Category: #amwriting

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

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

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

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

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

The Cinema of My Dreams – It ended in Sorrento – Episode 52

A visit to Heidi’s mother-in-law

…

I had intended to go to the Burkehardt residence with Ceceila as backup, but that would have left Francesca to her own devices, which to me would have been to turn up at the residence unannounced.

If Francesca had wanted to leave, Cecelia would let her, and it would not surprise me if she either let her bosses know how things were going, especially in relation to Juliet, or that they would want Francesca to find her.  The other possibility is that Francesca was on her way, or already at the residence, making herself known on behalf of her employers.

That I was wrong on all counts when I rang Cecelia to see if she had left was disconcerting.  It meant another game was in play.  I was sure she had reported to her employers by now, and that they had asked her to impede us at every turn.  It just made it harder to guess why Francesca was with us.

I was stopped at the gate to the main Burkehardt residence by guards, who, I deduced from their dismissive manner, had been instructed to turn everyone away.  I asked them to tell the Mistress that I had information on the Countess Heidi von Burkehart’s whereabouts and then waited ten minutes before the gates magically opened.

If Alessandro were there, I would have some explaining to do.

I parked the car on the gravel outside the front portico and walked up the stairs to the front entrance.  The doors were open, and a man in a morning suit was waiting for me.  I’d give the gate my Detective Inspector’s name, without the Detective Inspector prefix.

“Come this way.”

It was all he said.

I followed him through to a large room off the side of the entrance hall, which looked like a library, with several full-size suits of armour.

The older Countess was waiting for me at the front of her desk.

“Mr Johnson, though I’m sure that bears no resemblance to your real name, and Detective Inspector, you definitely are not.”

“I assure you I am, but it’s just one of my jobs.  Like I told your son Alessandro back in London, they only call me when it looks like the jurisdiction is about to change.”

“You have no authority here.”

“True, but like I said, they call me in when that happens.  My other self is the one with no borders, nor do I care about jurisdiction.  I come, solve the problem, and then go.  I am only interested in the well-being of Countess Heidi.  Don’t make this into more than it is.”

“Security said you were going to be a pain, as did the people I employed to find the countess.  Perhaps I should fire them and employ you instead.”  She went behind her desk and sat down.

I sat in a chair to one side of the desk.

“It won’t do you much good to try.  I’m not doing this for the money.  I’m supposed to be retired, but I have an old boss who won’t let me go.”

“Rodby, yes.  His wife is the sister of the countess.  Fancy having a direct connection to a spy organisation.  I only just found that out, but I’m sure you knew that.  I presume your other self is a spy?”

“I wish.  The suits, the cars, the toys.”  I shook my head.  “Nothing quite as glamorous, I can assure you.  And I only just discovered the Heidi connection, too.  One of the drawbacks, we don’t always get the whole story.”  A bit too much sharing, but it was more to disarm the old lady, who looked to me still had some fire and brimstone in reserve.

“You said you have information about the countess?”

“I do.  But before I tell you, I need to know if there is anyone you have managed to make angry, or you have caused problems for, or who wants to buy this enterprise, perhaps with prejudice?”

She gave me a look that was surprise or contempt before she summoned her best angry tone to say, “That’s absurd.”

It meant one of the three suggestions was right.

“You run a very profitable and well-respected operation here.  It no doubt creates rivalry with others in the same line of business who are not as well run, perhaps.”

It had to be a business rival.  The most recent information from the research team mentioned that there were several suitors for the business after the Count died, but no one specific. 

I could see her expression soften, as if it was a problem she wanted to resolve herself, but it was not working out.  Alessandro had tried and failed to make it seem like business as usual, but a ship without a rudder soon foundered.  The uncertainty about the successor to the count had created uncertainty in the investors.

“There is one person, though I’m not sure he qualifies as aggressive, but he is incompetent.  Alberto Dicostini.  He and the count were friends and business partners until Dicostini stole from the business.  After that, they became bitter rivals.  I am sure it is he who killed my husband, and later my son, the count.  It is why my sons and daughter have such security.  He had vowed to kill us all.  He will fail, as he always does.”

