Category: Author

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

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:

And, the story:

Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply fly away?

Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, I came to the airport to see the plane leave.  Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.

But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision.  She needed the opportunity to spread her wings.  It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.

She was in a rut.  Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level that she, the youngest of the group, would get the position.

It was something that had been weighing her down for the last three months, and if she noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper.  I knew she had one; no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.

And then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere.  Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication.  It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact that she had to entertain more, and frankly, I felt like an embarrassment to her.

So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock.  We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.

It was then that she said she had quit her job and found a new one.  Starting the following Monday.

Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it was something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.

I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.

What surprised her was my reaction.  None.

I simply asked who, where, and when.

A world-class newspaper in New York, and she had to be there in a week.

A week.

It was all the time I had left with her.

I remember just shrugging and asking if the planned weekend away was off.

She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.

Is that all you want to know?

I did, yes, but we had lost the intimacy we used to have, where she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker, but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.

There’s not much to ask, I said.  You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place,  and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.

Her immediate superior was instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position, he had not taken advantage of the situation like some might.  And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.

One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.

So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.

Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology.  It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you.  I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.

Yes, our relationship had a use-by date, and it was in the next few days.

I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me; you can make cabinets anywhere.

I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job.  It was everything around her and going with her that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.

Then the only question left was, what do we do now?

Go shopping for suitcases.  Bags to pack, and places to go.

Getting on the roller coaster is easy.  At the beginning, it’s a slow, easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top.  It’s much like some relationships; they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, followed by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.

What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.

Our roller coaster had just come out of the final turn, and we were braking so that it would stop at the station.

There was no question of going with her to New York.  Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back.  After a few months in the new job, the last thing she’d want was a reminder of what she left behind.  New friends, new life.

We packed her bags, threw out everything she didn’t want, a free trip to the op shop with stuff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.

Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming; that moment, the taxi arrived to take her away forever.  I remember standing there, watching the taxi go.  It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.

So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.

Already that morning, there had been 6 different types of planes departing, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.

People coming, people going.

Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just to see what the attraction was.  Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.

As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.

Perhaps it was.

© Charles Heath 2020-2026

…

Coming soon.  Find the above story and 49 others like it in:

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 56

Would a Mexican standoff work?

…

I couldn’t help thinking just how far behind the technological ball we were, and that even if we had to ability to travel far into space, we were always going to find people more advanced than us.

I remembered back to the time, before this mission was to get underway, an almost finished spacecraft waiting for a crew, the round table discussions that were held to talk about what we might expect and how we would react.

I said then that we would not be able to treat them like we would other nationalities on our own planet, which seemed to be the consensus for first contact.

Some thought it unlikely we’d run into anyone else.

And where we were right now was largely uncharted territory.  Of course, there was a whole team aboard whose job was specifically to handle alien encounters, and all of them had been huddled in their meeting room since day one of our first encounter with the Foroi, taking extensive notes, analysing every aspect of each encounter, and contributing information I would find useful in my dealings with them.

It was there I headed now.

I had already been admonished by their leader, Emile Jacques, over my handling of certain situations, particularly when I chose what he called the ‘death or glory’ option.

I told her it was like the nuclear option, where each side held an Armory of weapons at the ready, threatening to use them, but never with intention of doing so.  The old ‘Mexican standoff’.

I told her I based my decision on the fact we were simply dealing with more evolved human beings who’d moved beyond the corporeal life we were still stuck with.  But, for all their advances, the notion of creating a nuclear wasteland still held respect.

I doubted anyone no matter how advanced could get past the finality of a nuclear attack on a home planet.

And if they had been on ours and seen the effect of the one time our leaders had decided on pre-emptive and retaliatory attacks would see the wastelands of what London, New York, and Moscow looked like.

How much we hadn’t learned from our mistakes, beggared belief.

The table was full, a dozen experts with a lot of books, papers, and computers, all talking at once, a half dozen conversations, each trying to be heard above the others.

I came, and the noise subsided.

The leader of the team, Emile Jacques, was down the other end of the table.

I looked at each one of them, experts in fields that related to humans, and not one had any idea what an alien might be like.  They were trying to apply the human factor to the aliens and every decision they made had been based on flawed theory.

The aliens were nothing like us.

We knew nothing about them, but they knew everything about us.

When I looked at Emile, he said, “The consensus is that we should let her people take her back to her homeland.”

“What if she doesn’t want to go?”

“Is it worth possibly sacrificing this ship and crew just to make a stand?  We want to make friends with these people, not enemies.”

“Did you consider the possibility that if we let her people take her, the other group might object?  I get the impression that no matter what we do, it is going to end badly.”

Was that a possibility they hadn’t considered?

“What do you think we should do?”  Alexandra was the crew representative, and not formally a member of the team, but a person who should have a seat at the table when matters were discussed that concerned the crew.

It was a position I had insisted on before we left on this odyssey, with far-reaching authority to make decisions that would resolve crew issues in a fair and balanced manner.  That included discipline and punishment when warranted.  I did not want the crew to think that their fate rested in the hands of the ship’s officers.  I had ultimate authority but rarely intervened in any decision she made.

“She had offered to become a mediator so that we can sit down and discuss their intentions.  She has also requested what back on earth we would call asylum, she wants to not be taken by either group.  Did anyone back on earth before this began ever consider the possibility that we might be asked for asylum?”

