Category: Blog

Another excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – A sequel to ‘What Sets Us Apart’

…

It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone.  It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air.  In summer, it was the best time of the day.  When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.

On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’.  This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.

She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable.  The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day.  So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.

It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her.  It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

I sat in my usual corner.  Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner.  There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around.  I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria.  All she did was serve coffee and cake.

When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?”  She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.

“I am this morning.  I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating.  I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise.  I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”

“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me.  I have had a lot worse.  I think she is simply jealous.”

It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be.  “Why?”

“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”

It made sense, even if it was not true.  “Perhaps if I explained…”

Maria shook her head.  “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole.  My grandfather had many expressions, David.  If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her.  Before she goes home.”

Interesting advice.  Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma.  What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?

“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.

“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much.  Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone.  It was an intense conversation.  I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell.  It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”

“It is indeed.  And you’re right.  She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one.  She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office.  Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”

And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful.  She had liked Maria the moment she saw her.  We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived.  I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.

She sighed.  “I am glad I am just a waitress.  Your usual coffee and cake?”

“Yes, please.”

Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.

I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one.  What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.

There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it.  We were still married, just not living together.

This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her.  She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.

It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.

There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd.  She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right.  It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.

But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings.  But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.

Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart.  I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit.  The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.

I knew I was not a priority.  Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.

And finally, there was Alisha.  Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around.  It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties. 

At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata.  Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan.  She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores.  We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated.  It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.

It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard.  I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.

She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top.  She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.

Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak.  I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.

Neither spoke nor looked at each other.  I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”

Maria nodded and left.

“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests.  I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence?  All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”

My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.

“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us.  There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”

“Why come at all.  A phone call would have sufficed.”

“I had to see you, talk to you.  At least we have had a chance to do that.  I’m sorry about yesterday.  I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her.  I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”

An apology was the last thing I expected.

“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington.  I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction.  We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”

“You’re not coming with me?”  She sounded disappointed.

“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress.  You are so much better doing your job without me.  I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband.  Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less.  You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it.  I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”

It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement.  Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points.  I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever.  The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.

Then, her expression changed.  “Is that what you want?”

“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways.  But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”

“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”

That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud.  “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan.  You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy.  While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”

“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance.  I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother.  She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right.  Why do you think I gave you such a hard time?  You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously.  But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”

“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”

“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”

“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”

I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead.  Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers.  Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen.  Gianna didn’t like Susan either.

Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her.  She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.

She stood.  “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face.  “Of course not.  I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship.  I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”

I had been trying.  “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan.  I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”

She frowned at me.  “As you wish.”  She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table.  “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home.  Please make it sooner rather than later.  Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”

That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car.  I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.

No kiss, no touch, no looking back. 

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2025

strangerscover9

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 35

Day 35 – Poetry

…

The Paradox of Poetry: Unpacking Elizabeth Bishop’s Insight

Elizabeth Bishop, a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, once astutely observed, “Writing poetry is an unnatural act. It takes great skill to make it seem natural.” This statement may seem counterintuitive, as poetry is often associated with spontaneity and emotional expression. However, Bishop’s words reveal a profound truth about the craft of poetry, one that warrants closer examination. In this blog post, we’ll delve into the complexities of writing poetry, exploring why it can be considered an unnatural act, and what it takes to make it seem natural.

The Unnatural Act of Writing Poetry

On the surface, poetry appears to be a natural extension of human language, a way to express thoughts, emotions, and experiences through words. However, the process of crafting a poem is often a deliberate and calculated one. Poets must carefully select and arrange words, considering factors like meter, rhyme, imagery, and syntax, to convey their intended meaning. This self-conscious process can feel unnatural, as it requires a level of manipulation and control that doesn’t always come easily.

Furthermore, poetry often involves distilling complex emotions and ideas into concise, precise language, which can be a challenging and artificial process. Poets must navigate the tension between authenticity and artifice, striving to capture the essence of their subject matter while also shaping it into a cohesive, aesthetically pleasing form. This balancing act can make writing poetry feel like an unnatural act, as it demands a high degree of craftsmanship and attention to detail.

