Category: Creative Writing

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness.  I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there.  I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either.  Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty.  Someone had removed the weapons.  That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch.  One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage.  It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief.  It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely.  It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground.  I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side.  After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks.  It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that.  I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch.  I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end.  I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door.  It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting.  There wasn’t.  It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was.  Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan.  The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental.  But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness.  My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void.  Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly.  A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job.  I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door.  If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in.  One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door.  There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting.  It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it.  The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea.  I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part.  The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives.  Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian.  I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up.  Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down.  The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally.  He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile.  “Not today my friend.  You have made a very bad enemy.”  He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth.  “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave.  Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess.  I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally.  I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved.  Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm.  I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation.  Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria.  I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table.  I thought you might be looking for it.”  She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth?  It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity.  “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible.  I went with the truth.  “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss.  It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it.  You need to leave.  It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened.  She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in.  It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences.  Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge.  She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous.  Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about.  She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me.  I used to work for the Government, but no longer.  I suspect these men were here to repay a debt.  I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded.  “Upstairs.”  I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs.  Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back.  I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet.  It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you.  She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  Will you call her?”

“Yes.  I can’t stay here now.  You should go now.  Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

strangerscover9

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the type of clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’ but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

The was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him was not the concierge, and instead brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position and then made a clunk when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the life lobby, only in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over the the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 63

Day 63 – Criticism

…

To What Extent Should We Take on Criticism?

When feedback feels like a gift, a weapon, or something in‑between, how do we decide what to keep?

1. The Three Faces of Criticism

TypeWhat It Looks LikeWhat It Does to YouHow to Spot It
Constructive“I love your concept, but the pacing feels rushed. Maybe try a slower intro?”Sparks curiosity, nudges improvement, builds confidence.Specific, actionable, delivered with respect.
Soul‑Destroying“You’re terrible at this. Nobody will ever take you seriously.”Triggers shame, self‑doubt, and in extreme cases, burnout.Vague, personal attacks, “you’re” language, often unqualified.
Context‑Dependent“Your work is okay, but… [insert personal bias]”Can feel uplifting or crushing depending on your mindset that day.Mixed signals: compliments tangled with criticism, delivered by someone whose opinion you value (or fear).

Bottom line: Not all criticism is created equal. Recognizing the category is the first step toward deciding whether to let it in.

2. Why Our State of Mind Matters

Our brain is a filter—it amplifies what it’s primed to hear.

  • Stress‑High, Confidence‑Low → Even a gentle suggestion can feel like a dagger.
  • Rested, Curious, & Secure → The same suggestion is a roadmap.

Neuroscience backs this up: under cortisol spikes, the amygdala hijacks the prefrontal cortex, making us react emotionally before we can reason. In other words, the same words can be a lifeline or a landmine—depending on the internal weather.

3. A Quick Self‑Check Before You Swallow (or Spit Out) Feedback

  1. Pause. Take three breaths.
  2. Identify the source.
    • Authority? Peer? Stranger?
    • Do they have expertise or a vested interest?
  3. Ask yourself:
    • Is the feedback specific?
    • Does it focus on the work, not the person?
    • Is there a pattern or is this a one‑off?
  4. Rate the impact (1‑5).
    • 1‑2 = Minimal (maybe let it drift away).
    • 3 = Worth a second look.
    • 4‑5 = Deep dive required—either to apply or to guard against toxicity.

If the answer to “Is it specific?” is no, you’re probably dealing with soul‑destroying or context‑dependent criticism. If it’s yes, you’ve likely encountered something constructive.

4. Strategies for Each Kind

A. Constructive Criticism – Welcome It Home

  • Summarise and confirm. “So you’re saying the climax needs more tension?”
  • Create an action plan. Turn the suggestion into a tiny experiment.
  • Give thanks. A simple “Thanks for pointing that out” reinforces healthy feedback loops.

B. Soul‑Destroying Criticism – Set Boundaries

  • Detach the person from the message. “I hear you’re upset, but I’m not going to let this define me.”
  • Limit exposure. If it’s a chronic source (e.g., a toxic boss), consider escalation, mediation, or a change in environment.
  • Re‑anchor with evidence. List recent successes, testimonials, or metrics that counteract the negativity.

