Category: Author

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 10

Ten

Fabio at one end, Amy and guards at the other, I’m in the control room, and Benito just walked in.  Was this Amy’s master plan?  Scare the living hell out of Fabio?  Had she told Benito about Gabrielle?

A dozen unanswered questions were going through my mind, but the one at the top of the pile was, what was she doing?  The answer I least wanted to believe; was that she had been working with Benito all along.

And if that was the case, and if Benito was in a forgiving mood with his son-in-law, then I might be in trouble.  My mind cast over the events leading up to getting to this place, and I could see at least three instances where it could be said she was working for Benito, or even Fabio if I wanted to go down that rabbit hole.

I watched Fabio’s expression change from incredulous to fear.

Maybe I was not the target.  Yet.

Just in case it was true, I deemed it time to leave.  There was nothing more I could do.

I opened the door and stopped.  Outside was a guard with a gun, pointer directly at me.

“What are you doing,” I asked.

Dumb question, I knew instantly what was happening.

“I’ve come to escort you to the meeting.”

Of course, what was I thinking? 

“Who’s this?”  Benito saw me being escorted to where Amy was standing.

“Another mess your stupid son-in-law caused that I had to clean up.  This was not part of the deal.  I’m not here to clean up Fabio shooting up the city.  I had the witness situation sorted.  Whose idea was to send in the corrupt cops?”

So, she was on the take.  For whom though?

Benito glared at his son-in-law.  “First you kill a man in front of a witness, then you directly disobey orders.”

“You wanted me gone.  Angelina said so.”

“You’re a moron.  I told you a year ago you’d have one chance to prove yourself capable of running this family’s operations.  Five times you’ve screwed up.  Five.”

“I can’t help you anymore,” Amy said.  “This last screwup, it’s blown my cover.”

“Just hand over the witness, and I’ll make sure you retire comfortably, Sorrento, Capri, Tuscany, you name it.”  Benito’s tone was convincing.

“No.  You broke our agreement.  I’d rather take my chances.  You need to deal with Fabio now, before it’s too late.  So far, the DA’s only interested in him, not so much because of the witness, but because one of your corrupt cops lived long enough to name Fabio, and only Fabio, is the instigator of the hit.  And just to make matters worse, Fabio never gave up Gabrielle as he promised.  He’s been two-timing Angelina the whole time he’s been married to her.”

I could see that was the final nail in the coffin.  Benito held out his hand and one of his henchmen handed him a silenced gun.

“You said…”

Fabio didn’t speak.  There was nothing to say.

Benito aimed and shot Fabio.  Fabio didn’t try to avoid the bullet or plead for his life.

“Problem solved,” Benito said.  “We’re done.  I suggest you disappear before I change my mind and set the dogs on you.”

A nod of the head and he was gone.

Amy glared at me.  “Don’t say anything.”

She went back towards the control room, and, after looking at the body on the floor, and looking back into the darkness where Benito had retreated, I had to wonder just what happened.

The fact I was still alive was probably a miracle.  With Fabio dead, I was no longer useful for either the state or Benito.  Still, that being so, I didn’t feel safe.  With Benito still out there, both Amy and I were always going to have targets on our back.

I got back to the control room to find Amy on her cell phone.

“You got them?”

“And tell me you got a recording of the conversation?”

“Good.  I’ll let the others go and see you in the office.  Yes.  I’ll bring him.”

She disconnected the call and saw me.

“You’re wondering what just happened?”

I was still at the point where I was totally gobsmacked and losing all trust in the one person I had placed all my trust and my life.  “You could say that?”

“I’m sorry, but it was necessary.  This is the result of three years of undercover work, and it was nearly all brought undone by that attempt on your life.  I hadn’t bargained on Benito bribing some of his police on the payroll to kill you.  I told him I’d take care of it, but it appears he didn’t trust me.  The thing is, the last few times I spoke to him, he was not as forthcoming.  I think he knew my true status which meant this was the only chance I had to get Fabio.”

“What was the plan?”

“Break him out, pretending it was under the orders of his father-in-law, then use Gabrielle against Angelina, hoping Angelina would turn on him, threatening to tell her father of his infidelity unless he confessed to the murder, and, of course, exonerate you.”

“She didn’t, did she?”

“No.  She was threatening to kill Gabrielle and her child.”

“Then you called Benito.”

“He wasn’t part of the original plan, but a thought did occur to me, tell him about Fabio’s girlfriend and watch the father punish the son in law.”

“Did you think he’d simply shoot him?”

“No, but Benito is as much a loose cannon as Fabio.  We thought Benito retiring was the end of an era.  It wasn’t.  That he shot Fabio kills two birds with one stone.  Benito is now in custody with physical evidence that we can use to put him in jail for the rest of his life.”

“And the family crime operation?”

“Destroying itself as we speak.”

“Except if you let Gabrielle go, she will take it over.  I saw the newspaper article on the family dynamic.  Benito wasn’t the only boss, not Fabio.  It suggested that his faith in Fabio had waned to the point where Gabrielle was running several day-to-day operations.  If she does take over, that will leave both of us in an invidious position.”

“Only if I let her go.  Perhaps we should put her in jail too.”

“She hasn’t done anything.”

“That we can prove.  But you’re right.  I had been banking on her cooperation, but that hasn’t been the case.”

She shrugged.  “No matter.  You’re free now, with no case to answer.  I’d disappear though, just in case.”

“I can’t get witness protection?”

“Maybe.  I’ll ask.  Either way, go home. Your job is done.”

She seemed distracted, and there was nothing more to be gained in further discussion.  I was beginning to understand that no good deed goes unpunished, that trying to do good didn’t always work out the way I thought it would, and now, I had left myself in mortal danger.

I couldn’t go home, as she said, I couldn’t go anywhere.  It was not as if I had the most fulfilling life before all of this began, so ideally, I could disappear, but I would need help/

I was not going to let her just walk away.

