Category: #amwriting

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 257

Day 257 – Good or bad – it’s a labour of love

…

The Agony of the Flawed Manuscript: Why Bad Books Deserve Our Empathy

“A bad book is as much a labour to write as a good one; it comes as sincerely from the author’s soul.” — Aldous Huxley

We live in a culture obsessed with greatness. From best-seller lists to Goodreads ratings, we are quick to elevate literary masterpieces and equally quick—sometimes brutally so—to tear down what doesn’t measure up. It is easy to mock a clunky metaphor, groan at a predictable plot twist, or mock a poorly paced narrative.

But take a step back and consider the reality behind that published failure.

When we read Aldous Huxley’s quote, it serves as a sobering reminder of a profound truth: the agony of creation does not discriminate based on quality. A terrible book requires just as many bleary-eyed 3:00 AM editing sessions, just as much emotional excavation, and just as many prayers whispered into the void as a timeless classic.

Here is a deeper look at Huxley’s insight, exploring the hidden empathy we should extend to “bad” books and the writers who bleed to make them.

The Myth of the Easy Flop

There is a common misconception among readers that bad books happen because the author simply didn’t care. We imagine cynical writers churning out garbage for a quick buck, laughing all the way to the bank.

And sure, that happens in commercialized corners of the industry. But true badness—the kind born of earnest effort—is usually tragic rather than cynical.

Writing a book is a marathon through a psychological swamp. It demands months, often years, of isolation, self-doubt, and relentless problem-solving. An author trying to write a brilliant fantasy epic experiences the exact same terror of the blank page as someone writing utter drivel. Both stare into the abyss. Both grapple with imposter syndrome.

When a book turns out bad, it is rarely because the author didn’t try. More often, it’s because they tried so hard that they lost perspective. They missed the plot holes because they were too close to the canvas. They forced a grandiose style because they desperately wanted to be profound.

Sincerity is No Guarantee of Success

Huxley’s most arresting point is this: it comes as sincerely from the author’s soul.

Sincerity is often touted as the ultimate virtue in art. “Just be authentic!” we tell aspiring creators. But sincerity is a wildly unreliable compass.

An author can pour their most authentic childhood trauma, their deepest philosophical musings, and their purest passions into a manuscript. They can bleed onto the pages. And yet, the result can still be unreadable. Why? Because writing is a craft as much as it is an art.

  • A carpenter can have a pure, sincere love for wood, but if they don’t understand joinery, the chair is going to collapse when someone sits in it.
  • A writer can have a soul bursting with profound human truths, but if they lack pacing, dialogue mechanics, and structural awareness, the book will collapse under its own weight.

The tragedy of the bad book is the gap between intention and execution. The author felt the magic while writing it. In their head, the scene was cinematic, the dialogue crackled, and the themes resonated like a cathedral bell. Waking up to find that readers experienced none of that—that the magic failed to translate—is a special kind of heartbreak.

Why We Should Read (and Judge) with Compassion

None of this is to say we should abandon literary criticism. Bad books exist, and pointing out why they fail helps elevate the conversation around art.

However, remembering Huxley’s words changes how we critique. It shifts our posture from sneering mockery to respectful critique.

  1. Acknowledge the Courage: Every published author has done something terrifying. They have taken the chaotic, vulnerable contents of their mind and packaged them for public judgment. Even if the execution is a disaster, the act of completion requires immense courage.
  2. Respect the Sweat: Behind every cringeworthy paragraph is a writer who deleted and rewrote that sentence five times, thinking, Yes, this is the one. Honor the labor, even when the product falls flat.
  3. Appreciate the Attempt: A failed ambitious book is almost always more interesting than a safe, mediocre one. Authors who swing for the fences and strike out are doing the necessary heavy lifting of art. They are exploring the boundaries of what works—and sometimes, you have to map the swamps to find the gold.

The Ultimate Takeaway

Writing is hard. It is a grueling, humbling, often unrewarding endeavor.

The next time you pick up a book that simply doesn’t work—whether it’s riddled with clichés, bogged down by purple prose, or narratively hollow—try not to scoff too quickly. Remember that somewhere out there, a writer sat at a desk in the quiet dark, pouring their heart into those very pages, hoping against hope that they were making something good.

They may have failed, but as Huxley reminds us, their soul was in it all the same. And that, at the very least, demands our respect.

