As always, saving the world comes second!

Or, it’s a place like Fantasy Island, without the landing strip on the beach, where people come to have their fantasies fulfilled. OK, to start there are no robots that are going to go berserk, that’s so ten years ago.

And, no, the hosts won’t be dressed in white safari suits. They went out in the 70s.

Then, I suppose, a story that I like, about people who have secrets, people who are broken, people who just want to get away from everyone else, come to this island where they can live in anonymity, without having to interact with anyone unless they want to.

Two such people accidentally meet.

What happens after that, that’s up to them!

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 55

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

The reason new episodes have been sporadic is that there are other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

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

Things are about to get complicated…

We took the underground to Lancaster Gate and parted ways before crossing the road and entering Hyde Park.  Severin had designated the meeting place as the rotunda, as he called it, in the Italian Gardens.

It was dark, although there was adequate lighting, which made it a good cover for anyone else skulking nearby.  And making it easier for Jennifer, who sensibly dressed in black, to scout.

It took me some time heading slowly towards the stone building.  I was deliberately early, so he might not be there yet.  In the intervening time, I could hear the odd comment from Jennifer, as she looked over the various suspects who were also taking in the aesthetic beauty of the gardens, which would look so much better in daylight.

Oddly enough, in all the times I’d been to Hyde Park, these gardens had never been a point of visiting, such was the allure of the pedal boats on the Serpentine.

I did a slow circuit of the building and saw three people seated inside.  Two women, together, and a man on one side.  It could be him.

“I think he’s already here, just going to check.”

“Nothing stirring out here, so far.”

“Keep alert.”

It was odd hearing a voice almost in my head as if she were next to me.

I came up to the seat in full view of the person sitting on one end of the bench, so as not to alarm them.  I could feel their eyes on me as I sat down.  If it were him, he would talk to me.  I was not going to talk to him.

Something else I noted, there was no direct line of fire from anywhere hidden, so if there was an assassin out there, he would have to do it in the open.  Severin had scouted the place earlier.

“You alone?”  The man spoke for about three or four minutes.  I’d seen him look around, checking for himself that I was not followed.

“As far as I’m aware.”

I moved a little closer.  He was talking very softly.

“What happened to Maury?”

“Tortured and murdered by Dobbin, I believe.  If he knew where the device was, he didn’t give up its location.”

“He wouldn’t.   Dobbin, you say?”

“As far as I can tell.  He was running O’Connell, but you knew that already.”  To save time dancing around the truth, and lessen the time being a target, I added, “Everyone believes O’Connell is still alive.  He didn’t have the device when I searched him.  Who shot him?”

“Not us.  If he is alive, Dobbin must have usurped our cleaners and spirited him away, which means it’s likely Dobbin has the device.”

“He doesn’t.  He co-opted me into his section.  O’Connell appears to have done a runner from him, too.  Did you know O’Connell was on a mission to pick up the device from an intermediary?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that Anna Jacovich was there too?”

“Then you know what’s on the device?”

“I wish I didn’t.  Or that you two were security guards at the Laboratory where Erich stole the data.  What took so long for him to decide to sell it?

“When he was fired by the company after they lost the military contract.   He had no intention of selling it, just getting it into the hands of the public so they would be forced to stop.”

“Except he was killed, and Anna decided she needed an escape plan.”

“Which O’Connell provided by wire transfer.  The money’s gone, and the data didn’t arrive.  It’s still out there.”

“Who was you boss in all this?  Monica?”

“Who.  No.  It’s….”

I heard the phutt sound of a bullet passing through a silencer, and just caught the edge of the barrel retracting from behind one of the pillars.  No need to check him, he was dead, still sitting upright as if nothing had happened.

I got out of the seat and moved towards where the gun had been, trying not to alert the other two sitting on the other side, facing the other way, fortunately.

When I reached the outside, there was no one.  A quick scan in the darkness, my eyesight hampered by going from light to dark, making images blurry at best.