“Hey,” I yelled out.  “Asking is not good enough.  You will get me into witness protection, and the sooner the better.”

“Fine.”  She stopped and waited until I caught up.  “Where would you like to go?”

I hadn’t thought about it, but it opened many possibilities.

“Montana?”

She shrugged.  “I can’t see you on a horse.” 

Together, we returned to the control room, each facing an uncertain future.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 10

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

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

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

An interrogation continues

 

“So, take it from the top, give me a detailed rundown on the operation, from the briefing to coming here.”

That was an interesting request.  My usual report would not go into so much detail, and I had been compiling it on the go because if left until the end, crucial details were always omitted.

And, with the explosion, a lot of details had been mislaid in my mind, with more important or over-arching problems, getting a more prominent place in my memory.  It was a valuable lesson learned on reporting, we’d received from a man who most of my classmates thought odd, to the point of paranoid.

“I received the text message the night before to report to the midtown office for the briefing.  The code word was Chancellor and it was recognised at the security station.  If it was bogus I would not have made it in the building.”

“You go there for all your briefings?”

“Yes.”

“Same team?”

“For the previous five, yes.  This last one, a different team.  “One of us asked what happened to the previous team and we were told that it was none of our business.  We were given orders and sent out into the field to do a job.  That job, we were reminded, was not to ask irrelevant questions.”

“The leader told you that?”

“In no uncertain terms.”

“Go on.”

“We were given a photograph of the man that I have just given to you.  No mention was made of what he had done to warrant surveillance, only that we were to not lose him and to note everything he did.

“We were told where he might be found at a particular time, and a particular place, information that was correct.”

“Your team members?”

“Fiona Davis, Jack Venables, Walter Arbon, and me.”

“I take it you had the target under surveillance, ready to hand off to the next team member?”

“Before the explosion, yes, it was my leg.”

“You’re referring to the explosion in Church Street?”

“Yes.  I’d just past it when there was an explosion, and I was caught in the aftermath, and narrowly avoided the shrapnel raining down.  Others were not so lucky.”

“That’s where you lost him?”

“He was in front of me, thus avoiding the fallout.  It took a minute or so to get my bearings, and even then it was very hazy with the dust and carnage around me, but I did manage to see him in the distance heading towards the next person’s tag point.”

“You didn’t resume surveillance?”

“Couldn’t.  Too disoriented.  I put out an alert on the comms, but no one answered, not straight away.”

“You didn’t suspect anything?”

“Not then.,  I put it down to a malfunction from the blast.”

“You said ‘not straight away’?”

“About five minutes had passed when a voice came in my ear, asking for an update.  I didn’t think much about it at the time, because of the temporary disorientation, but it was about the time for the next team to take over.  There were two rolling teams of four.”

“Why did you think it odd?”

“Because they would know about the explosion.  Everyone within a mile radius would.  But at the time I simply said I was caught up in the aftermath and that the target was last seen heading towards the takeover point.  Then I was told the target was sighted.”

“I assume you then considered your role had ended?”

“Yes.  I’d been told to follow the advice of the medical staff on site.”

“Which was?”

“Go to the hospital for a check-up.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.  I was heading away from the blast site when I saw the target again.  I stopped, watched, got out of sight, and waited.  He was coming back in my direction.”

“Was that an expected scenario, that he might backtrack?”

“No.  In the briefing we were told it was possible he would be moving from the point where we found him, to another for a clandestine meeting, away from the blast site.”

What did you do then?”

“Checked the position of the next member of the surveillance team. C I found him, and he was dead.  I made an assumption that the other two may have suffered a similar fate, and resumed surveillance on the target.”

“Did you report it?”

“Over the comms, yes.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, no one answered.”

“Not even the director?”

“No.”

She made a note, crossed it out and wrote another with an underline.  A thick black line repeatedly, expressing her anger.

“You maintained surveillance?”

“Yes.”

“Until?”

“I’d cornered him in an alley, near a railway station.  I suspected he might head for it.  He’s seen me, and nearly dispatched me in the same manner as the others.  Luckily it was only a scratch.”

It was more than that and required 12 stitches but they didn’t need to know that.

“Then, Severin arrived, and out of nowhere, he was shot dead.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“Only to ask what he had done with the other members of my team.  He never answered.”

“Did you report that you’d caught him?”

“No.  Didn’t have to.  Severin arrived just after I had.”

“And that’s all of it?”

“In my report.  Yes.  When I get to write it, but I’ll need my phone.  It has the relevant details, except for the last part where I’d found him.”

“No name?”

“No.”

“You didn’t know he was one of ours?”

“No.  That fact only came to my attention when he told me.  When you’re given a target, you don’t ask what the relevance is, or what he’s done.  I’m sure you’re fully aware of the current practices and procedures.”

That last sentence slipped out, and by the look on her face, wasn’t well received.  I’d forgotten the golden rule.  Stick to the facts.  No embellishment, no emotion.

She made another note, closed the book, and got up.  “I’d like you to stay, just for the time being while we sort through the details.”

Then she left.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 3/4

Days 3 and 4 – Writing exercise

…

There was a break in the proceedings, and I had just stepped out of the room to make a call.  I had excused myself for a few minutes, but for some reason, the atmosphere in the meeting room became oppressive.

Like someone had deliberately raised the temperature to just below comfortable.

The main doors opened out onto an elevator foyer, which was by a large glass observation deck that jutted out into space.  It was meant to be a feature where one could walk onto the glass floor and look down forty floors to the street below.

And if one looked out, almost the length of Central Park, and beyond.  I made the call, but there was no answer.  That was a surprise, because someone had always answered before.

Then, one moment I was looking down, all the way down to the sidewall, and the next moment, I was sitting in a chair by the double door entrance to the meeting room.

I had no idea how I got there.

It was like I had just woken from a long sleep, opened my eyes, and there I was.

But I didn’t know or couldn’t remember where that was, except I’d been there before.

