Category: blogging

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Pristina

Beyond the Beaten Path: 5 Unique Things to Do in Pristina Off the Road Less Travelled

When most travellers think of Pristina, Kosovo’s capital often appears as a quick stopover—somewhere you pass through en route to mountains, monasteries, or ancient towns. But those who linger discover a city pulsing with youthful energy, raw history, and hidden cultural gems just beneath the surface. While the Newborn Monument and the National Library are well-worth a visit, true authenticity lies beyond the guidebook checklists.

For the curious explorer who craves unique experiences, local life, and a deeper connection with the city’s soul, here are five unforgettable things to do in Pristina—off the beaten path and away from the tourist trail.

1. Explore Graffiti Lane: Pristina’s Open-Air Street Art Gallery

Tucked behind the National Gallery of Kosovo on Rruga Gani Koci, you’ll find a narrow, unassuming alley that bursts with colour, rebellion, and storytelling. Locally known as Graffiti Lane, this urban canvas is Kosovo’s most vibrant street art hub, where local and international artists use spray paint to express political commentary, cultural pride, and personal dreams.

Unlike curated galleries, this space evolves constantly. One week you might see a tribute to Ibrahim Rugova, Kosovo’s former president; the next, a surreal portrait of a woman wearing traditional pletë (embroidered headdress) morphing into a galaxy.

Pro Tip: Visit in the late afternoon when local artists often hang around to touch up their work—strike up a conversation. You might walk away with a new friend and a deeper understanding of Kosovo’s post-war identity.

2. Sip Traditional Rakia at a Hidden Family-Owned Konoba

Forget fancy rooftop bars (though Pristina has those too). For a taste of real Kosovar hospitality, head to Konoba Kalaja—a cozy, stone-walled tavern tucked into the hillside of the Old Town district, near the remains of Pristina Castle.

This isn’t a tourist trap; it’s a family-run eatery where time slows down. Wooden beams, clay pots, and flickering candles set the mood as you’re served homemade rakia (a strong fruit brandy) and slow-cooked dishes like tava kosi (baked lamb with yogurt) or grilled qebapa (seasoned minced meat sausages).

Locals bring their grandfathers here. The owner, Gjergj, might pull out a two-string lahuta and sing a folk tune if you’re lucky. There’s no menu in English—just point, smile, and trust the kitchen. This is how Kosovo feeds its soul.

3. Join a Local Philosopher on a “Coffee & Conversation” Walk

In a city where university students outnumber skyscrapers, intellectual conversation is part of the culture. Through local community initiatives like Qendra Multimedia, you can sign up for a unique experience: a guided “philosophy walk” led by university students or professors.

Over slow-sipping espressos at tucked-away cafés like Cafe Du Coin or Pompik, you’ll discuss everything from Kosovo’s nation-building challenges to existentialism, all while strolling through quiet neighbourhoods like Velania or Lagjja Çnarama.

It’s not a tour—it’s a dialogue. And it might just be the most human connection you make on your entire trip.

4. Discover Forgotten Trains at the Abandoned Railway Station

On the outskirts of Pristina, hidden behind wild grass and graffiti-tagged fences, lies a relic of a bygone era: the city’s disused railway station. Once part of a regional Balkan rail network, the station has been inactive for decades, but its decaying platforms, rusted tracks, and crumbling waiting rooms tell a poignant story of missed connections and unrealised potential.

Urban explorers and photographers love this spot. Wander among silent freight cars overtaken by vines, peer into abandoned ticket booths where dust coats vintage typewriters, and imagine Pristina as a crossroads of Yugoslav-era travel.

Note: This is not an official tourist site—visit respectfully and safely. Early morning or late afternoon light makes for the most hauntingly beautiful photos.

5. Attend an Underground Live Music Night at Pulp

Tucked inside a repurposed printing house in central Pristina, Pulp is more than a bar—it’s a cultural heartbeat. By day, it’s a café with indie books and artisan coffee. By night, it transforms into Kosovo’s most authentic live music venue, hosting a diverse range of acts, from jazz trios and experimental electronic sets to punk bands and spoken word poetry.

The crowd is young, local, and politically aware. Performances are intimate—sometimes just a mic and a guitar in a room that holds fifty people max. There’s no cover charge, but donations keep the lights on.

Check their Facebook page before you go; nights are irregular, but if you catch one, you’re witnessing Kosovo’s creative resistance in real time.

Final Thoughts: Pristina Reveals Itself Slowly

Pristina doesn’t dazzle at first glance. Its charm is in the cracks—in the laughter over a shared bottle of rakia, the poetry scrawled on an alley wall, the silent echo of a train track that once led everywhere.

The top five attractions on any standard list will show you the city’s face. But these five offbeat experiences? They’ll let you feel its pulse.

So next time you’re in Pristina, skip the crowded cafés on Mother Teresa Boulevard. Turn down a narrow street, say “yes” to an invitation you don’t fully understand, and let the real Kosovo welcome you in.

Traveler’s Checklist:

  • Wear comfortable shoes for Graffiti Lane and the old station.
  • Bring small bills for konobas and donations at Pulp.
  • Learn a few Albanian phrases—“Faleminderit” (thank you) goes a long way.
  • Respect local customs—especially in family-run spaces.

