Category: Creative Writing

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 157/158

Days 157 and 158 – Writing Exercise

Start a story based on the premise of a book you read

…

From 24 floors above street level, the view out over the city was bleak.  Heavy dark clouds hung low in the sky, some concealing the tops of the nearby buildings. 

I could imagine the view from within those would be like being inside a cloud. 

In the distance, the falling rain looked like fog alternating between a solid opaque grey wall and a thin veil of mist.

At least, for the moment, it was not snowing.

Behind me, the wheels of industry, as my father once called them, were turning, almost invisible as the staff went about their work, quietly and efficiently.

My father also said that by surrounding yourself with the right people and rewarding them commensurately, your life would be so much easier.

It had become so easy that sometimes I wondered if my only purpose was to sign documents.

Anthea, my principal private secretary, had just delivered the final agreement for that latest acquisition.  She had perfected the art of arriving and departing as if she had a cloak of invisibility.

If i glanced slightly to the right, I would see her at her desk, always doing something, not like her predecessor, Miriam, who was prone to staring into space, or perhaps dreaming of married life.

Movement caught out of the corner of my right eye told me there might be a problem.  Anthea had just stood up, and was watching a courier cross the floor, coming towards her.

I went back to the gloom, thinking about the dining engagement tonight, and whether or not I would attend.  Attendance was optional.

Anthea locked then came in.  She did not have to wait to enter.

I turned.

“Mr Brickson, you have a certified letter.  Were you expecting one?”

“From?”  I wasn’t expecting anything, but that didn’t mean someone might send me a prospectus or details of a property for sale.

“It has the name Mary Waters, but no company.”

I searched my memory for the name, but there wasn’t a Mary Waters there.

She went over to my desk, took the letter opener out of the top drawer and carefully slit the flap, then took out a gilt-edged envelope with my name written in Gothic writing. 

She handed it to me.  Someone, Mary perhaps, had gone to a lot of trouble.  The envelope was sealed with wax.  I broke the seal and carefully slid the gilt-edged card out.

“The Ordinary Society for Oddfellows – A Charity Event,” I said, whatever that is.

Anthea looked it up on her handheld computer.

“A bunch of the more wealthy philanthropists who are apparently dedicated to putting money behind worthy projects.  You’d know most of them.”

She showed me the list.  Odd, they had never told me it existed, because I think I fitted the criteria.  Perhaps my philanthropy didn’t fit their criteria.

“Probably looking for new donors, and the invitation is really an interview.” I shrugged. I had enough organisations on my list to fund.

I handed her the card.  “A Friday night.  Maybe you could ask Dorothy out as your plus one.  She would be amused.”

“Dorothy is still annoyed with me.”

“Not over, not asking her to the Symington opening?”

It has been the reopening of an old art gallery, which I regarded as somewhat boring, but Dorothy had been eager to attend.  She just forgot to tell me she was available, and then blamed me for not being able to read her mind.

“The same.”

“You can be a little absent-minded at times.”

I shrugged.  “I think she is more interested in that new chapter, the one whose thinking of running for the senate.  She said once she had a hankering to be a politician’s wife, you know, the power behind the man.  She seemed less interested when I told her I had no political ambition.”

“Who would want to?”

“It takes a certain type.”

“Do you want me to file it?”

“No.  Leave it on the desk.  The name of the society intrigues me.  I might ask Wegie to check it out.  There, just before something odd about it if I haven’t heard of it.”

Wegie was the company’s private detective.  Nor the usual gumshoe, Beth Wedge was a force to be reckoned with, a girl with SEAL training and attitude, very handy in a bar fight.

“Some might say you live under a rock.”

“Some might say you have work to do.”

…

I was always fascinated by how I managed to find my way into the society pages when I tried very hard to keep a low profile.

Maybe it was the fact I was not married, had not been married, or had a steady girlfriend.  It was not for the want of trying, it was just that most of the women I crossed paths with were divorced, widowed, too young, though I was yet to understand what the arbitrary age that was ‘too young’ meant.

Sometimes, who I was seen with at society events gained a certain notoriety, some unwanted, some not.  Being seen in society was a game; there were rules, and rules meant to be broken. I didn’t, and perhaps that was the problem.

I was not daring.

I was old school.

I would ‘die a lonely old man’.

That notoriety and interest made it difficult to simply ask someone to a cafe for coffee, or to dinner without being asked.

