Category: blogging

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 4

This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.

But, there’s more to come. Those were long flights…

And sadly when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start.

…

Another fifty or so feet along, I stopped at an overhead grill.  The metal was showing on the tunnel side, but on the other, I could see bushes.

I think I knew where we were.  This was where the road crossed a small bridge and headed towards the castle entrance.  It was on the northeastern side of the old battlements, and going straight under the road would take us to the eastern wall.

Whether we could get out of the castle there remained to be seen.

I took a step and saw Jack stop and turn around to look back the way we had come.  A moment later a beam of light came from the break in the roof of the tunnel.  Perhaps the man had decided there might not be ghosts in the hole.

I heard the man’s voice travel up the tunnel.  “Looks like a cavern of something.”

That is something he might guess to be a tunnel.

We had to go.

I moved quickly in the opposite direction, into the dark, the sound of more rocks falling from the roof following us.

 

After another hundred feet or so we reached a wall, a dead end to the tunnel.  It looked to me that it had been bricked in the recent past because it consisted of house bricks, not cobblestones.

The surface was wet, and there was the sound of dripping nearby.

Jack sat on the floor.  Nowhere to go, for him it was time to rest.

We couldn’t go back.

I pulled out a knife and poked it into the mortar, and the blade disappeared when I pushed it.  The mortar was soft.

I pushed hard on the wall midway up, and it moved.  I decided it might be wiser to kick at the wall, making it easier if it collapsed.

It created a hole about a foot around.  Further kicking made it bigger so that I could stoop down and climb through.  Jack went first, and I followed.

It came out into a clearing surrounded by trees.  Through the branches, I could see the forest on the other side of a paddock.

Jack once again stopped.

Voices.

Jackerby and one of his men.

“I’m sure there used to be a drainage tunnel somewhere here.  Those men got into the tunnel yet?”

“Working on making a hole so they can jump down.  No long now.”

“Go back and help them.  I’ll keep an eye out here in case they find the exit.”

I heard the other man leave.

A minute passed, then two.  Then Jackerby said, “I know you’re there Sam.  I’m alone out here, and I’m on your side.”

© Charles Heath 2022

“Bloody hell…” – a short story

The cell phone’s insistent and shrill ring dragged my mind away from the crossword, and after a fairly mild curse, I picked it up.

Sidney, my brother.  Odd he was calling me at this hour of the night.

“What,” I barked into the microphone.

“That’s no way to speak to your baby brother.”  His smooth tones rarely reached a screaming point, which was often the reason why mine did.

And who calls the younger brother ‘baby’ brother these days?

“What do you want?”

A hesitation.  He was in trouble again; I could feel it.

“Can you come down to the bar?  I seem to have left my wallet at home.”  Sheepish, and just enough to stop me from yelling at him.  It was not the first time, nor would it be the last.

“I told you the last time was the last time.”

“Just this once, please?”

I shook my head.  That was probably my biggest fault, giving in to him.  After our mother had died, and our father had to work, it was left to me to bring him up.  He was going to be the death of me yet.  “Where?”

“The usual place.”

I was surprised because the last I’d heard they’d banned him from going in there.  It was only a twenty-minute walk from my apartment, but, late at night, and in winter, there was snow in the air.  And the odd snowflake falling, a prelude to much worse.

About a hundred yards from the bar I had a shiver go down my spine.  I’d not had that for a long time, not since school, and the trouble with Wiley, the school bully.  Wiley had graduated to the local thug, done a few stints in jail, and last I heard he had been sent down for a few years for an assault.

I stopped and took a moment.  Perhaps karma was trying to tell me something.

I shrugged.  Just in my imagination.  I reached the door, took a moment then went in.  He was standing by the bat looking a little apprehensive.  He was in more trouble than just not paying his bar bill.

Close up I could see the fear in his expression.  “Bloody hell, Sid, what have you done now?”

“A problem that he insists his older brother would be happy to pay for.”

I knew that voice and felt instant dread.

Wiley.

In the flesh, and not looking very happy at all.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Writing a book in 365 days – 56

Day 56

Writing Exercise

…

When things stopped making sense to me yet again, I started getting nervous.

And that was the problem of having an older brother who was an inveterate liar, master manipulator, and downright rogue.

It took me years to realise what sort of a person he was, and it was still a shock.

…

Growing up we didn’t have a lot, two hard-working parents who brought us up in a modest house, a normal education, one that didn’t extend to university, and when the time came, they provided a ticket to a reasonably good job.

Middle of the road, that was how Howie described it. He wanted more, but the problem was, he did;t have the brain smarts, or rather, he didn’t want to put in the effort. He became what my father called a disappointment.