Pristina isn’t just a destination. It’s a conversation. Come ready to listen.

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact that his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just several small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, point to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints at impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovers piece by piece, damning evidence that she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence are about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

…

Purchase:

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365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 203

Day 203 – Writer’s challenges

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The Writer’s Tightrope: Navigating the Unique Challenges of Humour, Sci-Fi, Thrillers, and Mystery

Every genre of fiction comes with its own unwritten social contract between the author and the reader. When you pick up a sci-fi novel, you agree to board the spaceship. When you open a cozy mystery, you accept that a body is about to drop in a quiet English village.

However, honouring that contract is easier said than done. Writers constantly walk a tightrope, balancing on the edge of reader expectations. How far can you push the envelope before a reader rolls their eyes and puts the book down? How do you manipulate a reader’s reaction without telegraphing your punches? And, most importantly, when do you ask the reader to suspend their disbelief, versus when do you have to assume their reaction?

Let’s dive into the distinct challenges of writing humour, science fiction, thrillers, mysteries, and detective novels, and explore the psychological dance between author and audience.

1. Science Fiction: Building Bridges Over the Abyss of Disbelief

Science fiction is the ultimate test of the reader’s willingness to suspend disbelief. By definition, sci-fi asks the audience to accept things that do not exist—faster-than-light travel, sentient AI, alien biology, or dystopian societal collapses.

The Challenge: The “Threshold of Credibility”

If a writer changes too many laws of physics or logic all at once, the reader experiences cognitive overload and checks out.

  • Suspension of Disbelief: Sci-fi writers rely heavily on Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s concept of the “willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith.” To achieve this, authors use the “Doorstop Rule” or internal consistency. You can invent magical technology (like a warp drive), but once you establish the rules of that technology, you cannot break them just to get your characters out of a tight spot.
  • Assuming the Reaction: A sci-fi writer must assume the reader’s reaction to the mundane will mirror their own. If humanity has been living on Mars for three centuries, how do they curse? What do they eat? If the author assumes the reader can extrapolate these details from familiar human experiences, the futuristic world instantly feels grounded.

2. Humour: The Most Fragile Genre in Print

Humour is arguably the hardest genre to write because comedy is entirely subjective. What has one reader howling with laughter might leave another stone cold.

The Challenge: Timing on the Printed Page

Unlike stand-up comedians who can use pauses, facial expressions, and tone of voice, a humour writer only has black ink on white paper.

  • Suspending Belief in Comedy: Absurdist or satirical humour often requires the reader to suspend disbelief regarding logic. Think of Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, where the improbability drive turns attackers into a bowl of petunias and a sperm whale. The reader must accept the sheer madness of the universe.
  • Assuming the Reaction: Humour writers must accurately predict reader reactions. Comedy relies on subverting expectations (the “rule of three” or the comedic pivot). If the writer assumes the reader will zig, but the reader zags too early, the punchline falls flat. The challenge is meticulously controlling the rhythm of the sentence so the reader’s internal monologue delivers the punchline with the exact right cadence.

3. Thrillers: The Art of Manufactured Anxiety

Thrillers are adrenaline-fueled rollercoasters. Whether it’s a political conspiracy, a ticking-time-bomb scenario, or a psychological cat-and-mouse game, the goal is to keep the heart rate elevated.

The Challenge: Pacing and Plausibility Fatigue

In a thriller, the protagonist is often subjected to an escalating series of impossible obstacles. If the stakes are too low, the reader gets bored. If the danger escalates too wildly without respite, the reader experiences “plausibility fatigue.”

  • Suspending Disbelief: Readers of thrillers are generally forgiving of high-octane action sequences (think of the Jack Reacher or Jason Bourne series), provided the pacing is fast enough that they don’t have time to stop and think, Wait, how did he survive that explosion? The momentum of the plot does the heavy lifting for the suspension of disbelief.
  • Assuming the Reaction: Thriller writers constantly anticipate the reader’s psychological reaction—specifically, dread, curiosity, and relief. The author sets up a trap, assumes the reader will feel a sense of impending doom, and then delivers a twist. If the writer misjudges the reader’s reaction, a supposed “shocking twist” becomes predictable, draining all the thrill out of the novel.

4. Mysteries and Detective Novels: Playing Chess with the Reader

While thrillers focus on action and survival, mysteries and detective novels focus on intellect and truth. These genres operate like a complex puzzle box.

The Challenge: Fair Play vs. Absolute Deception

The golden rule of the classic detective novel (popularised by Agatha Christie and the Detection Club) is “fair play.” The reader must have access to the exact same clues as the detective.