What are your thoughts? Have you ever read a book where you could tell the author tried immensely hard, but the execution just missed the mark? Let’s discuss in the comments below!

…

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself.  Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived.  He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines.  She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied.  Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity.  And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain.  Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one.  Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner.  Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  He purposely didn’t look back.  In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six.  Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….”  She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so.  Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.”  Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over.  Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you.  You are most kind.”  The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be.  There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying.  There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No.  That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?”  Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal.  All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up.  “Rest.  And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note.  No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown.  And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame.  They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed.  In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up.  “Henshaw is too formal.  Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere.  It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself.  Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle.  “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought.  He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone.  Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses.  After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation.  “How did you arrive?  I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident.  I ran up the back of another car.  Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.”  His attempt at humour failed.  “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling.  She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser.  I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work.  I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you.  I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

lovecoverfinal1

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 45

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

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

Chasing leads, maybe

“Silly question, what were you doing in the hotel with this ‘operative’?”

Yes, it sounded odd the moment I said it, and, if it was the other way around, I’d be thinking the same.

“We joined forces, thinking we were in danger, at the time, not knowing that she was working with Dobbin.  I discovered that later, by chance.  She doesn’t know I know.”

“And she’ll be waiting at the hotel?”

“Dobbin wants the USB.  She believes we’re collaborating, after telling me she works for MI5, on a different mission involving O’Connell.  She had apparently been undercover as a fellow resident at the block where O’Connell had a flat, and a cat.  The cat, of course, had no idea his owner was a secret agent.  The flat was sparsely furnished and didn’t look lived in, so it may have been a safe house.”

“Wheels within wheels.”

“That’s the nature of the job.  Lies, lies, and more lies, nothing is as it seems, and trust no one.”

“Including you?”

“Including me, but keep an open mind, and try not to shoot me.  I’m as all at sea as you are.  And, just to be clear, I’m not sure I believe Quigley that the information is lost.  People like him, and especially his contact, if he was a journalist, tend to have two copies, just in case.  And the explosion might have killed the messenger, but not the information.  Lesson number one, anything is possible, nothing is impossible, and the truth, it really is stranger than fiction.”

“Great.”

A half-hour later I’d parked the car in a parking lot near Charing Cross station.  The plan, if it could be called that, was for me to go back to the room, and for Jennifer to remain in the foyer, and wait.  If anything went wrong she was to leave and wait for a call.  For all intents and purposes, no one knew of her, except perhaps for Severin and Maury, but I wasn’t expecting them to be lurking in the hotel foyer, waiting for me.

As for Dobbin, that was a different story.  It would depend on how impatient he was in getting information on the whereabouts of the USB, and whether he trusted Jan to find out.

I’d soon find out.

The elevator had three others in it, all of who had disembarked floors below mine.   As the last stepped out and the doors closed, it allayed fears of being attacked before I reached the room.

As the doors closed behind me, the silence of the hallway was working on my nerves, until a few steps towards my room I could hear the hissing of an air conditioning intake, and suddenly the starting up of a vacuum cleaner back in the direction I’d just come.

 A cleaner or….

Remember the training for going into confined spaces…

The room was at the end of the passage, a corner room, with two exits after exiting the front door.  I thought about knocking, but, it was my room too, so I used the key and went in.

Lying tied up on the bed was a very dead Maury, three shots to the heart.

And, over the sound of my heart beating very loudly, I could hear the sound of people out in the corridor, followed by pounding on the door.

Then, “Police.”

A second or two after that the door crashed open and six men came into the room, brandishing weapons and shouting for me to get on the floor and show my hands or I would be shot,”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

“One Last Look”: nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate: after Ben told his wife, Charlotte, he would be home late one night, he left early and, by chance, discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 10

Now, that was unexpected…

…

Like everyone who was in that artificially silent environment that was the flight deck of a shuttle, unexpected sounds caused unexpected results.

The Engineer cursed.

The Pilot, Myrtle, hesitated for a moment, as if not quite sure what to do, highlighting the fact she had not been in such a situation before, but quickly recovered, and brought up the incoming object on screen.

Note to self: amend the training program to allow for random objects to come out of nowhere.

We all looked at the object. Myrtle should have been taking us into the freighter, but had got overawed by the not easily identifiable ship approaching.

“Our ship will take care of the problem,” I said. “Take us into the freighter.”

