Category: Creative Writing

What I learned about writing – Word work is sublime – so is the writing we produce, the measure of our lives?

I guess it depends on what you write. Certainly, if you were to ask me if my writing was to a certain extent based on my life experiences, or at the very least, influenced by my life experiences, I’d probably have to say it was.

I mean, what else can you write about? Someone else’s life experiences. Perhaps you have a passion for writing other people’s biographies.

Otherwise, what we may see, consciously or unconsciously, is the baring of your soul in your writing.

Of course, if you are a prolific reader and you have an interest in the ways of what the world used to be like, or the particular ways of a certain group of people, this acquired knowledge might also turn up in your work.

As a writer of period romances, or stories that have their setting in days past, a great amount of research might be required to capture the places, the people, and how they behaved or reacted in those days, because not a lot of those old ways are around today.

Back then, they didn’t have mobile phones or any phones at all. They certainly couldn’t;t jump on a plane and be on the other side of the country in a matter of hours, or on the other side of the world in half a day. Travel used to be by ship and took weeks, even months, to get from one side of the world to the other.

Trains were different, run by steam, and took longer to get to destinations; cars were rare and only affordable for the rich, and places like Africa, and the Middle East, even the Orient, were totally different than they are today, and a person who lived in that time would be shocked at how the world had changed particularly since the end of the second world war.

We only know of today, and what life is like now. Some of us know what the world was like 50 years ago, and it was different then. There was still a British Commonwealth, and we still learned about the British Empire and its kings and Queens. America was a different place, but the only way we knew of its colourful past was through the movies Hollywood made.

And the diversity that was out there in the world was only brought to us by immigration from all over the world.

So, we are products of our times, our words reflect what we know, and what we know, and our perception of the world changes with each new generation of writers who entertain us with their vision of our world, the measure of what our lives are now, and not what they once were.

And some would argue that change is not always for the better.

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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

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365 Days of writing, 2026 – 68

Day 68 – Is talent really necessary

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Talent Is Insignificant – It’s Discipline, Love, Luck …and Most of All Endurance That Wins

“Talent hits a target, but only discipline hits the bull’s‑eye every single time.”

If you’ve ever cheered a prodigy at the piano, a gymnast who seemed to glide, or a coder who writes flawless algorithms in a flash, you’ve felt the magnetic pull of talent. It dazzles, it excites, and it often convinces us that “natural ability” is the holy grail of success.

But the more closely we watch the stories that truly endure—athletes who out‑last their rivals, entrepreneurs who bounce back after failure, artists whose work still moves people decades later—the clearer a different truth emerges: talent alone is a weak foundation. What builds a lasting legacy are the quieter, less glamorous forces that sit just beyond the spotlight: discipline, love, luck, and, above all, endurance.

In this post we’ll unpack each of those ingredients, explore how they interact, and give you practical ways to turn the “insignificant” talent you may have into a resilient engine for achievement.

1. Talent: The Spark, Not the Engine

Why Talent Feels Overrated

  • One‑time brilliance vs. sustained performance. A single moment of brilliance (a perfect shot, a viral video, a breakthrough idea) can jump‑start attention, but without a system behind it the spark fizzles.
  • The “gifted” trap. Research in psychology shows that people who are labelled “gifted” often develop a fixed‑mindset: they attribute success to innate ability and avoid challenges that might expose weakness.
  • Statistical reality. A 2016 meta‑analysis of 75 studies on expertise (Ericsson et al.) concluded that deliberate practice accounts for roughly 10 % of performance variance; talent accounts for less than 2 %.

Talent as a Starting Line, Not a Finish Line

Think of talent as the starting line in a marathon. It decides who can line up first, but it says nothing about who will cross the finish line. The race is run on the road, not the lane.

2. Discipline: The Daily Blueprint

What Discipline Looks Like

Discipline ElementReal‑World Example
Consistent practiceA violinist who rehearses 2 hours daily, 365 days a year
Structured feedback loopsA software engineer who writes unit tests after every feature
Goal‑oriented routinesA writer who writes 500 words before checking email
Self‑monitoringA runner who logs mileage, heart‑rate, and recovery data

The Science of Habit Formation

James Clear, author of Atomic Habits, points out that identity‑based habits (e.g., “I am a disciplined athlete”) outperform outcome‑based habits (“I will run 5 km”). When discipline becomes part of who you are, it no longer feels like a chore; it feels inevitable.

Actionable tip: Choose one micro‑habit that aligns with your larger goal and repeat it for 30 consecutive days. The habit loop (cue → routine → reward) will start wiring the neural pathways that make discipline feel natural.

3. Love: The Emotional Fuel

Why Passion Isn’t Enough

Passion is often touted as the driver of success, yet passion without purpose can become burnout. Love, in the context of achievement, is a deeper, more sustainable affection for the process—the learning, the challenge, the incremental improvement.

The Role of Love in Resilience

  • Intrinsic Motivation. When you love the work itself, you’re less dependent on external validation.
  • Stress Buffer. Studies in positive psychology show that people who report “loving” their work have lower cortisol levels during high‑pressure periods.
  • Community Magnet. Love attracts like-minded people, creating a support network that can catch you when you stumble.