The Skill of Making it Seem Natural

So, how do poets overcome the unnatural aspects of writing poetry and make it seem natural? According to Bishop, it takes great skill. This skill encompasses a range of abilities, including:

  1. Mastering form and technique: Poets must develop a deep understanding of poetic forms, such as sonnets, free verse, or haikus, and learn to wield them effectively. This involves experimenting with different structures, rhythms, and language patterns to find the right fit for their message.
  2. Developing a unique voice: A poet’s voice is the distinctive tone, style, and perspective they bring to their work. Cultivating a unique voice requires a deep understanding of one’s own experiences, emotions, and observations, as well as the ability to express them in a way that feels authentic and relatable.
  3. Using language effectively: Poets must be skilled in the use of language, able to select words, images, and metaphors that evoke the desired response in the reader. This involves a keen sense of observation, a rich vocabulary, and a willingness to experiment with language.
  4. Editing and revision: The process of writing poetry is often iterative, with poets refining their work through multiple drafts and revisions. This involves being willing to cut, reshape, and rework lines, stanzas, and entire poems to achieve the desired effect.

By honing these skills, poets can create poetry that seems natural, effortless, and spontaneous, even when it’s the result of careful crafting and revision. The best poetry appears to flow from the poet’s heart and mind with ease, concealing the hard work and dedication that went into its creation.

Conclusion

Elizabeth Bishop’s observation that “writing poetry is an unnatural act” may seem paradoxical, but it highlights the complex, nuanced nature of the craft. While poetry is often associated with natural expression and spontaneity, the process of writing it can be deliberate, calculated, and artificial. However, with great skill and dedication, poets can overcome these challenges and create work that seems natural, authentic, and beautiful. By embracing the unnatural aspects of writing poetry and developing the skills necessary to master the craft, poets can produce poetry that resonates with readers and leaves a lasting impression.

“The Things We Do For Love”

Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?

…

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

In a word: well

At first, you would think this word has something to do with your health.

You’d be right.  “Are you well?” or “Are you well enough?”

Of course, it can cause some confusion, because how do you measure degrees of wellness.

Reasonably well, very well, not well, or just well.  Not a good descriptive word for the state of your health, maybe.

How about what if the team played well.  Not health this time, but a standard.

There’s ordinary, mediocre, as a team, brilliantly, and then there’s well.

It seems it can be used to describe an outcome.

Well, well.

Hang on, that’s something else again.

What about, then, we use the word to describe a hole in the ground with water at the bottom.

Or not if it is a drought.

A lot of people get water from a well, in fact in the olden days that was a common sight in a village.

What about those environment destroyers, oilmen.  They have oil wells, don’t they?

And when I went to school, there were ink wells on every desk.

Messy too, because I was once the ink monitor.

But if the well’s dried up?

It becomes a metaphor for a whole new bunch of stuff.

OR what about a stairwell?

And at the complexity of it all, for such a small word, tears well up in my eyes.

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 2

Back on the bridge of that rickety starship

…

The only things moving on this upcoming voyage out into the unknown, is the planets on our screen.

When we were last on the bridge, the chief engineer, yes, we still have them in the 24th century, was telling us it was a no go.

When you’re standing on a ship that cost more money than you can imagine, then double that unimaginable amount, and realise it would normally build two other smaller ships, then you can be assured that someone very high up in the chain of command, sitting in an office somewhere safe back on the planet, who may or may not be wishing they were in your place, would be anything but happy.

I was lucky that I didn’t meet that someone during the recruitment process, only later on an inspection of the ship just before the handover from the builder to Space Command.

This was not the first, but the first of a new class. Bigger, better, faster, more suitable to space travel than those that came before.

And, having several junior officers with a passion for history, one of them came up with a simile for our predicament. When new cars were created, way back in the 20th century, the first of the series always had teething problems. That’s why you wouldn’t buy the first of a series.

We didn’t have that luxury, but here’s the thing, it was based on an earlier model with a few new enhancements. It was one of those enhancements that was the problem.