C. Context‑Dependent Criticism – Check Your Lens

  • Mind‑state audit. Ask, “Am I already feeling insecure about this?” If yes, give yourself a grace period before reacting.
  • Seek a second opinion. Ask a trusted colleague: “What do you think of this feedback?”
  • Experiment with reframing. Turn “Your design feels too busy” into “How can we simplify the visual hierarchy?” – you keep agency over the direction.

5. Building a Resilient Feedback Muscle

PracticeHow It WorksTime Investment
Morning “Feedback Forecast”Write down one thing you’re open to hearing that day.5 min
Weekly “Critique De‑brief”Review all feedback received, categorize, and log actions taken.15 min
Monthly “Mindset Reset”Meditate or journal on successes; remind yourself of your core values.10‑20 min
Quarterly “Source Audit”Evaluate who’s influencing your perception—keep the constructive, prune the toxic.30 min

Consistent practice turns the act of receiving criticism from a high‑stakes gamble into a low‑stakes habit.

6. When to Say “No, Thanks”

  • If the criticism is a personal attack – you have the right to walk away.
  • If it’s coming from someone who consistently undermines you – consider limiting that relationship.
  • If it’s irrelevant to your goals – politely thank them and redirect: “I appreciate your viewpoint; I’m focusing on X right now.”

Saying “no” isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a declaration that you are the steward of your own growth.

7. Takeaway Cheat Sheet

QuestionAnswerAction
Is the feedback specific and about the work?Yes → Likely constructive.Take notes, apply, thank.
Is the tone attacking or demeaning?Yes → Soul‑destroying.Set boundaries, seek support, document.
Am I feeling vulnerable right now?Yes → Context‑dependent.Pause, revisit later, get a second opinion.
Do I trust the source’s expertise?No → Treat with caution.Verify, ask clarifying questions, research.

Print this table, stick it on your desk, and refer to it the next time a comment lands in your inbox.

Closing Thought

Criticism is inevitable—like the weather, it will come in sun, rain, or storms. The art isn’t in how much we take on; it’s in what we choose to carry forward. By learning to read the type of feedback, checking our mental climate, and setting intentional boundaries, we transform criticism from a potential wrecking ball into a sculptor’s tool.

So, the next time someone says, “That could be better,” ask yourself: “Is this a chisel or a hammer?” And then decide whether to pick it up, set it down, or toss it aside.

Happy creating, staying resilient, and curating the feedback that truly serves you.

If this post resonated with you, share it with a friend who could use a healthier relationship with criticism, or drop a comment below with your own strategies for sifting the good from the gut‑punch.

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

Purchase:

http://tinyurl.com/Amazon-SundayInNewYork

In a word: Over

It’s over!  What is?  Well, almost anything.

A relationship, a bad day, a friendship, a long, monotonous lecture, and dinner.

It’s basically the light at the end of the tunnel, when it’s not the 6:32 express from Clapton, entering the other end of that same tunnel.

You could go over the top, which means, in one sense, over and above the expected, or way beyond the expected but not in a good way.

You could go over the waterfall in a leaky boat.  Not advisable, but sometimes a possibility, if someone fails to tell you at the end of the rapids there is a waterfall.  Just make sure it’s not the same as Niagara falls.

Still, someone has gone over Niagara in a barrel.

Then we could say that my lodging is over the garage, which simply means someone built it on top of the garage.

Branches of trees quite ofter grow over the roofs of houses, until a severe storm brings them down and suddenly they are in your house, no longer over it.

You can have editorial control over a newspaper

In a fight, the combatants are equally trying to shout over the top of each other

And sometimes, when trying to paint a different picture to what is real, you could say the temperature is sometimes over 40 degrees centigrade when you know for a fact it is usually 56 degrees centigrade.  No need for the literal truth here or no one will come.

Then you could say I came over land, assuming that you took a car, or walked when in actual fact you came by plane.  And yes, the whole flight was, truthfully, over land.

I don’t accept my lot in fife, nor do I want a small lot on which to build my mansion!

But the oddest use of the word over is when we describe, in cricket, the delivery of 6 balls.