Actionable tip: Write a “Why I love this?” statement for your main pursuit. Keep it on your desk and read it each morning. When the grind feels heavy, that line reminds you why you’re in the arena.

4. Luck: The Uncontrollable Variable

Luck Is Not Pure Chance

Luck is the intersection of opportunity and preparedness. As the old adage goes, “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.”

  • Exposure. The more you put yourself out there (networking events, conferences, open‑source contributions), the higher the probability that a serendipitous chance will arise.
  • Timing. Being ready to pivot when a market shift occurs—think of Netflix transitioning from DVD rentals to streaming—turns “luck” into strategic advantage.

How to Engineer Luck

  1. Expand your horizons. Learn a new skill unrelated to your core field.
  2. Cultivate diverse relationships. Cross‑industry friendships often surface unexpected collaborations.
  3. Stay alert. Keep a journal of ideas and revisit it weekly; the seed of a lucky breakthrough may be hidden there.

5. Endurance: The Long‑Term Engine

Endurance vs. Stamina

  • Stamina is the ability to sustain effort in the short term (a 10‑km race).
  • Endurance is the capacity to keep moving over years, decades, or even a lifetime.

Endurance is the only factor that consistently predicts long‑term success. A 2021 longitudinal study of 2,500 professionals across 12 industries found that endurance (measured by years of continuous effort despite setbacks) explained 45 % of career advancement variance, dwarfing talent (2 %) and even discipline (15 %).

What Builds Endurance?

ComponentPractical Habit
Physical health30 minutes of moderate exercise, 5 days a week
Mental recovery10‑minute mindfulness meditation after each work block
Strategic restSchedule “no‑work” days once per month to reboot creativity
Adaptive mindsetReframe failures as data points, not verdicts

Real‑World Illustrations

  • Serena Williams (tennis) – Not just a natural athlete; she trained relentlessly, loved the grind, leveraged every lucky draw for sponsorship, and persisted through injuries for over 25 years.
  • Elon Musk (entrepreneurship) – While his vision seems “gifted,” his schedule of 100‑hour weeks, love for solving engineering puzzles, strategic bets (SpaceX, Tesla), and willingness to endure public ridicule illustrate endurance at scale.

How to Cultivate Endurance in Your Life

  1. Set “anchor goals.” Choose a lifelong purpose (“becoming a master storyteller”) rather than a fleeting target (“finish a novel this year”).
  2. Build a “failure portfolio.” Keep a list of setbacks, what you learned, and the next step. Seeing failure as a collection of data points removes the fear of the next stumble.
  3. Create rituals of renewal. Whether it’s a yearly retreat, a quarterly “skill‑audit,” or a weekly “wins‑and‑losses” meeting with a mentor, rituals remind you that the marathon has checkpoints, not just a distant finish line.

6. The Synergy: How the Four Elements Feed Endurance

ElementHow It Reinforces Endurance
DisciplineTurns daily effort into muscle memory, reducing decision fatigue over the long haul.
LoveProvides emotional fuel that keeps you returning to the grind when motivation dips.
LuckSupplies the occasional boost that keeps the journey exciting and opens new pathways, preventing stagnation.
EnduranceThe overarching framework that integrates the other three into a sustainable, lifelong practice.

Think of the relationship as a four‑legged stool: remove any leg and the whole structure wobbles. Talent may be the decorative cushion, but the stool can’t stand without its sturdy legs.

7. A Blueprint for Turning “Insignificant Talent” Into Lasting Impact

  1. Audit Your Starting Point – List your natural abilities, then rate your current discipline, love, luck, and endurance on a 1‑10 scale.
  2. Identify the Weakest Leg – If discipline scores a 4 while love is an 8, focus on building consistent habits first.
  3. Create a 90‑Day “Endurance Sprint” –
    • Week 1–2: Establish one micro‑habit (e.g., 20‑minute focused work session each morning).
    • Week 3–4: Add a love‑reinforcement ritual (e.g., a weekly reflection on why the work matters).
    • Month 2: Seek one new “luck‑engine” (a networking event, a side‑project).
    • Month 3: Review progress, adjust, and lock in recovery practices (sleep, movement).
  4. Iterate Forever – After each 90‑day cycle, increase the difficulty slightly. Over a year, you’ll have built a compound endurance system that eclipses any initial talent.

8. Closing Thoughts

Talent is the spark that may ignite curiosity, but it’s the quiet, persistent fire of discipline, the warm glow of love, the occasional gust of luck, and the unyielding heat of endurance that keeps the flame alive.

When you stop measuring success by how quickly you can light a match and start measuring it by how long you can keep the fire burning, you shift from a short‑term performer to a long‑term creator.

So, the next time you hear “You’re so talented,” thank the comment, smile, and then ask yourself: “What will I do today that my future self will thank me for?”

Because the answer, more often than not, will be found not in talent, but in the relentless, disciplined, loving, lucky, and enduring steps you take—one day at a time.

Ready to build endurance?
Start now: choose one tiny habit, write a love‑statement for your craft, reach out to a new contact, and schedule a recovery day next week. Your future self will already be cheering you on.

Stay disciplined. Stay loving. Stay open to luck. Stay enduring.