Then I heard a thunk, and a triumphant “Gotcha.”

I hoped that was Jennifer with the shooter.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2026

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 50

Day 50 – Bad poetry

…

When “Feeling” Becomes a Pitfall: Unpacking the Paradox of Bad Poetry

“All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling – to be natural is obvious, to be obvious is inartistic.”

It’s a line that sounds like a warning scrawled on the back of a notebook in a cramped dorm room, yet it manages to capture a timeless tension every poet — amateur or seasoned — wrestles with. How can something as sincere as genuine feeling produce poetry that feels flat, trite, or outright “bad”? Why does the very act of being “natural” sometimes devolve into being “obvious,” and why does that matter?

In this post, we’ll:

  1. Parse the quote – what does it really say?
  2. Explore why raw feeling can become a liability.
  3. Distinguish “natural” from “obvious.”
  4. Look at real‑world examples of both the curse and the cure.
  5. Offer practical steps for turning heartfelt material into artful poetry.

Grab a cup of tea, settle in, and let’s unpack the paradox that haunts any writer who’s ever tried to put a beating heart on a page.

1. The Quote in Plain English

All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling – to be natural is obvious, to be obvious is inartistic.

Break it down:

PhraseWhat it means (in everyday terms)
All bad poetry springs from genuine feelingMany poems that feel “bad” begin with a sincere emotional impulse. The poet isn’t faking; they truly care.
To be natural is obviousWhen a poet writes “naturally,” the language often lands exactly where you’d expect it—no surprise, no tension.
To be obvious is inartisticPoetry that states the obvious, that tells you exactly what you think you already know, fails to engage the reader’s imagination.

At its core, the statement warns against confusing emotional honesty with artistic success. A poem can be heartfelt and terrible if it leans on the feeling alone and never transforms it.

2. Why “Genuine Feeling” Can Produce Bad Poetry

a. Emotion is a Raw Material, Not a Finished Product

Feelings are like unrefined ore: rich, but still needing smelting. When a poet simply pours the ore onto the page, the result is heavy, unshaped, and often unpalatable.

Example: “I’m sad because my dog died. I miss him so much. I cry every night.”
That’s a statement of feeling, not a poem about feeling.

b. The Comfort Zone of the “I-Statement”

Writing “I feel ___” is a reflex. It’s comfortable because it bypasses the challenge of showing rather than telling. The poet leans on the reader’s empathy, assuming the raw confession will do the heavy lifting. Often, it doesn’t.

c. Cliché is the Natural Offspring of Unexamined Feeling

When we rely on our first, most immediate emotional response, we tend to reach for the language we already hear in the world around us. “Heartbreak” becomes “a broken heart,” “sadness” becomes “tears,” “love” becomes “a fire.” The result: a poem that sounds like the collective chorus of every greeting‑card writer that came before.

3. Natural vs. Obvious – How the Two Diverge

NaturalObvious
Feels inevitable – the word choice fits the image like a glove.Feels predictable – the reader sees the punchline before the line lands.
Leaves room for inference – the poem hints, implies, and trusts the reader to fill gaps.Leaves no gaps – the poem tells you everything, removing the reader’s agency.
Often uses fresh metaphor or unexpected syntax to convey a familiar feeling.Relies on familiar metaphor (e.g., “heart is a rose”) and straightforward diction.
Creates tension – the reader must stay awake to parse what the poem doesn’t say.Creates ease – the reader can skim without thinking.

In short: naturalness is the feeling of inevitability; obviousness is the feeling of inevitability without any surprise. Good poetry walks the line between the two, making the inevitable feel new.

4. Case Studies: When Feeling Wins, When It Loses

4.1 The “Bad” Example: A Straight‑forward Lament

My mother’s hand was warm,
Now she’s gone, my world is cold.
I miss her like the desert misses rain.

What went wrong?

  • Genuine feeling: The poet truly misses their mother.
  • Obvious language: “Warm,” “cold,” “desert misses rain” are all textbook opposites.
  • No transformation: The poem says, “I miss my mother,” without inventing a new way to show that loss.