Dorothy had come close to being a ‘constant’ companion, but she was single, never married, and set in her ways.  She was a feminist, but not so much that it was a problem.

She was kind, generous, but easily upset.  I was still learning the cues and could still fall into a trap.

In short, life with her was not boring.

We had, she told me recently over dinner, four official dates.  Protocol dictated I buy her a present for his birthday, which was in a week or so.  I knew enough not to ask her age.

And just as she had popped into my mind, when considering a plus one for an event that I might not go to, she called.

Few people had my cell phone number.  It was a concession that I gave to her.

“Dorothy.”  I’d resumed my position by the windows.  The scenery had not changed.

“Phillip.  How are you?”

I’m sure my health was what she was calling about.  Things had got a little strange after our ‘discussion’ post the art gallery she had missed.

“Contemplating life while looking at the gloomy outlook.  The property agent said the views from the 24th floor are unparalleled.  Not today.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“No, it does not.”

“Perhaps I could help you to do something about that.  How about I take you to dinner tonight?  There’s a new restaurant I want to try.  My treat.”

I considered turning her down, but the fallout would be difficult to deal with.  With Dorothy, there was a downside to any seemingly simple event; she would have the tabloids and social media on speed dial, ready to promote her lifestyle blog, and being seen with me boosted her followers and likes.

She explained how it worked, but I still didn’t see the point of it, especially where I was involved.  I did not understand what influence I could have.

But she did make the event interesting.  She was not dull company, which I would call myself, and things generally happened, not always good.

“Where and when?  I’ll pick you up on the way.”

..

The Oddfellows had piqued my interest.

It cast a shadow over the previous evening, and Dorothy tried to keep the ship afloat.

Dinner was interesting.  I use that word loosely, and got yet another lesson in navigating the gastronomical world. 

Dorothy’s domain was the high-class restaurant scene, and amazingly, people followed both her blog and her opinions.  She praised the restaurant, and people went.  Some restaurants asked her to dine, and she would, insisting on paying, or I would.

It could be, at times, an interesting diversion.

But aside from all of that, and the fact we got along well together, there wasn”t that spark, the one that said you were meant to be together.

And there was that moment, when I delivered her back to her apartment, where we both knew this was a friend moment, and nothing more.

That short ride from her place to mine was a profound moment, one I think had been on my mind that morning.

Time enough to decide I would be going to the Oddfellows event.

…

My plus one when I didn’t have a plus one was Anthea.  The first time I asked, the social columns were guarded in making a big deal out of it.  Now, it was accepted that if I was not ‘with’ a woman, my ‘date’ was Anthea.

We had discussed it after the third outing, and she said then she would be flattered if I chose to give her ‘a second look’, but she could not be a wife and a Principal Personal Assistant.  And that she was not ready to be a wife, rich man or poor man.

She was my plus one for the Oddfellows.

The limousine picked her up at her apartment and brought her to mine.  As the saying goes, she scrubbed up nicely, but then I made sure she had everything she needed and was appropriate for the occasion.

More than once, she had arrived and held the eyes of every man in the room. She was that sort of woman, and I was the one privileged to be with her, not the other way around.

I may have been wealthy, but I did not regard wealth as the sole factor. My father had always insisted it was not wealth that made the man, but what he did with it. He made it very clear early on that it was our purpose on this earth to help others, and most importantly, the less well off

Continuing his legacy was one of the driving factors.

Attending charity events was obligatory, and donating to their cause if it was worthy.

It was why I decided to attend.

The report compiled by Wegie told me it was a new but interesting charity that was looking for donors.  I was here to be convinced.

It said to be there at 7:00 for 7:30.  Anthea and I arrived at 7:25 and were not the last.  She stole the show, and being escorted to our table, near the front, had everyone watching us. 

The table had 4 couples, all of whom were acquaintances.  We had met at other events, had similar backgrounds and interests as I did, and I figured whoever put us there knew exactly how to woo their prospective donors

The thing is, I was not sitting with strangers.  That might have negatively influenced me if I were.

Just before the event began, the woman who owned the name Mary Waters took the podium and gave us an introduction to what she said was the newly formed Oddfellows Society.

She made it sound like a Boys’ Own adventure.  She said she was available to answer any questions as the night progressed.  At the end, over coffee, brandy or Port, there was an auction, with all proceeds to go to one of my favourite charities.