“No.”  Jacob was the international law expert, well versed in all matters that related to problems back home, and was sent with the possibility of him learning or creating a set of rules for intergalactic relations.  “My superiors didn’t think we’d meet any alien races, but now we have, all I have as a basis is earth’s international law, and it has provisions for asylum, and as such, we should be able to extend it galactically, I can’t believe I actually said that, but we may have problems in getting these people to agree to anything we propose.”

“But there’s no reason why we can’t grant her asylum if she formally requests it.  Something that might help, these people as I understand it, have spent time on our planet, which means that aliens have been walking among us for a very long time.”

“Did she tell you that?  It might just be a ploy to gain your trust.”

“She’s not the only one.  The captain of the first vessel we encountered said the same.  They know of us, and our ways, and they’ve been watching our evolution over a very long period.”

“Why didn’t they just invade us, then.  We’re obviously technologically inferior.”  The technological expert, the person who was charged with getting his hands on alien technology, if we found any, asked.

“It explains the UFO’s then,” said another.

“You know what we would have done the moment their ships arrived.  Shoot first and ask questions later.  It’s probably what they’re expecting from us now.  We have to be better than that.” To the lawyer, I said, “Start drafting some intergalactic rules for asylum.  Everyone else, start formulating questions to ask the Princess about anything and everything.  I’m going to see the Chief Engineer.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2023

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 13

Now, over the cat and his wake-up tactics, food issues, and then walking off with a snooty expression, it might not be, but I’m going with that, it’s time to get to work.

But before that, I’m going to take the time to go over the plan, and taking into account the few sidebars that I made a few notes on to come back to, I realise there was a little loss of continuity.

Unfortunately, I’m going to have to rechart the plan in Excel, so later, when the same thing happens, I can quickly move the ’tiles’ around, and this takes a few hours.

Chester drops by to give me a surly look and wanders off.

Now having sorted the ’tiles’ into order, and added side notes, I’m ready to start again.

Of course, then there’s a problem. I’m writing away, and instead of sticking to the plan, I’m going off on a tangent. That’s the way the story is leading me, pantser style, but it’s only one possibility, so I put that writing aside and go back to the plan.

Done.

Not happy, but it’s written.

A to Z – April – 2026 – K

K is for Katerina

…

Sunday lunch could be the best of times or the worst of times.  Any family gathering at my parents’ house was a trial, one that eventually drove me away.

I had stopped turning up at the family residence for the weekly gatherings simply because the ritual cross-examination of why I was not like my brothers and sisters, married with three point two children, got too exhausting.

It meant that I rarely, if ever, got to see my nieces and nephews or my brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, and well-meaning but over-the-top parents.

Moving to the other side of the country had a lot to do with it.  The rest of my family had stayed put, making their lives in the one place they all professed they could never leave.

Only one other sibling had attempted an escape, my younger sister Eileen, but two months after she left, she came home.  I knew something bad had happened, but she never said anything and never left again, except for the odd trip to the state capital for work.

But like all good things that came to an end, it was approaching that time when I would have to go back, if only once, because it was time.

…

I might have returned home earlier had it not been for an entirely unforeseen event.

I never had any intention of looking for, or becoming involved with, any other person, not to the extent that it would require explanation of my rather odd, to me anyway, circumstances.

Yes, I harboured the same hopes and dreams of meeting ‘the one’ as everyone else had, but the idea of subjecting them to the rigours of the family third degree was the single limiting factor.  I could not say I was an orphan, but then I didn’t think it would be a selling point that I was the second youngest of fourteen children, with twelve of the thirteen others married, with a collective thirty-six nephews and nieces.

What was probably the worst aspect, this group turned up every Sunday for lunch, all sixty-four of them, unless a major calamity prevented their attendance.  As you can see, with odds of sixty-four to one, the Spanish Inquisition would have been a kindergarten outing by comparison.

But to say I missed them may have been the case, but that they missed me more was becoming very hard to ignore or put off.

Perhaps they had missed making my life hell, because over the past three years, there had been many phone calls and messages and one visit by my eldest brother, the self-elected spokesman, he said, the peacemaker, who had come to take me home.

It was the last time we spoke. Civilly, anyway.

That was a year ago.

Things had changed during that year, though I was not sure whether for the better.  I had met someone, yes, a woman named Catherine, Katerina if I wanted to call her by her Russian name, which I didn’t, one who was perhaps as skittish as I was at the whole dating and sharing your life thing.

Our first meeting was fascinating because her Russian accent was intoxicating, and I told her at the end of the night that she could read me War and Peace, and I would listen to it all night.  I think that I realised she used her Russian heritage to put off potential suitors.  I told her it wouldn’t work with me.

We both started out playing the orphan card, and as the dates piled up and the little pieces of our sad lives leaked out, it became apparent we both had suffered the small-town, large family, endless expectations things.  She had been expected to marry her high school sweetheart until she found out he was secretly cheating on her.

When she told her parents, and they confronted him, he denied it and made her look like she was just spiteful because she didn’t want to marry him.  The other girl could have him, and she left on the next bus out.  It was no surprise to learn the other girl hadn’t married him, nor had any other.

From there, with cards on the table, we just clicked.

But like all good things, it, too, should have ended because I was one of those people who never finished what they started.

…

A Saturday morning, not generally a workday and the day we set aside for everything that couldn’t get done on a weekday, came after an extended evening in the pub.

We rarely stayed beyond a drink or two, but others we knew, just back from a long holiday, dropped in on the off chance we would be there, and it turned into dinner and more drinks.