As if surprised that she should be asked to do so, she realised it was not her job to be staring at the screen, and muttered, “Oh, yes,” before resuming our passage.

Another note to self: Proper command structures and language should be used at all times.

A minute or so later we were in the cargo bay and the cargo doors were closing. Once closed and the atmosphere adjusted, the deck would become a hive of activity.

There was still a static picture of the craft on the screen, and it was one I’d seen before, an old vessel that dated back over a hundred years. I’d seen it in a space museum on the moon.

I was tempted to ask the Captain what was happening, but knew that to interrupt would not be worth the reprimand.

The engineer had seen one before too. “You don’t see those craft very often, if at all. Or this far out in space. They only had a limited trave distance, didn’t they?”

“Unless someone had been tinkering.” Several had been built as exploration ships, but the majority were freighters, used to build the outer colonies on the nearest planets.

A new drive would enable it to travel to the outer rim of our galaxy, but not much further if there were no readily available fuel supplies. Those that were available were tightly regulated by space command.

Cargo doors closed, deck pressurised, suddenly the whole deck was alive with people and machinery, our people meeting with the freighter crew and arranging for the cargo for Venus to be loaded. Myrtle was to stay with the shuttle, monitoring the loading.

I went down the ramp and was greeted by the first officer of the freighter, a chap I’d once served with, Jacko Miles. Jacko loved being in space, but no longer interested in the machinations of Space Command. The simple life of a freighter first officer was all he desired.

Except his face, right now, had the visual lines of worry.

“What happened?” We were past the usual introductions, and general bonhomie.

“Stopped, boarded, and a crate removed.”

“What was in the crate?”

“No one is saying, but whatever it was, it must have been important to attack us for it.”

My private communicator vibrated in my pocket. The captain was calling, and didn’t want anyone else listening in.

“Just give me a moment,” I said taking the communicator out of my pocket and answering the call. “Yes sir?”

“We have a problem.”

And in that moment, I had to agree with him. Jacko now had his hands in the air, and behind him were two people with handheld weapons trained on him, and me.

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2022

The 2am Rant: What the hell time is it anyway, and why should I care?

And why is a coyote baying?

Oh, that’s right, at the time we were in Canada, and the ice hockey channel was running in the background while I was trying to work.

It brought to mind, then, the interesting concept of movement through time zones, and how it was possible to live the same day for nearly two days, which is as close as I was going to get to ‘Groundhog Day’.

It’s not something that I’ve considered when writing stories because usually we are grounded in one particular time zone, or if we’re travelling, we just go from one chapter to the next, each a different location, and the reader is no wiser.

Except the editor is and pulls me up when it appears, I think it’s during the day, when in reality it’s really 3am.

But, just to illustrate my point, the following is what I wrote two Christmases ago, and boy, was it confusing at times.

Alright, we’ve arrived in Lake Louise from Kamloops, and there’s been a time change.  Being from Australia, we lost or gained so many hours, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.

Yes, I left on the 26th of December, travelled around half the planet, and it’s still the 26th, after a stopover in Shanghai, where it was the 27th.

Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?

On another day in Canada, it was the 30th.  The day before, back home, it was my wife’s birthday in Australia, and we got several calls on the 29th, which was amusing, to say the least.

Now, we’ve gone from Kamloops to Lake Louise, and apparently, now that we are in Alberta, it’s an hour later.

The rental car we’re driving didn’t get it, and we’re still an hour behind.

My phone didn’t get it, but it is understandable because I didn’t connect it to the Canadian network to give us an internet connection, because it was going to cost money.

It did on my wife’s phone, which is connected to the network, and it’s the only device we have that tells the correct time.

And why do we really need to know what time it is?

So we make the plane the day after tomorrow, from Calgary to Toronto.

I never realised that time was so important, and I wonder how people who travel the world remain sane with all the changes to the time zones.

Just how do road warriors get on?

What I learned about writing – Life in the beginning will not be glamorous

I’m currently sitting in my car, waiting to pick the grandchildren up from school, wondering where that dream of the glamorous life of an author went.

Can it be said that any author leads a glamorous life, except for maybe J K Rowling, James Patterson, and a handful of others?

That dream is, of course, only a dream.  I did not start this writing caper to become rich and famous or live a glamorous life.  I started it, and it continues in the same vein, that I have a lot of stories in my head that I want to get on paper.

