The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 35

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…

Leonardo was a happy man.

It was quite a by coincidence that they had run into Chiara, and it hadn’t taken long to break her. He had thought of taking her to the castle to let Jackerby extract the information, but he was tired of them telling him what to do.

He would get the information, and then act, taking the ringleaders of the remnants of the resistance back to the castle, and expect to get that well-earned pat on the back for a job well done.

He’d said he would take care of the rabble, and he had.

Until Wallace had asked him where Atherton was.

And there was that small problem of Carlo, too, though he was not going to mention that in his report to Jackerby.

Francesco had softened the three leaders of the resistance up before taking them to the castle, taking particular pleasure in attending to Martina himself. The three could barely walk and were almost dragged up to the castle.

The first question Jackerby asked was why he had beaten them when he’d expressly been told to bring them to the castle alive and in a fit state to be questioned. None of the three was in any sort of state to do anything other than collapse.

Jackerby’s men took them to the dungeons.

The second question Jackerby asked was where Atherton was.

“That was basically the whole point of the exercise,” he yelled at Leonardo, who, by this time was getting annoyed himself.

“He’s still out there, and you can be assured he will be causing us trouble. Those three you dragged back, whilst a nuisance, hardly compare to what Atherton can do.”

“There’s only one of him. There’s no way he’s going to be able to break into this castle, by himself, and do anything.”

Jackerby shook his head. It would not matter what he said, Leonardo was just a fool, a petty little thug who quite rightly had been ostracised by the rest of the village. And when this exercise was over and Mayer was recaptured, he was going to take extreme pleasure in killing Leonardo and his followers.

“Go get something to eat, rest, then get back out there. I want Atherton found. Surely there is nowhere left where he can hide.”

There was a dozen, or more, places, Leonardo thought but he wasn’t going to tell Jackerby that. Instead, he had made up his mind to do as Jackerby asked, rest, then take a few hours the check all the entrances and exits to the castle before going back out to find Atherton.

Or at least that was what he was going to tell Jackerby.

In reality, he had had enough of these interlopers, and it was time he removed them from the castle. It was time he took over. The war was not going to end any time soon according to his sources further north, and there were worse places than a castle to hole up in until the war ended. Especially considering how much wine was being stored in the cellars.

Wallace was in the dining room and had been in the middle of lunch when Leonardo came back. Rather than talk to him, he sent Jackerby to deal with it.

Johannsen was sitting at the other end of the table, contemplating the wine. It was not a good idea to be drinking wine in the middle of the day when trouble could arrive from any number of quarters.

In fact, he was surprised that the other resistance hadn’t made an all-out attack on them. It seemed unlikely to him that those that hadn’t followed Leonardo up the hill, were of little consequence.

If anything, and of his experience of the resistance in France, one resistance fighters was worth 10 or more enemy soldiers. They had a reason to fight, for their country, and liberation for the Nazis.

Of course, Leonardo and his men were oblivious to the fact that they were working for the Germans, not the British, but to them, he thought, anyone other than an Italian was worth working for if they were prepared to pay.

Leonardo and his men were mercenaries. Guns for hire. They didn’t care who they worked for. But there was something else. Leonardo hated the villagers, and it wasn’t difficult to convince him they needed to be kept in line and report any newcomers to the castle.

Adding the reward was a bonus.

“Atherton’s not going to come and present himself at the front door, you know that,” he said to Wallace.

Then he decided to have some wine. It’s not as if the war would be arriving any time soon.

“You know him best. A fighter, an organizer, or office boy.”

“Paper pusher, by all accounts. I’m not sure why Thompson would send him other than he was desperately out of good agents. You saw how much resistance he put up.”

“Jackerby seems to think there’s more to him.”

“Jackerby sees shadows where there are none. Where did you say he came from?”

“North Africa.”

“Then he’s had too much sun.”

“A little advice then. I wouldn’t say that to his face.”

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress – 8

Eight

So, not to sound like I was a snotty loser, when Cecile had first told me about Jake, the man I assumed was her new boyfriend, I said he was too good to be true.