4.2 The “Good” Example: Transformative Imagery

She left a kitchen with an empty kettle,
steam still curling in the hallway’s sigh—
a ghost of mornings that never boiled.

What works?

  • Genuine feeling: The poet feels the absence.
  • Natural but non‑obvious: The kettle, steam, and hallway become a metaphor for lingering presence.
  • Transformation: The everyday object becomes a vessel for grief, inviting the reader to taste the silence.

4.3 Why the Difference Matters

The good poem doesn’t tell you directly “I miss her.” It shows—through a half‑filled kettle and lingering steam—that the house (and the poet) is waiting for a ritual that will never happen again. The reader must assemble the emotional puzzle, which creates a deeper, more resonant experience.

5. Turning Genuine Feeling into Artful Poetry

If you’ve ever stared at a notebook full of raw emotions and wondered, “How do I make this poetry?” here are concrete strategies to move from feeling → natural → obvious into feeling → crafted → surprising.

1️⃣ Start with the Emotion, Then Step Back

  1. Write a journal entry (no rhyme, no meter, just the raw feeling).
  2. Read it aloud. Highlight any words or phrases that feel over‑used or too literal.
  3. Identify the core image: What concrete thing does this feeling actually look like, smell like, sound like?

2️⃣ Find a “Metaphorical Lens”

Instead of describing the feeling directly, ask:

  • What object carries a similar weight?
  • Which environment mirrors the internal climate?
  • What action could stand in for the emotional state?

Example: “Grief” becomes “a tide that refuses to recede.”

3️⃣ Play with Form to Force Freshness

  • Enjambment can keep the reader guessing.
  • Unexpected line breaks can shift emphasis.
  • A formal constraint (sonnet, villanelle, ghazal) demands you find fresh ways to fulfil a given structure, preventing the temptation to fall back on clichés.

4️⃣ Use “Defamiliarisation”

Coined by Russian formalist Viktor Shklovsky: make the familiar strange.
Instead of “cold night,” try “the sky’s iron‑clad sigh.”

This technique pushes the poem away from obviousness and back toward natural intrigue.

5️⃣ Invite the Reader to Participate

Leave a gap in the narrative. End a stanza on a half‑finished image, or pose a subtle question. The reader’s mind will work to fill that space, turning raw feeling into a collaborative experience.

6️⃣ Edit Ruthlessly for the “Obvious”

During revision, ask:

  • “Is this line the only way to express this idea?”
  • “What cliché does this echo? Can I replace it with a specific detail?”
  • “Does this line show the feeling, or just tell it?”

If the answer leans toward “tell,” rewrite.

6. The Bigger Picture: Art, Authenticity, and Audience

The quote we started with hints at a deeper philosophical conundrum: If poetry is meant to be an artistic rendering of truth, why does authenticity sometimes feel like a handicap?

  • The audience’s role – Readers come to poetry seeking not just to be understood but to be re‑imagined. A poem that merely mirrors their own feeling offers no new perspective.
  • The artist’s responsibility – The poet must translate—not transcribe—emotion. Translation entails choice, compression, and often, paradox.
  • Historical precedent – Think of Walt Whitman’s “I celebrate myself…” He starts with a personal confession, but he immediately expands that self into a universal, almost mythic, voice. The feeling is genuine, but it becomes a vehicle for something larger.

When poets manage this alchemy, the result is not only beautiful; it is transformative.

7. Quick Takeaways (For the Busy Writer)

ProblemWhy it HappensFix
“I’m sad, so I write sad words.”Overreliance on literal feeling.Find a concrete image that acts as a stand‑in for sadness.
“Everything feels obvious.”Using familiar metaphors without thinking.List clichés, then replace each with a specific, surprising detail.
“My poem feels flat.”Too much telling, not enough showing.Rewrite every line as a scene rather than a statement.
“I can’t get past the first draft.”Fear that editing will kill the feeling.Separate the process: first, pour out the feeling; second, sculpt it.