If anyone else wants to read them, then that’s a bonus.  If I happen to make enough money, rather than live high on the hog, an expression my father often used to describe the rich, I would happily invest in programs that get young people reading more.

It also strikes me that it would be difficult to write a literary novel in the vein of Jane Austen or the Brontë sisters, to name a few, because modern-day life has no real meaning like it did then.

Instant news, instant communications, and the rest of the country, as well as the world, are close; we can go anywhere and communicate instantly.  In the days of classic literature, the protagonist’s exchange of letters and the arduous travelling to another part of the same country would be enough to generate a chapter, or the visit itself could generate several.

But those tales of life were always about people of means, not the ordinary people.  Stories that have the minutiae of daily life do not appeal.  No one wants to read about their lives; they want to be transported to another world where there is no such inanity as cooking, cleaning, washing, and picking up children.

I’m using this time to write another episode or chapter, or, in this case, a blog post.

As any parent will tell you, it is the calm before the storm.

 
 
 
 
 

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 255/256

Days 255 and 256 – Writing Exercise

…

A life could be summed up in a half dozen dreams.

Once upon a time, my dreams were of the good times in my life, the first being when a young child, going to the sea by train, once a year, for a holiday.

A tradition my father had pronounced one morning, that his parents had done for him and his brothers and sister.  There was no doubt who the favourite was.

We were not rich, but it was the one luxury we could afford.

I carried it on, with our three children, each special in their own way.  Elsie spoiled them, because her family did not the wherewithal to have a single extravagance.

The second was the hard times because with the good came the hard.  My father always said that nothing lasts forever, and he was right.

Soon after my mother died, my father changed.  So did our lives.  There just never seemed to be any fun anymore.  Certainly, there were no more holidays.  It seemed none of his or mothers’ family could or would help us.

The third was watching those around you become cynical and well, just plain horrid.

My mother taught me, taught all of us, to make the most of what we had, to look after each other, because in the end, that was all we had.

She was right.

But our problem was that for too many years we had taken our parents for granted, that they would always be there, and that we would not have to figure it out.

We were wrong.

Then our father died, we were suddenly left alone and those who could not adapt would be left behind.

No one should lose their parents when they just became a teenager.  I was the second eldest.  I always thought my brother was the rock.  It turned out that was my sister.  She had just turned twelve going on twenty-five

The fourth was the choices I made, and how I chose to live my life.  I did not want the pain that was inflicted on me to be carried forward, if or when I married and had children.

I wanted to find them a balance between being nurtured but also tough enough to handle any crises better than I had.

It, of course, did not consider the different external forces that impact our lives, the circumstances that are beyond our control.

Ours had been the early loss of our parents, the lack of sympathy and help from uncles and aunts, and a particular sort of harshness from the external world, a world that no longer rewarded loyalty, and a world that no long-had respect for our fellow human beings.

The world suddenly was filled with the haves and the have-nots, those with a job and those without, a world of shortages and greed, political upheaval, and racial hatred.

It was like we had gone full circle, discovering and basking in a whole series of changes that made our lives better, then watching it all slowly crumble under the machinations of mankind, the wealth of the few increased and the wealth of the many slowly disappeared.

Someone said it was the new world order, and it came so fast that no one saw it coming.

My life after I found the love of my life, Elsie, was a long dream, number five if I was counting, and I had always believed I had been the luckiest man on earth.

How else could anyone explain to me how I ended up with an angel?  Certainly, I didn’t deserve her, but I never ever took her for granted and treated her with the respect she deserved.

I tried instilling those values into my children but somewhere, somehow they missed the point or didn’t get the memo.

Or maybe the world had changed and we missed it, or more to the point, ignored it at our peril.  Whatever it was, it was not a fight we were going to win.

But then, we were not only people on that sinking ship.

The last, the sixth, was a shared dream with all mankind.  It’s the one that was most fresh in my mind.

We were all to blame in the end.  We let a monster run amok, turned our whole world into one of mistrust and hatred, let him start a war over a notion that in the end wasn’t true but still provoked the unthinkable.

It was always going to happen; it was only just a matter of time.  Each time I went to sleep I hoped against hope that sanity would prevail, but the truth was, all it would take was one man to destroy the world.

And in mind’s eye the dream always ended the same way.  A faceless man in a military uniform hiding in an underground bunker making a decision that he hadn’t thought through.