It never affected Katerina. I was guessing it was something to do with her Russian heritage and vodka, and the explanation I missed when I had to go to the bathroom. I was not so lucky.

She was up and about, and I heard the buzzer, usually someone trying to get in after they forgot to take their key, and I thought no more about it.

Five minutes passed, and then Katerina was standing in the doorway, her half-hostile, annoyed expression glaring at me. It was one of those expressions you could feel.

“Some silly girl at the door says she is your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“I say this, and she says, ‘Go tell that annoying bastard Eileen is here’.  So, annoying bastard, who is this Eileen?”

“One of the thirteen other siblings I try very hard not to admit I have.  They’re like debt collectors. You can never really escape them.”

I climbed out of bed and went out.  She stayed back at the door but was still visible from the front.

I opened the door, and there was Eileen, my youngest sister, the last born and the most spoiled.  Given the age differences between my other siblings and me, she was the only one I could relate to.

“What the hell, Robert?”

“What the hell, yourself?  Didn’t I make it clear to Prince Walter that I had disappeared through a portal to another dimension?”

It was an attempt at a joke that he couldn’t and wouldn’t understand.  He had no sense of humour at all.

“That dumb shit doesn’t work on me.  Are you going to leave me standing in the passage?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Oh, for fucks sake, Robert,” then brushed past inside.

Katerina was watching with a bemused expression.  Perhaps this was her family, too.

I could see Eileen giving her the traditional family female death stare.  “Who is she?”

“She is standing right here, and I can hear and see you.  A warning word, my other job is a bouncer at a nightclub, and you may, depending on what you say next, find out how I treat recalcitrant customers.”

That notion of not wanting to meet her in a dark alley was right.  Katarina was a gym freak.

It was amusing to see Eileen think before she spoke next.

Then, with a glance over my shoulder at Katarina, she said, “As I said at the door, I’m his sister, Eileen.  I’m surprised he didn’t mention me.”

Katerina looked her up and down.  “He mentioned all of you, but I think his description may have been a little harsh.  You only seem a little bit bitch from hell.  I am Katarina.  Bigger bitch from Siberia.”

I smiled.  She could be a fascinating companion, more so after a bottle of vodka, and especially when she related tales of being in the Russian army.  I could never tell if they were true and never dared to ask.

Eileen didn’t know what to do or say at that point. She was a hugger, and for the first time, I saw her hesitate.

Instead, she said, “Wow.  The others are going to shit their pants when they meet Katarina.”

“And you know that’s never going to happen.  That unappreciative, condescending collection of hypocrites doesn’t deserve anything from me and nothing from Katerina.”

She switched her death stare back to me.

“Dad’s dying.  Earlier in the week, the final diagnosis gave him four to six months, if he’s lucky.  We don’t believe he’s lucky.  He must go to the hospital next week, and I honestly believe he won’t be coming out, Robert.  We gave him a wish, the one thing he wanted most of all, no matter what it was, and we would grant it.  He wants to see you one more time before he dies.”

That was saying something. When I left, he told me I could die in purgatory, after hell froze over, before he wanted to see me again.

“You were there when I left?  He was the one who drove me away.  Along with everyone else, including mother, who, I might add, spent every last breath making you the spoilt brat you are.”

“You need to get over it and yourself.  I was not spoiled.  When I left, I made a fool of myself and was raped.  It was the worst experience of my life, and my mother nearly fought a losing battle when I tried to kill myself.  I thought I knew everything, but I knew nothing.  Perhaps I should have told you, and you wouldn’t have left.”

Well, if nothing else, it was typical of how my family handled trouble.  My brother could have explained everything when he came, but he chose not to.  He was the same man as my father, uncompromising and a hard task master.  I was sure that if my father, and in turn my eldest brother, could whip us for our sins, he would have.

I shook my head and looked at Katerina.  She went up to Eileen and hugged her. 

“It is a terrible thing, what men can do to women.  We go find this lowlife and teach lesson, no?”

“Too late.  God has a way of sorting out these problems. He was killed in a crash, chased by the cops while kidnapping an underage girl he had got pregnant.  Leopards and spots, my father says.”

That would be him.  A saying for everything, not a solution.

“There is no God, just karma.  But the story doesn’t change people, as you say, like leopards and spots.  Nor does death. They are still the same people as in life.  You need more compelling reasons.  I have the same family, which is why I left Russia.”

Eileen glared at me.  “Who is this woman?”

Katerina put her angry face on again. “When you live my life, you can dare ask.  You have delivered a message.”  She went to the door and opened it.  “We will discuss; let you know.”

“Robert?”

“Where are you staying?”

“The hotel up the road, not far from here.”

“Good.  I’ll call you.  I assume your cell number hasn’t changed?”

Her annoyance changed to surprise. I was not sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the open door.

“Is that it?”

“Like the rest, your expectation is that I would just fall into line. You could have called me.”

“You wouldn’t answer.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.   But I will call you.”

“We can talk now.”

“No.  You can’t just turn up on my doorstep and expect me to drop everything.  I now have a life, one I like, free of all that obligation and expectation.  I don’t have to meet anyone’s standards other than my own and of Katarina, as it should be.”

“He’ll be very disappointed if you don’t.  Everyone will be.”

“And there’s the emotional blackmail.  Go now before I simply refuse, and you will have wasted your time and money.”

She looked at me with anger and just a little of what my brother had in his eyes the last time I saw him.  Hatred.

“I don’t understand why you hate us so much.”

“You should be asking them, not me.”