A few minutes after the captain went to his quarters, his voice came over the speaker system. “Number One?”

Ok, I have a name, but trying to get the captain to use it might be difficult, what with regulations, and his rather stiff manner, each of which might get in the way.

“Sir?”

“Go down to engineering and get a report on progress.”

I could do that over the internal comms. What was going on? Belay that thought, I was not going to question an order.

“Yes sir.”

I glanced in the direction of the second officer, and he nodded, getting out of his seat. He would take charge of the bridge, even though we were going nowhere.

He walked over to my position, and I headed for the lift.

Automatic doors. It was not an innovation, but when I came aboard a week ago, they were not working properly, so using the lift to me was a leap of faith.

A few seconds later and what might have been from the top to the bottom in a skyscraper, the lift slowed, then stopped. The doors didn’t open.

Don’t panic. Just wait and breathe. There you go. The doors opened…

…onto utter chaos!

…

© Charles Heath 2021

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 21

Looking for something to suit my mood.

I’ve been reading the headlines and it seems that nothing else is going on except Trump, so a plane crash, and residual fallout from the explosion in Beirut, if there was one, would be good.

All bad news unfortunately, so I need to find something uplifting.

There’s nothing like a walk in the park on a bright sunny day.

Is there?

What could possible happen?

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 40

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 prioritizing.

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

Chasing leads, maybe

…

Darkness fell in a noticeably short time, and we left the pub at about six. In the hour so we have been there I’d been keeping a close eye on the comings and goings, and in particular, if O’Connell came in, or someone else that might look like him.

He hadn’t, nor had any mythical family members.  Well, it had been a long shot.

Jennifer hadn’t volunteered anything more to the conversation and sat working her way through a piece of fried fish and a bowl of chips.  Neither had looked appetizing.  I would have bet she’d have the chicken, but I was wrong, and probably it wasn’t going to be the first time.

“Do you have a gun?”

It was after ten minutes of silence.  It worried me that she didn’t ask how far it was or how long it would take.  And then, out of nowhere, the gun question.

“No.  Why would I have a gun.?”

“We were issued with weapons.  I still have mine.”

“Did you bring it with you?”

“No.  Like I told you, I didn’t think I was still working for the Department.  They didn’t ask for it back, so I didn’t give it to them.”

“Or the identities?”

“No.  It was odd though; they didn’t ask about them either.”

“Maybe they were going to wait a while and then ask you back.”

This was a weird conversation to be having.  By this time we were in Peaslake Lane, and not far from the house I pulled over to the side of the road, under a tree.

The houses were set back in a rural setting.  Between the darkness and the undergrowth, the chances were we could get to the house without being seen.  From where I was sitting, no windows or doors were visible.

I made sure the car’s internal light didn’t go on the moment the door was open.

“Are you bringing your cell phone?”

“Why.  I’m not envisaging having to call anyone, nor am I expecting a call.”

I shrugged, and slipped mine into a pocket where I could easily reach it I needed to.

I got out of the car, and she followed.  She left he bag in the car.  The first sign of training kicking in; eave all un-necessary baggage behind.  Perhaps having a gun might have been a good option if we ran into trouble.

Oddly enough, now that I thought about it, Monica hadn’t asked for mine back either, but it was sitting at home in a safe, along with the five other identities Severin had issued each of us with.

I locked the car, equally as silent and invisible as she joined me.

“Which house?”

“Three along.  Follow me and keep your eyes and ears peeled.”

I didn’t have to tell her, but it didn’t hurt to emphasize the importance of stealth.  There were people home in other houses, lights in windows just discernible through the trees, one house a window without a curtain, a view into the dining room, but there was no one at the table.

If we were visiting them, perhaps we’d be in time for dinner.

The house we were looking for was in darkness from our approach.

“You keep an eye open this side, and I’ll go around the other, then come back.  I’ll see if there’s an easy entry point.”

“What if someone is home?”

“Doesn’t look like it from here, and I’ll be surprised if there is.”