“Sir?  Sir?”  A young lady in what looked like a military uniform was standing beside me, looking concerned.

I looked up, my eyes taking a moment to focus.

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

An odd question.  I felt alright; there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with me.

“Do you know where you are?”

Silly question.  I knew exactly where I was.

“Taking a break from the meeting.”

She looked perplexed.  “Sir, there is no meeting.  Not today.”

She addressed me as if she knew who I was.  I tried to stand, but I could not get out of the chair.  My whole body felt like a ton of weight.

I tried to think, and it was like walking under water against the tide.  I looked around me.  I know where this is, don’t I?

And yet nothing came into my mind.  Why was I here? Where exactly was here?

“I’m sorry.  It’s confusing.”

“Are you alright?”

All of a sudden if felt like the building was spinning, or perhaps I was, and the sensation was suddenly scaring me.

I closed my eyes and prayed it would stop.

It wouldn’t. 

But before I had time to ask for help, I lost consciousness.

…

I woke to the sound of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.  In fact, it had been in my subconscious before waking, and was probably what woke me.

It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t coming from a specific place, it just felt like I was right in the middle of an orchestra that was playing it.

Except when I surfaced, as if I had been underwater, it was simply there, in the air, all around me.

I was lying on the floor.

Odd, because in the back of my mind, my last thought was of being in the middle of a speech, though what it was about, for the moment, eluded me.

I looked around, but there was no one else.

The thought of looking out over Central Park returned, and I sat up.

Not in a room with windows.  Not with anything other than a camera with a red flashing light, near the roof.

I couldn’t see a door, but then, the lighting was subdued.

I stood, taking less effort than I thought it might and did a circuit of the walls.  It was too dark to see properly, but there would be a door.

Somewhere.

I tried to remember what happened, how I ended up in this room.  That would remain a mystery.  Before that, there was still that impression I had been in the middle of a speech.

About?

The interference and demands by the government in the execution of clandestine operations that are deemed secret, for obvious reasons.

I think I’d reached the point where I was looking around at the sea of expectant faces, of men and women who were waiting for the final argument.

I stopped on one particular face, a woman, about my age, who was relatively old, and a surprise in a room full of people who at best were in their late 30s.

Why was she there?

And why was she positioned so that it would be very difficult to see, much less identify her?

A fractional moment before moving on, fractional enough to lose track of where I was, and what I was about to say next.

What was I going to say next?

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

…

Another room, very bright, with a table and two chairs.  I was sitting on one.  It was a cheap plastic single mold very uncomfortable.

The sort used as outdoor furniture is built to endure seasons of dramatic climactic changes.  I had some myself out on the deck, back at the cabin, a place I realised I should be rather than here.

Where was here, by the way?

The door opened, and an old woman came in.  She seemed familiar; I had seen her before.

Somewhere.

I never realised my memory was so bad.

She sat opposite, squirming to find a comfortable position, her expression telling me there wasn’t one.  Not for old folks.

“Emil?”

That was one of my names, but not today.

“Who?”

She smiled.  Damn, I know that face.

“Are we going to play games?”

Did we, once?  “Anastasia?  I think once I referred to you as the Tsar’s missing daughter.  You certainly looked like a Princess.”

“You remember?”

“Not exactly.  The face is familiar, and the name was dancing on the tip of my tongue.  If it is who I think you are, you look very good for a person whose been dead for twenty years.”

“You shot me.”

“In self-defence.  I still feel the aches and pains, and limp from that shot.  What did you expect?”

“I was trying to sound you so they wouldn’t capture you.”

“So, we both assumed the worst about each other.”

“You were never culturally attached.”

“You were never a maid.”

“A charming maid.”

“A very distracting maid.  Who was a spy?”

“Which made you what?”

“Still a cultural attache.  Who was asked by a weedy little man who smoked the most disgusting pipe tobacco, to find out if you were a maid.  I didn’t want to.”

“Except…”

“Weedy little men like him always have a backup plan that includes blackmail.”

“The photograph.”

Stormson, the head of the station in Moscow, believed no one, trusted no one, and treated everyone as if they were double agents.

It was not as if I didn’t know Anastasia was most likely a honey trap, and silly boys like me on first assignment overseas were the usual wide-eyed and naive fools.

“Old times.”

Except I didn’t think we were here for old times.

“I hear you retired?”  She squirmed again, and it seemed to favour her left side.  Old injury?

“A habit, in the mountains, away from prying eyes.  Peaceful, quiet.”

“Off the grid?”

“Way, way off the grid.  Why?”

“I need a favour.  You owe me.  I saved your life.”

“You tried to kill me.”

“If I had been, do you think we would be here now?”

Interesting point.  But, oddly, I knew in that moment that all of this was in my subconscious.  It wasn’t real. 

It had been triggered by seeing a face in the audience, at a briefing that had dragged me out of blissful retirement at the insistence of the man who had taken over my last job.

Ten years before.

…

Except that the only truthful part of what happened to me was that I was at a conference, delivering a pre-written speech.  My name may have added weight to the subject matter, but that was not why I was there.

The department had credible evidence that an old Russian master spy from the Cold War era had slipped into the country.  They had the blurry, almost indistinct photos to prove it.

I told them she was dead.  They told me she was not dead, and she was up to something.  They believed she wanted to see me.  That was why I was there.

And yes, I’d seen her, and yes, it had triggered an episode, and yes, now I was in hospital.  Waiting, it appeared, for her to arrive.

There was more to this than her wanting to see me.  We had a relatively minor encounter and my report back then was that I killed her.  I saw it happen.  It traumatised me for years afterwards.

It didn’t happen.  She didn’t come.  I thought she was just a ghost from my past.

A month later, they let me go home, back to the wilds of the forest, where my nearest neighbour was a mile away, where the security system I’d installed could pick up a mouse at a hundred years, a security system that had more backup systems in place than could be counted.

No one could penetrate the shield.

No one.

And yet when I got out of the car and closed the door, I could hear the strains of the Pastoral Symphony wafting down from the house. 