It sounded like it was going to be an interesting night.

…

My turn with the inimitable Mary Waters came two hours into the event.  It followed a three-course meal that, if I had brought Dorothy, it would have been described as pedestrian.

I was not suprised, but I was slightly disappointed considering the ticket price.  Perhaps Mary perceived my feelings during the stroll out to the foyer and into a meeting room where the two of us sat on opposite sides of the table.

She seemed surprised that I made sure she was seated properly before I sat down.

“I was taking a punt that you might attend.  I had been advised that you were very selective in the events you choose to attend.”

“It has nothing to do with the event, just whether ir not I want to go out.”

“I had expected to see you with Dorothy.  I was hoping to talk about food with her.  I’m glad she did not come; the caterers let us down badly.”

“I did not come for the dining.”

“Some do, and it influences how they respond.”

“It shouldn’t.”

First thing I noticed, she was not afraid to speak plainly.  Second, she looked at you when she spoke to you.  Eye contact.  A faint smile and a sparkle in her eyes, like she was genuinely happy to be there and talking to you.

Third thing and most important, she made me feel at ease.  Some people could make you brace for the incoming.

“What would you like to know?” She asked.

The question that least entered my mind at that very moment was the one I wasn’t going to ask, ‘Are you married?’ Which was strange because normally it was never on my radar.

“Why have I never heard of you before I got the invitation?”

“Perhaps we don’t move in the same circles.”

“We do now.  Where were you before this?”  Her expression changed slightly, and I realised my questions were blunter than I realised.

“Does it matter?”

I leaned back and relaxed.  “No.  It’s just that you have popped up as a breath of fresh air from the usual crowd who run these events and who attend these events.”

“I’m but one humble worker among many.”

“Don’t undersell yourself. May I call you Mary?”

“It is my name.”

“But sometimes it’s presumptuous to call you by your first name in a formal situation.”

“Are you always so wrapped up in protocol?”

“My father always said manners make the man.”

She had a folder in front of her, rather sparsely filled, with my name in Gothic script.  She had not opened it, which meant she didn’t need to consult the information in it.  It made me wonder what information people collected on me

“What does your assessment of me say?”

“What makes you think….”

“You’d be silly if you didn’t suss out the viability of the donors before inviting them.  There are wealthy people out there, but it’s sometimes all on paper, or their assets are leveraged, and sometimes they have crippling debt ratios.  I thought about starting a foundation and inviting others, but it was too much effort.  Your organisation is brave.”

“You have the lowest debt ratio in the building.  It’s not my organisation.”

“Then at least you know my check won’t bounce at the auction.  Whose is it?”

She frowned for a moment.  “This is not how this interview is supposed to go.”

“We can end it here.  You have impressed me sufficiently to decide if you have a worthwhile charity that is known to me to support, I will consider becoming a donor.”

“I can ask no less.   Now, can I ask you a favour?”

“It depends…”

“My bosses asked me if I would like to auction a private dinner with me as your guest.  I’ll be honest, I declined, simply because the sort of people out there,” she gestured towards the main ballroom, “are mostly kind and generous people, but some are not.  I will accept a bid of one million dollars if you wish to be my dining companion.”

“That’s not about money.”

“It is for a particular charity.”

“Why offer this to me?”

She looked at me with an expression that told me it was like I had spoken to her in a foreign language.

“When?” I asked.

“When you issue the invitation.”

I looked again at the woman sitting opposite me and tried to look into her soul, because there was just a hint of mistrust creeping in.  The offer was direct, and hung heavy with implication.

I wanted to get to know her better, but this was not the right way to do it.

And it was a million dollars, not that it mattered.

I shrugged.  If I didn’t see the money again, I don’t think I’d be all that bothered.  If she were running a scam, I’d get Wegie to find her and deal with it.

“OK.  Who do I make the check out to?”

She told me, I signed it, gave it to her, and left the room.  I did not expect to see her again, nor expect the million dollars would ever see its intended target.

But it was an entertaining evening.

…

Anthea and I were in my office having coffee.

She had run through several new clauses in a small purchase we just made to supplement the computer services organisation.  It was a new project, one I decided we needed to service the whole organisation.  It was certainly cheaper to buy the company than to contract its services.

My cell phone vibrated, and I looked at the screen.

It was a surprise to see a message from an unlisted number.

“Who is it from?”

“Someone who shouldn’t know this number.”