I’ve listened to cricket commentary, and aside from trying to pronounce the names of the players, if you were unfamiliar with the game, being told this ball was outside leg stump, one of  several deliveries, the last of which was the end of the over.  If the delivery hit the stumps, it is then a wicket, and the batsman is out.

Wow!

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 32

What does it say when you can’t trust the man in charge?

…

The Admiral was looking tired, possibly the result of being woken, yet again, in the dead hours of the night.

Out in space, we should be keeping earth time, in fact, we probably were, but I didn’t think to check before calling.

The matter was urgent, or at least I thought it was.

I’d just relayed the events leading up to the attack and the result. For some odd reason I didn’t think he looked pleased.

“I sent two shuttles over and they’ve confirmed 11 fatalities and one escapee who transported to the larger ship moments before the attack. I told them to set a geosychronous orbit around the moon coronas until you work out what you want to do with them. Their systems have been encrypted, so they can’t be resurrected.”

“And the base?”

“We understand it’s beneath the surface of the moon, accessible only by transporter. Our physist says she knows where the plutonium is.”

“I take it there are people down there?”

“Skeleton staff. It’s a new base, recently built, but we don’t know its purpose.”

“Definitely not alien then?”

“Unless the criminal world has made the first contact before us, and if they have, it can’t be for the betterment of mankind.”

I was no expert but at that moment I got the distinct impression that the Admiral was hiding something, or had information that might be useful to us.

Until now I hadn’t had time to think about all the events leading up to this point in time, but somewhere in the back of my mind, it had been processing everything that had happened, to do with the ship and even before that.

And the question that leapt out was, why me?

What was the compelling reason to appoint me as first officer to this particular ship at this particular time? I had no doubt there were a hundred others equally or better qualified than I was, and yet, my name was pulled out of the hat, and I could remember distinctly the captain of the ship I’d been completing my training, as surprised as I was that I’d been selected.

Them, out of left field, a memory came back, one o had tried to bury very deep, of an incident no one could explain, let alone comprehend because it was as if it never happened. I had no proof, and there was no one else left alive to corroborate what I believed to be the facts.

Solar stress, it had been called. The psychiatrist who handled the debriefing told me it was nothing more than an over-active imagination, fuelled by overwork, sleep deprivation, and the deaths of my family members on an outpost on the moon when I’d been visiting them.

That diagnosis alone should have prevented my appointment, and yet here I was.

“Then it’s no longer your problem. We’ll take it from here. There’s a ship on its way. Your mission is to proceed as planned.”

“And the other ship that fled? I’m sure they’re no to going to just forgive and forget.”

“The chances are they will. Now they know you have superior firepower, and the speed to hunt them down, they will not be coming back for a second encounter. If you do come across them, you can deal with them as you wish, but that is not the priority. You have your orders.”

The screen went blank.

Yes, he was definitely hiding something.

…

© Charles Heath 2021

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 48

What story does it inspire?

…

…

This photograph represents an idyllic scene, a pool at the bottom of a waterfall, which on a fine day would be perfect.

The fact it looks to be in the middle of nowhere is neither here nor there because…

That’s where the writer’s inventiveness kicks in.

So…

How do we get there? If it’s below the waterfall, then we came up the river, which is basically how you would go anyway, it’s just the depth of the river that determines how far you can go.

We had a situation like that where the depth of the river nearly stopped us from getting far enough up the river into the mountains to discover some amazing territory.

You could also go downriver, but since this river might start up in the mountains, it might be a long way.

Why would we be there?

The boring answer, we are on holiday.

The better answer, we’re searching for gold, and so are others who are trying to get us to move on, or we’re searching for something, just insert what you want to find. I was thinking: an intrepid brother or sister who has gone missing, and the waterfall was the last place they were seen.

And, what if there’s a secret entrance behind the waterfall, that opens into an underground complex with sophisticated, very strange and never seen before equipment, that hasn’t been used in a very long time.

Somehow I like the last one best.

And, just to add a new twist, you find a human-like body in a pod, and when someone accidentally leans on a button, it comes to life. Is it human, or is it a robot?

Or, is it….?

The Cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 67

This story is now on the list to be finished, so over the next few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

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

Things are about to get complicated…

Was it all simply a dream?