In a word: Pause

Yes, when you are going at it like a bat out of hell, it might be an idea to take a pause and regroup.

That being a pause as an interruption to an activity.

In music, it’s a mark over a note.

Perhaps it’s a good idea to pause recording a TV show while the ads are on.  Networks don’t like it, but it makes the show make more sense without the distractions of advertisements, sometimes quite inane, or annoying.

What I just said, might give pause to my opposite number in this debate.

Have you been in a conversation, someone says something quite odd, and there’s a pregnant pause?

How did the word pregnant get into the conversation?  That, of course, usually means something significant will follow, but rarely does.  But it can also be a conversation killer where no one says anything.

Is that a wide eye in awe moment?  You did WHAT?

Then there is the word pours, sounds the same but is completely different.

In this case, the man pours water from the bucket on the plants.

Or my brother pours cold water on my plans.  Not literally, but figuratively, making me think twice about whether it would work or not.  Usually not.

Or a confession pours out of a man with a guilty conscience.  AKA sings like a bird.  Don’t you just love these quaint expressions?  It reminded me of a gangster film back in Humphrey Bogart’s day.

It never rains but it pours?  Another expression, when everything goes wrong.  A bit like home renovations really.

Really, it means to flow quickly and in large quantities, ie. rain pours down.

And if that isn’t bad enough, what about paws?

Sounds the same again, but, yes it’s what an animal has as feet, especially cats, dogs, and bears.

One use of it, out of context, of course, is ‘get your paws off me!’

And one rabbit paw might be good luck, but having two rabbit pows, I might win the lottery.

If only….

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 neighbours 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 time I saw Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that 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 that 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 that 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 became 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 other 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 realise 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 37

Could it be an alien spaceship?

…

“We’re being hailed,” the communications officer said in her matter-of-fact tone.

“Not an alien then?”

The moment I said it, it sounded inappropriate.

“Definitely human, with an accent.”

I was not sure what I was expected to make of that.

“On screen.”

A bridge, not dissimilar to ours appeared, with the captain, or the person I assumed to be captain, standing in front of his chair.

“Whom am I addressing?” He asked.

I gave him my name, the ship, who we were, standard name, rank, and serial number stuff as per regulations.

“Where is the previous Captain?”

He seemed to have information about us, if not recent.

“Dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

OK, I didn’t think he was coming just to make small talk.

“Ship slowing, no signs of weapons charging,” I saw pop up on the screen.  In situations like this, best not to communicate when there’s an open communication session.

Then, a new notice, “second ship following the first, moving at the same spot, arrival time 18 minutes.”

I looked at the inset on the master screen, and even at that distance and low-quality magnification, it definitely didn’t look like anything in our fleet.

It begged the question, were they running away?

“Are you alone?”

“No.  But it’s not one of our ships.”

Not very helpful.

“I suggest you turn around and go back,” he added.

I saw him turn, as if someone beside him had spoken, or gestured.

“Sorry.  We have to go.  Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

“Who are they?”

“People you don’t want to meet.”

The screen went back to being a window, and the vessel we’d just been in communication with came clearly into view, then vanished.

It was larger than our ship, but more streamlined, my first thought, like a sleek racing car.

“It seems we’re about to have our first encounter.  Number one, stay on the highest alert, the rest of the crew, battle stations, quick as you can.”

To the navigator, “Did we get anything on that ship, scans, personnel, weapons, engines, anything?”

“A little.  We can go through it later.  If we’re still in one piece.”

If the oncoming ship was alien, it was an unknown quantity, and the navigator could be forgiven for thinking we might not be able to defend ourselves.  Questions we should have asked the other ship were plentiful, and the surprise it caused caught us all offside when I should have been the exception.

There would be time later to analyze everything we did wrong, what I did wrong

Hopefully.

The alien ship was no longer a blurry blob in the distance, but an oddly shaped ship that bore similarities to our own.

I could only guess at the lifeforms aboard if there were any.  It was a moment of thrill, fear, and intense expectation.

Those last few minutes of waiting disappeared as though they were seconds, and suddenly it was opposite us, in space, on station maintaining its distance.  I had us brought to a stop after the other ship left, but in a state of instant readiness to depart just in case we were fired upon.

I was banking on the fact the aliens might be as curious about us as we were about them.

“Can we communicate with that vessel,” I asked, turning the senior communications officer, now on the bridge at the comms station.

“You can speak to them; we have all means of external communication open.”

He didn’t add that they might not understand what I said.

I shrugged.  “We are from the planet Earth on a voyage of exploration and discovery with no other agenda other than to meet and talk to other civilizations.”

It sounded quite strange listening to a somewhat stumbling and unrehearsed greeting that was to be our first words to an alien species.  I hoped that our credibility didn’t rest of those words.”

Silence.

“Any detectable activity aboard their ship?”

“Our scanners can’t penetrate their hull.  Nothing noteworthy outside the hull, but, then, if we don’t know what we’re looking for…”

“We know where you are from and who you are.”

It was a crackling rendition, the sort of sounds I’d expect from a vintage radio broadcast.”

I looked at the comms officer.

“An ancient radio frequency once associated with AM radio, sir, 812 megahertz.”