And by the time I made it to the veranda, she was leaning in the doorway, looking as devastatingly beautiful as always.

“Welcome home, Vasily.”

I smiled.  “Olga.  Any problems?”

“None that couldn’t be buried out back,” she waved her hand vaguely, “somewhere.  You?”

“Nobody cares about the dinosaurs anymore.  Except when they think an old adversary is back to wreak havoc.”

“I am like you, a dinosaur too.  We are dinosaurs together, yes?”

I had dreamed of this moment, and hadn’t thought the plane would work.  Not only did we have to fool my people, but she had to fool herself, a much more difficult proposition.

It only worked because of my successor.  Not a man who understood the intricate details of any case.  All results driven, at any cost, and the quicker the better.

She held out her hand.  “Come.  I have prepared a feast.”

No doubt, I thought as I closed the door, in more ways than one.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Rabat

Rabat’s Secret Side: 5 Distinctive Attractions to Escape the Crowds

When you think of Rabat, Morocco’s elegant capital, images of the iconic blue-and-white walls of the Kasbah of the Udayas or the grand silhouette of the Hassan Tower likely come to mind. And for good reason—they’re breathtaking.

But the true magic of a city often lies just beyond the postcard-perfect sights. It’s found in the quiet corners, the local haunts, and the places where the city’s pulse beats a little softer. If you’re yearning to experience the distinctive soul of Rabat without the jostle of tour groups, you’re in for a treat.

Here are five remarkable, uncrowded attractions that will show you a completely different side of this imperial city.

1. The Ancient Whispers of Chellah Necropolis

What it is: A serene, sprawling archaeological site on the outskirts of the city that feels like a world away. Chellah is a captivating fusion of history, built upon the ruins of an ancient Roman town and later transformed into a fortified medieval necropolis.

Why it’s distinctive: This isn’t just one ruin; it’s a layered tapestry of time. You can walk along ancient Roman roads, touch the weathered stones of a forum, and then explore the hauntingly beautiful ruins of a 14th-century Islamic mosque with its elegant minaret. The real stars of the show, however, are the storks. Large stork nests perch precariously atop the ruins, and their constant clacking fills the air with a wild, primitive soundtrack you won’t find anywhere else.

Why it’s not crowded: Its location, a short walk or taxi ride from the main medina, naturally filters out the casual tourist. The sheer size of the site means that even on a busy day, you can easily find a quiet corner to yourself.

Pro Tip: Visit in the late afternoon. The golden hour light casts a magical glow on the stone, and the sighing of the wind through the cypress trees makes the whole place feel truly bewitching.

2. The Botanical Wonderland: Exotic Gardens of Bouknadel

What it is: A breathtaking 17-acre botanical garden nestled between Rabat and Salé, designed in the 1950s by French landscape architect Jean-Claude Nicolas Forestier.

Why it’s distinctive: This is more than just a garden; it’s a masterclass in design. A labyrinth of paths winds through distinct zones, from an Islamic-style garden with a reflective pool to a cactus-studded desert landscape and a lush, palm-filled jungle. The garden is famous for its “Grotto Café,” a cool, subterranean restaurant built into a cave—a perfect spot for a mint tea break. It’s a tranquil, beautifully curated escape.

Why it’s not crowded: It requires a dedicated trip, so it’s often missed by those on a tight schedule. It’s a beloved spot for locals but rarely, if ever, overrun with tourists.

Pro Tip: Take your time. Don’t just look for the plants; listen for the birds. The garden is an important bird sanctuary, so bring a little patience, and you might be rewarded with some wonderful sightings.

3. An Architectural Marvel: The National Library of the Kingdom of Morocco

What it is: A stunningly modern structure that stands in stark, beautiful contrast to Rabat’s ancient history. The new building, opened in 2022, is a cultural landmark and a haven of tranquillity.

Why it’s distinctive: The architecture itself is the main event. A series of hexagonal modules create a visually striking facade inspired by traditional Moroccan geometric patterns (zellij). Inside, you’ll find a vast, light-filled reading room that feels like a cathedral of books. It’s a place where Morocco’s rich literary heritage meets cutting-edge design. You don’t need to be a researcher to appreciate the sense of peace and intellectual energy.

Why it’s not crowded: For a tourist, a library is an unconventional choice. You’ll share the space mostly with students and locals, making for an authentically peaceful and modern Moroccan experience.

Pro Tip: You can enter the public areas to admire the architecture. Check their website for visitor access policies, and be sure to walk up to the upper levels for the best view of the main reading hall.

4. A Timeless View from the Moorish Café (Café Maure)

What it is: A simple, historic café perched on a cliffside overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and the mouth of the Bou Regreg river. It has been serving tea and coffee since the early 20th century.

Why it’s distinctive: This is an experience, not just a beverage. The café offers what is arguably the single best panoramic view in Rabat. From its terrace, you can see the kasbah, the ocean, the Hassan Tower, and the city of Salé. The interior is a time capsule, with worn wooden benches and tables, and the air is thick with the scent of mint and history. The sound of crashing waves and the call to prayer drifting across the river is unforgettable.

Why it’s not crowded: While it’s well-known to residents, its simplicity deters the large tour bus crowds. It’s a place for lingering with a book or a friend, not for a quick photo stop.

Pro Tip: Go in the late afternoon and order a thé à la menthe (mint tea). There’s nothing quite like sipping the sweet, steaming tea while watching the sun dip towards the horizon.

5. The Treasure Trove: The Archaeological Museum

What it is: A compact, beautifully curated museum that houses some of Morocco’s most important archaeological finds.

Why it’s distinctive: While many museums attempt to do everything, this one has a focused, world-class collection. Its crown jewels are the incredible bronze artifacts from the Roman site of Volubilis, including a stunning portrait of Cato the Younger. The displays are excellent, providing a deep dive into the pre-Islamic cultures—from prehistoric to Roman—that shaped this land. It’s a quiet, scholarly space that tells a fascinating story often overlooked in the bustling medinas.