…

If I thought the death of O’Connell and the detention of Dobbin and Jennifer were the end of it, I was wrong.  Both Monica and Joanne arrived with several agents and took us back to the sandstone building, separated us, and then subjected us to endless questions.

I sat in the room with a guard outside in case I decided to leave, which I considered after an hour, but just as I was standing up, Monica walked in.  If I were to guess at the tactics, she had interviewed Yolanda, and possibly Jan as well, before she came to me.

It was a technique we were taught to know the answers before we ask the questions.  But you had to assume the other people knew what the answers were, and I knew they did not have all the facts.

I was not sure I was in possession of all the facts.

Monica had a file with her, quite large, put it on the desk unopened and then sat down opposite me.  I pretended not to watch.  I pretended not to care.  More lessons from agents who were now dead.  I’m not sure what sort of recommendation that was as to how good they were.

“You seem to have a particular knack for picking up people to help you, Sam.  Annoying and loyal.  I need more people like you, Sam.  You’ll be pleased to know they had not one bad word to say about you.”

“Hardly a recommendation if you’re going to throw me into a bottomless pit.”

“Interesting idea.  I suspect, though, you would know how to get out of it, or if you didn’t, had some experts hiding somewhere who would come and get you out.”

“Good to know.  So, why am I here?”

“Anna.”

“Anna is dead; she was killed in the café explosion.”

“I’d agree with you, only the body we pulled out of the café was male, what is believed to be a homeless man who was sheltering in there.  The café hadn’t been used for a year, and there were no locks on the back entrances.”

“No Anna?”

“No.”

“Yolanda said she saw Anna in the café.”

“Yolanda is no longer sure what she saw.  She admits to impersonating her, contacting O’Connell, and selling him the bogus USBs.  We recovered the money, less a hundred thousand pounds.  She claims she didn’t take any money for herself.  There were another 8 USBs, all with the same files on them.  We recovered the two from Dobbin.  The same.  He was not very pleased.”

“Was he responsible for killing Severin, Maury, and O’Connell?”

“He says no.”

“Jan?”

“She wishes she had stayed at MI6 and never got dragged into Dobbin’s fantasy.”

“The notion that there are formulas to create super viruses on the loose?”

“We only had Severin and Maury’s word that it was the case.  The laboratory where the scientist worked and supposedly created the viruses refuted that any such data had escaped their premises, and better still, had destroyed it when they realised what was happening.  I would not put it past them to have arranged for the death of the inventor.  If the truth is known, Severin was trying to worm his way back into the fold with a whole end of days scenarios which he manages to save the day.  In other words, it’s quite possible the whole exercise was a hoax.”

“With endless dead people.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.  Dead people add credence to a scenario; it helps to sell the notion that what they’re saying is true.”

So, the whole affair was simply a situation created by Severin for his own benefit.  “Dobbin thinks he was had, like us?”

“Exactly.  The trouble is, we must take all threats seriously until proven otherwise.  So, the upshot of all this is, if you, Jennifer, or Yolanda want a job with the department, let Joanne know, and we’ll put you into the program.  There’s one coming up next month.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

”O’Connell?  Where did he fit into all this?  I mean, we were following him; he killed three of our surveillance team, and he was obviously spooked about something.  And someone was trying to kill him.  Dobbin?”

“Dobbin believes he set the whole thing up himself.”

“He had turned the seed of a hoax into five million pounds.  Why didn’t he abscond with it?”

“He thought he was, with Yolanda.  We believe he let her take the money with the intention of killing her and taking it back when he got to London.  It’s convoluted, but in a way, it makes sense.  Yolanda is very lucky to be alive.  So are you and Jennifer.”

I shrugged.  “Do all your operations end up like this?”

“Mostly.  If you decide to join the fold, you’ll discover that what we do is a little more than smoke and mirrors.  Sometimes we have a win.  Sometimes.”  She stood.  “I hope you decided to join us.”

With that, she left the room, leaving the door open.  No threats about spilling secrets, no signing of papers, nothing.  Perhaps she believed I wouldn’t tell anyone, but probably more to the point, who would believe me.

Maybe when I wake up tomorrow morning, I will realise it was all just a dream.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 62

Day 62 – Writing exercise

The first time he understood what hate felt like

…

Things don’t fall apart in a proverbial ball of fire, it’s the result of a single, almost invisible flame that takes time to take hold.