8. Final Thought: The Art of “In‑Between”

Good poetry lives in the in‑between: between heart and head, feeling and craft, naturalness and surprise. Genuine feeling is the spark; technique, metaphor, and form are the fuel that keep the fire from sputtering out in a puff of obviousness.

So the next time you sit down to write, remember:

Feel first. Then, step away. Then, rebuild.

Let your emotions guide you, but give them a new shape before they become “obviously” bad. In doing so, you honour both the authenticity of your voice and the artistry that makes poetry timeless.

Your turn: Grab a piece of genuine feeling you’ve been holding onto—maybe a recent disappointment, a quiet joy, a stubborn love. Write a short stanza that shows that feeling through an unexpected image. Share it in the comments; let’s see how many of us can turn raw feeling into something delightfully natural—but never obvious.

Happy writing! 🌿✍️

If I only had one day to stop over in Philadelphia, what would I do?

One Day in Philly? Here’s the One Spot That Will Make It Unforgettable

The Situation

You’ve landed at Philadelphia International Airport (PHL) with a twelve‑hour layover. The city’s historic neighbourhoods, world‑class museums, and legendary food scene are all tempting, but you only have a single day to explore. How do you decide what to see, eat, and photograph before you catch your next flight?

The answer is simple: head straight to Reading Terminal Market.

It may sound modest—a bustling indoor food hall tucked away in the heart of Centre City—but this historic market is the perfect microcosm of Philadelphia’s culture, history, and culinary pride. One visit here gives you a taste (literally and figuratively) of everything the City of Brotherly Love has to offer, all within a walkable 5‑minute radius of major sights and public transit.

Why Reading Terminal Market Beats All Other “One‑Stop” Options

What you wantReading Terminal Market delivers
Authentic Philly foodPhilly cheesesteaks, soft pretzels, scrapple, hoagie‑style sandwiches, and sweet treats from generations‑old vendors.
A quick dive into historyHoused in the 1925 Reading Railroad terminal, the building itself is an architectural landmark listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
Convenient locationSteps from the 30th Street Station (Amtrak) and a 2‑minute walk from the subway (Broad Street Line) and the Independence Hall area.
Variety for any palate35+ vendors offering everything from Amish baked goods to international cuisines—no need to pick a single restaurant.
Photo‑ready ambianceThe vaulted ceiling, original marble floors, and bustling stalls create a vibrant backdrop for Instagram‑worthy shots.

In short, Reading Terminal Market is Philadelphia in a nutshell—and you can absorb it all in just a few hours.

Crafting the Perfect One‑Day Itinerary Around the Market

Below is a step‑by‑step guide that squeezes the most enjoyment out of a 12‑hour layover while keeping stress (and travel time) to a minimum.

1️⃣ Arrival & Transit (0–45 min)

  • From the airport: Take the SEPTA Airport Line (direct rail) to 30th Street Station (≈ 12 min). Trains run every 30 minutes; a $5 off‑peak fare works for most travellers.
  • From 30th Street: Walk east 5 minutes to Reading Terminal Market. The path takes you past the iconic Reading Railroad building—a perfect first photo op.

Pro tip: If you have luggage, use the Luggage Storage service at 30th Street Station (available 24/7 for $8 per day). It frees you up to wander unencumbered.

2️⃣ Breakfast at the Market (45–90 min)

  • Must‑try: Hershel’s East Coast Deli for a classic Philly cheesesteak breakfast sandwich (steak, egg, and provolone on a roll).
  • Alternative: Rosa’s Bakery for a flaky, buttery peppercorn croissant and a cup of locally roasted coffee.
  • Why it works: Breakfast here is quick, delicious, and you’re already inside the building where the day’s adventure begins.

3️⃣ Quick History Burst (90–120 min)

  • Walk north a block to Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell (both free, but expect lines). Even a 20‑minute stroll through the historic district gives you a palpable sense of America’s founding moments.
  • Optional: If you’re short on time, simply peek at the Liberty Bell Centre’s exterior from the market’s balcony—photos are just as iconic.