One that no one had ever thought would come to fruition, that the latent threat would be all that was needed to stop anyone in their right mind from destroying the world.

We were all wrong.  Everyone was wrong.

They didn’t believe that there would be one such man, but there was and it was he who gave the order.  But the biggest myth of all was that even if there was one such man, everyone else would believe that order would have been ignored, that down that chain of command common sense would prevail.  Even when they knew that man led a despotic regime by fear and murder, still they wanted to believe the order would not be obeyed.

And even at the eleventh hour, still no one could conceive that any one person could order the possible end of the world and the complete annihilation of his country and and expect it would be obeyed.

Without question.

Fear of him far outweighed the fear of annihilation.

Promises were made, lies were told, a deadline passed, and five minutes later, the unstoppable conflagration began.

What was always meant to be a deterrent, in the end, was no such thing at all.

…

What followed was a living nightmare.

We were the lucky people not living anywhere near where a low-yield nuclear bomb dropped, but we heard what happened.

About three weeks later, some semblance of order was returned.

All we knew was a warning a day before it happened: a message would be broadcast, with instructions.

Most people in the blast areas got the message but it was too late.  Everyone within a 10 kilometre radius was dead, or dying, and it wasn’t much better for 50 kilometres outside that range.

We didn’t hear what happened elsewhere.  The radio service disappeared, along with everything else, and it was down to local existing authorities until lawlessness set in.

It was inevitable.  We had resources, they wanted resources and they were happy to kill for it.  That’s when someone said we should take what we had and disappear until sanity returned.

I was in the right place at the right time.  I had a truck with fuel; they needed to transport supplies.  In the mountains where many decades ago, a madman thought the hills were filled with gold.

He spent a fortune looking for it, basically building a whole underground city, one very few people knew existed, and a descendant who did made it a new home for selected people.

He was a doomsdayer and had set up a remarkable facility in anticipation madness would eventually win out.

There was space, he estimated, for about a thousand.  We packed up, and silently and stealthily moved out under the cover of darkness.

Five years later, we were still there, watching and waiting, observing the nuclear winter, watching the shifting winds tainted by fallout, watching the earth die, then eventually come back to life.

Few people who survived passed by, and there was nothing we could do for them, some were allowed to stay, and those that didn’t could not be allowed to live and tell.  Most had radiation sickness and would not last a month, two at the most.  It was a harsh, unforgivable rule but the leaders decided that it was the only way we could survive, and they would not have a lingering and painful death.

I didn’t agree, but I didn’t argue.  I don’t know what that made me, and I didn’t want to know.  I guess self-preservation was stronger than moral outrage.

But I was one of about a hundred in the outside exploration and monitoring teams made up of a dozen specialists, a mission leader, a doctor and navigation and journal keeper, a mechanic, a biologist, a nuclear scientist and an escort of soldiers or ex-soldiers.

We were the people to decide who we helped, what was left of humanity, how long we could last before we finally came out of hibernation.

Over the years we monitored the habitat, observed the nuclear winter effects, watch everything die, and we were hoping this next foray, there would be signs of hope.  We sought out supplies, tried to locate other survivors with little o no success.

We had been doing this every three to six months for the last five years.

The last exploration told us that the earth was coming back to life.  That the cycle of radiation and contamination was easing, and possibly the worst was over.  We wanted to believe that other people had to survive, and soon we would venture much further afield and if possible join forces.

We had encountered small groups over the years, but they either died or moved on over successive years.  It wasn’t the radiation that killed them in the end; it was starvation.  And we couldn’t help them; we barely had enough for ourselves.

…

I woke to the sound of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, the music that I used to either put me to sleep or try to find inner peace after a nasty encounter on the outside.

My firm belief had been, after the event, that the world would take a step back and people would be united in a common goal.  The problem was, just before the bombs dropped our own government had turned us against each other, intensifying racism and the divide between the haves and have nots.

The bombs only intensified those hatreds and instead of banding together it became a war of attrition, and it had hard to find any reason why a trivial occurrence of taking a bottle of water would warrant being summarily executed.

It had become a shoot first and ask questions later type of society, where petty zealots seized power and harshly enforced it.  We had those in our camp, but the boss didn’t let hatred fester.  He simply weaned it out with a bullet to the head.

Out in the field it didn’t take long to realise humans had lost all sense of decency; they were not interested in joining with or helping their fellow citizens and would kill anyone who disagreed with them.