You see the smoke, a small tendril against a background that makes it almost invisible, and because you cannot definitively see it, it’s left to fester, then take hold.

And before you realise what’s happening, a gust of wind fans the embers and suddenly you have a forest fire.

It was an analogy my father told all of us when we were old enough to understand.

There were five of us: the eldest son, Harold, then me, Joseph, then Elizabeth, Mary, and Charles, the youngest.  We were members of a royal family, and one of five kingdoms, ours being Zarevia.

Our father was the King, a man who understood what it meant to be the ruler of a kingdom where the people looked for strength and fairness.  He was universally loved by everyone.  His Queen, our mother, was the epitome of kindness and light, and had taught us that what we had was not a divine right or privilege to be abused, but to be used for the betterment of our country and people.

The king understood that and led by example every day.  We, as children and successors, were allowed to practise every day.

Then, as time does to everyone, the current ruler ages and comes to the end of his reign, and a successor steps up and continues the work seamlessly.

Harold was the eldest son; he had spent his whole life preparing to continue as if nothing had changed.  Everything was as it should be.

Except…

One of the more interesting aspects of being a royal was the fact that the children’s lives were managed as tightly as the kingdom’s finances.  We had little say in our choice of partner, where the eldest son needed a wife fit to be queen, and the rest, whatever was left.

That might sound cruel, and to a certain extent it was, but it was tradition, and it had worked well for many centuries. 

Harold was matched with a princess from a distant kingdom, the eldest daughter, who was strong and forthright, which was more than what some would say about the future king.  It was a choice made solely to strengthen his position.

I was matched with what some might call an equivalent level princess, a rather condescending term I thought, but my station in the family dictated like-for-like, second son, second Princess.

But here’s the thing, I had known her since both of us were born, and I had adored her for the same amount of time.  She was charming, affable, approachable and adorable.  The people loved her, and mercifully, I wrapped myself in her bubble.

The others were equally fortunate in their matches, and it was only a matter of time before they would be married and living in their husbands’ kingdoms.

Everything was as it should be until…

…

Screams filled the castle when there should be peace and tranquillity.

The succession plan had been invoked, and over the next six months, my eldest brother would slowly step into the shoes of the monarch.

The screams put paid to that timeline.

I knew exactly what they meant.

The king had died suddenly, an outcome that had been predicted and prepared for.  That is to say, the Palace staff were prepared.  Harold was not.

Yet within an hour, Harold had been sworn in as the new King, and the first very small, almost invisible flame was lit. 

Eloise had leapt out of bed and gone straight to the Queen, thinking only of her pain at the premature loss of her husband and lifelong friend.  Theirs had been a match with a risky start, and love had developed over time.

Morgana, now Queen, decided that death was not on her agenda today, and pulled the covers over her and hoped it would all go away.

I just sat in the room with the man who was once my father, my mentor, and basically my whole life.  Even in death, he looked peaceful and content as if he knew he had done a good job.

Eloise had soothed my mother’s raw emotions and came with her to join me, and we sat on the lounge and quietly contemplated what this meant for each of us.

After an hour, Morgana stepped into the room, and the whole atmosphere changed.  There was not one ounce of sympathy in her condolences to my mother.  Then, that chore done, she looked around the room, wrinkling her nose.

“We are definitely going to have to do something about the gloomy room.  Not fit for a king, not at all.”

She was already taking over.  It was a side of her that none of us had seen, but rumours had filtered back from her kingdom, the princess they were glad to offload on someone else. 

Her own people hated her.

Until now I could not understand why.

Now I did.

My mother was too immersed in her grief to notice.

…

Harold was weak.  His father knew that and had worked hard on turning him into the man he needed to be.  But he hadn’t reckoned on the Morgana factor.

It was what I called it, and basically worked like this.  Harold made a decision, and if she liked it, it stayed; if she did not, it was not adopted.  Within a week, it was clear who was running the country.

Certainly not our family.

Harold’s saving grace was that she could not kill him and take over as monarch.  Ours was a kingdom that did not seat Queens, even if the line of succession was all female.