I did have the brain smarts, but being lumped together with my brother as one of the Travers’ hooligans, I was never given a chance. Every time I tried to pull away and make my own path, somehow Howie would turn up and ruin it.

What I never understood was why? Surely he couldn’t hate me so much that he wanted to ruin my life?

That was when two things happened, randomly.

Beth Taylor told me that my brother was a monster whose only aim in life was to ruin any chance I had of being better than him.

That same morning, in his most earnest tone, Howie told me he was sorry for everything he had done, and was going to leave me alone from now on.

When I asked why, he said he had tried his worst and failed. It was time to give up.

That in itself was a red flag, and the more I thought about it, the more nervous I got.

Of course, the moment I turned up at the dinner where I was supposed to meet Beth and have dinner, I knew exactly what was going to happen.

Beth had always been out of my league but I allowed her to lull me into a false sense of security. She had pretended to like me, and when she was not there, I knew that she was one of Howie’s disciples.

She didn’t turn up, but her brother, Bull because of his physique, and three of his friends were there. As soon as I saw them I turned to leave, only to find another disciple standing in my way.

Something else had happened that morning after Beth spoke to me. Ritchie, another hapless soul who suffered the unwanted attention of Bull, happened to be lurking after Beth left. He asked me what we were talking about and when I told him, he snorted.

He told me I was wasting my time, but I was an optimist.

He said I was a fatalist and simply shrugged. It was, he said, my funeral.

Being herded towards Bull and his friends at the far booth, I had to reluctantly agree with him.

“Woebegone Travers.” Bull said it with a smirk and his friends all laughed.

I would have corrected him, but the broken bones were not worth it.

“Sit down.”

The two opposite Bull moved up to make space.

“I think I’ll stand.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

“I thought it was. Don’t you listen to this fool.”

It was like Bull’s head was on a swivel it turned around so fast, to see who was interrupting his playtime.

Griff, short for Griffin, and the last person who called him by that name spent a week in the hospital.

Quarterback, wrestler, hometown hero, a boy who was as gentle as he could be forceful. The girls loved him. But he did have an enemy.

Bull, wannabe quarterback, rubbish wrestler, despised by all, and simply just a thug.

“This has nothing to do with you, Griff. Walk away.”

“I come for the dinner. Roast turkey and all the trimmings. Dinner with my friend, Wally. He said that Beth would be here, but I guess that’s one of your little tricks, eh, Bull. Tricky little bull.”

He shook his head and tsk-tsked.

Bull’s uncle owned the diner, which is why Bull could get away with what he did. That family were all tarred with the same brush. I saw him come out from the kitchen to see what was happening.

He looked at Bull, then looked at Griff and he looked at me. He knew what was about to happen. “Take it outside.”

Griff looked at Bull, then his uncle, then me, then back to the uncle.

“Of course. Wally, come join me outside while we wait for the tricky little bull.”

I looked at Bull. “It’s not been a pleasure, Terence.”

No one called Bull Terance and lived, so it was only going to add to the excitement. But sadly, there would be no excitement. Bull would leave by the back door. He didn’t fare well when he had to front up to trouble.

“Who sent you,” I asked when we got outside.

“Beth. She had a long think about what she’d done, which you have to admit for her is a first, and then told me. Sensible girl.”

“My brother is just as bad.”

“Howie? He’s just having trouble picking the right side.” He shrugged.

Like me, he saw Bull and his friends leave through the kitchen. “I think we made our point,” he said. “I don’t think he’ll bother you again. I’m disappointed about the turkey dinner though.”

Until tomorrow. I was not as optimistic as Griff.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Searching for locations: A small part of London, England

We were in London in Summer, it was a fine afternoon, going into the evening and we decided to get on the London Eye.  As you can see from the clock it was near 7:00 pm.

housesofparliament3

This photo was taken as we were coming down.

Those long evenings were quite remarkable, not in the least going to a pub and sinking a few pints!  There was one such pub not far from Charing Cross Station

The pub was called ‘The Princess of Wales’

And still be light enough to find your way home.

What do they call it? A busman’s holiday?

It has any number of names, from Leave of Absence to Vacation, but it is meant to be a time where you can rest and relax.

And by the time you finally get to go away, preferably somewhere as far from home as possible, you are sure ready for it.

Those long days at the office, the decisions, the deadlines, the endless pressure of having to achieve the impossible all melt away when you walk out the door, and what a feeling it is when you tell everyone, ‘I’m off on holidays, see you when I get back.’

As anyone will tell  you, it’s not wise to travel the next day if at all possible, because you need some time to decompress before tackling what sometimes can be an arduous getting to the final destination, especially if it is at a peak holiday period, or on planes where anything and everything can go wrong very quickly.

Been there done that.