  • Suspending Belief in Detectives: Modern readers often have to suspend a bit of disbelief regarding the sheer volume of murders that seem to follow amateur sleuths around (looking at you, Jessica Fletcher from Murder, She Wrote). Furthermore, classic hard-boiled detective novels require us to accept a deeply cynical, hyper-competent private eye who can take a severe beating in Chapter 3 and be fully functional by Chapter 4.
  • Assuming the Reaction: This is where the detective writer’s job becomes a psychological chess match. The writer must deeply understand human psychology and reader bias. They rely on the reader making assumptions (such as confirmation bias or misdirected suspicion) to hide the identity of the killer in plain sight. If the writer assumes the reader will suspect the butler, they might deliberately frame the butler to create a red herring, playing directly into the reader’s preconceived notions of genre tropes.

Suspension of Disbelief vs. Reader Assumption: Two Sides of the Same Coin

When examining these diverse genres, we see that writing is fundamentally an act of empathy. The writer is constantly asking:

  1. “What do I need them to believe?” (Suspension of disbelief—accepting dragons, warp drives, or impossibly brilliant detectives).
  2. “How do I expect them to react?” (Reader assumption—laughing at a joke, holding their breath during a chase scene, or gasping at a plot twist).

If you ask too much suspension of disbelief without grounding the emotional reality of the characters, the story feels fake. If you fail to accurately assume the reader’s emotional and intellectual reaction, the story falls flat—either becoming predictable (in mysteries/thrillers), confusing (in sci-fi), or unfunny (in humour).

Conclusion

Ultimately, mastering these genres requires a delicate touch. A great writer doesn’t just throw impossible scenarios at a page or hope a joke lands; they carefully calibrate the reader’s psychology. By respecting the unspoken contract of the genre while skillfully managing what the reader believes—and how they will react—authors can craft unforgettable stories that resonate long after the final page is turned.

Are you working on a manuscript right now? Which genre do you find the hardest to balance—keeping the reader believing, or predicting their emotional reaction? Let us know in the comments below!

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“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment, Will’s life slowly starts to unravel, and it’s obvious to him that it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule: don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved, there are going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

…

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The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 47

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

——

Johannesen went to find Wallace.  He had seen Jackerby leave the castle alone, which couldn’t be a good thing.  He had also noticed most of the Resistance members had gone too and had considered going back to the dungeons,

If he had been picking team members, Jackerby would not have been one of them.  He might act British and speak perfect British English, but he was a Nazi at heart, perhaps more Nazi than the Nazis’

It was not unsurprising.  The file Wallace had on him along with one for all of them, wasn’t exactly describing a life of roses.  His grandparents were German, and the British had killed them during the first world war.  There was no doubting he had based his whole life on one day avenging them, and this war had given him the opportunity.

To be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Johannesen guessed that was an apt description of him.  He was a devoted follower of Mosley and the English Fascists, openly supporting Hitler until it came to choosing a side.  That was easy, become part of a fifth column, Worthing from within.

And when the Reich became the all-powerful country when they won the war, there would be a position for him, a war hero.

Losing the war hadn’t figured in the story, but despite the successes, there were more failures, and tactical errors, like trying to invade Russia, and he could see that it was going to be the reason Germany lost.  Superior weapons were not going to staunch the losses, and it was only a matter of time.

The time he would use to figure out how not to get shot as a spy and somehow get back on the other side.

But, not today.

Wallace was trying a new wine, have the same thirst for wine, but not as swill as those Resistance members like Leonardo, a deep-colored red.

“You should try a glass, Johannes.  It’s an exceptional vintage.”  He picked up the bottle and looked at the label, then cleaning the dust off the label, said, “1907 no less.  Bastards never sold any of this to us to try.  We should liberate the cellar, and share it with our compatriots after the war.  At a price, of course.”

Like all the soldiers he’d met along the way, always looking to make a profit.  Goering and Hitler steal all the paintings, they were talking about the wine.  What did the people finish up with?

“Not really a red man, sir.”

“That’s because you’ve never had one like this.”

“Why not.”

Wallace poured him a glass.

Johannesen sipped it.  Wallace was right, it was better than any other he had tasted, not that he could really remember the last time he had the opportunity.

“It is quite good, sir.”

“It is.  You know Jackerby says you are a double agent, which is pretty rich coming from him.  Strictly speaking, if wouldn’t be a double agent, but a triple agent, if that was the case.  You’re not, are you?”

The smile on Wallace’s face didn’t extend to the eyes.  He was not amused, or annoyed.

Just fishing.

“That’s the problem with our situation.  We’ve been lying to everyone for so long, that it’s hard t tell what is the truth and what isn’t.  At the moment, the British don’t know where my allegiances lie, they think I’m the sleeper in this group, and Atherton, well, he’s not sure if that’s the case or not.  No doubt Jackerby told you about my trip to the dungeons to get the woman to talk.  Jackerby offers the big stick and that isn’t going to work on these people.  She’ll die before she gives up any secrets.  They all will.  And by all accounts that breute Leonardo was executing her compatriots in front of her to make her talk, and all they are is dead, and we’re no closer to anything.  What do you think I am?”

“Clever.  But that isn’t going to be my problem in,” he looked at his watch, “two hours.  We have a new commander, and a few more people arriving to weed out this elusive Atherton and the few resistance that’s left.  People higher than me want Meyer returned to Germany.  Whatever you are, Johannesen, you might have to plead your case to someone else far less understanding.”  He stood.  “Enjoy the wine.  It might be your last.”