There had to be a king.  There was no other alternative.  Morgana may have thought something else, which is why she asked me about succession rules.  There was no reason for her to kill him; she needed him on the throne for her to be Queen.

Harold, of course, because of his training and father’s influence, was about maintaining the status quo.  In fact in his first speech to his people after the investiture, he said quite unequivocally there would be no changes and that life in the kingdom would continue as it had for hundreds of years.

I was proud to stand beside him that day, because I knew he had a kind heart.

But all of that changed subtly at first, until it was impossible to ignore it.  Morgana decided to assert herself.

The small flame and the embers flared.

I was in the King’s office, where he was sitting behind the large desk, completely clear of anything by the mace that proclaimed his authority.

Morgana was pacing impatiently.

When I walked in, she said, “You’re late.  When your king requests your presence, you will be here in time.”

“We’re family.  Time is irrelevant.”

“Not any more.  The king has finalised the reorganisation plan, and your role has been changed from Head of the King’s Guard to Parks and Gardens.  It also requires you to relinquish your current chambers and relocate to the east wing.  Effective immediately.”

I looked at Harold.  “You know the role of heading the King’s Guard is traditionally given to the second son.”

“That was when you were the son of the King.  You’re now my brother, and Morgana has reservations that you might kill me to become king yourself.  It makes sense.”

I laughed out loud at the thought.  I had no and never had any thoughts of killing him for his crown.  If anything, Morgana needed to separate us so that I wouldn’t try to influence him.

“Who’s taking my place?”

“The head of my personal guard,” she said. “He doesn’t have an axe to grind.”

No, but he was cruel and overbearing.  He just didn’t like Zavarians.  Why was I not surprised?

I looked at Harold, and he wouldn’t meet my eye.  “Is this what you’ll want, Harry?”

It elicited a sharp response.  “You will call your brother by his correct title.”

I turned slightly and glared at her.  “Let me be abundantly clear.  If you are asking for a pitch battle in the throne room, you’ll get it.  The King’s Guard are loyal to me.  Whatever dreams you might have in thinking that you can hijack this kingdom by manipulating my brother, think long and hard before you go down a road that you can’t turn back from.”

The smug look wavered for just a second before it returned with red spots of anger.  “You are no one in this kingdom.  You will do as your King commands.”

He raised his head, now aware this was spiralling.

“Joseph is by royal decree the Master at Arms and in charge of the King’s Guard.  It was proclaimed three hundred years ago, and we are not tampering with proclamations.  Nor will you reassign any of my family’s assigned roles or their accommodations.  Be content with being the Queen.  You have your role and position within the monarchy, as we all have.”

He stood and stretched as if to shed the shackles he believed were going to strangle him.  It was a subject we’d spoken of a week or so before.  I had told him then that I worried that Morgana might get overwhelmed if anything happened to the king and that he didn’t have to carry the burden alone.

I did not express my true thoughts about what Morgana might do if she assumed that he would not interfere with her plans.  From what I just heard, she had not consulted him first, and that might just tip the scales in our favour.

I say that not because i wanted a battle, but that I wanted the Harold I knew was there.  I had expected being overwhelmed himself might give her an opening, but perhaps I need not worry.

He looked at me.  “I appreciate your loyalty to me and this kingdom, Joseph.  There will be no pitch battles on the throne room.  Now or ever.  Perhaps in public you will defer to my title, in private with decorum.”

He turned to Morgana, who was barely containing her anger.  She had made her tilt too early, or perhaps when she believed the time was right.  Whatever she thought, she had completely misjudged him.  I might have wavered myself.

“You must never forget your place.  You are Queen, you have a title and responsibilities.  They do not include tossing my family aside.  If you want me to find roles for some of your family members, then we shall, but all requests must go through Elizabeth, who is the person in charge of the Palace people.  We do not under any circumstances put people in particular roles because of who they are or what they think they deserve.  And lastly, don’t ever use my name to push whatever agenda that suits your desires rather than the good of the kingdom.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly.”  It was said so quietly we both nearly missed it.

“You can go now, Joe.  They are being on time a little more.  Dad always gave you a little leeway, but I want more discipline in your manner and work.”

“As you wish, your royal highness.”  I kept the sarcasm out of my tone because he was right.  And it also conveyed respect, which had been somewhat lacking in all of us under the previous king.