“Then don’t open it.”

“And not learn who it is?”

“You may not want to know.”

Maybe, maybe not.  I opened it.

It was, in part, a copy of an email acknowledgement from a charity known to me, thanking the Oddfellows for the specific donation of one million dollars.

Then, “I am surprised you have not called to set the date for our dining engagement and then realised I had not given you a number to call.”

The number was added, with a prompt, “Feel free to call me any time.”

I kept the number and deleted the message.  I had not told Anthea about the money or the auction. I doubt she would have approved.

“Anyone you know.”

“As much as it may surprise you, yes.”

She had commented on how long I had spent with Mary; it seems she had been watching and timing the other prospective donors’ times.  Perhaps she had not auctioned herself to them, either.

Then, letting just enough time pass before it sounded accusatory, she asked, “Have you heard from that Oddfellow girl, Mary something or other?”

If it had been anyone else making that comment, I would have said the undertone was of jealousy, but I knew Anthea was not that sort of person.

Still…

“I have.”  And then told her and the interview, the proposition, and then the text message.

She took it all in, changing her expression several times.  Then she smiled.

“If I’m not mistaken, I believe you are smitten.”

“I’d like to say you’re wrong, but for the first time I feel as though there’s something between us.”

“What did Wegie say?”

She knew I was careful enough not to take anyone at face value.  “She is just a woman doing a job, no pretentiousness, not from wealthy parents, just honest, hard-working farmers from the Midwest.”

“Could she fit into your world?”

“Does she have to?  It might come to nothing, after all, it is just dinner.”

“Then what have you got to lose?”

I looked out across the city in that moment, and a shaft of light burst through the cloud cover, giving the scene a very warm glow.

It was a sign.

I took out my cell phone and dialled the number.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 2

This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy.  It was, of course, written while traveling 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.

…

I calculated the odds.  Thirty to one.  I wasn’t going to add Jack to the team, because he could never understand what was going on.  I was finding it hard myself.  

The man who sent me on this mission, the man whom I had given a detailed report on what I thought was happening at the castle, gleaned from soldiers passing through and the local resistance, had taken me aside in London, told me the mission he was sending me on was top secret and I could tell no one.

Only now did I realize the import of those words.  Someone I had trusted with my life, for a very long time, was not the person I thought they were.

That was in the second the message I’d received, read, and immediately destroyed.  I hadn’t believed it.  Not at first.  But it had one other piece of information as proof, one when I thought about, made sense of everything that had been happening.  The word coincidence had become overused in the last week.

But I didn’t have time to think about it now, I had to try and get away if only as far as the resistance, to get help and report on what had just happened.

But I couldn’t understand what the enemy would gain from retaking the castle.  Behind enemy lines, it would only be a matter of time before they were caught, or killed.

Enough.  I could hear the footsteps approaching.

Jack had found the passage when he and I had been doing some reconnaissance of the old castle.  I thought it odd that no one knew of any secret passages when all of these old places usually had at least a few.  The lord of the manor would want to be able to move about secretly, visiting mistresses, escaping from enemies, or just sneaking about checking up on staff and family

We’d found one that ran from the guard tower to the grand hall.  A lot of cobwebs, a musty odor, and signs it hadn’t been used for a long time, it was perfect for my soon to be unannounced arrival.

The passage ended at a large wooden cabinet which had a compartment that opened out into the hall.  From within, it was possible to hear conversations and see a veiled view of any activity.

Johansson and that man I’d been warned about, that man I had trusted, Lieutenant General Wallace.  I could only assume he had arrived with the stormtroopers, so for a moment, I was confused as to whether they were ours or the enemy.

I could see Wallace was angry. “I thought I told you I wanted Atherton neutralized before I got here.  Where is he?”

Just then Jackerby came in and looked flustered.  “He’s gone.”

“What the hell do you mean, he’s gone.  Gone where, for God’s sake.  There’s nowhere to go.”

I wondered what neutralized meant.  It didn’t sound very pleasant.  Jack was nudging my leg.  What was he trying to tell me?

“He was in the south tower with that mangy dog of his, where he usually hangs out.”

“Then he can’t be far.  Find him and bring him, to me.  Pity that bomb didn’t kill him or we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Why did it have to be Wallace?  I actually liked the man.  Until now.  I kneeled down, “Well, Jack,” I whispered.  “It looks like we are both in serious trouble.  What’s say we get out of here?”