Did that mean we were more advanced than them?  I didn’t think so.

“Who am I addressing?”

This time the silence was broken by crackling, and what sounded like a tape recorder fast-forwarding.  This went on for about five minutes.

Then, much stronger, and clearer, “Who I am is irrelevant.  If you have similar intentions as the vessel before you, I strongly suggest you turn around and go back to your own galaxy.”

“They’ve moved to FM sir, not sure why they’re using such old technology”, the comms officer said quietly.

Two things popped into my head; from that proverbial left field, I once heard a language professor once pontificate on. The first, was from a scientist at the space training facility on what an alien race mighttry to communicate with us on, and that in his opinion would be the band waves we had been sending out into space for years. AM and FM in that context made perfect sense.

The second: how did an alien speak such good English?

“We have not, though I suspect that will not allay your fears.  All humans, which is what we call ourselves, are not the same.”

“Yet your ship carries weapons.”

“For defense.  If we are attacked, we will respond.  I would expect no less from you.”

There was a minute or so of silence, time I was guessing for my counterpart to formulate his next move.

It came sooner than I expected.

A humanoid form appeared, not exactly like us, but much the same as the early humanoid robots we created at the start of our foray into robotics and for that matter AI.

“We have had much interaction with your kind, one way or another, and it has always ended badly.  If you have no ill intentions towards up, will you accompany me back to my ship?  I assure you, and your crew I have no ill intentions.”

It would be a huge leap of faith.

 Number one, you have the ship.  I’m going to take a short trip to the other vessel.”

“You should take a crew member, as per protocol.”

Yes, the instruction. If we were to were to meet an alien, it was not to go with them without one or more crew members.

“Unfortunately, he’s a stickler for regulations.  I must go with another crew member, just in case.”

I didn’t add the ‘harm cones to me, and retribution will be meted out.’  I didn’t think at this delicate stage that would fly.

“No weapons then.”

“No weapons.  Nancy Woolmer to the bridge immediately.”

She arrived within five minutes, and the moment she was in proximity, we were, I assumed, beamed aboard his ship.

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2022

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 53

What story does it inspire?

…

…

While in reality, this is just an ordinary lake at a resort we stayed at a while back and can be used for canoeing.

During summer the surrounding undergrowth is a haven for snakes, and it is not a good idea to wander too close.

Hardly the place to spur the imagination…

Unless, of course, you start thinking about the ethereal aspects it could possess. For instance, it might be the place where the ghosts of those who drowned come out to play at night.

It might be a lake in the middle of what was once an experimental site that needed a lot of water, and that tainted water might be the haven for mysterious creatures.

Ot it just might be part of a disused government secret site, long abandoned, with buildings and infrastructure just waiting for the right explorer to visit. Again, the ghosts of those who once were there could just be the reason why no one goes near the place.

And, what if there was an extensive, and invisible network of underground rooms. Above ground, just a pond and surrounding overgrown gardens, underneath, well, that’s up to you.

“Trouble in Store” – Short Stories my way: The end of the story

The stage is set for the big finale, though I’m not quite sure how ‘big’ it’s going to be.

Jack is ready to go having been given the green light by the girl with the gun.  It seems collateral damage is not on the agenda for her, though he does admit to himself she is between that proverbial rock and a hard place.

The storekeeper still has a plan, shaky at best, to regain hold of the situation, once the customer is out of the shop.  Nervy or not, he doesn’t think she had the capability to pull the trigger.  He knows what sort of person it takes to do that, and she isn’t one of them.

The policewoman is not sure what to expect but thinks that surprise is on her side, and whatever is going on, she will be able to resolve it.  She has her weapon drawn and ready to use.  She had yet to shoot anyone with it

The girl is at the point of no return, that point where she had nothing left to lose.  Anything she had before was gone, destroyed by the choices she’d made.  No one ever handed out a manual on how you should live your life, or provide a list of people you should avoid, and her father’s prophetic words the last time they men came home with a thud, ‘your life is defined by the choices you make’.

She was not going to jail so it was going to be death or glory.

 

Now read on:

 

Jack had heard there were moments where, in a split second, your whole life flashes before your eyes.  He did, and what he saw he didn’t like.

But, then, neither was he very happy about the fact he was nearly out the door before the policewoman on the other side crashed into him and sent him sprawling to the floor.

That was about the same fraction of a second he heard the gun go off, twice, or so he thought and knew he was a dead man, waiting for the bullet.

Another fraction of a second passed as the policewoman tried to unravel the mess they’d become, and at that moment in time felt the tugging at his sleeve and then, as if in slow motion, the sound of the glass door disintegrating behind him.

 

Annalisa was quite prepared to let the customer go.

She kept one eye on the shopkeeper and one on the customer, sidling towards the door.  The gun was ready to shoot the first person who made a wrong move.

Or so she told herself.  It was getting heavy in her hand, she was shaking almost uncontrollably now, and was getting more and more frightened of the consequences.  She didn’t think, if she aimed, she could hit the side of a barn let alone a person standing ten feet away from her.

The customer reached the door.

At exactly the moment he put his hand 0on the door handle to open the door, another person was pushing the door, trying to make their way in.