Why it’s not crowded: Let’s be honest: most tourists come for the souks and the sights, not the museums. This means you can often have entire rooms to yourself, allowing you to appreciate the incredible artifacts without distraction.

Pro Tip: The museum is right next to the Andalusian Gardens. Visit the gardens early when they’re quietest, and then escape into the cool, calm halls of the museum to escape the midday sun.

Ready to Discover Rabat’s Soul?

Rabat rewards the curious traveller. By stepping just a little off the main path, you’ll find a city of serene gardens, ancient echoes, and modern marvels. These five spots are just a starting point—a key to a quieter, more personal Moroccan experience.

Have you been to Rabat and discovered a hidden gem of your own? Share it in the comments below! We’d love to hear your secret spots.

What I learned about writing – Create plot diagrams

Unlock Your Story: The Writer’s Guide to Creating Powerful Plot Diagrams

Ever stared at a blank page, a brilliant idea fizzling in your mind, with no clue how to turn it into a coherent story? You have a character, a world, a conflict—but the path from “once upon a time” to “the end” is a tangled, overgrown forest.

Every writer has been there.

The secret weapon to navigate this wilderness isn’t some magical muse; it’s a practical, timeless tool: the plot diagram. Think of it as the blueprint for your story’s architecture, the roadmap for your character’s journey. It’s the skeleton you’ll build your narrative muscle onto, ensuring every scene serves a purpose and your pacing keeps readers hooked.

Ready to go from scattered idea to structured story? Let’s build your first plot diagram.

What Exactly is a Plot Diagram?

At its core, a plot diagram is a visual representation of your story’s events. The most common model, based on Gustav Freytag’s analysis of ancient Greek and Shakespearean drama, is often called Freytag’s Pyramid. It looks like a mountain, with the story’s tension rising to a peak and then gently descending.

This simple visual helps you chart the emotional arc of your narrative, ensuring you nail the critical moments that make a story unforgettable.

Why Bother? Can’t I Just Write?

For the “pantser” (a writer who writes by the seat of their pants), a plot diagram can feel like a creative cage. But it’s not a prison—it’s a launchpad. Here’s why it’s a non-negotiable tool for professional writers:

  • Cures Saggy Middles: It forces you to plan a sequence of compelling events that build tension, preventing that dreaded second-act slump.
  • Ensures Solid Pacing: By mapping the rises and falls of action, you can control the rhythm of your story, balancing high-stakes moments with quiet reflection.
  • Prevents Plot Holes: Seeing your story laid out visually makes it easier to spot inconsistencies, forgotten threads, and logical gaps before you write 50,000 words.
  • Sharpens Your Focus: It clarifies the story’s central conflict and ensures every scene, subplot, and character decision serves the main narrative arc.
  • Saves You Hours in Edits: A strong foundation means less messy restructuring later. You’ll thank yourself when you’re not rewriting an entire third act.

How to Build Your Plot Diagram: A Step-by-Step Guide

Grab a whiteboard, a stack of index cards, or open a new document. We’re going to build a plot diagram using the classic five-part structure. To make it crystal clear, we’ll map it using a familiar story: The Hunger Games.

Part 1: Exposition (The Base of the Mountain)

This is your “before” picture. It’s the normal world where your story begins. Your job is to introduce the protagonist, their world, their desires, and the central problems that define their everyday life.

Ask Yourself:

  • Who is my protagonist, and what do they want?
  • Where and when does this story take place?
  • What is the status quo that is about to be shattered?

Example (The Hunger Games): We meet Katniss Everdeen in the impoverished District 12, a place of struggle and survival. We learn she’s the provider for her family, a skilled hunter, and deeply protective of her sister, Prim. This is her normal, albeit difficult, world.

Part 2: Rising Action (The Ascent)

An event happens—the Inciting Incident—that kicks the hero out of their ordinary world and onto the path of the main conflict. The Rising Action is the longest part of your story, a series of events and obstacles that complicate the journey and steadily raise the stakes.

Ask Yourself:

  • What single event forces my hero to act?
  • What escalating challenges will they face on their quest?
  • How will these obstacles test and change them?

Example (The Hunger Games):

  • Inciting Incident: Prim’s name is drawn at the Reaping. Katniss volunteers to take her place.
  • Rising Action: The journey to the Capitol, the dazzling but terrifying pre-Games preparations, forming an uneasy alliance with Rue, the skills assessment, the interviews—all of these events build suspense and force Katniss to adapt and strategise.

Part 3: Climax (The Peak)

This is it. The moment of highest tension, the turning point where the protagonist confronts the central conflict head-on. Everything in your story has been leading to this moment. The outcome is uncertain, and the stakes have never been higher.

Ask Yourself:

  • What is the ultimate battle my hero must fight?
  • How do they use everything they’ve learned to face this challenge?
  • What is the story’s core question that will be answered here?

Example (The Hunger Games): The final, brutal confrontation in the arena. After defeating Cato, the true climax is the standoff with Peeta. Rather than kill each other, Katniss and Peeta decide to eat the poisonous berries, forcing the Gamemakers to change the rules. This is her ultimate act of rebellion against the Capitol.

Part 4: Falling Action (The Descent)

The dust has settled from the Climax. This is the “aftermath” phase, where you explore the immediate consequences of the main event. The tension decreases, and you begin to tie up loose ends.

Ask Yourself:

  • What happens in the moments and days after the climax?
  • How do the characters react to the new reality?
  • What subplots can be resolved here?

Example (The Hunger Games): Katniss and Peeta are rescued, separated, and put under medical care. Katniss fears the Capitol’s retribution for her defiance. She must once again navigate the political minefield during her final interview with Caesar Flickerman, performing her role as the “star-crossed lover” to survive.

Part 5: Resolution (Dénouement)

The story finds its new normal. The main conflict is fully resolved, and we see how the protagonist has been fundamentally changed by their journey. It’s the destination you promised your reader at the beginning of the ascent.