A final shake of the head, and she left.  It was not what I wanted, but it was the right thing to do.  Something I had learned while away from home was that decisions were not mine alone when there were others involved, something my father never practised.  It had always been his way or no way.

I leaned against the door and sighed.

“You think her story is true?  She is quite manipulative, as you said.”

“Maybe.  My father taught them well, her especially.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Go back to bed and pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Shopping or bed, I know which I prefer, but it doesn’t resolve the problem.”

“Then I make a call to a friend who will know what’s really going on.  Then bed, then we talk, then we take her to dinner and send her back with the good or bad news.  It’s up to you, too.”

“It is, after all, your family.”

“And yours for better or worse, if or when we decide to make this permanent.”

“Does that mean we have to go to Siberia to see mine? It is not something I would ask of you.”

“I’d love to see Siberia.”

She laughed.  “You are funny, boy Robert.  No one loves to go to Siberia, especially Siberians.  Make the call, and then I will make you forget Siberia exists.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 86

Day 86 – Writing fast or slow

…

Speed vs. Patience in Novel Writing: Why “Fast” Doesn’t Have to Mean “Shallow”

  • Writing fast can be a strength when it’s backed by a solid plan, disciplined habits, and a system for keeping track of details.
  • Rushing without preparation usually ends in thin characters, plot holes, and endless rewrites.
  • Earl Stanley Gardner’s 3 × 5‑card system shows how a writer can sprint the first draft while still maintaining “detail‑level” control.

In the world of fiction, the “fast‑track” versus “slow‑burn” debate is as old as the first typewriter. Some of the most beloved classics were laboured over for years; others erupted onto the scene in a burst of creative momentum. So, is finishing a novel quickly a badge of honour or a recipe for mediocrity? Let’s unpack the myth, look at the data, and see what a master of the craft—Earl Stanley Gardner—can teach us about marrying speed with substance.

1. The Myth of the “Quick‑Write” Novel

Common Pro‑Speed BeliefReality Check
“If I write fast, the story stays fresh.”Freshness can be preserved if you capture the core idea quickly, but the nuance (voice, subtext, world‑building) still requires time.
“The first draft should be a sprint.”A sprint works when you have a map; otherwise you risk getting lost and having to backtrack.
“Fast writers are more productive, period.”Productivity = output ÷ time. A fast first draft can be productive, but quality revisions are the true productivity multiplier.

The romantic image of the author hunched over a typewriter, words spilling out like a torrent, is compelling. Yet the industry’s “publish‑or‑perish” pressure has turned speed into a badge of professionalism—sometimes at the cost of depth.

Why the Fear of “Too‑Slow” Persists

  1. Market pressure – Publishers want marketable manuscripts, and a lengthy gestation can look risky.
  2. Personal doubt – Writers equate time spent with laziness, ignoring the fact that thoughtful revision is work, not procrastination.
  3. Social media – Flash‑fiction challenges and “write‑a‑novel‑in‑30‑days” hashtags glorify speed.

But speed alone is not a metric of quality. It’s the process behind that speed that makes the difference.

2. The Counter‑Argument: “Take Your Time, Get the Detail Right”

Many celebrated authors have taken years—sometimes decades—to perfect a single novel:

AuthorTime to First DraftNotable Detail
Marcel Proust13 years ( À la recherche du temps perdu )Intricate memory structures, sensory detail
J.K. Rowling5 years ( Harry Potter series)World‑building, magical system rules
Haruki Murakami4–6 years per novelAtmosphere, recurring motifs

These writers demonstrate that deliberate, layered craftsmanship often requires a slower pace. Yet notice the pattern: they didn’t just sit and think; they produced drafts, rewrote, and refined—a disciplined cadence, not a languid drift.

What “Taking Your Time” Looks Like in Practice

  • Daily word‑count goals (e.g., 500–1,000 words) that respect a realistic schedule.
  • Research blocks are scheduled before or during the draft, not after.
  • Iterative outline revisions as the story evolves.
  • Scheduled “detail‑days” where you focus solely on specific aspects: dialogue, setting, character back‑story.

In other words, time is a resource—you can spend it wisely or waste it. The key is structure.

3. Planning: The Bridge Between Speed and Substance

Speed without a plan is like driving a sports car without a road map: you’ll get somewhere, but likely not where you intended. A robust plan lets you:

  • Locate narrative landmarks (major plot twists, climax, resolution).
  • Flag high‑stakes details (character motivations, world rules) for later refinement.
  • Allocate “sprint” vs. “sprint‑pause” phases, ensuring stamina.

Types of Planning Systems

SystemCore IdeaIdeal For
Full‑blown outline (e.g., Snowflake Method)Start with a single sentence, expand to chapters.Writers who love a macro view before micro work.
Scene‑by‑scene index cardsCards for each scene, shuffled as needed.Visual thinkers, flexible plots.
Mind‑mapNon‑linear, branching ideas.Complex worlds, multiple POVs.
3 × 5‑card system (Earl Stanley Gardner)Details captured on index cards, organized into “files.”Plot‑driven writers, mystery/suspense authors.

All of these share a common thread: externalise the story. When you move ideas off the page (or screen) you free mental bandwidth for creative flow.

4. Case Study: Earl Stanley Gardner and the 3 × 5‑Card System

Who Was Earl Stanley Gardner?

  • Creator of the Perry Mason series (1933–1973) – over 80 novels, many adapted for TV.
  • Prodigious output: Averaged a novel every two months, some weeks.
  • Master of plot precision: Known for intricate puzzles that never left loose ends.