“Now, go and alert your men to the fact that I’m bringing back the old rituals.  Instead of moping about, the Guard is going to be seen.  London has the Trooping of the Colour, parades, for their monarch and for the people to see that the monarchy is there for them.  I suggest you brush up on the exercises.  We’ll talk more about this tomorrow.”

A suggestion I had made, and believed it had gone through one ear and out the other.

“Excellent.”

Protocol demanded a bow and proper departure.  We had started overlooking these little things, and I missed it.

As I left, I wondered how he was going to deal with Morgana.  I would have liked to be a fly on the wall, but then what did it matter?  She had shown her hand, and it had failed.  And judging from the lost look she gave me, I had one less friend in the Palace.

…

The flames of the fire had subsided, but had not been extinguished.

We got through the funeral protocols with the appropriate amount of pageantry and celebration, the whole kingdom given a day to remember their old king and reflect on the new.

It was followed by a week-long tour of the whole kingdom so that Harold could meet the people. I had heard that Morgana detested the idea of mingling with the peasants, but this was ignored, and she had to play her part.

But it was clear she was still festering over me standing up to her and the dressing down by a totally different man to that she had married.

I was still coming to terms with the new Harold.

Eloise knew something had happened when I came back to our quarters.  I had tried to brush it off.

“Tell me,” was her first two words.  She knew me better than I knew myself.

“I threw down the gauntlet.  Harry let me slay the dragon in the room.”

“She did it.”

I gave my best effort at total surprise.  I often wondered just what sort of network she had in the Palace.

“She tried.  If it had been the old Harry, she would have seized the day.  He surprised me, and utterly shocked her, and rather on a more serious note, publicly rebuked her.

“You are the Master at Arms.  It’s your purview when there’s treachery afoot.”

“We all like to think that.”

I once thought that Palace security was within my purview, but others might think otherwise.  I didn’t know about the proclamation, and I was going to find out from the Palace historian.

“Don’t worry, it’ll take a lot more than bluster to get us out of here.  Besides were going to need the room.”

I had thought she had acquired a special glow about her, and from the lack of discussion about children i had thought she had given up.

“I figured something was afoot.  You have become even more beautiful than ever.”

“I am with child.  I was waiting, just to be sure.”

I hugged her tightly.

…

Two weeks later, after coming home from the new King’s first royal tour of the kingdom, a time-honoured tradition, the Palace Guard turned out to greet and escort him from the main gate to the Palace entrance.

As the Master at Arms, I would usually be the one who accompanies the elite group of Palace guards charged with the King’s protection when outside the Palace, but there had been a diplomatic problem that I was told needed my attention.

One of the neighbouring kingdoms had broken a long-standing rule of not hunting deer on their neighbours’ lands, not without formally requesting permission to do so.

The odd thing was that everyone, and especially these neighbours, always complied, and it was totally out of character.

Harold summoned me as told me to personally deal with the problem.  I protested, but he said my Sergeant could step up while I attended to the more important matters.  Almost as an aside, he said Morgana’s private guard was going home and would be accompanying them part of the way.

I thought about reminding him of protocols, but it seemed his mind was made up.  It might also have been a case of the changed relationship between him and Morgana after the episode in the throne room with Morgana.  He was the King, but she would not have accepted the rebuke.

Eloise was surprised when I told her of the change in plans, and though she didn’t say what she was thinking, I could guess.

Morgana.

I just shrugged.  My brother was the King, and I was his servant who must obey orders.

So,

The next day, the Royal party left to great fanfare, the new King on a mission of goodwill and the Queen looking very sullen. 

Later, I joined the Chancellor and, with far more men than was necessary, left for the other kingdom, by strange coincidence in totally the opposite direction.

Of course, with the Master and the King absent, the army was controlled by the Sergeant at Arms.  It was not a coincidence that the King had promoted him temporarily to command his personal guard.

It almost left the Palace guard and the castle, without leadership.  It did not.  Among the second tier of leaders, each responsible for twenty or so men, I had been secretly working on creating a new tier of leaders to draw from in the future.  In the meantime, they had orders to keep everyone close and not allow any groups of men to enter until the king or I returned.