4️⃣ Mid‑Morning Snack & Shopping (120–150 min)

  • Stop at: DiNic’s Roast Pork (the shop that inspired the “Philly’s Best Sandwich” on The Food Network). Grab a Roast Pork Hoagie with provolone, broccoli rabe, and a drizzle of sharp provolone mayo.
  • Shop for: Handmade Pennsylvania Dutch pretzels at Miller’s Pretzel Bakery, or pick up a box of Amish butter cookies—great souvenirs that travel well.

5️⃣ Cultural Interlude (150–210 min)

  • Visit: The Mural Arts Philadelphia collection, just a 10‑minute walk from the market (head west toward the Philadelphia Museum of Art). The neighbourhood is dotted with vibrant murals that tell stories of the city’s neighbourhoods, social movements, and artistic evolution.
  • Snap: The iconic “Rocky Steps” view from the Philadelphia Museum of Art, if you have a few extra minutes. It’s a quick climb (or use the elevator) for that classic cinematic shot.

6️⃣ Lunch – The Big Finish (210–270 min)

  • Signature meal: Pat’s King of Steaks or Geno’s Steaks (the original rivalry) are a short 5‑minute walk north on South 9th Street. Order the classic cheesesteak—thinly sliced ribeye, melted cheese, and a hearty roll.
  • If you’re feeling adventurous: Try the Philly “Italian Hoagie” from Cesar’s inside the market—layers of salami, provolone, capicola, lettuce, tomato, and onions.

7️⃣ Sweet Treat & Coffee (270–300 min)

  • Finish: A slice of cannoli from Cappuccino’s or a soft pretzel from Basset’s—both located inside the market.
  • Coffee: Grab a final cup at Joe Coffee to recharge before you head back to the airport.

8️⃣ Return to the Airport (300‑360 min)

  • Walk back to 30th Street Station, hop the Airport Line to the terminal, and allow at least 45 minutes for security screening before your next flight.

Bottom line: You’ll have sampled Philly’s most iconic foods, brushed past its founding history, and captured a handful of visual memories—all without feeling rushed.

Insider Tips for a Seamless Market Experience

TipDetails
Arrive earlyVendors are freshest in the morning; lines are shorter.
Cash & cardsMost stalls accept cards, but a few (especially smaller bakers) still prefer cash.
Ask for “cheese whiz or provolone?”The classic cheese whiz is iconic, but provolone gets the nod from locals who want a richer flavor.
Bring a reusable bagMany vendors will let you take home leftovers or purchases without extra packaging.
Watch for “Market Days”On Saturdays, a farmer’s market spills onto the adjacent streets—great for fresh produce and artisanal goods.
Stay hydratedPhiladelphia can be surprisingly warm in summer; grab a bottle of local Pennsylvania sparkling water at Tropicana.

The Takeaway: One Spot, Whole City

If you only have a single day in Philadelphia, you could spend it trying to chase every historic monument or museum. But the reality of travel—tight schedules, jet lag, and the desire for genuine experiences—means you need a hub that delivers culture, cuisine, and convenience all at once.

Reading Terminal Market does exactly that. It lets you taste Philadelphia, see its history, and feel the vibrant energy of a city that’s both rooted in the past and alive with modern flavour.

So the next time your itinerary shows a brief stopover, remember: walk into the market, eat like a Philadelphian, and walk out with a day’s worth of memories.

Quick Recap

What to DoWhereApprox. Time
Breakfast (cheesesteak sandwich)Hershel’s Deli, Reading Terminal Market30 min
Liberty Bell & Independence Hall2 blocks north30 min
Roast pork hoagie + pretzel snackDiNic’s & Miller’s30 min
Mural Arts walk & Rocky Steps viewWest toward Museum of Art30 min
Lunch (authentic cheesesteak)Pat’s or Geno’s45 min
Cannoli or pretzel + coffeeInside market15 min
Return to airport30th St. Station → Airport Line45 min

Ready to make your Philadelphia layover unforgettable? Pack a reusable bag, bring an appetite, and let Reading Terminal Market be the heart of your day.