The Card System Explained

StepWhat You DoWhy It Helps
1. Capture every ideaWrite each plot point, character trait, clue, or setting on a 3 × 5 index card.Prevents “aha!” moments from evaporating.
2. Categorize into “files.”Group cards into logical bins: Characters, Motives, Clues, Red Herrings, Scenes.Gives you a searchable “database” of story elements.
3. Sequence the narrativeLay out the scene cards in order, shuffle, test alternate orders.Enables rapid restructuring without rewriting.
4. Draft from the cardsUse the sequence as a road map for a fast, first‑draft sprint.Keeps you moving forward; you already have the details.
5. Review & tightenAfter the draft, return to the cards to spot missing connections or over‑complicated twists.Guarantees that the detail‑level (the “fair‑play” of mystery) stays intact.

Why It Works

  • External Memory: The cards become a “second brain,” freeing the author to write rather than juggle facts.
  • Modular Flexibility: If a scene feels flat, you pull a different card, replace it, and keep writing.
  • Speed with Safety Net: Gardener could sprint the first draft because the “detail police” lived on his card table.

Takeaways for Any Writer

  1. Adopt a capture tool – physical index cards, a digital Kanban board (Trello, Notion), or even a simple spreadsheet.
  2. Commit to a “card‑first” mindset – no idea is too small to be carded.
  3. Use the cards as a reversible outline – rearrange, add, delete, then write.

5. Practical Blueprint: Write a Novel Fast Without Losing Depth

Below is a step‑by‑step workflow that blends Gardner’s method with modern tools.

Phase 1 – Ideation (1–2 weeks)

ActionToolOutput
Brain‑dump plot seedsScrivener, Google Docs, or a stack of 3 × 5 cards20–30 raw ideas
Turn each seed into a cardPhysical cards or Trello card“Idea Cards”
Assign tags (Character, Setting, Twist)Card color/labelOrganized library

Phase 2 – Structure (2–3 weeks)

ActionToolOutput
Draft a one‑sentence loglineNotepadCore hook
Expand to a paragraph synopsisWord processorStory arc
Break synopsis into scene cardsTrello board columns (Act I, II, III)30–50 scene cards
Verify each scene supports one major plot goal and one character arc beatChecklistCohesive structure

Phase 3 – Sprint Draft (4–6 weeks)

Daily RoutineGoal
Morning (30 min): Review the next 2‑3 scene cards, add any missing details.Keep the mental map fresh.
Writing block (2 hr): Write the scenes in order without editing.Capture raw narrative.
Afternoon (15 min): Update card status (Done, Needs Revision).Track progress.
Evening (10 min): Quick “detail‑audit” – do any clues or character motives feel incomplete? Add new cards if needed.Prevent blind spots.

Result: A first draft in 30–45 days, with most major plot holes already flagged.

Phase 4 – Revision (4–8 weeks)

Revision PassFocus
Pass 1 – Macro: Compare draft to scene cards, ensure every card is represented appropriately.Structural fidelity.
Pass 2 – Character Depth: Cross‑check each character’s “Motivation Card” against their actions.Emotional authenticity.
Pass 3 – Detail Polish: Use “Setting” and “Clue” cards to enrich prose, add sensory layer.Texture and atmosphere.
Pass 4 – Line‑Edit: Grammar, style, pacing.Clean copy.

The beauty of this system is that the heavy lifting (detail tracking) is already done; revisions become a matter of refinement, not reconstruction.

6. When Speed Can Backfire (And How to Avoid It)

PitfallSymptomsFix
“Speed‑first, plan‑later”Frequently hitting dead‑ends, large plot holes, endless rewrites.Insert at least a 10‑page outline before the first draft.
“All‑out sprint, no rest”Burnout, loss of enthusiasm, sloppy prose.Build in micro‑breaks (e.g., 10‑minute walk after each 2‑hour block).
“Details after the fact”Inconsistencies in character back‑story, world logic errors.Use cards or a spreadsheet to log every new fact as you write.
“Relying on memory”Forgetting early clues, contradictory timelines.Keep a master timeline (Google Sheet, Excel) updated daily.

7. Bottom Line: Speed Is a Tool, Not a Philosophy

  • If you have a plan, a fast first draft can be a productive sprint that leaves you plenty of time for deep revision.
  • If you lack a plan, speed often leads to a quick mess that takes longer to clean up than a slower, more deliberate approach.
  • Gardner’s 3 × 5‑card system proves that you can have both: a rapid output engine powered by meticulous, externalised detail tracking.

In short: Write fast when you’ve wired the details into a system you trust. Write slowly when you’re still figuring out what the story even is. The sweet spot lies somewhere in the middle—structured speed backed by disciplined organisation.

8. Quick‑Start Checklist (Print‑Friendly)

  •  Capture every narrative idea on a card (physical or digital).
  •  Tag each card (Character, Plot, Setting, Clue).
  •  Arrange cards into a three‑act scene sequence.
  •  Set a daily word‑count goal (1,000–2,000 words).
  •  Write the first draft without editing – use the cards as a roadmap.
  •  Mark cards that need extra detail during the draft.
  •  Revise using the four‑pass method (macro → character → detail → line).

Print this list, stick it on your desk, and let it guide you from “I have a story” to “I have a polished novel—fast.”