With force.

She saw the blue cap, guess it was the police, though she hadn’t heard the siren, but also guessed the shopkeeper might have a silent alarm.

Damn.

A single shot, instantly in the direction of the door, not necessarily aimed at the two people now collapsing to the floor in a tangled mess, but at the door itself.

The impact, yet another guess, might shatter the glass and make it easier to escape.

After one more job.

The hell with Simmo.  He’d dragged her down the rabbit hole far enough.  Simmo knew her first name, that she had rich parents, but nothing else.  Besides, he was in such bad shape she didn’t think he’d recover.

The shopkeeper had no idea who she was, it was the first time she’d been to his shop, and now, after a few weeks with Simmo, not ever her mother would recognize her.

She swiveled the gun and aimed it at the shopkeeper and pulled the trigger.,  One less dealer in the city was good news not bad.

She saw it hit, not exactly where, but it caused him to twist and start falling to the ground, at the same time letting out a very loud scream.  Panic or anger?

She wasn’t waiting to find out.

A last glance at Simmo, now down for the count, she ran for the door, past the two on the floor, what she could now see was a policewoman with her weapon drawn, but unable to use it.

She crashed through the remainder of the glass shards put into the street and ran.

In the distance she could hear a police car coming, siren blaring.  A warning if there was ever one to run harder, up the road, down an alley, out into another street, then down into the subway.

Gone.

 

It took fifteen seconds to disentangle herself from the customer, pushing him away, and getting to her feet, weapon aimed.

At nothing but air.

The girl had gone, and then she had the vague recollection of a shadow passing her as she was facing the other way getting to her feet.

And running out the door.

Five more valuable seconds as her brain processed this piece of information before it issued the command to go out the door and see which way she went.

Another ten seconds to get out the door, and see the police car coming from the same direction she had earlier, screeching to a halt outside the shop, a car door opening, and an officer getting out.

Margaret was guessing at the driver to drive down the road where she guessed the girl had run, managing to yell breathlessly at the office getting out, “She’s gone that way,” and pointing.

The officer relayed the message and closed the door as the car sped off.

“What happened?”

“Shots fired by a woman, more a girl, in the process of a robbery.”

She ran back inside the officer following.

The customer had moved to a corner and was standing, testing his limbs, with an expression that said he was amazed he was still alive.

“Over behind the counter.  She shopkeeper.  He was standing there.”

The policeman rounded the end of the counter and looked down.  “He’s here.  It’s not looking good.”

Margaret didn’t hear him.  She was calling an ambulance.

 

Next:  Perhaps some editing

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

 

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 66/67

Days 66 and 67 – Writing exercise

Take a moment in your past, and turn yourself into a character and express your feelings about it

…

Some things happen that happen for a reason, even though at the time we do not understand the why, only that the result was not what we expected.

Sometimes that is a negative, and causes pause for thought the next time it happens.  Or it is a positive and sends us in a direction that is borne out of experience.

I am by nature an introvert, the sort of person who keeps to himself.  I learned the hard way to mind my own business and not interfere.  The physical scars had healed, but the mental scars are much harder to recover from.

School taught me that trust is not given freely and that it has to be earned.  Of course, the hurdles to get there are often almost insurmountable, but in the end, you learn one of life’s very valuable lessons.

When I graduated from school, not exactly at the top of the class, not the bottom, but it was enough for me to realise I was not suitable material for college or university.  That being the csse my choices were limited.

Stay on the farm and work alongside my father and some of my brothers and sisters, find a job in town, like a storeman at the hardware; or a general hand in one of the fast food outlets. 

Then there was the factory, where eventually all of us, without any schooling, ended up. It was tedious and back-breaking work, but no one questioned your past, your education, or your work ethic.

It was like the army.  You just slotted in and did your bit and didn’t let anyone down.  It suited me, I didn’t have to mix, and I was left alone, even by those who were from school and definitely not my friends.

That took care of the days.

Then there was Friday night at the bar, a rowdy place with everyone having what might be called a good time for some, and for others, a little sport. 

It could get rough; some of those who drank too much became violent, but mostly you were happy, had dinner, a few drinks, shot pool, talked about everything and nothing and then went home.

At first, I avoided it.  I had been drunk before, but that was at home, the typical I’m going to try everything once, and it wasn’t a good experience.  Seeing others so, without inhibitions or quick to temper, your night could very easily end up in the emergency ward at the hospital.

I’d been there a few times when my brothers got on the wrong end of the argument.  That and a night in the sheriff’s cells for drunk and disorderly.  Once was enough, if you learned the lesson.  Quite a few didn’t.

So, having avoided it long enough, I agreed to go with a couple of other chaps with a similar reluctance.  We had been the guys the football jocks beat up on because they could.

Of course, in the year after leaving school and working at home until I couldn’t take my father or eldest brother riding me, I learned how to defend myself.  It was something I should have done at school, but couldn’t.  I needed money, and no one at home would pay. 

Going to work elsewhere, I quickly discovered, gave me independence and the ability to begin living my own life, mistakes and all.

…

Joe’s Bar and Grill was in a huge barn at the edge of town on the main road out.  It had been there as long as anyone could remember, as far back as the days when the railway arrived, and the ranchers could send their cattle on.