A moment later she had disappeared into the shrub line and I was heading across the front of the house, heading for the other side.  I kept well away from the front door, just in case there was a motion light, or worse, a motion detector that might set off a silent alarm.

But, that might already have happened, and if it had, no one had made a move inside.

Down the side was walls and windows, no doors or French doors leading out into the garden.  None of the windows were at a decent height for us to clamber through, and if we had to, it was going to be difficult.

I continued on, around the back, where there was more success.  French doors leading onto a patio, and then the lawn.  In the corner was a greenhouse, and next to that a rose garden.  Or at least that was what both looked like in the dark.

The moon, for the moment, was hidden by dark clouds.

Perhaps it would rain, though it had not been in the forecast, but, this was England, and it could rain at any time, especially when you didn’t want or need it.  There was no light, or motion sensor over the French doors, so I crossed the patio and looked through the doors.

I had expected curtains, but these hadn’t been completely drawn.  No large light or lamp on, but there were indicator lights, several red and one a particularly bright blue, casting a rather long shadow over furniture and what looked to be a carpet square.

Out of curiosity, I tried the door.

It was open.

Then I had the blind panic moment of thinking it might be alarmed.

I shut it again and waited.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 34

Day 34 – Writing exercise – The day she left me was the day I found myself.

…

Josephine was one of those people who could appear in your life and make it feel like you had known them forever.

Not that many appeared in my life because I was one of those kids who had that background created by bad experiences practically from the day I was born.

My mother was a reasonable person, herself scarred by the suicide of her father, leaving a gaping hole in her suddenly shattered world.

My father was, before the war, an odd but likeable chap who suffered from the war with undiagnosed 5 and slowly went mad with paranoia and battle scars.

How they met, how they got along, and what eventually happened was always going to happen.  I just wish that I wasn’t the one to find them, not when I was 12, battling middle school and everything entailed with pre-teens.

Two things happened when I moved the high school.  My grandmother took over my care after a battle with the authorities and the child welfare system.  Josephine McAndrews arrived without fanfare and suddenly became the focal point of teachers and students alike.

Especially the boys, which I thought was odd because the previous year all the boys universally agreed girls were ‘yuck’.

I didn’t have time to notice.  Or more to the point, I didn’t care.  I spent the time between schools, not trying to figure out what I was going to do, but helping my grandfather on his small farm.

Then I had to switch from herding cows, getting the milking done, tending the chickens, and maintaining the fruit trees and vegetable patch.

Then go to school.

It took a month before I realised that Josephine MacAndrews had arrived, and that she was in the same grade.  Even if I had known she was there, she would not have been a priority to welcome her or even talk to her.

There were plenty of other boys throwing themselves at her feet.

…

Lunch time was my quiet time, a seat in the back of the cafeteria.  Because of the farm’s physical tasks, I was not one of the weaker kids; the ones the sport types made life hell.  They tried, but my grandfather taught me self-defence, and I only had to use it once.

I also declined the invitation to play football, which some believed was stupid, but I didn’t see the point of it.  It didn’t mean the coach would stop asking, so I was learning quickly how to dodge him.

That was the back of the cafeteria, behind a row of plants acting as a divider.

That didn’t deter the intermediate Miss McAndrews, recently self appointed reporters for the school newspaper.

Looking for a place to sit, ignoring a half dozen clear invitations, she decided to sit opposite me.  I knew who she was; everyone seemed to know her life story, and then some.

I tried to ignore her, but when I looked up, hoping she was gone, she was still there.

“You seem preoccupied,” she said.

“I was minding my own business.”  I tried not to make it sound like she was annoying me.

My grandmother had told me at the start of the school year that it was time for me to be more sociable, and that girls did exist and I could talk to them.  It wasn’t, she said, going to kill me.

I begged to differ.

“Do you know who I am?”

It wasn’t spoken haughtily, but it wasn’t a good line to use.  Not on me anyway.

“That’s a line I’d expect from a self-entitled brat trying to sound like they’re better than me.  You might be, but you could try breaking it differently.”

“Is that as a self-entitled brat, or that I am better than you, though I’m not sure in what way.”