And there was a possible solution to the problem.  It might have been Dicostini behind the fake countess, and if he presented her as the countess and she inherited, then what is hers would become his.  It’s almost foolproof.  The fake would have to pass the keen eyes of the Burkehardt family.  I’d seen the fake, but I hadn’t known the real one.

“You are vehemently opposed to the countess inheriting, are you not?”

“She is an incompetent fool.”

“But a member of this family, and if she were to inherit, would she keep it in the family?”

“You’d think so, but a friend told me she was going to sell it, maybe not to Dicostini, but it will have the same effect.  He will get what he wants.”

“Have you tried to convince her to do the right thing.  As far as I can tell, she is the lawful heir.”

“There is another.”

“Which did your investigators tell you about?”

“How do you know this?”

“I have one of them with me.  Not here now, but back in Sorrento.  That might not necessarily be the case.  I’m beginning to believe that she is not a legitimate heir.  I suspect that Vittoria Remano, as she calls herself these days, did have a child, but not by the Count.  And although the count said he fathered a child, I believe he never got to see anything but photos, nor living proof, just the word of a maid.”

“And the birth certificate?”

“Did you get your investigators to check it?’

“I assumed they did.”

“Then they’ve got two days before I bring the three women to the solicitor’s office for the signing.  One of them will be a woman claiming to be the countess.”

“So, you know where she is?”

I sighed.  “You’re not listening to me.”

She paused for a moment as if to go over our conversation.  Then, “You’re saying the woman you have is not the countess?”

“I’m saying I don’t know, but if it was the real countess, who was kidnapped with Mrs Rodby, why is Mrs Rodby still missing?”

…

© Charles Heath 2023

The 2am Rant: There ain’t no mountain high enough

If only it were as easy to write one line of a song as it is to write a sentence, a paragraph, or a page of a book.  Of course, if you were to ask a songwriter the same question, he or she would probably twist it around, and not without reason.

The bottom line in all scenarios, whether writing a story, writing a song, or writing a letter, at times it feels like it is like climbing a mountain.

It’s why we have waste paper bins and imaginary shooting practice sessions.  By the way, I don’t get very many scrunched paper balls in.

Curiously, we seem to categorise almost insurmountable problems in terms of climbing mountains.  Of course, I’ve yet to attempt to climb the north face of Mount Everest, but I suspect I’ll have to do a lot of practice to do so.

Maybe that’s what I need to do as a writer.  Practice, not climbing mountains.

Mountains have always been part of the metaphor for overcoming obstacles.  So, metaphorically, to overcome this ‘obstacle’, we can choose to climb over it, blow it up, or tunnel through it.

But the salient point is the same in all cases: obstacles, metaphorical or not, are not insurmountable; they just need time to find a solution.

So, in my case, there are two items to note when it comes to mountains: the first, I prefer to go through a tunnel, and the second, there’s not a mountain I’ve been up that hasn’t had a magnificent view.  Of course, getting to the top has been easy; I just hopped on the tram or the gondola.

After all, isn’t that what they’re there for?

Ok, flippancy aside, I have had to climb a few mountains of my own over the years, and, yes, it’s hard work, and, at times, I’ve wanted to give up.

But not today.  Today is a good day.

And as the title says, ‘There ain’t no mountain high enough!’

 

 

What I learned about writing – Sometimes, the best books for writers bear little similarity to their medium

The Unconventional Muse: When Your Best Writing Lesson Comes From Anywhere But a ‘How-To’ Guide

We writers are always chasing that elusive spark, that deeper understanding of human nature and narrative that elevates our work from good to truly profound. We devour books on craft, attend workshops, and pore over articles dissecting plot points and character arcs. All valuable, of course.