Reading between the lines, Johannesen got the impression Wallace no longer cared what happened.  For all of them, it had been a long war, and it was dragging on with no success in sight.

And it was becoming abundantly clear he picked the wrong side.  Now, all that was going to happen was that he would end up in the crossfire.  Perhaps he had known all along that the German notion that no one could ever be trusted, that everyone should be treated as a traitor first, was going to be the death of all of them.

He had no doubt the new arrivals would be Waffen SS, battle-hardened, and sent on this mission as a sort of holiday.  They would find Atherton and the remnants very quickly and snuff out a problem Jackerby couldn’t.

Or, if Jackerby knew the Waffen SS was coming, had he left, knowing his loyalties would be called into question.  Pure German soldiers versus double agents, Johannesen knew who’d he believe first.

For the first time, Johannesen knew he was not going to see the end of this war, or that Germany had any hope of winning.

He needed a plan of escape, and that woman in the dungeons was the only one who could help him.

——-

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta reader’s view

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well, not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest.  Then, inexplicably, she disappears.  That might have been the end of it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum: find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father, who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

…

The book can be purchased here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 48

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

—

Here’s the thing. Should I tell Boggs about the Ormiston’s?

Should I tell him that there was more than one lake?

Should I wait until I’d looked at the information that had been stored away? From the way Gwen was talking, no one had looked at Ormiston’s papers since the day they were deposited in the library, except perhaps Gwen herself.

And it helped that Gwen would not give any meaningful assistance to Alex Benderby or any of his cohorts. It seemed all she had given them was the briefest outline of the Ormiston story. She obviously didn’t mention that Ormiston had left anything behind.

Two tasks that I added to a list were, firstly, to start looking at old newspaper archives in the area for anything on Ormiston’s fruitless searches for the treasure, and find out, if possible, whether he works with a map of any sort. Nadia had mentioned the possibility of the pirate captain keeping a journal. Had he seen it, even owned it one time?

There was also the impression that Boggs’ father was not the only one involved with searching for the treasure. He had a map and it looked quite old. Was it possible it had been handed down from father to son, and just to take it a little further, had Ormiston and Boggs’ grandfather been rivals or cohorts? Indeed, a question for Boggs when I saw him.

Secondly, I would have to go around the various churches in the county and see what I could find about Ormiston’s relations. I would not be the only one, Alex would have people out there now doing just that. Whilst that information would be available at the County’s capital, but I knew from experience when I was looking into my own family’s history, getting information out of them was costly and time-consuming.

That was for my own family. Looking for someone else would, no doubt, be might in impossible, considering privacy regulations. There was more chance of gleaning information from tombstones in church graveyards the getting it from the local government.

It was a thought consuming exercise, considering everything after just a short talk with Gwen, and, about to cross a road to retrieve my bicycle, two things happened. The first, I was nearly run over and had only a blaring horn scaring me half to death as a timely warning, and second, the chance sighting of what looked like a man following me. He thought he’d managed to duck out of the way quick enough, but he hadn’t. It was the red check shirt that gave him away. Perhaps if he had been dressed more conservatively, I might have missed him.

I should have remembered that Alex wanted both me and Boggs followed.

Now he would know I went to the library, and if anyone asked, I hoped Gwen would not give away what we had been talking about.

It brought up another moment, one that sent a shudder through me. Had he seen me come and go to Nadia? I hadn’t seen anyone, and I was careful in both coming and going.

Now I would have to be even more careful.

As I checked before crossing the road towards the bicycle rack, I saw the man again, not exactly trying to hide the fact he was following me. At least I now had an advantage.

I delayed the arrival home until I knew my mother would have left for work. I’d worry about explaining myself to her later.

Boggs was waiting for me, sitting on the front steps to the house, absorbed by a new game on his phone. He looked up as I dropped my bike on the ground. I’d need it soon to go to work, and it was easier just to leave it outside the front door.

He had as combative look on his face, the sort he wore when things weren’t going his way. I was not sure if there was anything more I could have done for him. For a few years now, I had tried to be the best friend I could, and in the circumstances, I tried to be there for him. It was not as if I didn’t share his situation also being without a father, but the way in which we lost him was not the same as Boggs.

Perhaps in the last few days, or weeks, I’d changed a little, getting a job, whereas Boggs had no interest in doing so, and interacting with more and different people. Even just being with Nadia, even though it was a very bad idea, made a difference.

It was time that Boggs grew up and started taking some responsibility. It was just a case of I not wanting to be the one to tell him. So, in the meantime, I would just have to tolerate his attitude.

“What was more important than going to check on the other river.”

He decided to tackle me head-on. The truth is I forgot we were supposed to be going there this morning. It would not have happened if I hadn’t stayed with Nadia, but I wasn’t going to be able to use her as an excuse.

I decided to be nice and deflect his implied criticism. “Hello, and how are you?”

“Yada, yada. Now that you have a job, we have only a few hours every day to get stuff done. I could do this on my own, but I thought you would like to be included. In fact, you said that you needed something to liven up what was a very dull existence.”

I had, but that was before I got the job.