Safe travels, and may your next stop be just as delicious!

What I learned about writing – Seeking feedback from other authors

So, here’s the thing. If I thought I could get James Patterson’s opinion on one of my novels, I would try, but I don’t think, given the prolific output he maintains, that he would have the time to put an amateur like me on the straight and narrow.

But…

Who’s to say that if I found another struggling author like me who was of a mind to offer an opinion, I wouldn’t take it?

I would have to say the best critic would be someone who writes similar genre stories to yours.

So…

Here’s the deal, minus the steak knives.

Join a writing group, a bunch of fellow writers who write the same stuff, and take on board contemporary reviews.

Something else that might help, in the absence of those great authors who probably have no time to look over our work, is to get the opinions of beta readers. I’ve been looking, but it seems a lot of them want payment. I guess there’s a good living out there, but they would have to be both reputable and good at it.

Other than that, there’s always a possibility that one day…

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years.  Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.

But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.

I have high hopes of publishing it mid 2026.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

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

One‑Day Stopover in Boston? Make It Unforgettable With a Walk the Freedom Trail

You’ve just landed in Boston, and the clock is already ticking. Maybe you’re on a lay‑over between two major cities, or perhaps your itinerary squeezes a quick “Boston bite” into a longer East‑Coast tour. With only 24 hours (or less) on the clock, the challenge is simple: what’s the one place that will give you a genuine taste of Boston’s soul without feeling rushed?

The answer is the Freedom Trail—a 2.5‑mile (4 km) red‑brick pathway that stitches together the city’s most iconic historic sites, stunning architecture, and vibrant neighbourhoods. In a single, leisurely stroll you’ll travel from the Boston Common to the waterfront, passing 16 landmarks that tell the story of America’s birth.

Below is a compact, insider‑level guide to turning a brief stopover into a memorable, “I‑was‑there‑and‑I‑loved‑it” experience.

Why the Freedom Trail Beats All Other Single‑Spot Options

FactorFreedom TrailOther Popular Picks (e.g., Fenway, Museum of Fine Arts, Harvard)
Historical depthCovers the entire Revolutionary narrative, from the 1630s Puritan settlement to the 19th‑century abolitionist movement.Usually focus on a single era or theme.
Geographic efficiencyStarts at the oldest public park (Boston Common) and ends at the bustling Harbor, all within walking distance.Many attractions require separate transit legs.
Free & flexibleNo ticket required; you control the pace. Guided tours are optional and inexpensive.Museums and stadiums often have admission fees and timed‑entry constraints.
Photo‑ops galoreIconic backdrops: Granary Burying Ground, Paul Revere’s House, Old State House, USS Constitution.Good spots but fewer in a single walk.
Local vibePasses bustling neighborhoods (Beacon Hill, North End) where you can grab a quick bite of authentic clam chowder or cannoli.Usually isolated to a single district.

In short, the Freedom Trail is a micro‑tour of Boston—the perfect “one‑place” answer for a short stopover.