One of those places where the country met the rail head, cattle going out and people coming in.  For a while, it drove the town into a city.

The cowboys would stay until the money ran out, and then everything went back to normal.  In between times, the townsfolk, what was left of them, spent Friday night, the traditional end of the working week, letting their hair down, and Saturdays, where families celebrated together in a more convivial atmosphere.

Friday night was where it all happened.  The night wore on, and the drinks were flowing, which started off noisy and sometimes turned ugly.  It’s why the deputies were on hand to make sure it didn’t get out of hand. That was the theory.

Alex, Will and I, with a name like Ken, the three musketeers, had all landed jobs at the factory.  We didn’t work together, but we all met up at breaks.  We kept out of everyone’s line of sight and did our jobs.

It was Alex’s idea that we go.  Have a few drinks, see who was there and who wasn’t, and if truth be known, Alex was looking for Lola.

That last year of school, he had a thing for her, but she was more interested in the athletic types, and I could have told him he was wasting his time.  But the lovelorn will not accept advice readily, and he came to grief.  When he asked her to be his date at the prom, she just laughed at him.

Will and I knew better than to waste our time.  Of course, we were not immune to those first pangs of romance.  I dabbled, asking oblique questions of what I thought was an exile from the mean girls, Lizzie, but discovered quickly she was unavailable.

Fair enough.  I had the sense to walk away.

I’d since learned that her aspirations for college had run aground her parents’ end of downsizing, and left with the same opportunities as most who found themselves on the unemployment line.

There seemed to be more and more of these days, along with the shuttering of stores on the main street. 

And despite everything that had happened, and the likelihood of what might happen, we arrived, parked the truck, got out and surveyed the scene before us.  Crowded, noisy, and a powder keg waiting to explode.

I counted half a dozen cruisers and ten deputies I could see, hanging back, waiting.

Four pick-ups in a convoy arrived and parked out front.  Spaces reserved for the management and VIPs.

“No show without punch, eh?” Alex muttered.

One might have regarded Sam Blackstone as a VIP, but his father was some big shot back east, and Sam somehow believed her was the prodigal son.

He made the big league, got drunk after his first big game, tripped and fell down the stairs, and now had a permanent limp and nothing to brag about

Other than the big shot father who never came home.

But that didn’t stop him from being the leader of a bunch of entitled guys who basically did what they pleased.

We avoided them.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Will said.  “Remember the last time?”

I think we would.  We got our asses handed to us.

“It’s different this time.”  Alex wasn’t going to forgive or forget.  He attended the same self-defence classes that the three of us did.

Will and I were there for self-defence, Alex was there for vengeance.

“I think Will’s right,” I said, hoping to save him from himself, but judging by his posture and expression, reasoning was out.

“You go.  I can do this.”

Will and I looked at each other and shrugged. Alex, on his own, would only get so far.  As the three musketeers, we might just get out alive.

Joe’s Bar and Grill was Sam’s home turf.

Four trucks, one boss and seven mates.  I’d heard about their antics, second-hand from my sister, Will
Eileen, whose best friend was Lizzie, yes, that Lizzie, whose older brother was a deputy.

Well, it is now back to being a small town where everyone knew everyone else.

Last advice, Sam had finally worn out the new Sheriff’s patience. Times had changed, the old sheriff got voted out after a corruption charge was brought against him, not proven, but the local folks figured it was time for a change.

The memo hadn’t reached Sam.  Yet.

Alex started walking towards the front entrance.  I shrugged.  “In for a penny…”

Will just sighed.  “This is going to be fun.”  The way he said it, I knew what he meant.  This was going yo be anything but fun.

Dodger, the nickname we gave to the guy on the door, was from the fact that when the fighting started, he disappeared.

“You guys ain’t been here for a while.”

“Nope,” I said.  “And judging by the noise, nothing’s changed much.”

“We’ve got a bucking bull.”

He was taking us literally.  On Dodger could do that.  The other door guys would have just ignored us.

“I’ll be sure to check it out,” I said.

Past the threshold, it was wall-to-wall people.  Such was Joe’s fame that people came from far and wide.

In front of us, the bar, which stretched from the front to the back, was double-sided.  One side served the pool tables and the bucking bulls, the other tables, and further back, the dance floor.

A gun could go off, and no one would hear it.

“I’ll get a table, you two get drinks and try to stay out of trouble.”  He disappeared into the fog

We went to the bar.  Men served the drinks, the girls delivered them to the tables, and there was also a mix of ‘get your own’, or ‘have it served at your table’, giving the girls a tip.

I heard a rumour that Lizzie and her friends worked as waitresses on Friday and Saturday, the tips adding nicely to their bank accounts, despite the unruly and sometimes bad behaviour of certain customers.

I got the first round, and we went into the fog, and minutes later stumbled into the table where Will was sitting.  A waitress, not Lizzie, came past and slopped a wet rag over the table top and kept going.

We sat.

“Where did Sam go?  I didn’t see him when I was at the bar.”  Will might have seen him on his way to the table.  A shake of the head said no.

“What do you want to know for?”

“So trouble does sneak up on us.”