But what if the most potent lessons for your writing don’t come from a book with “How To Write” in the title? What if your greatest storytelling mentor isn’t a famous novelist, but a philosopher, a historian, or even a scientist?

This isn’t just a quirky idea; it’s a fundamental truth for many successful writers. Sometimes, the best books for writers bear little similarity to their medium.

Why Look Beyond the Craft?

Writers are, at heart, observers and interpreters of the human condition. We craft worlds, yes, but those worlds gain their resonance from reflecting or distorting truths about our world. To truly understand the stories we tell, we need to understand the world itself – its history, its psychology, its moral dilemmas, its scientific wonders.

This is where seemingly unrelated disciplines become invaluable. They offer different lenses through which to view conflict, motivation, and the very fabric of reality.

The Playwright, the Philosopher, and the Clash of Two Rights

Let’s take a specific example that perfectly illustrates this premise: the playwright. Should a playwright read philosophy? An emphatic yes.

Consider the profound wisdom offered by thinkers like George Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel. His work, particularly his dialectical approach to history and conflict, provides an incredible framework for understanding the deepest dramatic tensions.

For Hegel, the true tragedy – and the most compelling drama – lies not in a clear-cut battle between good and evil, but in the irreconcilable clash of two rights.

Think about that for a moment. It’s not the simple Hollywood narrative where the hero is unequivocally good and the villain is purely evil. That kind of story, while sometimes entertaining, often lacks the true grit and complexity of human experience.

Instead, Hegel pointed to the underlying issues in Greek tragedy as a case in point. Take Sophocles’ Antigone. Here, the conflict isn’t between a righteous hero and an evil tyrant. It’s between Antigone’s undeniable moral right to bury her brother, honoring the divine laws and family duty, and Creon’s equally legitimate right to uphold the laws of the state, ensuring order and preventing further rebellion.

Both characters are, in their own frameworks, right. Both are acting out of deeply held convictions and duties. And it is precisely because both are “right” that their collision is so utterly devastating, leading to a profound, unavoidable tragedy. Neither can simply concede without betraying their core identity or belief system.

A Golden Key for Every Writer

This isn’t just an academic point for philosophers; it’s a golden key for anyone crafting a narrative, whether it’s a novel, a screenplay, a short story, or even a compelling blog post.

  • Complex Characters: When your antagonists aren’t just “bad” but are operating from their own deeply held, morally defensible (to them) positions, your characters instantly gain depth. Their motivations become understandable, even if you disagree with their actions.
  • Richer Conflict: The “two rights” dilemma elevates your plot beyond simplistic good vs. evil. It forces your characters, and your readers, to grapple with true moral ambiguity, making the stakes feel far higher and more authentic. Think of a nuanced political drama, a family saga fraught with misunderstanding, or even a personal internal struggle where the protagonist is torn between two equally valid, yet conflicting, desires.
  • Deeper Themes: This approach allows you to explore profound themes about ethics, justice, loyalty, and the inherent contradictions of human existence, without needing to preach. The conflict itself becomes the exploration.

When your characters operate from their own deeply held, morally defensible positions, the story becomes infinitely more resonant because it mirrors the complexities of real life.

Broaden Your Mind, Deepen Your Stories

So, what does this mean for your reading list?

Don’t limit yourself to books on plot structure or character arcs (though those are valuable!). Dive into history, neuroscience, poetry, economics, art criticism, and yes, philosophy. Seek out texts that grapple with ethics, existence, and the nature of reality. Read the great thinkers, not necessarily to agree with them, but to understand how they thought and what they wrestled with.

You’re not just reading to learn facts; you’re reading to broaden your understanding of the human experience itself. And that, my fellow writers, is the wellspring from which truly compelling stories flow. Expand your mind, expand your world, and watch your own narratives deepen and soar.

What unconventional books or fields of study have unexpectedly impacted your writing? Share your discoveries in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 138

Day 138 – That last work

…

The Final Page: How Do You Choose Your Last Story?