He’d been sent to Australia to work in a branch of his father’s company as a learning experience on the way to bigger and better things. He was just the sort of man she thought she wanted, not the slow and steady wins the race type, but someone who would, and literally did, sweep her off her feet.

Our last conversation, when she told me I was not the man of her dreams, she didn’t exactly identify him, but I knew who she was talking about. She had fobbed me off several times, so I followed her and lo and behold, there was the man himself.

All she had to do was tell me we were done, but she didn’t, and exactly why she hadn’t remained a mystery.

That he had led her down a very dangerous path, well, I might have carried a grudge, but we had been together since childhood, and my feelings for her were not easily extinguished, not to the point I would take her back, but I would find her, and save her if she wanted to be saved. After that, I would be the tourist for a while before going home.

Or if I got the travel bug, tour Europe for a while.

From the moment I’d told Emily about our separation, she had gone quiet. Had she known about it? If she knew that we were no longer together, why did she think I would come with her on this mission? Get us back together? We were going to have to talk about this, and the fact Cecile and I were done, and sooner rather than later, in case she got the wrong idea.

I was not the knight in shining armour, not anymore.

As for this Jake character, just who the hell was her. If he was not who he said he was, and his parents were bot the people she was expecting, was he just some cheap imposter, after he money. Her parents were wealthy, yes, but not overly so, and certainly not the sort who could pay a hefty ransom.

All of this would make sense if he was a conman. And if that was the case, perhaps the man in the pin stripe suit was his accomplice. I would call him soon once we were resettled in another hotel.

In the meantime, we had to make sure we were not being followed.

After spending an hour confusing even ourselves where we were, we stopped at a café. Coffee and a rest, along with a consultation with the map, and an internet search of small hotels, on the other side of town, one that required a few changes of train and/or bus.

We had said little except to agree or disagree which way to go, until now. I could see that revelation about Cecile and her new boyfriend had struck her, and I began to believe that Cecile had neither told her, or told anyone else about Jake.

That made sense too, if he didn’t want her to tell anyone ‘Just yet’, until they got home. For a girl with so much common sense, how could she have been so easily led astray?

After the coffee and a cake was delivered to the table, she said, “I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“Dragging you here on this odyssey. If I’d known you two had split up, I would not have been so insensitive. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought she had.”

“Do you know who this Jake is?”

“Only saw him once, and he was devilishly handsome. Adonis would have had trouble competing with him.”

Did that sound like sour grapes? Probably. The first time I saw him, I knew I had no chance.

“That’s not her type.”

“Apparently it is now.”

She took a moment, eyed the cake, and mentally calculated the number of calories it contained, in exactly the manner he elder sister did, then asked, “Why did you come?”

“I still care about her, and what happens to her.”

“Even after she dumped you?”

I had forgotten Emily could be quite blunt sometimes, and now that she had learned of our split, she wasn’t taking it well. That may have had something to do with the fact she took the credit for us getting together, all those years ago, when I might add, she was about five.

I’d been part of the furniture for almost all of her life, so I guess it was hard to take.

“Well, when we find her, I’m going to give her a very stern bollocking.”

If, and/or when, we found her.

We still had to find a new hotel, get our luggage from the airport, Figure how to find our way to Jakes last known address, and make a call to a man called Sid Jackson, though he didn’t look like a Sid to me.

An idea occurred to me, and rather than having to rely on public transport, not that in London it wasn’t far better than anything we had at home, I remembered seeing a rent-a-car place not too far back. A car might just be the thing, and in one respect, just the move they might not be expecting.

Something else had just occurred to me too. Why had Cecile left this trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow, when she had made it quite clear she didn’t want to be with me anymore?

I guess it was a question I’d have to ask when we finally found her.

…

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 18

As we all know, writing by the seat of your pants is almost the same as flying by the seat of your pants, a hazardous occupation.

As it happens, I like writing this way because like the reader, I don’t know what to expect next.