We traveled the next day, nothing went wrong, and all is fine.

Except …

As a writer and having spent the last few months finishing off my last novel, I was looking forward to some down time.  The editor has the final draft, and I’m happy.

Then, as it always does, the best laid plans of mice and men …

It all comes unstuck.

Inspiration often comes out of left field; something happens, a piece in a newspaper, an item on TV, or just lying down staring at the ceiling, when ‘bang’  it hits you.

The start of a story, a theme that you can run with.

Damn.

I’ve been away for four days now and written seven chapters and the words will not stop.

If only …

Hey, what a great title for the story.

Sorry, got to get back to work!

 

 

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

Searching for locations: A trip to Newark, New Jersey. USA

That meant we had to make the journey from New York to New Jersey, by train.  It involved the underground, or as New Yorkers call it, the subway, from Columbus Circle which by any other name was really, 80th street, to 34th street which apparently was the New Jersey jump-off point for us to get overground, well a lot of it was overground. So, were we going uptown or downtown?

Apparently, it was downtown, and to 34th Street on the A train.

You would not think this to be a difficult task, but for people not used to the subway, and where they were going other than some internet derived instructions, but without the help of a man at the station, just getting tickets may have stopped us dead in our tracks.  With his help, we determined the return fare for three of us and then get through the turnstile onto the platform.

We get on the A train, but soon discover it was not stopping at all stations.  There was for a few minutes, a little apprehension we might just simply bypass our station.  Luckily we did not.

Now, finding your way to the New Jersey transit part of Penn station might appear to be easy, on paper, but once there, on the ground, and mingling with the other passengers which all seemed to be purpose going somewhere, it took a few moments to realize we had to follow the New Jersey transit signs.

This led to a booking hall where luckily we realized we needed to buy more tickets, then find the appropriate platform, and then get on the right train, all of which, in the end, was not difficult at all.

Maybe on the return trip, it might be.

At Newark Penn station it was momentarily confusing because the exit was not readily in sight, so it was a case of following the majority of other passengers who’d got off the train.

This led us to exit onto the street under the train tracks.  Luckily, having been before to Prudential Stadium to buy the tickets, we knew what the stadium looked like and roughly where it was, so it was a simple task to walk towards it.

We were early, so it was a case of finding a restaurant to get dinner before the game. So was a great many others, and we passed about 6 different restaurants that looked full to overflowing before we stopped at one called Novelty Burger and Bar.

It looked inviting, and it was not crowded.

It was yet another excuse to have a hamburger and beer, both of which seemed to be a specialty in American.  I could not fault either.

And soon after we arrived, this restaurant too was full to overflowing.  Thankfully there were other Maple Leaf fans there because being in a room full of opposition teams supports can be quite harrowing.

That was yet to come when we finally got to the stadium.  I was not expecting a lot of Maple Leaf fans.
We went to this game with high hopes.  New Jersey Devils were not exactly at the top of the leader board, and coming off the loss in Toronto, this was make or break for whether we would ever go to another game.

It’s remarkable in that all the Ice Hockey stadiums are the same.  Everyone has an excellent view of the game, the sound systems are loud, and the fans passionate. Here it seems to be a thing to ride on the Zambonis.
At the front door they were handing out figurines of a Devil’s past player, and it seems a thing that you get a handout of some sort at each game.  At Toronto we got towels. And, finally, we were in luck.

The Maple Leafs won.

And it was an odd feeling to know that even though their team lost, there did not seem to be any rancor amount the fans and that any expectation of being assaulted by losing fans was totally unfounded, unlike some sporting events I’ve been to.

Perhaps soccer should take a leaf out of the ice hockey playbook.

That also went for taking public transport late at night.  I did not have any fears about doing so, which is more than I can say about traveling at night on our own transport system back home.

Oh, and by the way, there are train conductors who still come to every passenger to collect or stamp their tickets.  No trusting the passenger has paid for his trip here.  And, if you don’t have a ticket, I have it on good authority they throw you off the train and into the swamp.  Good thing then, we had tickets.

It was, all in all, a really great day.

Writing a book in 365 days – 56

Day 56

Writing Exercise

…

When things stopped making sense to him yet again, he started getting nervous.

And that was the problem of having an older brother who was an inveterate liar, master manipulator, and downright rogue.

It took me years to realise what sort of a person he was, and it was still a shock.

…

Growing up we didn’t have a lot, two hard-working parents who brought us up in a modest house, a normal education, one that didn’t extend to university, and when the time came, they provided a ticket to a reasonably good job.

Middle of the road, that was how Howie described it. He wanted more, but the problem was, he did;t have the brain smarts, or rather, he didn’t want to put in the effort. He became what my father called a disappointment.