“Maybe you should try and get a job too. I’m sure that the treasure is not likely to be going anywhere.”

“You can’t be sure that Benderby or the Cossatino’s are not hot on the trail right now. Unless you saw something last night to the contrary.”

I was hoping he wouldn’t bring that up. No such luck. “Alex is going around in circles, and I’m not sure what the Cossatino’s think because they originally came up with the idea of selling fake maps which means they have no real idea where it is, a fact you told me.”

“Be that as it may for the Cossatino’s, but Alex is no fool.”

“Alex is a fool, Boggs. He was a fool as school, and just little more than a thug in a suit now. And like the people he hangs out with, and like Vince, if you look closely, they all lack the acumen of their fathers, and they are not necessarily running point for their families, I suspect neither Alex nor Vince had told their respective fathers of what they’re up to.”

That mollified him a little, but he was still looking combative.

“We still should be concentrating our efforts.”

“Well in that respect I have been doing some digging. What do you know about a man called Ormiston?”

It was like the sun just went behind a cloud.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

In a word: Quick

Go get your stuff and be quick about it.

I’ve tried on many occasion to be quick, but it’s like my shoes have lead soles, or it’s like walking through water.

Perhaps I should just stop finding excuses and admit it’s old age and I am slowing down!

I’m guessing that in using the expression the quick and the dead, I’ve got one foot in the grave.

But when you use the word quick it generally means moving fast or doing something at a rapid rate.

It could also refer to someone who picks up knowledge rapidly, that is to say, that boy is quick, maybe as quick as a flash.

I’ve been cut to the quick. An interesting expression which basically means you’ve been hurt very badly.

It also makes reference to the more sensitive side of us, hence the above expression.

It has a more literal meaning, referring to the quick, under your fingernails, and you know how much that hurts when you cut the nail too short, or remove the nail from the quick.

And like most of us, I’ve been caught more than once in metaphorical quicksand.

It doesn’t pay to go near or test out what real quicksand is, but if you have to, make sure you tie yourself to an anchored rope first.

The 2am Rant: It’s still raining

It suits my mood and is bound to affect my writing.

There are days when you write like you feel.

Wet and miserable.

But as a major contradiction, I actually like the rain. The pattering of raindrops on the roof and on the leaves of the foliage outside the window, the droplets running down the glass of the windows.

It has a calming effect

Then there is the wind.

It can have the un-nerving effect, sort of like the wailing of a banshee.

Or a sort of humming sound as it blows through the electricity lines.

Or has the effect, of a cold day, of cutting through your clothes and chilling you to the bone, more so if you are soaking wet.

Or when the wind blows the rain sideways, and you can feel it on your skin like a shower of frozen icicles.

It’s the sort of weather for staying inside, rugged up by the fire with a large cup or mug of hot tea and cookies, reflecting on when the good weather will return.

It reminds me of a set of allegories I read about a long time ago,

Winter – sad

Spring – hope

Summer – happy

Autumn – reflective

Perhaps it is a little early for me to be reflective, because where I live, Autumn is just around the corner.

Oh well, it’s time to get back to work!

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 202

Day 202 – Writing Exercise

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Myra was a law unto herself.

She was the sort of girl that everyone had an opinion of, and not one of them was right.

The thing is, she never corrected them.

And something else: she didn’t care what anyone else thought of her.  She simply didn’t speak to her detractors; she ignored the taunts and derogatory remarks from people who should have known better.

Even her female contemporaries had little nice to say about her, and I don’t think any of them willingly associated with her.

Not that she cared.

It became a pastime to sit nearby and watch people who should have more sense give her a hard time.  Some said that it was part of the rites of passage in high school. 

Others said it was character building.

I thought differently, but to my dishonour, I did nothing about it.

That is, not for a long time.

And then, when I did, I was not sure why.

…

Reggie was a class A deadhead.

Good at football, so-called God’s gift to the girls, and had parents who were, by their own admission, movers and shakers.

By that I guess it meant they were large donors to the school football team, which ensured Reggie had a place to focus his talents

I’d seen him play football, and it was not talent I saw.

Eleanor was equally as dense as Reggie, which in turn made them ideally suited.  She was the head cheerleader, and the resident graduating class queen bee.

Girls would literally kill to get her approval.

I didn’t see the sense in it.  Cheerleaders were regarded by the football team, and others, as something quite different to what the girls thought of themselves.

Needless to say, Myra could never make the cheer squad.  Which seemed wrong to me because she looked just as attractive as all the rest, if you took away the exterior cladding, put her in a school uniform and also got rid of the excessive make-up and the different coloured hair each week

This week it was hot pink.

Nor did she wear the school uniform and had racked up an inestimable number of demerit points that got her into almost permanent detention.

That’s where I first met her.

I’d seen her around, and watched from afar the effects of her attitude towards her fellow students.  Her friends, if they could be called that, were the misfits, and by the middle of graduation year that’s where I finished up.

In detention with the other misfits.

I doubt she noticed me.  No one did, which in a way suited me because I was studying hard so I could go to college.  I know my parents would be glad to see me go, because I didn’t quite fit their idea of a proper child.