And equally, at times, you can write your self into a corner, much like painting, and then have to go back, make a few changes and//or repairs and then move forward.

It’s part of the writing process, only in this case, the changes occur before you’ve finished the novel, if you finish. Quite often a lot of writers get only so far, then the manuscript hits the bottom drawer, to be brought out on a distant rainy day.

Or your cat has mocked your writing ability one too many times.

Therefore, we’re winding back to Episode 16, and moving forward once again, from there. This is episode 18 revised…

Ever had the heart-stopping feeling when you’re in the wrong place, and someone has interrupted you? Especially if you shouldn’t be there, or that you have no right to be there.

I stood quietly on the inside of the door and hoped whoever the visitor was would go away. No answer meant no one was home, didn’t it?

Unless…

I heard a key in the door, and it turn in the lock.

I moved quickly to the other side of the door so I would be shielded when the person came into the room. Too late to get out, I was of two minds what to do. Hit the visitor over the head and flee, or ask them what they were doing, before they asked me that same question.

Then nothing.

Until a few seconds later I heard a voice, a man, say, “Jan, you’re back. How was the visit to Philadelphia?”

I heard the slight rattle of Jan taking her hand off the handle and moving away from the door. “Sad, as all funerals are. Now, we are left with the house, and my father’s stuff; a huge collection of mostly junk over a long period of time. Seems he never threw anything out.”

Jan? Did she live here, with O’Connell?

“Yes, “I’m a bit like that.”

Another tenant, or the building super?

“I made sure Herman was looked after while you were away. I don’t think he missed you at all?”

She laughed. “He’s a cat, Fred. We belong to them, not the other way around.”

“True. Your friend has not been in for a week or so.”

“I know. The last message I got from him, he was in Prague, lucky bastard. He was going to take me with him, but at the last moment, they changed his itinerary. Perhaps next time. I was just going to make sure everything was OK, before going home myself.”

“I could look in if you want?”

“No. Thanks anyway, but last time I was here I left a jacket behind. Thanks, Fred.”

A moment later I could hear his footsteps heading away, and Jan moved back to the door, and opened it.

I heard the light switch, and then, suddenly, the room was filled with bright light.

The girl was unassuming, stepped into the room, and closed the door behind her. Before she could take a step, I put a hand over her mouth and an arm around her neck and started squeezing.

Instinctively she started to struggle and call out for help.

I whispered in her ear, “I mean you no harm, but if you struggle, or yell out, it could turn out very bad for you.”

We had been taught how to subdue people without killing them, but that always didn’t go to plan. There was that instinct to fight back in everyone, and it was sometimes hard not to apply excessive pressure which could, depending on the severity of resistance, see the target asphyxiated, or end up with a broken neck.

She was still struggling, which mean I had to exert more force.

“Stop fighting me or you will harm yourself,” I said, this time in a more forceful whisper.

It had an immediate effect, but I don’t think it was her obedience that caused it. I gently lowered her to the floor and felt for a pulse. Unconscious, not dead. I sighed in relief. I took a good long look at her so that I would remember what she looked like. At some point, I was going to have to talk to her.

Then footsteps outside the door. What else could go wrong?

Then knocking on the door. Short and sharp. Followed by, “Jan, are you in there?”

Fred, whoever he was. What did he want?”

Another knock on the door, this time more urgent. Damn. O’Connell’s flat was like a busy store.

I looked around for an escape now there would be no going out the front door. Not unless I had to disable another person, and assuming if he was the building super, he would not be a small man, so it would take a greater, and noisier, effort to subdue him.

A fire escape, all buildings usually had one down the side of the building, in case of fire. I went over and checked the windows and found it. The window needed a little force to open it, but the sound of a key in the door motivated me.

Out the window, close the window again, I made it down the stairs far enough that when I looked up, no one was following me.