A lick on the side of my face told me all I needed to know.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2026

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years.  Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.

But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.

I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 3

It has been cooler for the last week or so, and the ideas for the treasure story have not been flowing.

Now, it’s back, and I’m back in the cinema of my dreams, figuratively following the treasure ‘map’!

 …

This was not the time to panic.

There could be any number of explanations for what I just saw.  Boggs had certainly got me wrapped up in his mysterious treasure hunt, and immediately, my mind jumped to conclusions.

I took a deep breath.  There had to be a rational explanation.

Boggs lived with his mother; his father had gone away one day and never came back.  He had no brothers or sisters, so he assumed, rightly or wrongly, that he’d been abandoned.

For the last few years, Boggs and I had been looking for his father.  That’s how he found the treasure map, in a box of stuff his father had left at his brother’s loft.

Now, his aunt was Spanish, or perhaps that was not totally correct, she was Mexican who spoke Spanish.  Her husband was Boggs’ father’s brother, and they had no children, so they had treated Boggs as their own.

Perhaps the men were known to his aunt, and they were taking him home before he got into trouble.

It didn’t explain why they were talking about the treasure map, whether it was the one being sold by the bar owner or the one Boggs found.  Boggs had it with him, so if they were after it, they probably had it by now.

We’d come to the beach by bus, and I took it back, then walked the mile or so to Boggs’s house.  It was about three streets away from where I lived.

When I turned onto the street, there was the kidnapper’s car in front of Boggs’s Aunt’s house.  A minute or so later, I went in the gate and up to the front door.

It was open, so I loitered in the shadows and listened.

A man’s voice, and Boggs’s Aunt.

Again, I was struggling with my Spanish, “You should be keeping control of your brat, he’s getting into trouble, in bars and such places.”

“Drinking?”  His Aunt sounded incredulous.

“Perhaps, I know not, but asking bad men questions about the treasure.  Where is the map?”

So they hadn’t taken it off Boggs.  What did he do with it?

“What map.  He has no map, none that he’s told me about.  Besides, that treasure’s a myth, made up by Dooley to get tourists in his bar, if that’s the bar you said he was at.  Don’t tell me you’ve been sucked into that myth?  Isn’t it about time you got a real job?”

“Just make sure your brat stays away from the bar.”

I could hear footsteps heading towards the front door and ducked into the bushes just as he came out, slamming the door into the wall before stomping off to his car.

I waited till he drove off before coming out and walking into Boggs, grinning.

“See, I told you it was real.”

The horrid uncle, the map, or the myth?

 …

© Charles Heath 2019-2026

The 2am Rant: My grandchildren are now working in their first job

It’s hard to believe that both the 20-year-old and the 17-year-old have joined the workforce and started on their path of working for the next 50 to 60 years. The 14-year-old is about to start in the next few weeks. How quickly they grow up.

They seem quite amused at the thought, and not without reason, and are not really considering the idea. Not yet, anyway.

The novelty is still quite new, and it has a sense of excitement, but this will no doubt wear off in the coming months. After all, as new workers, they only have to do between 3 and 5-hour shifts.

I guess the fact they decided to work at such a young age reminded me of my experience, way back when I was the same age.

Unlike them, who will be afforded to opportunity to remain in school to the end, Year 12, and possibly the chance to go to University, in my case we did not have the money to continue education beyond Year 10, and there was no question of ever going to University. Only the rich could afford that, and we were anything but rich.

Instead, I guess hating school helped facilitate my departure, and the notion that I would have to pay my own way forced me into working.

Of course, it helped to live in a small country town, and my father had a job that brought him in contact with everyone who was anyone and thus got offers to work in whatever profession I chose.

I ended up in the Post Office, what I considered the easiest of jobs, originally employed as a telegram delivery boy, and mail collector from the post boxes scatted about the town. As you can imagine, there were not many telegrams to deliver, so other duties included sorting mail, and then mail delivery. Yes, I became a postman!

Then, after a few months, I became the night switchboard operator, and with a host of other operators, had some of the most interesting and varied conversations imaginable.

It was a bit of a wrench when we finally moved from the country town back to the city.

When we did, my father bought a small business, and for a year or so, I became a shop assistant.

That lasted for a year or two until I was 17. Realising that a lack of education was going to make it difficult to ever get a good-paying job, I took the opportunity to go back to night school while I had the chance, and it necessitated finding another job to help pay for it.