I was not sure why I was so worried.  We were too small for him to be bothered with.

And by the time an hour had passed, we were approaching the bewitching hour, so named because it was about the time those who had too much and were supposed to be elected by management started to arc up.

The crowd had thinned, but there were still a lot of people there.  The line dancing was getting a little erratic as the booze started to take effect, and already one skirmish had broken out.

The deputies appeared and escorted the guilty to the van and taken to the drunk tank.  It was a sombre warning to others

We had shifted to the bar, and that’s when I saw Lizzie.  She came back and was not far from us.  She looked tired and oddly dishevelled.

And angry.

I slid off my chair and went over.

When she turned, I said, “How are you, Liz?”

I remembered just in time that she hated being called Lizzie.

“How do you think I am?”  It exploded out of her.  Something had happened.

“I know you don’t like me, but that’s a bit strong when a ‘I’m fine, piss off’ spoken politely would have sufficed.”

I turned to go back.

“Sorry.”

I stopped and turned. 

“I’m having a bad night,” she said, sadly, like it was a permanent fact.

“Wouldn’t that be every Friday?”

“No, only those when Sam and his thugs come.  Thinks he owns the place, and that we are at his beck and call.”

“Be worth the tips.”

She snorted.  “Insults, maybe.  Not money.  Not anything.”

“You’re his gopher?”

“And Sally, and Brigitte.  I don’t think there’s a girl under 25 he hasn’t had his way with.  But it’s our own fault for believing the scumbag.”

The barkeep put a tray of drinks on the bar.

“Gotta go.  Ken, isn’t it?  You dodged a bullet, Ken.  I’m not worthy of anything or anyone any more.”

A last look, this one carrying so much despair it nearly brought me to tears.

I had hoped I would miss Sam, but if he was the one who had broken Lizzie, then I was going to make it my mission to break him.

A little more than he already was.

He was down the back, in a booth, flanked by thugs and sitting with three fresh faces, girls who had not experienced the Sam charm offensive.

I watched Lizzie drop the tray on the table, knocking over a bottle, and everyone watching it roll onto his lap.

Silence.  In this corner.

She apologised.  He picked up the bottle and looked like he was going to throw it at her. She flinched in a way I knew this was not the first time, and that was when I said, “You do that, Sam, and it’ll be the last thing you do tonight.”

Three things happened.

First, the two thugs and the two girls got out from behind the table faster than I’d ever seen anyone move, the girls moving away, the thugs positioning themselves so I couldn’t run.

My intention wasn’t to run, but always have an exit just in case.  I picked one.

I motioned for Lizzie to step behind me, and after a moment’s hesitation, she did.  I thought Sam might stop her, but he didn’t.  He had a bigger fish to try.

Second, four of his other thugs came running, but in the crowd, which seemed to close up, it was hard to make headway.  Then Will and Alex appeared, and with two quick and subtle moments, the four were on the floor writhing in agony.

They had simply used their momentum and excess weight, and the degree of intoxication against them.  They took up positions near the two thugs who had been sitting at the table.

Third, the crowd closed in, making it impossible for the deputies to get through.  There was something in the air, and it wasn’t support for Sam.

Not that he would have seen it that way.

Slowly, and very deliberately, he slid out from behind the table and stood.  There was no doubt he was an impressive size, six inches taller and fifty pounds or more.

Enough to scare anyone into submission.

Except he had one weakness.

He came around to the front of the table and leaned against it, shaking his head.

“Little Kenny.  My, my, you’re a bit out of your depth now, aren’t you?  This thing you had for Lizzie now gets you the mother of all lessons in when to mind your own business.”

Let the man talk.  Talk is cheap.  Talk gives confidence, because he’s trying to build a wall, one that he thinks will protect him and make him stronger.

A hush came over the whole building.  The deputies were coming.  This confrontation wasn’t going to last more than a few minutes.

“I see you’ve got your girlfriends with you.”

He was taunting Alex and Will.  They were not going to be taunted, not after putting down four of his thugs. He’d missed that sideshow.

Sam still had the bottle in his hand.  I knew what he was going to do with it.  He had a hunting knife on him, but that would be too clean.  A jagged-edged bottle that could do some damage.

“Let’s take this outside.”

Better that way.  He wouldn’t get banned, and he could shift the blame to me for starting it.

“You can leave any time you like, Sam.  I have a Bud to finish before I go.”

Another shake of the head, then he smashed the top of the empty bottle in his hand, exposing a jagged edge that would leave a nasty cut.

Eyes darting left and right, he launched himself at me with the bottle, heading straight for my neck.  Three seconds, a swift dodge to the left, and a foot perfectly placed where they glued his leg back together.

Everyone heard it crack, everyone heard the scream, and then everyone heard the bull elephant hit the floor and go very still.

Then the sheriff and two deputies burst through the crowd.  No one had said a word.  Nothing.  His friends didn’t move.  Alex had one, Will had the other, and they let them go just as the deputies entered the bull ring.

The two deputies went over to Sam.  The sheriff looked around the crowd, a sea of stunned faces.

“What happened here?”

Thirty seconds before you’ve called out, “Sam was about to throw a bottle at the waitress.”