That was close. Too close.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 12

Day 12 – The smaller characters that can steal the scene

…

The Scene-Stealers: Why the Bit Players in Stories Make Them Unforgettable

Every compelling narrative has a protagonist—the hero, the rebel, the reluctant saviour. We cheer for them, root for their growth, and remember their names long after the book is closed or the credits roll. But have you ever paused to consider the unsung heroes who linger in the background, the extras who, with a single line or moment, could steal the entire show? These bit players might not have the spotlight, but they’re the secret sauce that makes stories rich, relatable, and unforgettable.

The Depth Weavers: How Bit Players Add Layers

Stories thrive in worlds that feel alive, and minor characters are the mortar holding those worlds together. Take Mrs. Dubose from To Kill a Mockingbird. On the surface, she’s a grumpy neighbour, hurling insults at Scout. But her brief appearance unravels the complexities of addiction, courage, and legacy. Her story—told in the periphery—deepens the novel’s themes long after she disappears.

Similarly, in The Godfather, the scene where a horse’s head is placed in a man’s bed is legendary. While the man himself (a minor character) is a plot device, his presence underscores the Corleone family’s ruthless power and the era’s mob culture. These characters are not just “extras”; they’re the brushstrokes that add texture to the canvas.

The Mirrors and Shadows: Contrasting the Main Event

Bit players often highlight the protagonist’s journey by acting as foils. Consider Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth Bennet’s sharp wit and independence shine brightest when measured against his obsequiousness and cluelessness. Though he’s a minor character, his presence sharpens the story’s critique of societal norms and amplifies Elizabeth’s growth.

In The Lord of the Rings, even the occasional tavern loiterer or roadside traveller reinforces the vastness of Middle-earth and the contrast between the mundane and the epic. These characters remind us why Frodo’s quest is so extraordinary—they live in the same world but will never attempt what he does.

The Scene-Stealers: When Bit Players Shine

Sometimes, all it takes is a single moment for a minor character to etch themselves into our memories. Recall the eerie calm of the priest in The Departed as he’s boxed in by assassins, or the surreal comedy of the “Dance of the Seven Veils” in The Producers. These characters may only appear for a scene, but their impact lingers.

Even in literature, consider the Looney Tunes-esque antics of the Gnomes in The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. They exist for less than a chapter but remain among the most quoted, parodied, and loved elements of the series. Their fleeting presence reminds us that magic often lives in the moments we least expect.

Why It Matters: The Human Touch

At our core, humans crave connection and recognition. We’re all protagonists in our own stories, yet bit players in others’. The minor characters in fiction mirror this duality, grounding narratives in authenticity. They remind us that a society—or a story—needs more than just heroes and villains. It needs the barista who forgets your name, the coworker who “borrowed” your pencil, and the stranger who hands you a stray umbrella in a downpour.

By appreciating these characters, we become more intentional readers and creators. We learn to look beyond the surface, to find wonder in the ordinary, and to recognise that even the smallest role can carry profound weight.

Your Turn: Who Are Your Favourite Bit Players?

Think back to your favourite stories. Which minor characters stick with you? Is it the gruff motel owner in Breaking Bad, the inscrutable IT guy in The Office, or even the diner regulars in your favourite novel? Share them in the comments—sometimes the best stories are the ones we didn’t expect to remember.

Because in the end, whether they’re on the page or the screen, these bit players teach us this: every voice, even every extra, has the power to change the narrative.

What I learned about writing – Stirring conscience

The Writer’s Role: Menacing the Public’s Conscience

In an age of carefully curated content and echo chambers, the idea of a writer’s role is often reduced to entertainment, information, or self-expression. But at its most vital, literature and journalism hold a far more urgent purpose: to menace the public’s conscience. This phrase, simple yet provocative, invites us to consider how the written word can challenge complacency, disrupt apathy, and force society to confront its contradictions. Let’s unpack why this responsibility is not just important—it’s essential for a healthy democracy and a humane world.

What Does It Mean to “Menace the Conscience”?

The word menace often carries negative connotations, evoking fear or threat. But in this context, it refers to the act of unsettling—provoking discomfort so that the public is jolted from complacency. It’s about holding up a mirror to societal evils, hypocrisies, and injustices, and demanding that we look. A writer who menaces the conscience doesn’t offer easy answers; they ask uncomfortable questions. They expose the rot beneath the surface, from systemic inequality to the erosion of truth.