The Perfect One‑Day Itinerary: Freedom Trail Edition

TimeActivityPractical Tips
08:30 – ArrivalDrop off luggage at a Luggage Storage service near South Station or the Back Bay (many hotels offer it free for guests).Use the Boston’s “Stow It” app to find nearby lockers.
09:00 – Boston CommonStart at the Boston Common—America’s oldest public park. Grab a coffee from a vendor on the Park Plaza side and soak in the early‑morning calm.Look for the “Start of the Freedom Trail” brass plaque near the Park Street Station entrance.
09:30 – Massachusetts State HouseA quick detour to admire the gold‑dome (photo ops on the lawn).Free exterior view; interior tours run hourly but need a reservation.
10:00 – Granary Burying GroundWalk past the graves of Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, and John Hancock.Listen to a short audio guide via the “Freedom Trail Walk” app (free).
10:30 – Old South Meeting HouseThe rally point for the Boston Tea Party.Quick 5‑minute interior peek; guided tours are 15 min, usually starting on the hour.
11:00 – Old State House & Boston Massacre SiteWitness the birthplace of the first American public school and the infamous 1770 incident.Check for a “Free History Talk” at the State House—often given at 11 am.
11:30 – Faneuil Hall MarketplaceGrab a quick lunch: lobster roll at Boston Chowda Co., or a classic New England clam chowder from Union Oyster House (America’s oldest continuously operating restaurant).Keep your ticket stub from the “Freedom Trail” map—there’s a small discount at some stalls.
12:30 – Paul Revere House (North End)Walk the cobblestone streets of the historic North End. Peek into the modest home of the midnight rider.If you’re craving sweets, pop into Mike’s Pastry for the famous cannoli (a perfect post‑tour treat).
13:30 – Old North ChurchThe “One if by land, two if by sea” lantern‑signal site.A brief 10‑minute interior visit; the bell tower is open for a small fee (great panoramic view of the harbor).
14:30 – USS Constitution (“Old Ironsides”)Head down to the Charlestown Navy Yard (short subway ride: Orange Line → Community College → walk). Marvel at the oldest commissioned warship afloat.Free entry; the Constitution Museum is optional but worth a quick glance.
15:30 – Bunker Hill MonumentClimb the 294 steps for sweeping views of Boston’s skyline and the harbor.Take a 10‑minute break at the Bunker Hill Monument Museum café—brew a fresh cup and soak the panorama.
16:30 – Return to South StationHop on the Silver Line back to the airport or your next destination. If time allows, stroll through the nearby Harborwalk for a final seaside breeze.Use the MBTA “CharlieCard” or the “mTicket” app for easy fare payment.
17:30 – DepartureYou’ve just turned a one‑day lay‑over into a living history lesson!Keep your Freedom Trail map as a souvenir—or snap that final photo at the Boston Skyline from the waterfront.

Total walking distance: ~2.5 miles (plus short subway hops).
Time required: ~8 hours (including meals and brief rests).

Pro Tips for Making the Most of Your Freedom Trail Stopover

  1. Download a Free Audio Guide
    • The official “Freedom Trail Walk” app (iOS/Android) offers narrated stories for each landmark—perfect for pacing yourself without a guide.
  2. Wear Comfortable Shoes
    • Boston’s streets are a mix of brick, cobblestone, and modern pavement. A pair of well‑broken‑in sneakers will keep you moving.
  3. Layer Up
    • Early spring and fall mornings can be chilly, while midday sunshine can turn the harbour area warm. A light, packable jacket solves both.
  4. Time Your Lunch
    • Faneuil Hall gets crowded around noon. Arriving at 11:30 am gives you a short window to “beat the rush” and still enjoy the bustling market vibe.
  5. Skip the Wait at Old North Church
    • The church opens at 9 am but the interior tour starts on the hour. Arriving 15 minutes early saves you from queuing behind school groups.
  6. Use the “One‑Stop” Luggage Storage
    • Carrying a suitcase will slow you down. Boston’s “LuggageHero” partners with local shops for secure short‑term storage at under $6 per day.
  7. Map Your Route Ahead of Time
    • The Freedom Trail is marked by a continuous red‑brick line. If you’re prone to “tourist drift,” print a simple map (available at the Boston Common visitor centre).
  8. Consider a Guided Mini‑Tour
    • If you love storytelling, a 10‑minute “Revolutionary Minute” at the Old State House (often free) adds depth without eating up time.

The Takeaway: One Spot, Endless Stories

When you have only a day in Boston, the Freedom Trail turns a tight schedule into a living museum. It packs the essence of the city—colonial roots, revolutionary fervour, maritime heritage, and today’s vibrant culinary scene—into a walk that’s as manageable as it is unforgettable.