Ask Yourself:

  • How has my hero grown or changed?
  • What is their new “everyday” life?
  • What is the final emotional note I want to leave with the reader?

Example (The Hunger Games): Katniss is on the train, heading back to District 12 as a victor. But the victory feels hollow. She has saved Peeta, but she is now a political symbol, a pawn in a much larger game. Her relationship with him is strained and uncertain. The status quo is gone forever, and the seeds of the rebellion are firmly planted.

Beyond the Basics: Tips for Plotting Like a Pro

  • Digital vs. Analog: Your diagram can be high-tech or beautifully simple. Use tools like Scrivener’s corkboard, Plottr, or Trello for digital flexibility. Or, go analog with a giant whiteboard, a wall of sticky notes, or a simple notebook. The medium doesn’t matter; the thinking does.
  • It’s a Guide, Not a Gospel: A plot diagram gives you direction, but don’t be afraid to take scenic detours. If your characters surprise you, let them! Just remember to check your map occasionally to make sure you’re still heading toward the Climax.
  • Try Other Structures: Freytag’s Pyramid is classic, but it’s not the only one. Explore other story structures like The Hero’s Journey or Save the Cat! for different flavours of narrative mapping.

Your next great story is an idea waiting for a structure. By creating a plot diagram, you’re not just planning; you’re promising your reader a thrilling, well-paced, and deeply satisfying journey.

So grab a pen. Start mapping. Your story is waiting.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Nairobi

Nairobi’s Hidden Gems: 5 Incredible Attractions Without the Crowds

When you think of Nairobi, the mind often leaps to the iconic sights: the silhouettes of giraffes at the Giraffe Centre, the heart-warming sight of orphaned elephants at the Sheldrick Trust, or the breathtaking skyline viewed from a safari in Nairobi National Park.

And for good reason—these are world-class attractions. But they are also, well, popular. If you’re looking to swap the bustling queues for a more intimate, unique, and equally memorable experience, you’re in luck. Nairobi is a city of layers, and just beneath the surface of the main tourist trail lies a treasure trove of hidden gems.

Here are the top five visitor attractions in Nairobi that are rarely crowded but burst with distinctive character and unforgettable stories.

1. The Kenya National Archives: A Treasure Trove of Culture and History

Tucked away in a grand building right in the heart of the city’s central business district, the Kenya National Archives is one of Nairobi’s most-underestimated attractions. While the ground floor is a bustling hive of document services, head upstairs and step into another world.

What Makes It Distinctive: The second floor houses the incredible Murumbi African Heritage Collection. This is a jaw-dropping assortment of artifacts, ethnographic material, books, and art collected by Kenya’s second Vice President, Joseph Murumbi, and his wife, Sheila. From ancient tribal jewelry and textiles to intricate masks and powerful contemporary art, it’s a comprehensive and beautifully curated journey through the art and culture of Kenya and beyond.

Why It’s Not Crowded: Most tourists walk right past it, assuming it’s just a place for official records. It’s a serene, air-conditioned escape from the city heat where you can spend hours lost in the exhibits, often sharing the space with just a handful of local students.

Pro-Tip: Give yourself at least two hours. Don’t miss the stunning collection of African postage stamps or the powerful portraits in the art gallery. The entrance fee is a bargain for the sheer volume of world-class history on display.

2. The Nairobi Railway Museum: A Journey to the City’s Birth

Ever wondered why Nairobi exists in the first place? The answer lies on the tracks. The Nairobi Railway Museum, located right next to the main railway station, is a charming and nostalgic ode to the “Lunatic Express,” the railway line that gave birth to the city.

What Makes It Distinctive: This museum is an open-air gallery of majestic, rusting giants. You can climb aboard historic steam and diesel locomotives, explore royal carriages (including one used for Queen Elizabeth’s visit!), and delve into the fascinating, and often dramatic, history of the railway’s construction. It’s a tangible link to a bygone era of colonial ambition, engineering marvels, and the man-eating lions of Tsavo.

Why It’s Not Crowded: In a city obsessed with wildlife, the history of a railway is often overlooked. It feels like a well-kept secret, offering a peaceful and fascinating stroll through the very machines that shaped the nation.

Pro-Tip: Hire one of the on-site guides. Their personal stories and detailed knowledge bring the old engines and carriages to life in a way that plaques never could. On weekdays, you might even see modern trains rolling past, creating a surreal contrast between past and present.

3. Kazuri Beads Factory: Where Art and Empowerment Meet

For a truly special souvenir and a feel-good experience, leave the city centre and head to the leafy suburb of Karen for a visit to the Kazuri Beads Factory. “Kazuri” means “small and beautiful” in Swahili, and that perfectly describes the handcrafted ceramic beads and pottery made here.

What Makes It Distinctive: This isn’t just a shop; it’s a working factory with a powerful social mission. Kazuri employs over 300 single mothers, providing them with a sustainable livelihood and healthcare. You can take a free tour to see the entire process—from the kiln firing to the meticulous hand-painting—and chat with the talented artisans. It’s a vibrant, colourful, and inspiring place that supports local Kenyan women directly.

Why It’s Not Crowded: It’s slightly off the beaten path compared to the Karen Blixen Museum down the road. Tour groups tend to rush in and out, leaving plenty of space for independent travellers to browse at their own pace without feeling pressured.

Pro-Tip: Go in the morning to see the factory buzzing with activity. The “seconds” section, where you can buy slightly imperfect pieces at a huge discount, is fantastic for finding unique treasures.

4. The Ngong Hills: Nairobi’s Iconic Escape

While the Nairobi National Park offers a safari on the city’s doorstep, the Ngong Hills offer a spectacular escape above it. These iconic, four-ridged peaks are the rolling, green giants immortalised in Karen Blixen’s “Out of Africa.”