That was packing books for a wholesale bookseller, part of a small team hidden away in the basement of a very old building. It might not be the best-paying job or the best working conditions, but I suspect it was the universe telling me something.

That job, and being surrounded by books started me off on a journey of reading and eventually writing.

What I learned about writing – Can banal events become edge-of-the-seat thrillers?

Absolutely, this is not only possible, it is the defining characteristic of some of the most successful and enduring storytelling across literature, film, and television.

This method of storytelling—taking the mundane and making it the setting for the dramatic—is known as the “Everyman” or “Fish-Out-of-Water” narrative.

The Power of the Mundane to Magnify Drama

The core effectiveness of this approach relies on two psychological factors: Relatability and Escalation.

1. The Relatability Factor (The “Everyman”)

When you start with a character grounded in the banality of everyday life, you automatically lower the barrier to entry for the reader.

  • The stakes are personal: Readers immediately connect with a character who has a recognizable job, routine, and worries (paying bills, traffic, dealing with a difficult boss). This initial familiarity creates a stronger emotional investment.
  • The trauma is amplified: When a character who is a high school chemistry teacher (like Walter White in Breaking Bad) or an ordinary suburban couple (like the protagonists in a Hitchcock thriller) is dragged into a life-or-death situation, the sense of dread and disbelief is far more intense than if the protagonist were already a spy or a police detective.

2. The Escalation Principle (The “Twist”)

The “twist” that turns the banality into chaos is almost always a single, seemingly small choice or event that then creates an irreversible spiral of consequences.

  • The Point of No Return: The character’s struggle is not against a supervillain, but against the weight of their own decisions. The conflict arises from an initial, poor choice made to protect their ordinary life (e.g., lying to a spouse, stealing a small amount of money, attempting a harmless prank).
  • The Loss of Control: The character quickly loses the ability to manage the consequences, and the problems grow exponentially—the simple lie requires a bigger lie, the small theft leads to criminal association. The reader watches their relatable life dissolve, experiencing the terror vicariously.

Examples of the Balanity Spiral

  • Literary Thrillers: Many novels, from those by Harlan Coben to Gillian Flynn (Gone Girl), start with an average person or couple whose ordinary life is shattered by a sudden disappearance or shocking revelation.
  • The Coen Brothers: Their films, like Fargo, often find dark comedy and terrifying violence when bumbling, ordinary people try to commit crimes and are overwhelmed by the reality of their actions.
  • The Suspense Genre: This entire genre is built on the idea that the threat is hiding in plain sight. It often features a non-professional protagonist—a librarian, a teacher, a banker—who stumbles upon a conspiracy and has to rely on their wits and their “boring” skills (like research or careful planning) to survive.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My second story 22

More about my second novel

…

In all of the goings-on, with Zoe chasing down old acquaintances in Bucharest, then moving on to  Yuri, then Olga, we forget that Isobel and Rupert are on her trail, with Sebastian in tow.

It’s not so much Sebastian in charge anymore, not after going rogue and shooting his boss and John’s mother, an act that Rupert witnesses after following Sebastian on the hunch that he was up to something.

Rupert realises that Worthington still presents a major problem, and on the basis that Worthington was going to realise it’s not Zoe shooting at him, Worthington had to be taken off the chessboard.

Unfortunately, he has to enlist Sebastian to get a crew together to kidnap him and take him to a safe house.

Meanwhile, Isobel, with a computer in hand, takes up vigil at the hospital with John’s mother, pretending she is her daughter.  There, she tracks Zoe via her cell phone to an address in Zurich.

Then, miraculously, John’s cell phone reappears and is active long enough for her to get a location, and see that a 96-second phone call is made to a phone in Zurich, Zoe’s.

Then it disappears again.

Isobel then calls Zoe and gives her the address.  It’s a short call.

Calls to Sebastian and Rupert mobilise them, and everyone is on their way to John’s location.

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Sorrento, Italy

Beyond the Limoncello & Lira: 5 Unforgettable Adventures on Sorrento’s Road Less Travelled

Sorrento. Just the name conjures images of sun-drenched cliffs, fragrant lemon groves, and the sparkling azure waters of the Bay of Naples. It’s a town of undeniable charm, a perfect blend of natural beauty and vibrant Italian life, and a beloved gateway to the Amalfi Coast and Pompeii.