The bombs didn’t kill everybody else, stupidity did.

I was hoping that today would mark a change in the world we had been waiting for, with the dense clouds that had been filtering out the sun, were finally going, and that a lot of places would no longer be radioactive.

We gathered in the hall by the rear entrance, the one that gave us the most invisible exit from the cave system.

Everyone had a gun, bulletproof vest, overcoats and sturdy boots.  We were up for a five-mile hike before we got the main road, now little more than a track.  We hadn’t seen vehicles for years, except some parked in a nearby forest resort carpark.  It had been the saddest day of my life to see all the people there had wither been shot or eventually die of starvation.  A note said they had waited for someone to come and tell them what to do.

I was surprised that people were not camping in the various open areas near the roads.  Or maybe they had and left.  The Midwest had very little other than miles and miles of scorched earth and either burned or contaminated land. 

I don’t think many knew there would be a nuclear winter.  I certainly didn’t when it was explained to me.  Normal people had a hard time just believing someone would bomb our country after our military told they would be obliterated if they did.  Perhaps that was the biggest joke, they had fired first, and no one did that to us. 

They were obliterated but so were we.

“Once more onto the breach…”  Howie was ex-military and wore his gun like it was part of him.  He led the team, with a kill or be killed attitude.

He handed out the weapons.  “Shoot only when necessary and keep your eyes and ears about you.”

The scientists didn’t like the idea of carrying guns, but most did.  We had been in skirmishes before.

That was the extent of the pep talk.  He took the lead and gave the order. “Open seasame.”

…

The internal blast doors made the same sound they had for the past five years, except there was a groan before the heavy metal began to open.

When the pneumatic seals finally hissed, surrendering to the greasy heave of manual overrides and backup generators, the sound was less like a door opening and more like a tomb drawing its first breath. A cold, dead draft spilled inward—not fresh, but alien. It tasted of nothing. No, that wasn’t right. It tasted of old stone, distant dampness, and something sharp and metallic that lingered on the back of the tongue. Ozone.

Or maybe just the ghost of rain.

Dr. Elena Vance, the botanist in front of me, adjusted the straps of her filtration pack, her fingers trembling slightly inside heavy rubberized gloves. Behind us, nine sets of boots shifted on the corrugated steel floor of the airlock—scientists, their faces pale and pinched from half a decade of fluorescent-lit hydroponics, and undispersed security personnel, their assault rifles held at low-ready, faces obscured by mirrored polymer visors.

“Remember your protocols,” Howie said, his voice amplified and flattened by his suit’s comm-unit.

Then one of the scientists said, “The soot layer is thinning, but low-yield fallout doesn’t care about sunlight.

That was followed by Howie again, “We stay within five hundred meters of the egress shaft to begin with. We use the dosimeters. And if you see anything moving that isn’t us, you paint it and drop.”

Sergeant Miller, a scarred veteran who had been in town the day the bombs dropped was brought to the subterranean facility when the world ended five years ago, sighed. “Nothing’s out there, Chief.  Just ash and ghosts.  We’re hundreds of miles from the strike zones, and even the rats died out three winters ago.”

“Hope you’re right, Sergeant,” Elena murmured.

She turned back to the threshold.

For five years, the only light they had known was the sickly, yellow-green hum of the algae vats and the harsh white glare of the emergency lamps. But now, cutting through the cavernous darkness of the mountain exit tunnel, was a thin, trembling dagger of gold.

Sunlight.

As they approached the outer entrance, we could see it strike the concrete floor. Elena stepped forward, her boots crunching on crusty layers of grey grime that had drifted down the mountainside over the years. As she cleared the mouth of the cave, she shielded her eyes—not from the dark, but from the sudden, merciless glare of a sky that had been hidden away.

It took a full minute for our eyes to adjust. When they did, the world revealed itself in agonizing, muted monochrome.

The valley below was becoming less of a cemetery of charcoal and pale stone. The pine forests that had once choked the lower slopes were now jagged, tooth-like skeletons jutting upwards towards the sky, stripped bare firstly by fire and then as the water dried up, an inevitable death. The ground was still blanketed in a thick, lifeless crust of soot, dirt, and dead vegetation that crackled under out feet.

It felt eerie walking though what could be described as a petrified forest, only able to see about a hundred years in any direction.