I did have the brain smarts, but being lumped together with my brother as one of the Travers’ hooligans, I was never given a chance. Every time I tried to pull away and make my own path, somehow Howie would turn up and ruin it.

What I never understood was why? Surely he couldn’t hate me so much that he wanted to ruin my life?

That was when two things happened, randomly.

Beth Taylor told me that my brother was a monster whose only aim in life was to ruin any chance I had of being better than him.

That same morning, in his most earnest tone, Howie told me he was sorry for everything he had done, and was going to leave me alone from now on.

When I asked why, he said he had tried his worst and failed. It was time to give up.

That in itself was a red flag, and the more I thought about it, the more nervous I got.

Of course, the moment I turned up at the dinner where I was supposed to meet Beth and have dinner, I knew exactly what was going to happen.

Beth had always been out of my league but I allowed her to lull me into a false sense of security. She had pretended to like me, and when she was not there, I knew that she was one of Howie’s disciples.

She didn’t turn up, but her brother, Bull because of his physique, and three of his friends were there. As soon as I saw them I turned to leave, only to find another disciple standing in my way.

Something else had happened that morning after Beth spoke to me. Ritchie, another hapless soul who suffered the unwanted attention of Bull, happened to be lurking after Beth left. He asked me what we were talking about and when I told him, he snorted.

He told me I was wasting my time, but I was an optimist.

He said I was a fatalist and simply shrugged. It was, he said, my funeral.

Being herded towards Bull and his friends at the far booth, I had to reluctantly agree with him.

“Woebegone Travers.” Bull said it with a smirk and his friends all laughed.

I would have corrected him, but the broken bones were not worth it.

“Sit down.”

The two opposite Bull moved up to make space.

“I think I’ll stand.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

“I thought it was. Don’t you listen to this fool.”

It was like Bull’s head was on a swivel it turned around so fast, to see who was interrupting his playtime.

Griff, short for Griffin, and the last person who called him by that name spent a week in the hospital.

Quarterback, wrestler, hometown hero, a boy who was as gentle as he could be forceful. The girls loved him. But he did have an enemy.

Bull, wannabe quarterback, rubbish wrestler, despised by all, and simply just a thug.

“This has nothing to do with you, Griff. Walk away.”

“I come for the dinner. Roast turkey and all the trimmings. Dinner with my friend, Wally. He said that Beth would be here, but I guess that’s one of your little tricks, eh, Bull. Tricky little bull.”

He shook his head and tsk-tsked.

Bull’s uncle owned the diner, which is why Bull could get away with what he did. That family were all tarred with the same brush. I saw him come out from the kitchen to see what was happening.

He looked at Bull, then looked at Griff and he looked at me. He knew what was about to happen. “Take it outside.”

Griff looked at Bull, then his uncle, then me, then back to the uncle.

“Of course. Wally, come join me outside while we wait for the tricky little bull.”

I looked at Bull. “It’s not been a pleasure, Terence.”

No one called Bull Terance and lived, so it was only going to add to the excitement. But sadly, there would be no excitement. Bull would leave by the back door. He didn’t fare well when he had to front up to trouble.

“Who sent you,” I asked when we got outside.

“Beth. She had a long think about what she’d done, which you have to admit for her is a first, and then told me. Sensible girl.”

“My brother is just as bad.”

“Howie? He’s just having trouble picking the right side.” He shrugged.

Like me, he saw Bull and his friends leave through the kitchen. “I think we made our point,” he said. “I don’t think he’ll bother you again. I’m disappointed about the turkey dinner though.”

Until tomorrow. I was not as optimistic as Griff.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

newdevilcvr6

In a word: Deal

Deal or no deal.  That was a game show on TV once, involving briefcases.

Then, if you win…

It’s a big deal!

Or, of course, it is if you get in on the ground floor, which is to say, you’re one of the original investors, it becomes a great deal; it’s meaning, taking part in a financial transaction.

The word ‘deal’ along with big, great, tremendous, and once in a lifetime, feature prominently, but if you are like me by the time you invest the pyramid is about to collapse!

Then you’re in a great deal of trouble, meaning a lot of trouble — at the time, it feels catastrophic.

Or you’re working impossibly long hours to enrich the others above you, it a good deal of effort on your part for no reward.

Or deal with a problem, which is to say cope with or control, though if it’s a problem child, good luck with that.

But enough of the depressing descriptions,

When you play a card game, the first thing to happen is to deal the cards.

The second is to ask yourself if the dealer is dealing from the bottom of the deck, even if it looks like the top.

My father called these dealers ‘card sharps’.

Then there is a piece of wood commonly called deal, usually thin and square though not always so; it can also be a plank of pine or fir.