Further Reading

  • Earl Stanley Gardner – The Case of the Counterfeit Coin (intro to his planning method).
  • Steven King – On Writing (chapter on “The Importance of a Plan”).
  • K.M. Weiland – Structuring Your Novel (Snowflake Method).
  • James Clear – Atomic Habits (building daily writing habits).

Ready to sprint your next novel while keeping the details tight? Grab a stack of 3 × 5 cards, map out your world, and let the words flow. Speed and depth are not mutually exclusive—they’re just waiting for the right system to meet.

Happy writing!

If you found this post helpful, share it on social media, subscribe for more writing strategy articles, or leave a comment below with your own fast‑write success stories.

Searching for locations: From the Presidential Suite to almost walking the plank, Auckland, New Zealand

This is something you don’t see every day of the week, or once in a lifetime, perhaps.

We arrived at the Hilton Auckland hotel somewhere between one and two in the morning after arriving from Australia by plane around midnight.

Sometimes there is a benefit in arriving late, and, of course, being a very high tier HHonors guest, where the room you book is upgraded.

This stay we got one hell of a surprise.

We got to spend the night in the Presidential Suite.

The lounge and extra bathroom.

Looking towards the private bathroom.

A bathroom fit for a King and a Queen

And the royal bed

There was a note to say that we should keep the blinds closed for privacy and that a ship would be arriving in the port, but I did not expect it to be literally fifty feet from our balcony.

aucklandhotelandship

“Knowledge can be dangerous…” – A short story

It was, perhaps, the saddest week of my life.

It started with a phone call, and then a visit by two police officers.  It was about my parents, but the news could not be imparted over the phone, only in person.  That statement alone told me it was very bad news, so I assumed the worst.

The two police officers, standing at the front door, with grim expressions on their faces, completed the picture.  The news, my parents were dead, killed in a freak car accident.

At first, it didn’t sink in.  They were on their way back from another of their extensive holidays, one of many since my father had retired.  I’d seen them probably six months out of the last five years, and the only reason they were returning this time was that my mother needed an operation.

They hadn’t told me why, not that they ever told me very much any time since the day I’d been born, but that was who they were.  I thought them eccentric, being older when I’d come along, and others thought them, well, eccentric.

And being an only child, they packed me off to boarding school, then university, and then found me a job in London, and set me up so that I would only see them weekends if they were home.

I had once wondered if they ever cared about me, keeping me at arm’s length, but my mother some time ago had taken me aside and explained why.  It was my father’s family tradition.  The only part I’d missed was a nanny.

It most likely explained why I didn’t feel their passing as much as I should.

A week later, after a strange funeral where a great many people I’d never met before, and oddly who knew about me, I found myself sitting in the sunroom, a glass of scotch in one hand, and an envelope with my name on it, in the other.

The solicitor, a man I’d never met before, had given it to me at the funeral.   We had, as far as I knew an elderly fellow, one of my father’s old school friends, as the family solicitor, but he hadn’t shown at the funeral and wasn’t at home when I called in on my way home.

It was all very odd.

I refilled the glass and took another look at the envelope.  It was not new, in fact, it had the yellow tinge of age, with discolouration where the flap was.  The writing was almost a scrawl, but identifiable as my father’s handwriting, perhaps an early version as it was now definitely an illegible scrawl.

I’d compared it with the note he’d left me before they had embarked on their last adventure, everything I had to do while caretaking their house.  The last paragraph was the most interesting, instructing me to be present when the cleaning lady came, he’d all but accused her of stealing the candlesticks.

To be honest, I hadn’t realized there were candlesticks to steal, but there they were, on the mantlepiece over the fire in the dining room.  The whole house was almost like being in an adventure park, with stairs going up to an array of rooms, mostly no longer used, and a staircase to the attic, and then another going down to the cellar.  The attic was locked and had been for as long as I could remember, and the cellar was dank and draughty.

Much like the whole house, but not surprisingly, it was over 200 years old.

And perhaps it was now mine.  The solicitor, a man by the name of Sir Percival Algernon Bridgewater, had intimated that it might be the last will and testament and had asked me to tell him if it was.  I was surprised that Sir Percival didn’t have the document in question.

And equally. so that the man I knew as his solicitor, Lawerence Wellingham, didn’t have a copy of my father’s last will and testament either.

I finished the drink, picked up the envelope, and opened it.

It contained two sheets of paper, the will, and a letter.  A very short letter.

“If you are reading this I have died before my time.  You will need to find Albert Stritching, and ask him to help you find the murderer.”

Even the tenor of that letter didn’t faze me as it should have, because at this point nothing would surprise me.  In fact, as I  unfolded the document that proclaimed it was the will, I was ready for it to say that the whole of his estate and belongings were to be left to some charity, and I would get an annual stipend of a thousand pounds.

In fact, it didn’t.  The whole of his estate was left to my mother should she outlive him, or in the event of her prior decease, to me.

I had to put all of those surprises on hold to answer a knock on the door.

Lawerence Wellingham.

I stood to one side, let him pass, closed the door, and followed him into the front room, the one my mother called the ‘drawing room’ though I never knew why.

He sat in one of the large, comfortable lounge chairs.  I sat in the other.

I showed him the will.  I kept the other back, not knowing what to make of it.

“No surprise there,” Wellingham said.

“Did you have any idea what my father used to do, beyond being, as he put it, a freelance diplomat?”

I thought it a rather odd description but it was better than one he once proffered, ‘I do odd jobs for the government’.