About a kilometre from the cave, we came to a track.  Howie called us to stop by displaying a raised fist, then a whiling motion as the soldier fanned out surrounding us.  “Someone has used this recently.  Tracks are fresh.  Check the surroundings, slowly.”

While the others looked through the trees, and back the way we came, I saw Elena bend over, looking at the ground.  I saw it too, a single, defiant thread of emerald. A blade of grass. Small, twisted, and struggling, but undeniably green.

“I’ll be damned,” whispered Dr. Hayes behind her, dropping to his knees to stare at it. “The physics models… they were right. The thermal inversion is collapsing. The soot is dropping out.”

“Don’t touch it,” Howie snapped, his rifle sweeping the ruined treeline. “Radiation doesn’t care if it’s green.”

She glared at him, then took a photo, and the GPS position.

He waited, then said, “There’ll be more.  Move out. Perimeter formation.”

The squad fanned out, crunching silently across the dead earth. For twenty minutes, the only sounds were the crunch of ash and the rhythmic click-beep of twelve dosimeters registering background radiation—elevated, certainly, but low enough to sustain short-term exposure without immediate biological collapse. There were no birds. No insects. No wind, save for a low, mournful draft sweeping down from the peaks.

We stopped in a clear elongated valley where the road was more defined, if not cracked and distorted, a road that encircle the base of the mountains.  If we were to encounter anyone it would be here.

Which after reaching the first turn, it was not a person we saw, it was the remains of a newly rusted transport truck that had clearly run out of fuel.

The radio squawked.  “Movement. Two o’clock, ridge line.”  The voice belonged to Private Vance—no relation to Elena—posted on the eastern flank.

Every rifle snapped up in unison. Elena froze, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“Vance, status,” Howie barked into his comms, dropping to one knee beside the charred chassis of the truck.

Silence. Then, static.

“Vance?”

A sharp crack echoed off the stone walls of the valley. It wasn’t thunder. It was a round—high-calibre, supersonic—that punched cleanly through the metal door of the truck a foot above Howie’s head, showering rusted flakes.

“Contact!” Howie roared. “Spread out! Return fire!”

Chaos erupted. The sterile quiet of the dead world shattered into the deafening concussions of gunfire. Flashes of muzzle fire stabbed out from the ridgeline two hundred yards up, partially obscured by the lingering wisps of high-altitude haze.

“Where are they coming from?” Hayes cried, scrambling backward and tripping over his own bulky suit.

“Scavs,” Howie snarled, firing a controlled three-round burst from his rifle toward the ridge. “Marauders. They followed the melt line up from the lowlands. They think we’re a fresh vault.”

Elena pressed her back against the truck, her breath coming in ragged gasps. It was not the first time for any of them, but still the five years underground had made them soft; the raiders up on that ridge had spent five years learning how to kill each other for canned peaches and clean filters.

Another round chewed up the dirt inches from her boot.

“We need to fall back to the tunnel!” Elena yelled over the din.

“Negative, Doc! If we run, they bottleneck us at the door,” Howie shouted back, tossing a smoke grenade into the open ground to mask their positions. Thick grey smoke billowed up, mixing with the ambient soot. “Two men on me—let’s climb the gully and flank them. The rest cover the scientists back to the cave!”

Through the smoke, Elena saw shapes moving down the ridge. Three—no, four figures, wrapped in mismatched tactical gear, heavy dust coats, and crude gas masks with yellowed lenses. They weren’t soldiers. They were starving, desperate things, clutching battered assault rifles with the manic intensity of the damned.

One of them broke cover, charging down the slope toward the smoking transport truck, firing wildly.

Private Diaz, one of the younger security guards, stepped out from behind a boulder, his weapon tracking the charging figure. His rifle barked twice. The raider dropped, tumbling dead into the ash.

But the others were already adjusting. A heavy machine gun opened up from the ridge, chewing the boulders into white-hot shrapnel. Diaz took a round to the shoulder, his cry cut short as he pitched backward into the dirt.

“Diaz!” Hayes made a move to run toward him, but Elena grabbed the collar of his suit, hauling him down.

“We can’t help him yet! See if you can see where that machine gun is.”

I took the distant crackling in the forest to be Howie, moving quickly, and then saw the ridge gunner just as he popped up to shoot, and aimed and fired.  The machine gun fire stopped abruptly.  A minute later a volley of shots rang out and after a minute, silence fell.

I could hear my own heart pounding.