Whatever that meant. 

They could hardly put up my older brother as a shining example I should follow.  I was not interested in sport.

So, there we were.  In detention.

…

Mr Forsythe, probably about a hundred years old and on the cusp of retirement, was the teacher in charge of detention.

No one else wanted to do it, and the few extra dollars he got in overtime went towards his retirement, wandering the ruins of ancient Rome.

His subject was history, and Ancient Rome, a subject he could go on about, and did.  Most students treated his class as a joke, but he just ignored them and kept on going, and probably would through a prison riot.

I thought he was a good teacher and his class was one of the few I liked.  There were six students in detention.  Myra and I sat on opposite sides of the room down the back.  The other four sat up the front and were badly behaved. 

Not dramatically so, or they would never get out of going to detention.  Neither Myra nor I joined them.  Detention was just another hiding place.

Until it wasn’t.

For a month, the others left us alone.  No point stirring up someone who wouldn’t rise to the occasion.

Eleanor was different, because of her parents’ influence, the fact she was Prom Queen this year, and on the student council.  She ended up on the detention list for giving another cheer wannabe the treatment, otherwise known as the initiation rite.

I’d heard she had been cited, but I never thought that the head would enforce it.  It remained to be seen whether she would stay.

She made a dramatic entrance.

She didn’t bother to knock on the door, marched straight up to Mr Forsythe’s desk and slammed the sheet of paper on his desk so loudly we all jumped.

Up till then we were in our own world, shutting out the rest of the room.

Forsythe didn’t look up.  Didn’t look interested either.

“Hey, old man.  This is rubbish.  I don’t do detention.”

He took a few seconds, then looked up at her.  “My name is Mr Forsythe, young lady, not ‘hey, you ‘.”
He took the piece of paper and read it, then looked at her again.  “I presume you can read?”

“Of course, you old fool.”

He chose to ignore the insults, but I knew somewhere in this conversation he was going to put her in her place.  “Read it.”

“It’s rubbish.  I won’t do detention.”

“So, now it’s going from don’t do to won’t do, which is something else entirely.  What you will do is sit down and be quiet.  Detainees do not make noise.”

With that, he went back to his book.

“This is stupid.  I’m leaving.”

He sighed, then looked at her.  “Then you will fail history and therefore will not be able to graduate with the rest of your class.  And no graduation, no prom.  Now sit down and contemplate why you are here, and why you are not going to darken my door for much longer.  Am I understood?”

He metaphorically kicked her where it hurt.  Graduation and the prom.  Being the Prom Queen, being the Queen Bee.

I thought Forsythe was brave taking on her family.  He would not be the first teacher her family had tried to ruin.

“This is wrong.”

“No.  What is wrong is that you thought you could do whatever you pleased without consequences.  That might happen at home but not in here.  Sit and be silent.”

She glared at him, but it had no effect.

She was not going to be able to leave, so she scanned the room and saw us, Myra and me.  I could guess what was going to happen next

She came down the back of the room and sat at the desk in the middle of the back row.  She smiled at me and scowled at Myra.

Eleanor was never able to get under Myra’s skin, not in the way Myra could do to her.  It was easy.  She had nothing Eleanor could use against her, unlike every other girl.

She smiled at me because I was once foolish enough to be tricked by her, but once bitten was enough.  I made a point of avoiding her.  Not so easy in detention. But I had nothing to lose.  I didn’t care if I never got out of detention.

She made a great effort to make sure Mr Foresyth knew where she landed.  He wouldn’t care; in fact, he was glad Myra and I sat down in the back.  We had earned the titles of troublemakers not because we started it; it was because trouble came to us.

“So, Blinky, what are you in for?”

Blinky was the name her boyfriend gave me because one day he saw me squinting because my eyes were watering.  It stuck because they thought it was insultingly funny.

It was better than some of the names they handed out

“Rest and recreation.”  Which in a sense was true. Trying to avoid the football team’s idea of being boisterous was a tiring exercise.

“You must have done something bad to get put in here with the circus ringmaster.”

She was going to push Mr Foresyth as far as she could, perhaps thinking if she insulted him enough he would kick her out.

“No.  But as a columnist for the high school magazine, this is where I get to work on the juicy stories.”

“No one reads it.”

“You don’t read it, Eleanor, which is to your detriment.  But the Staff and the crazy students do.  Where else can they read about what’s going on?.  I’ve been waiting to do a story on you, and here you are, my prayers answered.”

I remembered the last student reporter the magazine editor sent to interview the head cheerleader, and what had happened. 

His problem was he had a crush on her, and she played him like a finely tuned fiddle.  Her expression changed when I said my prayers were answered.  She had heard what she wanted to hear.  No surprises there.

Myra, in the meantime, tried hard to not look like she was listening in.  Eleanor would tire of me soon, and turn on her.

I asked, “Have they made Reggie the prom king yet.  I’m betting you wouldn’t want anyone else as your king, and I reckon he’d be very dark if someone else got the gig.”

“Why should it matter to me?  I have nothing to do with it.”

“You have everything to do with it.  I heard you screaming at the head master that if Reggie didn’t get it, there’d be no more handouts.  What did you mean by that?”