“I didn’t ask.  Knowledge can be dangerous, particularly when associated with your father.  Most of us prefer not to know, but one thing I can tell you.  If anyone tries to tell you what happened to your parents was not an accident, ignore them.  Go live your life, and keep those memories you have of them in the past, and don’t look back.  They were good people, Ken, remember them as such.”

We reminisced for the next hour, making a dent in the scotch, one of my father’s favourite, and he left.

Alone again, the thoughts went back to the second note from my father.  That’s when the house phone rang.

Before I could answer it, a voice said, “My name is Stritching.  Your father might have mentioned me?  We need to talk.”

—-

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you?

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been solace after disappointment turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters, cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times, taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice, where, in those back streets, I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all, a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

…

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

…

A to Z – April – 2026 – K

K is for Katerina

…

Sunday lunch could be the best of times or the worst of times.  Any family gathering at my parents’ house was a trial, one that eventually drove me away.

I had stopped turning up at the family residence for the weekly gatherings simply because the ritual cross-examination of why I was not like my brothers and sisters, married with three point two children, got too exhausting.

It meant that I rarely, if ever, got to see my nieces and nephews or my brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, and well-meaning but over-the-top parents.

Moving to the other side of the country had a lot to do with it.  The rest of my family had stayed put, making their lives in the one place they all professed they could never leave.

Only one other sibling had attempted an escape, my younger sister Eileen, but two months after she left, she came home.  I knew something bad had happened, but she never said anything and never left again, except for the odd trip to the state capital for work.

But like all good things that came to an end, it was approaching that time when I would have to go back, if only once, because it was time.

…

I might have returned home earlier had it not been for an entirely unforeseen event.

I never had any intention of looking for, or becoming involved with, any other person, not to the extent that it would require explanation of my rather odd, to me anyway, circumstances.

Yes, I harboured the same hopes and dreams of meeting ‘the one’ as everyone else had, but the idea of subjecting them to the rigours of the family third degree was the single limiting factor.  I could not say I was an orphan, but then I didn’t think it would be a selling point that I was the second youngest of fourteen children, with twelve of the thirteen others married, with a collective thirty-six nephews and nieces.

What was probably the worst aspect, this group turned up every Sunday for lunch, all sixty-four of them, unless a major calamity prevented their attendance.  As you can see, with odds of sixty-four to one, the Spanish Inquisition would have been a kindergarten outing by comparison.

But to say I missed them may have been the case, but that they missed me more was becoming very hard to ignore or put off.

Perhaps they had missed making my life hell, because over the past three years, there had been many phone calls and messages and one visit by my eldest brother, the self-elected spokesman, he said, the peacemaker, who had come to take me home.

It was the last time we spoke. Civilly, anyway.

That was a year ago.

Things had changed during that year, though I was not sure whether for the better.  I had met someone, yes, a woman named Catherine, Katerina if I wanted to call her by her Russian name, which I didn’t, one who was perhaps as skittish as I was at the whole dating and sharing your life thing.

Our first meeting was fascinating because her Russian accent was intoxicating, and I told her at the end of the night that she could read me War and Peace, and I would listen to it all night.  I think that I realised she used her Russian heritage to put off potential suitors.  I told her it wouldn’t work with me.

We both started out playing the orphan card, and as the dates piled up and the little pieces of our sad lives leaked out, it became apparent we both had suffered the small-town, large family, endless expectations things.  She had been expected to marry her high school sweetheart until she found out he was secretly cheating on her.

When she told her parents, and they confronted him, he denied it and made her look like she was just spiteful because she didn’t want to marry him.  The other girl could have him, and she left on the next bus out.  It was no surprise to learn the other girl hadn’t married him, nor had any other.

From there, with cards on the table, we just clicked.

But like all good things, it, too, should have ended because I was one of those people who never finished what they started.

…

A Saturday morning, not generally a workday and the day we set aside for everything that couldn’t get done on a weekday, came after an extended evening in the pub.

We rarely stayed beyond a drink or two, but others we knew, just back from a long holiday, dropped in on the off chance we would be there, and it turned into dinner and more drinks.

It never affected Katerina. I was guessing it was something to do with her Russian heritage and vodka, and the explanation I missed when I had to go to the bathroom. I was not so lucky.

She was up and about, and I heard the buzzer, usually someone trying to get in after they forgot to take their key, and I thought no more about it.

Five minutes passed, and then Katerina was standing in the doorway, her half-hostile, annoyed expression glaring at me. It was one of those expressions you could feel.

“Some silly girl at the door says she is your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“I say this, and she says, ‘Go tell that annoying bastard Eileen is here’.  So, annoying bastard, who is this Eileen?”

“One of the thirteen other siblings I try very hard not to admit I have.  They’re like debt collectors. You can never really escape them.”

I climbed out of bed and went out.  She stayed back at the door but was still visible from the front.

I opened the door, and there was Eileen, my youngest sister, the last born and the most spoiled.  Given the age differences between my other siblings and me, she was the only one I could relate to.

“What the hell, Robert?”

“What the hell, yourself?  Didn’t I make it clear to Prince Walter that I had disappeared through a portal to another dimension?”

It was an attempt at a joke that he couldn’t and wouldn’t understand.  He had no sense of humour at all.

“That dumb shit doesn’t work on me.  Are you going to leave me standing in the passage?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Oh, for fucks sake, Robert,” then brushed past inside.

Katerina was watching with a bemused expression.  Perhaps this was her family, too.

I could see Eileen giving her the traditional family female death stare.  “Who is she?”