A few minutes later, the others returned, holding extra guns and ammo.  “Six of them.  Starving.”  He shook his head.  “There will be others, so we’d better retreat, regroup, and go look for them.”  He kicked the ground.  “Senseless.”

We made our way back slowly and carefully, a different path, just in case they had closed in behind us.  They probably came with the truck, and after it broke down or run out of fuel, set out to find somewhere to camp.  It meant we had to be more careful the next time we left the cave.  It was nearly dark when we returned.

As Elena tumbled past the heavy steel threshold and back into the cool, recycled air of the tunnel, she looked back one last time. It was, for her, mission accomplished.  Life had returned, even if it was one blade of grass.

Outside, the golden sunlight cut relentlessly through the dying sky, illuminating a battlefield of ash, blood, and a single, stubborn blade of green. It was a brutal, beautiful world waiting to be reclaimed—if they could survive the humans who had inherited it first.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

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

One Day in Helsinki: The One Place You Must Visit for an Unforgettable Stopover

Picture this: You’ve just landed in Helsinki, Finland, with only one day to explore before catching your next flight. The city beckons with its sleek design, vibrant culture, and Nordic charm—but time is limited. So, where do you go to capture the true spirit of Helsinki in just a few hours?

While the city offers countless gems—from the striking Helsinki Cathedral to the bustling Market Square—there’s one spot that perfectly encapsulates Helsinki’s soul and ensures your short visit is nothing short of memorable.

That place is Suomenlinna Sea Fortress.

Why Suomenlinna?

A UNESCO World Heritage site since 1991, Suomenlinna is not just a fortress—it’s an island adventure, a historical journey, and a scenic retreat all rolled into one. Built in the 18th century, this maritime fortress sprawls across six interconnected islands and tells stories of Swedish, Russian, and Finnish history. But more than that, it offers an immersive experience you can savor even in a single day.

How to Make the Most of Your Visit

Getting There:
From the heart of Helsinki, it’s just a 15–20-minute ferry ride from Kauppatori (Market Square). Ferries run regularly year-round, and the journey itself offers stunning views of the Baltic Sea and Helsinki’s coastline.

What to Do on the Island:

  1. Step Back in Time:
    Wander through tunnels, cannons, and historic barracks. Visit the Suomenlinna Museum for a compact overview of the fortress’s 270-year history.
  2. Embrace Nature and Views:
    Walk along the rugged coastal paths for breathtaking panoramas of the sea and the city skyline. In summer, the islands are lush and green; in winter, they transform into a serene, snow-dusted wonderland.
  3. Taste Finnish Flavors:
    Stop by Café Vanille or the brewery restaurant, Suomenlinnan Panimo, for a warm drink, local pastry, or even a craft beer brewed on the island.
  4. Capture the Moment:
    From the iconic King’s Gate to the tranquil shoreline, every corner is photogenic. This is a place where memories are made—and Instagram-worthy shots are guaranteed.

Why It’s Perfect for a Stopover

  • Compact Yet Complete: You can explore the highlights in 3–4 hours, leaving you plenty of time to return to the city, enjoy a meal, or even visit another quick attraction.
  • Authentic Helsinki Vibe: Suomenlinna blends history, nature, and local life in a way that feels uniquely Finnish.
  • Escape the Hustle: Despite being so close to the city, the islands offer a peaceful retreat away from urban noise—a refreshing pause during a travel day.

Before You Go

  • Check Ferry Schedules: Plan your trip around ferry times to maximize your stay.
  • Dress for the Weather: Helsinki can be breezy, even in summer. Wear comfortable shoes for walking.
  • Pack Light Snacks: While there are cafes, having a water bottle and a snack ensures you can explore uninterrupted.

One Day, One Unforgettable Experience

Your stopover in Helsinki is a gift—a chance to taste a new culture, even briefly. And Suomenlinna is the perfect bite-sized piece of Finland to savor. It’s more than a tourist attraction; it’s an experience that stays with you: the sea breeze, the whisper of history, and the serene beauty of the archipelago.

So, when you find yourself with one day in Helsinki, skip the stress of trying to see it all. Take the ferry, step onto the island, and let Suomenlinna turn your stopover into a story worth telling.

Safe travels—and may your day in Helsinki be unforgettable!

Have you visited Suomenlinna or have another Helsinki favourite? Share your experiences in the comments below!