What Makes It Distinctive: The views are, simply put, epic. On a clear day, you can see the entire Nairobi skyline to the north and the vast expanse of the Great Rift Valley to the west. A hike along the ridges is a fantastic way to get some exercise, feel the wind on your face, and appreciate the natural beauty that frames the city. It’s a spiritual and rejuvenating experience.

Why It’s Not Crowded: While it gets busy with local hikers and picnickers on weekends, you’ll rarely find international tour buses here. Go on a weekday, and you might have large sections of the trail entirely to yourself, with only the sound of the wind for company.

Pro-Tip: Start early in the morning to avoid the midday sun. It’s an exposed hike, so bring plenty of water, a hat, and sunscreen. You don’t need a guide for the main trail, but hiring one from the local community at the entrance gate can provide fascinating insights and support the local economy.

5. Olorgesailie Prehistoric Site: A Glimpse into Human Origins

For the ultimate off-the-beaten-path adventure, take a day trip south of the city to Olorgesailie. This is not your average tourist attraction; it’s a world-class, paleoanthropological site and a UNESCO World Heritage contender.

What Makes It Distinctive: This dry, dusty basin was once a lakeside prehistoric camp. The ground is literally littered with fossilised bones and, most astoundingly, hundreds of hand-axe tools created by early human ancestors (Homo erectus) over a million years ago. The small, excellent museum and guided walk take you through the incredible discoveries made here, offering a mind-bending perspective on the deep history of humanity in the very place it unfolded.

Why It’s Not Crowded: It’s a drive (about 90 minutes from Nairobi) and requires a dedicated trip. This geological and historical marvel is simply too remote and niche for the standard tourist itinerary, making it one of the most peaceful and profound places you can visit in the region.

Pro-Tip: A 4×4 vehicle is recommended, especially after rain. Combine the trip with a visit to Lake Magadi, a spectacular soda lake often tinged pink with flamingos. Pack a picnic and make a full day of it—the journey is as spectacular as the destination.

So next time you find yourself in Nairobi, I urge you to venture beyond the well-trodden path. Ditch the crowds for a morning at the Railway Museum, find your cultural bearings at the National Archives, and discover that the city’s most distinctive features are often its quietest. Happy travels

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 just 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 down of her for the last three months, and if 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 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 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 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 where who, 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 I just shrugged and asked 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 that intimacy we used to have when 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 and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would.  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.  On 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, follows 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 or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops 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 t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind.  New friends new life.

We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff 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’s been 6 different types of plane depart, 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 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 2020-2021

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

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 3/4

Days 3 and 4 – Writing exercise

…

There was a break in the proceedings, and I had just stepped out of the room to make a call.  I had excused myself for a few minutes, but for some reason, the atmosphere in the meeting room became oppressive.

Like someone had deliberately raised the temperature to just below comfortable.

The main doors opened out onto an elevator foyer, which was by a large glass observation deck that jutted out into space.  It was meant to be a feature where one could walk onto the glass floor and look down forty floors to the street below.

And if one looked out, almost the length of Central Park, and beyond.  I made the call, but there was no answer.  That was a surprise, because someone had always answered before.

Then, one moment I was looking down, all the way down to the sidewall, and the next moment, I was sitting in a chair by the double door entrance to the meeting room.

I had no idea how I got there.

It was like I had just woken from a long sleep, opened my eyes, and there I was.

But I didn’t know or couldn’t remember where that was, except I’d been there before.

“Sir?  Sir?”  A young lady in what looked like a military uniform was standing beside me, looking concerned.

I looked up, my eyes taking a moment to focus.

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

An odd question.  I felt alright; there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with me.

“Do you know where you are?”

Silly question.  I knew exactly where I was.

“Taking a break from the meeting.”

She looked perplexed.  “Sir, there is no meeting.  Not today.”

She addressed me as if she knew who I was.  I tried to stand, but I could not get out of the chair.  My whole body felt like a ton of weight.

I tried to think, and it was like walking under water against the tide.  I looked around me.  I know where this is, don’t I?

And yet nothing came into my mind.  Why was I here? Where exactly was here?

“I’m sorry.  It’s confusing.”

“Are you alright?”

All of a sudden if felt like the building was spinning, or perhaps I was, and the sensation was suddenly scaring me.

I closed my eyes and prayed it would stop.

It wouldn’t. 

But before I had time to ask for help, I lost consciousness.

…

I woke to the sound of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.  In fact, it had been in my subconscious before waking, and was probably what woke me.

It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t coming from a specific place, it just felt like I was right in the middle of an orchestra that was playing it.

Except when I surfaced, as if I had been underwater, it was simply there, in the air, all around me.

I was lying on the floor.

Odd, because in the back of my mind, my last thought was of being in the middle of a speech, though what it was about, for the moment, eluded me.

I looked around, but there was no one else.

The thought of looking out over Central Park returned, and I sat up.

Not in a room with windows.  Not with anything other than a camera with a red flashing light, near the roof.

I couldn’t see a door, but then, the lighting was subdued.

I stood, taking less effort than I thought it might and did a circuit of the walls.  It was too dark to see properly, but there would be a door.

Somewhere.

I tried to remember what happened, how I ended up in this room.  That would remain a mystery.  Before that, there was still that impression I had been in the middle of a speech.

About?

The interference and demands by the government in the execution of clandestine operations that are deemed secret, for obvious reasons.

I think I’d reached the point where I was looking around at the sea of expectant faces, of men and women who were waiting for the final argument.

I stopped on one particular face, a woman, about my age, who was relatively old, and a surprise in a room full of people who at best were in their late 30s.

Why was she there?

And why was she positioned so that it would be very difficult to see, much less identify her?

A fractional moment before moving on, fractional enough to lose track of where I was, and what I was about to say next.

What was I going to say next?

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

…

Another room, very bright, with a table and two chairs.  I was sitting on one.  It was a cheap plastic single mold very uncomfortable.