If I was expecting her to get up and leave in disgust, it didn’t work.  It in fact caused her to smile, not the fake smile most of the girls had suddenly acquired, moving from fifteen to sixteen, but something that resembled amiable.

“You’ll make a good lawyer.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It is what it is.”

She looked me up and down.  “You’re not like the rest of them here, are you?”

“I am.  Same age, same insecurities, same daft behaviour that everyone else gets up to.  I just choose not to play the games involved with being friends at the expense of others.  I hate everyone equally.”

She gave me another measured look, then said, “I hate to say it, but I’m beginning to like you.  You’re not going to lie to my face because you want something.”

Yes, that was another lesson my grandfather taught me.  Everyone wants something, and every little piece of you you give away is one less piece of yourself you have in your armoury.

I didn’t understand what it meant until recently.  People could be nice or horrible.  It was a choice.  Most people choose not to embrace nice.

“You have nothing I want.”

“Good to know.  Now, if you have a specific and compelling reason why I can’t sit here, I’ll be happy to leave.  If you don’t…”

“I don’t own this table, nor do I have the right to tell you what or what not to do.  If you like peace and quiet, this will be the place.”

“Then I shall stay.  Peace and quiet will be a change.”

…

I did have acquaintances, as distinct from friends.  Friends were people who ended up betraying you; acquaintances could be discarded when necessary.

Jack was borderline between the two because his company was tolerable, and his philosophy was the same as mine.  Get through school and work on his parents’ farm.  He was not a scholar, not that I was much better, but I helped him where I could.

Josephine didn’t turn up at my table every day, just now and then, and when Jack thought I had her on a string, he’d join us.  He developed an affection for her, but it was clear she was not interested.

As the weeks and months passed, I could see she was not sure how to survive such a provincial school, considering the implied prestige of the last school she attended.  She was not bitter about the change in circumstances, but it was a thing.

I wasn’t interested in her romantically, but there was a nagging interest in what her story was.  I wasn’t buying the cover story, the one everyone quoted, that economic circumstances had caused her father’s company to collapse and they were left with nothing but a mountain of debt and a bad reputation.

It was also believed her mother came from our patch and had a piece of land and a house bequeathed to her, and it would have to do until her father could turn things around.

It was a plausible story, but though the basics might be true, that they had no money and they had a house and land out this way, the question was why they were here, when all people who lived here wanted to do was get out and go somewhere, anywhere else.

Or it was just my imagination.

We were back after Christmas, and the snow was feet thick, and the cold was intense enough to keep us at home for a few days.

It was clearly not what she was used to.

I asked a question, and for once she answered truthfully.  How did I know?  She had tells, and one was what happened to her expression just before she told a lie, or perhaps a white lie.  Often, she would think before she answered.  That told me she was working on an answer that most people would accept.

She had said she came from New York.  I could tell that she had come from California because of her attitude towards and experience with snow and freezing temperatures.

Her last name wasn’t McAndrews either, another little hesitation in a moment when her mind was somewhere else.  Liars needed to have good memories.

That little gem I learned from my mother, who was, of course, referring to my father.  He could never get his story straight.

My best guess?  Witness protection. The only negative is why draw attention to yourself, because clearly, they had been quite wealthy.

Or again, too much television and a wild imagination.  Whatever the truth, I would keep it to myself.

…

Lunch was quiet, with some of the students still unable to get out of their properties, so the cafeteria was not its usual hubbub of activity.

Jack was hovering, speaking to other members of the athletic squad, having just joined it to widen his circle of acquaintances.  The fact that he could throw a discus a long way helped.  He took the crown for the longest throw ever at the school, and that was with very little training.

Josephine came in with a group of girls known as the pom poms, the cheerleaders.  It was elitist, and getting in was to survive a ritual of humiliations.  Josephine so far had declined to join them.

It was odd, though, because girls had to beg them to join; it was exactly the opposite for Josephine; they were chasing her.

A few minutes later, she’d abandoned them and wandered over to annoy me.   Well, not exactly annoy me, but I preferred to eat alone.

I looked up as she sat down.  “Their latest offer not tempting you?”