But what if you’ve already strolled through Piazza Tasso, admired the views from Villa Comunale, and perhaps even sampled a limoncello (or three)? What if you yearn for experiences that delve a little deeper, moving beyond the main tourist thoroughfare to uncover the authentic soul of Sorrento?

You’re in luck! While Sorrento certainly holds its own as a popular destination, there’s a wealth of hidden gems and less-trodden paths waiting to be discovered. So, dust off your sense of adventure, because we’re about to explore five unforgettable things to do in Sorrento that go a little something like this: “the road less travelled.”

1. Dive into Local Cuisine with an Authentic Cooking Class (Beyond the Tourist Trap)

Sure, you can eat incredible food everywhere in Sorrento, but why not learn to make it? While many hotels offer classes, seek out a more intimate, local experience. Look for classes held in a family home, a small agriturismo on the outskirts, or even a local nonna (grandmother) offering private lessons.

Why it’s “road less traveled”: This isn’t just about cooking; it’s about cultural immersion. You’ll learn family secrets, understand local ingredients (perhaps even picking them from a garden), and participate in a timeless Italian ritual. Often, these experiences involve a market visit, too, truly connecting you to the source of your meal. Imagine kneading pasta dough by hand, concocting a perfectly balanced tiramisu, or mastering gnocchi with a view of the Bay – now that’s a souvenir!

Tip: Ask your B&B host for recommendations for private classes or small, family-run operations. Websites like Airbnb Experiences can also be a good starting point for finding unique local hosts.

2. Discover the Hidden Gem of Marina di Puolo

While Marina Grande and Marina Piccola are bustling hubs, venture slightly west along the coast, and you’ll stumble upon the charming, much quieter fishing village of Marina di Puolo. It feels like stepping back in time.

Why it’s “the road less travelled”: This isn’t a place most bus tours stop. It’s a genuine working fishing village with a small, pebbly beach, crystal-clear water perfect for a swim, and a handful of delightful, unpretentious seafood trattorias right on the shore. Here, you’ll find locals enjoying their afternoon, children playing, and the freshest catch imaginable gracing your plate. The vibe is relaxed, authentic, and utterly charming.

Tip: You can reach Marina di Puolo by a pleasant walk from Sorrento (about 30-40 minutes), or a short, scenic bus ride. Stay for sunset – it’s magical as the lights twinkle across the water.

3. Hike to the Pristine Bay of Ieranto (Punta Campanella Nature Reserve)

For nature lovers and intrepid explorers, the hike to Ieranto Bay offers breathtaking rewards far from the crowds. Located at the very tip of the Sorrentine Peninsula, within the Punta Campanella Marine Protected Area, this stunning bay is accessible only by foot or kayak.

Why it’s “road less travelled”: It requires effort! The moderate 6km (round trip) trail starts from Nerano (a short bus ride from Sorrento) and descends through olive groves and Mediterranean scrub, offering panoramic views of Capri and the Faraglioni rocks. The destination is a secluded, pebbly beach with unbelievably clear turquoise waters, perfect for swimming and snorkelling. It’s a veritable sanctuary, managed by the FAI (Italian National Trust).

Tip: Wear sturdy shoes, bring plenty of water, and pack a picnic. There are no facilities once you reach the bay. Check the FAI website for opening times and any potential entry requirements (though usually free). The views alone are worth every step!

4. Explore the Authentic Hilltop Village of Sant’Agata sui Due Golfi

Escape the coastal hustle and bustle by heading inland to Sant’Agata sui Due Golfi, a charming village perched high on the hills of the Sorrentine Peninsula. Its name, “on the two gulfs,” perfectly describes its unique selling point: incredible panoramic views of both the Bay of Naples (with Vesuvius) and the Bay of Salerno (with the Amalfi Coast).

Why it’s “road less travelled”: Many tourists zoom past Sant’Agata on their way to more famous destinations. But taking the time to explore its quiet streets, browse local shops, and enjoy a meal here offers a glimpse into authentic Sorrentine life away from the souvenir stands. It even boasts a couple of Michelin-starred restaurants if you’re looking for a special culinary splurge, alongside fantastic traditional trattorias.

Tip: A local SITA bus from Sorrento will get you there easily. Dedicate an afternoon to wander, enjoying an aperitivo in the piazza, and soaking in the incredible vistas. Don’t forget your camera!