If you knew that the words you were about to type would be your very last—that after this final period, your keyboard would go silent forever—what would you write?

It’s a haunting question, isn’t it? It strips away the pressure of career milestones, the need for SEO optimisation, or the desire to please a specific audience. It forces you to stand at the edge of your own creative legacy and ask: What is the one thing that truly matters?

For me, the answer is clear, yet paralysing: It would be a work of fiction.

But then, the paralysis sets in. If you have only one story left in the chamber, how do you choose which one to fire?

The Burden of Choice

The problem with choosing a “final” story is that fiction is a mirror. Depending on the day, the weather, or the ache in my heart, the reflection changes.

Some days, I want to write a sprawling epic—a tapestry of human resilience that spans generations, trying to capture the entirety of the human experience. Other days, I feel drawn to the quiet, domestic tragedy of a single conversation in a kitchen, where everything is said without a word being spoken.

How do you decide? Do you choose:

  • The Story You Haven’t Told Yet: The one that’s been living in the back of your mind for years, gathering dust, waiting for the “perfect” time?
  • The Story You’ve Already Tried to Write: The one that never came out quite right, a chance to finally fix the pacing, the ending, the soul of it?
  • The Story That Changes Nothing: A lighthearted romp, a piece of pure escapism, a final gift of joy rather than a heavy philosophical anchor?

The Search for the “Essence”

If I had to make the choice, I think I would stop trying to find the “perfect” plot and start looking for the “essence.”

A final work shouldn’t be about showing off technical skill or proving a point. It should be an act of translation. It should be the attempt to take that one, singular feeling—that strange, beautiful, and terrifying realisation of what it means to be alive—and pin it to the page like a butterfly.

I would choose a story that feels like a sunset: something that acknowledges the fading light but finds the most brilliant, saturated colours in the final moments. It wouldn’t necessarily be a “sad” story, but it would have to be an honest one.

How Would You Choose?

The beauty of this thought experiment—even if it’s purely hypothetical—is that it clarifies your values. It tells you what, deep down, you think a story is for.

Does your final piece aim to teach? To entertain? To confess? To build a world so immersive that others can hide in it when you’re gone?

If you were sitting at your desk, knowing this was your final act, would you agonise over the genre, the plot twists, or the clever turns of phrase? Or would you finally let go of the ego and write the one thing that makes you feel most human?

I’m curious to know how you would approach this. If you had one last story to tell, what would be the heartbeat behind it? Would you write the story you were meant to write, or the story you wanted to write?

Let’s talk about it in the comments. After all, we’re still here, and the pages are still blank. We might as well start writing.

…

Searching for locations: Vancouver, Canada – 3

It’s always a given that, whatever city you stay in, unless it’s overnight, you go on a tour and see the sights.

Even when you’re staying a short distance from the city, you may make the effort to catch a train or bus, then get on the hop-on, hop-off tour.  There’s always one in just about every city you visit.

Vancouver was no exception.

Except…

We arrived in the rain, went to sleep while the rain came down, woke up to the rain, and a heavy dose of jet lag or perhaps it was more that we had spent 24 and a half hours travelling from Brisbane to Vancouver via Shanghai.

We had an excellent view out the window of our room, looking towards the shopping mall and the steady falling rain.

 I felt sorry watching the construction workers on the building site, which was the main vista we had to look at.

It could have been worse.  Endless mountains with snow on them.

What to do.  Venture out in the rain and go on the tour, on pop over to the shopping mall and pick up a few boxing day bargains, no, sorry, boxing week bargains.

We have had some experience going on hop-on, hop-off tours in open-top buses in the rain.  And the last time was not a pleasant experience, even though we learned a valuable lesson, not to stand in front of a cannon and yell ‘fire’.  Apparently, that’s how Admiral Nelson lost his arm.

But…

The shopping mall won.

We’d wait and see if the weather improved.  Hang on, isn’t Vancouver near Seattle, and doesn’t it rain 300 days of the year?

Not holding my breath.