The Historical Imperative

Great writers have always played this role. George Orwell’s 1984 didn’t just predict a dystopian future; it forced readers to grapple with the dangers of authoritarianism and surveillance. Kafka’s The Trial and The Metamorphosis turned bureaucratic absurdity and alienation into visceral, haunting experiences. James Baldwin, in essays like The Fire Next Time, confronted America’s unhealed wounds of racism, not with anger alone, but with a moral urgency that demanded reflection.

These authors didn’t write to comfort the comfortable. They wrote to challenge the status quo, urging readers to see themselves not as passive observers but as active participants in the world they inhabit.

The Mechanism of Menace: How Writers Provoke Change

Narrative as Disruption
Stories humanise the abstract. When a writer portrays a character fleeing persecution or a community decimated by poverty, they convert statistics into lived experience. This empathy is a form of menace—it annoys the conscience into action.
Language as a Weapon Against Lies
In an era of misinformation, writers have a duty to sharpen truth. By exposing half-truths, biases, and manipulative rhetoric, they dismantle the narratives that allow injustice to persist.
Unmasking Invisibility
Too often, the powerful and the privileged are invisible to themselves. A writer’s job is to illuminate those hidden corners—like the systemic gender wage gap, the trauma of climate migration, or the dehumanising effects of capitalism.

The Risks and Challenges

Menacing the public’s conscience isn’t without peril. Writers may face backlash, censorship, or accusations of being “divisive.” After all, people protect their worldviews fiercely; to challenge them is to threaten the self. Consider the criticism directed at authors like Ta-Nehisi Coates for confronting racial trauma or Greta Thunberg for shaming inaction on climate change. The more a writer’s work stings, the more resistance it may provoke.

Yet, this resistance is a sign that the conscience is awakening. It’s a discomfort that precedes growth. The key is persistence.

The Modern Media Landscape: A New Frontier

Today’s writers face a paradox: we have more voices and platforms than ever, yet attention spans are shorter. How can a writer menace a conscience buried beneath viral trends and endless scrolling? The answer lies in specificity. Instead of broad, generalised critiques, focus on the personal, the granular. A single, powerful story can cut through the noise.

Also, consider the power of gentle menace. It’s not always about outrage; sometimes, it’s about aching honesty or poetic reflection that slowly reshapes how we see the world. Writers like Ocean Vuong and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie master this, blending vulnerability and truth to pierce the reader’s heart.

The Writer’s Responsibility: Beyond Provocation

To menace the conscience is not simply to shock for shock’s sake. It requires care. Writers must balance courage with nuance, pushing readers toward empathy without exploiting trauma. The goal is not to paralyse with guilt but to inspire—to show how change is possible and how each of us can contribute.

A conscience menaced is only useful if it leads to action. That means pairing uncomfortable truths with glimpses of hope, with paths forward.

Final Thoughts

The writer’s role has never been more critical. In a fractured world, we need voices that refuse to sanitise, that dare to ask, “What if this were you?” To menace the public’s conscience is to stand as a sentinel against complacency, a provocateur for justice, and ultimately, a hope for a better future.

So, to writers: Write boldly. Write with empathy. Write until the comfortable start to squirm—and then write some more.

What stories will you stir? What truths will you unearth? The world is waiting.

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:

And, the story:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What surprised her was my reaction. None.

I simply asked where who, and when.

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

A week.

It was all the time I had left with her.

I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.

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

Is that all you want to know?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.

There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.

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

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

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

Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.

People coming, people going.

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

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

Perhaps it was.

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

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

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

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

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 12

Day 12 – The smaller characters that can steal the scene

…

The Scene-Stealers: Why the Bit Players in Stories Make Them Unforgettable

The Depth Weavers: How Bit Players Add Layers

The Mirrors and Shadows: Contrasting the Main Event