She looked puzzled for a moment.  “Oh, the try-hards?  Why would anyone want to put themselves through that?”

“First dibs on the good-looking guys?”

She smiled, a curious expression.  “Do you think I’m that shallow?”

“You’re sixteen going on twenty-five, a teenager, and a girl.”

“And the boy equivalent is sixteen going on five and a one-track mind.  It’s the same everywhere, I guess.  Growing up is just horrible.”

“Pretty much.  Bit different here to there?”

“Not really.  Less snooty bitches, perhaps more attitude.  I’ll survive.  What’s it like at your place?  We have been shovelling snow just to get out the front door.”

“It wasn’t like that in New York?”

There it was, the hesitation, that moment where she was running scenarios, what would I believe?

“Not exactly.  There was snow, just not as much.  And not as cold.”

Hovering Jack had taken a little longer to wind up his conversation, then come over.  She had been watching him out of the corner of her eye, and her demeanour changed.

He sat next to me

I saw a look pass between them, and it made me shiver, and not in a good way.  I gathered up my things and stood.

“I have a school thing I want to ask you, can you walk with me?” I said to her.

She waited for just the right amount of time before saying, “Of course, anything I can do to help.”  She took a few seconds longer to organise and put things in her bag, then stood, not wanting to look like she was in a hurry.

She smiled at Jack, then joined me, walking slowly out of the room.

Neither of us spoke until we were some distance from the block.

“Is he annoying you?” I finally asked.  It was not my business, but there was something not right.

“Not exactly, but it’s a vibe I get when he’s around.  I don’t feel safe.”

It was not the first time I’d heard it, but I thought nothing of it.  Jack was just being Jack

“He and I are much alike.”

“No.  I feel safe with you, the big brother I never had.”

“Even through the disdain you perceived that?”

“Disdain.  I thought it was a self-protection thing in case you got to like me.”

Interesting assessment.  With a grain of truth.  Perhaps it’s why I did it with everyone, just to keep them at arm’s length.

“You’re not going to be around long enough for that to happen. Falling in love is a process that takes time, getting to know each other.”

“How do you know?”

“The thing about someone like me is that I’m not distracted by all the chatter around me.  I listen. I analyse.  I wonder, and sometimes jump to conclusions.  Living in a violent situation where most of the time it was just the expectation rather than the beatings, I retreated into many different imaginary worlds.  This one, here, with my grandparents is the best so far.”

“Am I in any one of those imaginary worlds?”

“Rapunzel some days, Guinevere others.”

“Rescuing a damsel in distress, or partaking in forbidden love.  Interesting.”

It wasn’t quite how I saw it. She had long plaited blonde hair, though it was not her natural colour, and she acted like she was the queen of everything.

“I needed rescuing, thanks.  And you’re right.  My parents hate this place.”

“And you?”

“I don’t belong here.  You know that, as I suspect you know more about me than anyone in this place.  If you have been listening, as you say, then you will have noticed the little slips.  I can’t be on my guard the whole time, and I can’t relax.”

She wasn’t going to say any more, but it was an admission, one no one else would ever hear.  But even so, it didn’t make me feel special.

“Then perhaps for the rest of your sojourn we shall just be acquaintances.  I’m surprised by the number of kids who seem to want more at this age.  My grandmother said back in her time, girls and boys had to be chaperoned, but there wasn’t social media or cable television back then, throwing morality to the wind.  I guess not all progress is good.”

“For the record, I don’t have social media at all.  I have a burner phone with two numbers in it.  I can’t give it to you, so no late-night phone calls.”

We reached the block where the next class was. “Thanks again for the rescue.  I appreciate it more than you can know.”

“Do you want me to deal with him?”

“No.  I have to fight my own battles.  But thanks for the offer.”

…

It was something I was thinking about, some months later, as we were rolling into summer, and for the first time, thinking about a girl.

Just one.  And ironically, the one I would never get a chance with.  She had said as much, and I heard her.  She was leaving.

She told me over lunch.  Matter of fact.  Except for one catch in her voice at the end.  Had she practised it so many times, only to be brought undone in the final delivery?