“She is standing right here, and I can hear and see you.  A warning word, my other job is a bouncer at a nightclub, and you may, depending on what you say next, find out how I treat recalcitrant customers.”

That notion of not wanting to meet her in a dark alley was right.  Katarina was a gym freak.

It was amusing to see Eileen think before she spoke next.

Then, with a glance over my shoulder at Katarina, she said, “As I said at the door, I’m his sister, Eileen.  I’m surprised he didn’t mention me.”

Katerina looked her up and down.  “He mentioned all of you, but I think his description may have been a little harsh.  You only seem a little bit bitch from hell.  I am Katarina.  Bigger bitch from Siberia.”

I smiled.  She could be a fascinating companion, more so after a bottle of vodka, and especially when she related tales of being in the Russian army.  I could never tell if they were true and never dared to ask.

Eileen didn’t know what to do or say at that point. She was a hugger, and for the first time, I saw her hesitate.

Instead, she said, “Wow.  The others are going to shit their pants when they meet Katarina.”

“And you know that’s never going to happen.  That unappreciative, condescending collection of hypocrites doesn’t deserve anything from me and nothing from Katerina.”

She switched her death stare back to me.

“Dad’s dying.  Earlier in the week, the final diagnosis gave him four to six months, if he’s lucky.  We don’t believe he’s lucky.  He must go to the hospital next week, and I honestly believe he won’t be coming out, Robert.  We gave him a wish, the one thing he wanted most of all, no matter what it was, and we would grant it.  He wants to see you one more time before he dies.”

That was saying something. When I left, he told me I could die in purgatory, after hell froze over, before he wanted to see me again.

“You were there when I left?  He was the one who drove me away.  Along with everyone else, including mother, who, I might add, spent every last breath making you the spoilt brat you are.”

“You need to get over it and yourself.  I was not spoiled.  When I left, I made a fool of myself and was raped.  It was the worst experience of my life, and my mother nearly fought a losing battle when I tried to kill myself.  I thought I knew everything, but I knew nothing.  Perhaps I should have told you, and you wouldn’t have left.”

Well, if nothing else, it was typical of how my family handled trouble.  My brother could have explained everything when he came, but he chose not to.  He was the same man as my father, uncompromising and a hard task master.  I was sure that if my father, and in turn my eldest brother, could whip us for our sins, he would have.

I shook my head and looked at Katerina.  She went up to Eileen and hugged her. 

“It is a terrible thing, what men can do to women.  We go find this lowlife and teach lesson, no?”

“Too late.  God has a way of sorting out these problems. He was killed in a crash, chased by the cops while kidnapping an underage girl he had got pregnant.  Leopards and spots, my father says.”

That would be him.  A saying for everything, not a solution.

“There is no God, just karma.  But the story doesn’t change people, as you say, like leopards and spots.  Nor does death. They are still the same people as in life.  You need more compelling reasons.  I have the same family, which is why I left Russia.”

Eileen glared at me.  “Who is this woman?”

Katerina put her angry face on again. “When you live my life, you can dare ask.  You have delivered a message.”  She went to the door and opened it.  “We will discuss; let you know.”

“Robert?”

“Where are you staying?”

“The hotel up the road, not far from here.”

“Good.  I’ll call you.  I assume your cell number hasn’t changed?”

Her annoyance changed to surprise. I was not sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the open door.

“Is that it?”

“Like the rest, your expectation is that I would just fall into line. You could have called me.”

“You wouldn’t answer.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.   But I will call you.”

“We can talk now.”

“No.  You can’t just turn up on my doorstep and expect me to drop everything.  I now have a life, one I like, free of all that obligation and expectation.  I don’t have to meet anyone’s standards other than my own and of Katarina, as it should be.”

“He’ll be very disappointed if you don’t.  Everyone will be.”

“And there’s the emotional blackmail.  Go now before I simply refuse, and you will have wasted your time and money.”

She looked at me with anger and just a little of what my brother had in his eyes the last time I saw him.  Hatred.

“I don’t understand why you hate us so much.”

“You should be asking them, not me.”

A final shake of the head, and she left.  It was not what I wanted, but it was the right thing to do.  Something I had learned while away from home was that decisions were not mine alone when there were others involved, something my father never practised.  It had always been his way or no way.

I leaned against the door and sighed.

“You think her story is true?  She is quite manipulative, as you said.”

“Maybe.  My father taught them well, her especially.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Go back to bed and pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Shopping or bed, I know which I prefer, but it doesn’t resolve the problem.”

“Then I make a call to a friend who will know what’s really going on.  Then bed, then we talk, then we take her to dinner and send her back with the good or bad news.  It’s up to you, too.”

“It is, after all, your family.”

“And yours for better or worse, if or when we decide to make this permanent.”

“Does that mean we have to go to Siberia to see mine? It is not something I would ask of you.”

“I’d love to see Siberia.”

She laughed.  “You are funny, boy Robert.  No one loves to go to Siberia, especially Siberians.  Make the call, and then I will make you forget Siberia exists.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed, came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first time they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration honouring one of the Embassy officials’ service in Moscow, soon to be returning home after 10 years.  She had been there one and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked; Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and, of course, what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this were a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man interested in her, and Vladimir was.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy, and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a platonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally, for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance, it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he would remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed that he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, as always, in separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution: keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, the people, and the conversations she overheard were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But on this visit, the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully on the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the minibar and took out the bottle of champagne left there for them, a treat Vladimir arranged for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought about how Eve must have felt in the Garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was, if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2026