Whether you’re a history buff, a casual traveller, or someone who just wants a “real Boston” Instagram story, the Freedom Trail offers:

  • A narrative arc from the city’s birth to its modern port.
  • Photo‑worthy landmarks every few minutes.
  • Sampling opportunities for Boston’s famed food (clam chowder, lobster roll, cannoli).
  • Flexibility—you can speed up, linger, or detour into nearby neighbourhoods without missing the core experience.

So the next time your flight itinerary gifts you a lay‑over in Massachusetts, skip the theme park and head straight to the red bricks. One day, one trail, a lifetime of memories.

Ready to Walk the Trail?

  • Download the “Freedom Trail Walk” app now.
  • Grab a quick coffee at a South Station café and head to Boston Common.
  • Let the red bricks lead the way—Boston’s story is waiting for you.

Safe travels, and enjoy the ride through America’s first capital!

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers.  Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier.  I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village.  I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed.  In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passenger’s attention.  Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back.  He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury.  He looked at her ticket then nodded dismissively, and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway.  I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see there was something about her.  It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile.  I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone.  Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model.  I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris.  The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on.  I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me.  I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin.  My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast.  With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination.  It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight.  It would give me enough time to sample the local fare, and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch.  After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward.  I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and let the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked, and what part I played in it.  And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out.  What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land.  There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would need to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later a keen military mind.  If nothing else I could ride a horse, and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no-one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared.  I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue and I had an aptitude for programming.  I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which although I hated the subject, I excelled in.  Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse.  There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.  My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks.  It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer simply because of who I was.  In that time I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist, and through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.  Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues.  I knew that in building a relationship compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing.  There was a certain expectation I had to fulfill, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented.  The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged.  Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian.  He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties.  He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns.  He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa.  From that moment, my obscurity disappeared.  It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses.  He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door.  There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa?  For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her when she had a certain air of unpredictability.  That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future.  She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her.  It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move.  The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red.  It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific.  In fact, her sublime beauty was the one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact her hair was short, rather than long, and jet black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid.  I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes, before retracing my steps to the front of the ship and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water.  It was almost mesmerizing.  There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa, and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned.  The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close me without my realizing it.  How did she do that?  I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping.  I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck.  There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her particularly around the eyes, and of her hair which was jet black.  An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtle, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory.  The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent, and fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate.  Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes.  My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No.  Not yet.”  I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak.  And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanor as a little warmth reached her eyes.  “So that’s a maybe.  Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away.  Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped she turned to face me again.  She did not move closer.

I realized then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket.  “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe.  By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease.  “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side then the other, looking intently at me.  “You seem to be familiar.  Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings.  If she was, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me.  Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.”  I also didn’t mention the fact she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realized who I was.  “Yes, I remember now.  You made the front cover of the Economist.  You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course.  She was not the first who had recognized me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not the Sternhaven’s.  That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family.  I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.”  Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky.  It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.”  She smiled again.  “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts.  I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me.  It had been Sebastian on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money.  He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right.  I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around.  “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head.  Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit.  “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised, or amused.  “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment.  “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave.  Instead she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot.  To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true.  Aside from the fact this excursion was probably a bad idea.  And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignoring their natural instinct.  I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing.  I was supposed to be traveling with my prospective bride.  I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?”  Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment then came back to me.  She seemed surprised I might be traveling with someone.

“No.  She is back in England, and the wedding is off.  So is the relationship.  She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her?  I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge.  No walking the plank today.  She moved towards it and sat down.  She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair.  Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds if she used this approach with anyone else.  I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us.  After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message.  It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.”  She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her.  “But it is done, and I moved on.  Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry.  Sometimes I ask personal questions without realizing what I’m doing.  It is none of my business.”  She shivered.  “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood, and held out her hand.  Should I take it and be drawn into her web?  I thought of Sebastian.  What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet.  “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

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