My imagination again, I thought.

And staring at the roof, I was surprised that anyone could have penetrated the walls that I had carefully built around me.

It hurt, like that first love should.

I was just dropping off when my cell phone buzzed.  An unknown number.  Normally, I wouldn’t answer, but a sixth sense told me it was trouble.

I pressed the green answer button, and a voice exploded, “Come and get me, please, now, hurry.”  Two gunshots, then nothing.

Josephine.

I knew where she lived.  Not everyone did.  Anderson’s Lane, about 800 years across the paddocks.  Half a mile, two and a half minutes, less if I could run like the wind.

But I had to stop for the rifle in the barn.  A full minute; fumbles included, and hoped like hell it didn’t cost her her life.

I loaded it on the run, just like I was trained.  I didn’t think I’d ever need to.

Three minutes.  I could see headlights way off in the distance; someone had rung the sheriff’s office, and it would take time for the deputy to get organised.

I approached carefully and could see a man in the doorway, gun in hand, aimed and ready to shoot.  I shot his gun hand and then his leg.  He would be too busy stemming the bleeding.

I ran past him, looking blankly at me.

“A fucking kid,” I heard him mutter, then put loud, “incoming.”

I felt the presence at the top of the stairs before I saw the shadow and shot twice, and then watched the body fall down the stairs.

Then, “behind you,” and I turned, saw the man going for his gun, and shot him just as he got it into his hand.

Josephine had literally come out of the wall and then collapsed into my arms, sobbing.  “They’re dead, they’re dead.”

I put the gun on the sideboard just as the deputy’s car slid to a stop across the gravel and the door opened.

A glance into the living room showed her two parents shot dead in their chairs, the television on a John Wayne western.

The rest was a blur.

…

The sheriff arrived at the same time as my grandparents.  Despite her testimony, I spent about an hour in handcuffs, the deputy perhaps rightly or wrongly believing I was the assassin, but it was all cleared up in an instant when the forensic team, who arrived by helicopter, cleared me of any wrongdoing.

Josephine refused to leave me the whole time, on that very fine line between sanity and hysteria.  Had I not got there, she swore she would have died.  I wasn’t going to tell her she should have remained hidden.

We were lucky.

She was taken to a secret location, and I was sent home.  No one told us anything, except that we were never to talk about what just happened.  Ever.

I didn’t think I’d see her again.

Two days later, having been told to stay home, the sheriff came.  He gave us the official story that her father had a mental breakdown, killed his wife, daughter and then himself.  There was no mention of the two assassins.

It was a tragedy that could not have been prevented.

Then the sheriff took me to see Josephine.  She had not wanted to leave without seeing me.  I was surprised.

It was at another house, closer to town, which I presumed to be an FBI safe house.  The guys there looked like agents, the suits, the dark glasses, the serious demeanour.  So much for anonymity.

She was in a room out the back, a clear view to the river, a mile of pristine snow, with a light fall adding to the pile.  She came over as soon as the door shut and hugged me very tightly, and I could feel her tears as she cried.  Tears of relief, tears of loss.

I knew what that felt like.

All I could do was hold her tightly like I needed to when it happened to me, and I never got the chance.  At least she would not end up in the welfare system.  For her, at my age, it would have been horrific.

It took a while for her recover.  The whole process would take a lot longer.

“Thank you.”

“No need.  Anyone would do the same.”

“But they didn’t.  You did.  It was brave.  I owe you my life.”

“Is this going to be a thing?”

She glared at me.  “I’m trying to be serious.”

“You need to take a breath, revel in the fact you are alive, and believe me, old enough not to finish up in hell.”

“Your parents?”

“The story they are putting about you.  It happened.  I found them.  I may have despised them, but it was still a very profound shock.  You will feel it for a long time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  Time for you to concentrate on the new you, again.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“A distant memory in a few weeks, like the town, the school and the try-hards.”

“I won’t forget you.”

“I hope not.  For someone I tried very hard not to like, you have a way of getting under people’s skin.”

“So you did like me?”