Another, “He does it all the time.  Hurts them, they all laugh like it’s nothing.”

Another, ” His friends are just as bad.”   Suddenly, the crowd thrust them forward as they tried to blend in.  Alex and Will had disappeared.

“Again, what happened?”  He was sensing a shift in mood.

“That fella told him not to throw the bottle.”

Fingers pointed at me.  I was standing back from but alongside Sam, who still hadn’t moved.  The two deputies were struggling to turn him over.  One was calling for an ambulance.

The sheriff and I knew each other.  I had to bail my brothers out of jail a few times.  I told him ai was the quiet one.  Perhaps that might change very soon.

Behind me, I felt a hand slip into mine and a gentle squeeze.  Then, as quickly as it had happened, it was gone.

“Ken, isn’t it?”

“Sheriff.”

“You told Sam not to throw the bottle?”

“At the waitress, yeah.  Apparently, he’s done it before.  Also physically assaults them, sir.”

“You seem to have done it?”

“I saw the end result of his ministrations, sir.  I know his reputation, sir.  I’ve seen him doing it at school.  Under-age girls.  His parents but them off.”

“Hearsay, Ken.”

A girl’s voice yelled out.  It’s the truth, Sheriff.  It’s you gutless bastards that enabled him.”

The sheriff tried to see who it was, but the crowd closed ranks.

Another deputy came, a bigger man, and together the three rolled him over.  The jagged bottle was sticking out of his upper leg, a bloody mess.

One deputy vomited.  Another pulled off his belt and made a tourniquet.  The other was screaming at dispatch to get an ambulance.

The sheriff looked at me.  “You do this?”

A voice yelled out, “But he did not.”

A ripple of agreement went through the crowd.

He picked one.  “What happened?”

“Sam was leaning against the table.  They were talking.  Then, suddenly, he launched himself at Ken.  Then that same instant, his leg gave out, the gummy one he wrecked being drunk and stupid.  Like tonight.  Went down like the sack shit he is and stabbed himself.  Had he not, Ken would be dead.”

“Anyone else?”

“Smashed the bottle himself, same one he was going to chuck at the girl.  Poetic justice, it’s called.”

The sheriff couldn’t quite put the pieces together to make a believable story.

His eyes stopped on one of the thugs.  “What’s your version?”

“It’s the only version.  His leg gave out, and he stabbed himself.  Fucking fool.”

“You sign a statement to that effect?”

“Everyone will.  He’s terrorised this place, this town, for long enough.”

The sheriff sighed.  “Everyone, go sit down. This is going to be a long night.”

Just then, the ambulance arrived, and the crowd opened up to let the paramedics through.  “Don’t you five go anywhere.”  He pointed at me, the two thugs, Lizzie and the first witness.  He assigned a deputy to watch us after we were taken to a corner with several lounges.

Liz sat next to me.

“Thank you.  You didn’t have to.”

“You should be able to work here and not be afraid. I did what any decent person would.”

“That’s your first mistake.  There ain’t no decent people.  Except maybe you?”

“We’re all tarred with the same brush.  You told mr that.”

“I said a lot of shit back then, cause I didn’t know any better.  You’re not like them.”

“Not if you take in what happened here.”

“That’s different.”

“More violence doesn’t stop violence.  It just makes matters worse.”

“Or better.  You’ll see.”

…

Sam dies in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. 

The sheriff received 345 witness statements that all said the same thing.  Sam was attacking me, unprovoked, his leg gave out, and he killed himself.  The medical examiner called it death by misadventure. 

No one was to blame.

Except his father and brothers turned up at the family ranch, accusing me of killing Sam, at which my father and brothers fell over laughing so hard.

When they refused to leave, my father got his shotgun, called them trespassers and shot at them. A rather expensive car was severely damaged during the process.

The sheriff was told that when Sam’s father came to him with sworn statements that I was the murderer, he tore them up and said if he wanted to press charges, Sam would be posthumously charged with 15 counts of rape and over a thousand charges of sexual assault, grievous bodily harm, attempted murder, kidnapping, and bribery.

He brought out three boxes of sworn statements and said he was ready to start proceedings today.  All he had to do was give the word, and the press packages would be sent out.

It was no surprise that the father left and never came back.  The two brothers, who thought they would take matters into their own hands, disappeared.

They simply disappeared.

As for Elizabeth, who liked to be called Eliza, let the storm blow through like a prairie wind and one morning turned up at my cabin, at the foot of the hills, in one of the most peaceful places in the county.

She looked radiant.

It had taken a lot to get over the trauma involving Sam.  She was one of those he raped.  It had led to a pregnancy, and after nine months, the baby was stillborn.  It almost killed her, but my mother and her First Nation instincts took her to a healing place and brought her back from what could only be called a very dark place.

She held out her hand, and I took it. Then she said the four words I had been waiting for, “I have come home.”

It was something else I never knew or understood, not until the night I stepped between Sam and Elizabeth.

Our heritage, the ways of my mother’s people, going back into the depths of time, and our affinity with the land and the animals and the spirits.

Things could have turned out very badly that night.

They did not, and for that I would be forever thankful, living in, and surrounded by a world I never knew existed.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026