I feel sorry for the construction workers again.  Still raining, still cold, and still no reason to get out of bed.

Day 2 in Vancouver turned out to be the same as day 1.

Hang on, there’s a development.

We’re on the 16th floor and up at those lofty heights, we can see not only the rain but intermingled with it a few flakes of snow.

Whilst we procrastinate about what we’re going to do, the snowflakes increase into small flurries.

Yep, we’re off to the mall again and going for a walk in the snow.

On the way back, we drop into the Boston Pizza, which has a sports bar, and there you can sit, drink, eat, and watch the ice hockey, or whatever sort of thing is going on at the time.

Today it’s a junior ice hockey tournament, but Canada is not playing.  Just the same, a long, cold beer and ice hockey? How close to heaven is that?

I can now cross that off the bucket list.

Day 3, we’re going on a great rail journey, well, we are going to get the train to the city and collect the rental car, a car on the booking form that was supposedly a Jeep Grand Cherokee or similar.

Of course, ‘or similar’ are the words to be feared here because in truth, the rental company can throw anything at you, so long as it matches the brief: three people and three large suitcases.

And, you guessed it…

The ‘or similar’ got us a Fort Flex.

Sounded like some place where exhausted soldiers were fending off the Indians in a last-ditch battle.

Perhaps one or two too many American movies, I think.

In a word: Pear

Now, how did such a simple word that described a piece of fruit become so tangled?

The English language, of course.

It throws up many a variation of the same-sounding word, just to confuse us.

Just think, there is also pair, and pare.

But a pear, that’s a piece of fruit.

And if you’re not careful, things can go pear-shaped very quickly.

Then there’s a pair, which means there are two of the same thing, such as a pair of socks

Except in my house, it’s more than likely that pair of socks is an odd pair.

Then there’s pare, which is to take the outer layer off, such as an orange.

It can also mean to cut down, as in staff, after restructuring an organisation.

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

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

…

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

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

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

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

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

Just in case.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

newechocover5rs

Searching for locations: Vancouver, Canada – 2

This morning we wake up to rain.  Or so we thought.  Taking a closer look out the window of our room on the 16th floor, we notice the rain is speckled with snowflakes.  As the morning progressed, the snow got harder until there were flurries.

 Later we discover this is called wet snow by the local Vancouverians, and whilst they winge a lot over the endless rain, to them rain is infinitely better than snow.

To us, by the afternoon, it was almost blizzard conditions, with lots of snow.  Then the only thing is that it does not accumulate on most of the ground so there are no drifts to play in.

Because the weather is so dismal, we decided not to go into Vancouver to do some sightseeing because the clouds were down to the ground, and then the snow set in.

Another interesting fact is that construction workers do not go off the job if it’s raining, or worse, when it is snowing.  Our room overlooks a new apartment complex under construction, and the workers battled on through what seemed like appalling conditions.

At four in the afternoon, the Maple Leafs are playing the Ohio Blue Jackets in Ohio.  It is a game we expect them to win.  Sparks is the goalkeeper, not Anderson; they’re playing back-to-back games, and Anderson’s starting tomorrow.

They win, four goals to two.  

Just before darkness falls, about four thirty, the snow stops, and there is a little rain, which melts the snow.

Time to go up to the executive lounge to get some snacks and coffee, then sleep because the next day we’re taking on the Trans Canada highway from Vancouver to Kamloops.

The forecast is for snow, more snow, and just for a change, more snow.

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

…

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent.  We were following the car he was in, from a discreet distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road we were now on.  Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter.  He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing.  Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain.  He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile.  We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it.  Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do.  The road was treacherous, and in places, just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three-thousand-foot fall down the mountainside.

Good thing then, I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster.  We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner, we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility.  The car was empty, and no indication of where he had gone.

Certainly not up the road.  It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit.  Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up.  Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly.  “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him.  It’s just a matter of time.”

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2026

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Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”, available soon.

InspirationMaybe1v1