“A little, maybe.  But it was always going to be a trap shoot in the end.  I was right about you.  Witness protection.”

“Without the protection, but yes.  Now I get to disappear.  But I have your cell number, and one day, when you least expect it, I will call.  Maybe not quite so dramatically, but I will call.  We have a bond that will never be broken.”

She reached up and kissed me on my cheek, and then looked into my eyes.  I should have averted mine, but I didn’t.

They say you always remember that first kiss.

A few minutes later, I watched her leave.  Knowing her had changed my life.  Falling in love with her, that was the day I found myself.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

If I only had one day to stop over in – Helsinki – what would I do?

One Day in Helsinki: The One Place You Must Visit for an Unforgettable Stopover

Picture this: You’ve just landed in Helsinki, Finland, with only one day to explore before catching your next flight. The city beckons with its sleek design, vibrant culture, and Nordic charm—but time is limited. So, where do you go to capture the true spirit of Helsinki in just a few hours?

While the city offers countless gems—from the striking Helsinki Cathedral to the bustling Market Square—there’s one spot that perfectly encapsulates Helsinki’s soul and ensures your short visit is nothing short of memorable.

That place is Suomenlinna Sea Fortress.

Why Suomenlinna?

A UNESCO World Heritage site since 1991, Suomenlinna is not just a fortress—it’s an island adventure, a historical journey, and a scenic retreat all rolled into one. Built in the 18th century, this maritime fortress sprawls across six interconnected islands and tells stories of Swedish, Russian, and Finnish history. But more than that, it offers an immersive experience you can savor even in a single day.

How to Make the Most of Your Visit

Getting There:
From the heart of Helsinki, it’s just a 15–20-minute ferry ride from Kauppatori (Market Square). Ferries run regularly year-round, and the journey itself offers stunning views of the Baltic Sea and Helsinki’s coastline.

What to Do on the Island:

  1. Step Back in Time:
    Wander through tunnels, cannons, and historic barracks. Visit the Suomenlinna Museum for a compact overview of the fortress’s 270-year history.
  2. Embrace Nature and Views:
    Walk along the rugged coastal paths for breathtaking panoramas of the sea and the city skyline. In summer, the islands are lush and green; in winter, they transform into a serene, snow-dusted wonderland.
  3. Taste Finnish Flavors:
    Stop by Café Vanille or the brewery restaurant, Suomenlinnan Panimo, for a warm drink, local pastry, or even a craft beer brewed on the island.
  4. Capture the Moment:
    From the iconic King’s Gate to the tranquil shoreline, every corner is photogenic. This is a place where memories are made—and Instagram-worthy shots are guaranteed.

Why It’s Perfect for a Stopover

  • Compact Yet Complete: You can explore the highlights in 3–4 hours, leaving you plenty of time to return to the city, enjoy a meal, or even visit another quick attraction.
  • Authentic Helsinki Vibe: Suomenlinna blends history, nature, and local life in a way that feels uniquely Finnish.
  • Escape the Hustle: Despite being so close to the city, the islands offer a peaceful retreat away from urban noise—a refreshing pause during a travel day.

Before You Go

  • Check Ferry Schedules: Plan your trip around ferry times to maximize your stay.
  • Dress for the Weather: Helsinki can be breezy, even in summer. Wear comfortable shoes for walking.
  • Pack Light Snacks: While there are cafes, having a water bottle and a snack ensures you can explore uninterrupted.

One Day, One Unforgettable Experience

Your stopover in Helsinki is a gift—a chance to taste a new culture, even briefly. And Suomenlinna is the perfect bite-sized piece of Finland to savor. It’s more than a tourist attraction; it’s an experience that stays with you: the sea breeze, the whisper of history, and the serene beauty of the archipelago.

So, when you find yourself with one day in Helsinki, skip the stress of trying to see it all. Take the ferry, step onto the island, and let Suomenlinna turn your stopover into a story worth telling.

Safe travels—and may your day in Helsinki be unforgettable!

Have you visited Suomenlinna or have another Helsinki favourite? Share your experiences in the comments below!