“Nothing.  I was just making noise.”  She tried to pretend none of it mattered to her, but it did.  It was going to be her way or the highway.

I shrugged.  “I heard you were trying to take over the grad dance.  Please do.  At the moment it’s going to be very boring.  Oh. And what was that strongly opinionated discussion with Mr Masters?  You might want to be slightly more tactful with everyone, or it will come back and bite you.”

Masters was the teacher in charge of the school paper, and one of the teachers organising the Prom.  He didn’t like half of the class he taught because none of them had any respect for the press.  It was, he said, an alarming trend that started at the top.  Added to the fact that most of his students couldn’t string two words together.

“I thought articles were meant to be flattering.  He said any article written about me would be faithfully portray me as the model for the new students as we move towards the next century.”

I was there.  He was being expansive and trying to get her on-side.  He needed coverage on the big issues leading up to the Prom and graduation.  That meant getting Eleanor and Reggie to cooperate.

That was going to be my job, in the end.

Along with commentary for the yearbook.

“Try being your naturally charming self, Eleanor, and the story will write itself.” 

There was not much point telling her the story was done, and it was not too flattering.  That could change.

“Then let me know when you’re free.”

She turned away, and interaction was done.  Hopefully I wouldn’t have to talk to her until detention was over.

Or I could just move.

…

Myra kept a wary eye on her main detractor.  It wasn’t as if she had to; it was just that small problem of Eleanor sneaking up on you when you least expected her.  She did it to everyone, her secret weapon.  I know the other girls in her squad were fed up and couldn’t wait for the football season to end, and for her to graduate.

I kept a wary eye on Eleanor.  For her it was too good an opportunity to land a few insults.  Not that Myra would want me to interfere.  She could handle Eleanor, but some days she could be particularly trying.

“There’s a spot about to become vacant in the squad.  I think you would make an excellent member.”

Myra simply ignored her.  It might work for a while, but it was not a long-term strategy.  The idea that Myra would be remotely interested in being a cheerleader was almost funny.

Myra took her time to swing around and give her a long, hard stare.  “That was a joke, wasn’t it?”

It was.  Eleanor was up to something.  And the fact she had approached her, not the other way around, told me there was a storm front on the horizon.

“No.  I’m serious.  The coach said I needed to relax my stamp on the team and allow for some new talent to facilitate and breathe life into a quintessential and least recognised support group.  He recommended I take a hint from the Dallas Cowboys cheer squad.”

The coach had been joking, but something had ignited in her after watching one episode of a TV series, which one of the football team had mentioned, for reasons other than cheerleading pointers. 

Then came the rumour she was thinking of trying out for the team, next time they were recruiting.  It was not the first time she got one of these ideas.

Myra had no interest in honing her dance skills into a weird sexualised mating performance, which she maintained was just another part of the male culture of putting women in their place engendered by the school and society in general.

She was part of a very small group of girls who firmly believed that men and boys had no right to dictate what they could do, or limit their aspirations.  Eleanor believed a girl’s aspirations were to work until married, then become a wife and mother.  She led by example, working at the diner, and on track to marry Reggie.

Myra had said more than once she couldn’t think of anything worse.  College and career beckoned.  She had no interest in boys, weddings, or wanting to be ‘looked after’ by any man.

“I doubt whether my ballet classes when I was six would be classes as the necessary dancing skills required for the job, Eleanor.  Thank you for the opportunity, but I respectfully decline.”

Being polite was one thing, but refusing an offer from Eleanor, Queen Bee, leader of the pack, daughter of self confessed movers and shakers was something else entirely.

Eleanor’s expression changed.  The last time I’d seen something like it was when the weather changed, and not for the good.

“So, Eleanor,” I said, thinking now would be a good time to run distraction, “if the cheer team is recruiting, does that mean you are dissatisfied with the current team members?  I mean, notwithstanding the minor errors in the routine at the last game, does that mean you’re admitting there are problems?  Coach Wiley says…”

She swung around and glared at me.  Everyone knew the mistake was hers, simply because she had been mysteriously injured the week before.  There were rumours for that too; Reggie had a violent streak, but no one was talking about it.

“Coach Wylie has too many opinions about stuff that’s above his pay grade.  Perhaps if he tried to elevate the football team’s performance and not comment on the intakes of our routine, we might reach the finals.”

There was no mistaking the venom in her tone or the words from her mother’s mouth.  She was the cheerleader and prom queen of her day, and much rested on the shoulders of her daughter. 

“That’s your mother’s disappointment, isn’t it?” I said.

“You have no idea.”

I didn’t.  My parents had no expectation of me.  That all got poured into Jeremy, one of the Reggie acolytes, and through him I heard the true feelings Reggie had for Eleanor, or any of the cheerleaders.

“What happened to you a few weeks back?  You haven’t been yourself?”

The expression softened, which for Eleanor was a marked change from the tough facade she tried hard to maintain.  It may have surprised her that anyone could sound concerned.  I know her mother pushed her way beyond her limits and ability simply because her mother was living her aspirations through her daughter.