The sort used as outdoor furniture is built to endure seasons of dramatic climactic changes.  I had some myself out on the deck, back at the cabin, a place I realised I should be rather than here.

Where was here, by the way?

The door opened, and an old woman came in.  She seemed familiar; I had seen her before.

Somewhere.

I never realised my memory was so bad.

She sat opposite, squirming to find a comfortable position, her expression telling me there wasn’t one.  Not for old folks.

“Emil?”

That was one of my names, but not today.

“Who?”

She smiled.  Damn, I know that face.

“Are we going to play games?”

Did we, once?  “Anastasia?  I think once I referred to you as the Tsar’s missing daughter.  You certainly looked like a Princess.”

“You remember?”

“Not exactly.  The face is familiar, and the name was dancing on the tip of my tongue.  If it is who I think you are, you look very good for a person whose been dead for twenty years.”

“You shot me.”

“In self-defence.  I still feel the aches and pains, and limp from that shot.  What did you expect?”

“I was trying to sound you so they wouldn’t capture you.”

“So, we both assumed the worst about each other.”

“You were never culturally attached.”

“You were never a maid.”

“A charming maid.”

“A very distracting maid.  Who was a spy?”

“Which made you what?”

“Still a cultural attache.  Who was asked by a weedy little man who smoked the most disgusting pipe tobacco, to find out if you were a maid.  I didn’t want to.”

“Except…”

“Weedy little men like him always have a backup plan that includes blackmail.”

“The photograph.”

Stormson, the head of the station in Moscow, believed no one, trusted no one, and treated everyone as if they were double agents.

It was not as if I didn’t know Anastasia was most likely a honey trap, and silly boys like me on first assignment overseas were the usual wide-eyed and naive fools.

“Old times.”

Except I didn’t think we were here for old times.

“I hear you retired?”  She squirmed again, and it seemed to favour her left side.  Old injury?

“A habit, in the mountains, away from prying eyes.  Peaceful, quiet.”

“Off the grid?”

“Way, way off the grid.  Why?”

“I need a favour.  You owe me.  I saved your life.”

“You tried to kill me.”

“If I had been, do you think we would be here now?”

Interesting point.  But, oddly, I knew in that moment that all of this was in my subconscious.  It wasn’t real. 

It had been triggered by seeing a face in the audience, at a briefing that had dragged me out of blissful retirement at the insistence of the man who had taken over my last job.

Ten years before.

…

Except that the only truthful part of what happened to me was that I was at a conference, delivering a pre-written speech.  My name may have added weight to the subject matter, but that was not why I was there.

The department had credible evidence that an old Russian master spy from the Cold War era had slipped into the country.  They had the blurry, almost indistinct photos to prove it.

I told them she was dead.  They told me she was not dead, and she was up to something.  They believed she wanted to see me.  That was why I was there.

And yes, I’d seen her, and yes, it had triggered an episode, and yes, now I was in hospital.  Waiting, it appeared, for her to arrive.

There was more to this than her wanting to see me.  We had a relatively minor encounter and my report back then was that I killed her.  I saw it happen.  It traumatised me for years afterwards.

It didn’t happen.  She didn’t come.  I thought she was just a ghost from my past.

A month later, they let me go home, back to the wilds of the forest, where my nearest neighbour was a mile away, where the security system I’d installed could pick up a mouse at a hundred years, a security system that had more backup systems in place than could be counted.

No one could penetrate the shield.

No one.

And yet when I got out of the car and closed the door, I could hear the strains of the Pastoral Symphony wafting down from the house. 

And by the time I made it to the veranda, she was leaning in the doorway, looking as devastatingly beautiful as always.

“Welcome home, Vasily.”

I smiled.  “Olga.  Any problems?”

“None that couldn’t be buried out back,” she waved her hand vaguely, “somewhere.  You?”

“Nobody cares about the dinosaurs anymore.  Except when they think an old adversary is back to wreak havoc.”

“I am like you, a dinosaur too.  We are dinosaurs together, yes?”

I had dreamed of this moment, and hadn’t thought the plane would work.  Not only did we have to fool my people, but she had to fool herself, a much more difficult proposition.

It only worked because of my successor.  Not a man who understood the intricate details of any case.  All results driven, at any cost, and the quicker the better.

She held out her hand.  “Come.  I have prepared a feast.”

No doubt, I thought as I closed the door, in more ways than one.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

‘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 realizes 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

…

In a word: Order

I gave the order to my assistant to order the supplies we needed in order to maintain stock levels.

Oh, yes, the word order is one of my favourites, because it can confuse the hell out of many people in its simplicity and yet complexity.

I gave the order, it’s what happens in the armed forces, and a lot of other places, but mostly we would associate it with organisations that have hierarchical authority.

The military, for one, cut orders, the means of sending one of its minions to another place, or to do a specific job.

Order supplies, well, just about anyone can order something from somewhere, usually on the internet, and sometimes require or are given an order number so it can be tracked.

In order to maintain, in order to get what I want, in order to get elected, this is just another way of using the word, with the aim of achieving something, though I’m sure there’s probably a better way of expressing these sentiments.

Law and order, well, doesn’t everyone want this, and doesn’t it always turn up in an election campaign, and seems to be the first thing sacrificed after the election.  The thing is, no one can guarantee law and order.

There is the law and there is administering it.  There is no order that comes with it, we just hope that order is maintained, and deplore the situation when it isn’t.

Perhaps in order to maintain law and order, we might need more police.

Then, of course, there is alphabetical order, and numerical order, where things can be designated from A to Z, like this challenge, or from 1 to 10, or more.  We can sort words alphabetically, numbers numerically and data items by keys or an index.

This is naturally called a sort order.

Then there is my car, or bike, or washing machine, or mixmaster.  They are currently in good working order, though that might not last.

And lastly, in deference to all those out there who are thinking of becoming dictators, it’s always possible, one day, there will be a new world order.  They might actually be in their own particular order, whose intellect might be (?) of the highest order.

Surely that is one order too many.