5. Swim in the Natural Pool of Bagni della Regina Giovanna

While not entirely “secret,” many visitors simply snap a picture from above and move on. To truly experience the Magic of Bagni della Regina Giovanna (Queen Joanna’s Bath), you need to descend and take a dip!

Why it’s “the road less travelled”: It requires a bit of effort to reach the actual swimming spot, involving a walk down a rocky path. Most tourists stick to the top viewpoint. This dramatic natural archway, formed by the sea carving through the cliffs, encloses a hidden, emerald-green natural swimming pool. Overlooking it are the fascinating ruins of a Roman villa, believed to be where Queen Joanna II of Naples met her lovers.

Tip: Wear sturdy shoes for the walk down and water shoes for entering the water, as it can be rocky. It’s a fantastic spot for a refreshing swim and a picnic amidst ancient history and stunning nature. You can reach it by foot (about 30-40 minutes from Sorrento center) or by local bus to the Capo di Sorrento stop.

Sorrento is undeniably captivating, but by venturing off the well-trodden path, you unlock a deeper, richer experience. These “road less traveled” adventures offer not just sights, but genuine connections to the local culture, breathtaking natural beauty, and memories that will truly set your trip apart. So, next time you’re in this Italian paradise, dare to explore beyond the postcard – your Sorrento story will be richer, deeper, and uniquely yours.

Have you discovered a hidden gem in Sorrento? Share your tips in the comments below!

In a word: Zip

Which, unfortunately, I do not have a lot of in my step.

At last, we have reached the end of the alphabet because I’m running out of zip to write these blogs.

So…

Zip is the sing, the energy, the spring we have in our step, that usually gets us from a to b quickly.  Without this zest, we would need to take a bus, train, or cab.

Then comes the variations like …

Zip code, we all have one of these, though in some countries it is called a postcode.

Zip it up, meaning do not speak, especially if you’re about to spill a secret.

A zip, which is a part of some types of clothing, usually in trousers, jeans, and skirts to name a few.  Some dresses have long zips, some short, all seem to get tangled at one time or another, or, in the most embarrassing of situations, split.

Then there is a colloquial use of the word zip, meaning nothing, zilch, zero, in other words, a basis for of z words.

And that’s about as much zeal I’m going to show for writing this blog, and I’m going to close the book on it.

Thank you, and goodnight.

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

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

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers.  Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier.  I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village.  I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed.  In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention.  Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back.  He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury.  He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway.  I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see, there was something about her.  It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile.  I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone.  Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model.  I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris.  The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on.  I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me.  I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin.  My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast.  With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination.  It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight.  It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch.  After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward.  I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it.  And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out.  What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land.  There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind.  If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared.  I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming.  I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in.  Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse.  There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.  My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks.  It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was.  In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.  Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues.  I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing.  There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented.  The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged.  Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian.  He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties.  He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns.  He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa.  From that moment, my obscurity disappeared.  It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses.  He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door.  There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa?  For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability.  That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future.  She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her.  It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move.  The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red.  It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific.  In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid.  I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water.  It was almost mesmerising.  There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned.  The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it.  How did she do that?  I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping.  I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck.  There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black.  An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory.  The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate.  Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes.  My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No.  Not yet.”  I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak.  And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes.  “So that’s a maybe.  Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away.  Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again.  She did not move closer.

I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket.  “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe.  By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease.  “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me.  “You seem to be familiar.  Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings.  If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me.  Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.”  I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was.  “Yes, I remember now.  You made the front cover of the Economist.  You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course.  She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s.  That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family.  I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.”  Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky.  It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.”  She smiled again.  “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts.  I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me.  It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money.  He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right.  I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around.  “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head.  Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit.  “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused.  “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment.  “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave.  Instead, she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot.  To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true.  Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea.  And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct.  I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing.  I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride.  I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?”  Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me.  She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.

“No.  She is back in England, and the wedding is off.  So is the relationship.  She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her?  I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge.  No walking the plank today.  She moved towards it and sat down.  She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair.  Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else.  I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us.  After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message.  It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.”  She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her.  “But it is done, and I moved on.  Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry.  Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing.  It is none of my business.”  She shivered.  “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood and held out her hand.  Should I take it and be drawn into her web?  I thought of Sebastian.  What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet.  “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

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