It was, I’d finally realised, an impossible dream.  When would Eleanor?

Then the facade snapped back.  “Nothing.  And if anything had it would be none of your business.”  She was turning back to Myra.

“Actually, it is.  News is news, good or bad, and the public have a right to know.” I was quoting Walters.

She was going to regret sitting down in the back.

She turned back, and the look she gave me was unfathomable.  Despair, hatred, misery- it was like she had just discovered everything she had thought her life was about just got turned on its head.

“I did nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong according to the values your mother puts on your actions, which I’m guessing were handed down.  It may have served 20 years ago but not now.  The same as you can create your own style.  Just saying.”

Perhaps I’d overstepped the mark, but I got the impression she was in a no-win situation on all fronts.  The school, the cheer squad, Reggie, her mother, and her contemporaries.

She didn’t say anything; perhaps there was no searing retort she could throw at me right then.

But Myra decided to add her two cents’ worth, “I’m guessing that cheer squad vacancy just evaporated.”

Eleanor turned to her, “Why can’t you just be an ordinary girl, wear a school uniform like the rest of us, and what’s with the hair?  I mean seriously?”

It wasn’t said in a mean way, but it could have had less of an edge.

“You never heard of individualism?  I hate the idea of conformity and living out someone’s expectations.  I am my own person.”

“And your mother lets you?”

“She doesn’t like it, but within reason I have a reasonable amount of freedom.”

“You’re lucky then.”

I added my two cents’ worth too, “My parents don’t care.  Maybe if I was on the football team, or in the track and field team, but I’m not.  To them I don’t exist.  To the other boys in teams, I’m just a punching bag.  It’s why I’m here.”

“So you’re telling me I’m not the only one with problems “

“I get told often I am the problem,” Myra said.

“That’s what Reggie tells me.  Once I learn my place, he says, things will be better.”

An admission perhaps she might not have told us in different circumstances, but it explained a great deal.  Reggie was not a very nice person, and even as she was right now, she was still a better person than he ever would be.

“It doesn’t have to be like that, Eleanor.  You could do a lot better than him.”  Myra, I could see, was now concerned for her.

But she wasn’t going to let her guard down.  Eleanor might be sounding reasonable, but she had been like this before, just before the explosion

“I don’t know.  Until I walked into this room, everything was in a state that I could control, or at least I thought I could.  Talking to you two can be depressing, all the negative stuff going on.  To be honest, I wish I hadn’t talked to you two.  Now my head is filled with even more nonsense.  I can’t explain how I ended up in detention to anyone.  And you two can’t talk about this to anyone.  I need to think.  God, even thinking about thinking it is giving me a headache.”

With that, she pulled out a book that looked to me like a romance novel, similar to ones my mother read, and noth Myra and I went back to our solitude. But things were different now, in a way I couldn’t explain.

…

When detention was over, she left without saying goodbye.  Myra speculated that she would leave before the end of the year and simply run away.

Myra normally just packed her bag and left.  Today she lingered as I got my stuff together.  She wanted to say something, and I could see her thinking about how she was going to handle things now.

We left together, not saying anything.  There was a coffee shop I’d seen her in nearby, and we headed there.

Coffee and cake delivered, and about a dozen words later, she had decided what she was going to say.  I’d never seen her deliberate before.

“You didn’t have to run interference.”

“I know.  It was just a protective instinct I have for people I care about.”

“You don’t have to.  I can handle Eleanor.”

“Most people can’t.  And she’s like a shark smelling blood in the water, especially from those who didn’t know they’re bleeding.”

“True.  She is a piece of work.”

“Actually, her mother is, and she tries hard to live up to her expectations.”

“Do you care about her too?”

It was asked in a manner I construed would be the same as asking if I was harbouring a secret bunch of feelings towards her.  I wasn’t; she was not in my league, and I was fine with it.

“In a brotherly way maybe.  My brother hangs out with Reggie, and I hear stuff.  She needs to dump him sooner rather than later.”

“He’s hurting her?”

“I’m not sure, but he had a temper, and I hear he’s a mean drunk.”

Her expression and watery eyes told me that she knew something about domestic bullies.  If that was the case, it explained away a few assumptions.

“She won’t listen, even if you told her.”

“Not while her mother has her claws in her.”  I shrugged.  “I just hope it’s an accident not waiting to happen.”

That topic ended, and perhaps her desire to converse any more.  She drained the cup and finished the pie.  I thought she would just get up and walk off.

She hesitated.

“You going to college next year?”

“I’d like to.”

“It’s the only way I’m going to get out of the house and from under the oppressors.  I’m looking for someone to share an apartment.”

“You’d trust me?”

“You care about me.  That’s good enough for me.”

“Well, it solves a problem.  Why not?”

“Why not indeed.”  She slipped out of the seat and threw her bag over her shoulder.  The pink hair stood out under the harsh lights. “Until tomorrow.  You might try sitting closer.  I promise I won’t bite.”

Famous last words.

I watched her leave, stopping just outside the windows to give me a small wave, and I had to wonder where this might lead.

Or that I should not think too much about it and see what might happen in what was always going to be an uncertain future.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026