We had not seen battle for a long time, as peace had reigned over the realm.  Or so it seemed.  A while back, a discontented villager from the Queen’s home kingdom had arrived in very poor shape with a harrowing tale.

I didn’t believe it.  Not at first, but I asked the scribe to take down his story from start to finish, asking questions, forgetting answers, the sort of answers a simple man could not invent.

He said quite simply that their King had become strange and had made life unbearable for the people.  They had suffered several famines in succeeding seasons and were forced to buy food from neighbouring kingdoms.  When the coffers emptied, taxes were imposed, and everyone gave what they could, and when it was not enough, he had his men take everything.

People were starving and dying.

Now, he said, they were waiting for our king to die and the new King to take his place.  Then Morgana would enact what he called the plan.

He did not know what that plan was.

At a guess, she was to take over, through Harold, and send what we have stored, wealth and food, back home.  I had interrupted that plan, so there had to be another plan.

I advised the Chancellor of parts of what I knew, enough to justify my departure before getting to the errant kingdom, where I suggested he would find they knew nothing of the allegations. 

I took most of the guard with me and took a parallel route to the king, where we would shadow on either flank.

Just in case.

…

I had hoped I was wrong. 

My imagination sometimes veered into mock battles and war-like scenarios, perhaps more out of a desire not just to be in charge of a whole army with nothing to do.

We had tournaments rotating through the Kingdoms each season, keeping the men sharp, with jousting, tests of strength, and archery.  The best of the best, the knights, took their skills to the field, and I had been in a few contests and come off second best more times than I cared to remember.

Those skills would be needed if anything happened, and at least our numbers were weighted on each of the possible fronts.

It took a day to catch up to the King’s procession.  We basically surrounded it and waited.

Four days passed with no sign of any trouble.  A rider returned with the news, it was as I had suspected, the neighbouring kingdoms had no idea what we were talking about.

I put everyone on high alert. 

We were waiting in the forest, not far from the town just visited.  As one of the larger towns, the festivities went on long into the night.  It was the closest point to the direct road to the Queen’s kingdom.

Everyone from the procession was still tired, and I doubted they would be alert to any trouble.  Perhaps that might be a tactic, because it was that time of day transitioning from dark to light.

The best time to attack.

One of the men from the Northern group came riding hard up to us.

A message.

Men on horseback.  Many men.

I told him to pass the word.  Before we had left the castle, I told the leaders the plan if we were attacked.  Stealthy, bold, and no survivors.  The King must never know.

Whilst the Royal procession slowly and obliviously wound along the narrow forest track, my men took care of a hundred ‘enemy soldiers’ from the Queen’s kingdom.

Her brother and the man who was in charge of her personal guard led the mission.  All of his men were slain, bar him, and he was brought before me.  He had not fared well in battle.

The plan was to kidnap the king and Queen and ransom them.  There was no intent to kill, nor to show their faces, so that he paid the ransom and everything went back to the way it was.

Foiled, there was no going back.  I personally executed him.  The men cleaned up, burying each of the bodies with military honour, despite my first command to just throw them into a chasm.

Then I went back to the castle, and having the Chancellor return, and work on a story that hopefully the King wouldn’t check.  The man who warned us had died and was buried in the graveyard.  I had worried about what I was going to do, especially if we had to keep the secret.

And…

On the day the king returned, there was much rejoicing and festivities to celebrate the start of a long and happy reign.

At the end, the King summoned me to his private chamber.  He could not have known about the deeds that had occurred.  My men, every single one of them, had been sworn to secrecy.

He looked tired.

“It was a success.  I had worried the people might not like me.”

‘What’s not to like, Harry?”

“They do not like Morgana.  To be honest, I have not seen so much hate for her.  She tries, but I don’t know, Joseph, ever since I became King, she has changed.”

“Perhaps this is who she has always been, and the fact that you both have had to take up the roles sooner than expected, and neither of you have had the time to settle into a routine.  We used to say when we were children how easy it would be, but I suspect it’s not easy at all.  You have all the people looking to you, you have the affairs of state, you have family duties, it all adds up.”

“We did, didn’t we?  Are you glad you were not born first?”

“I am where I’m supposed to be.  By your side.”

He sighed.  It did not seem to alleviate his mind.

“The Chancellor said the problem was a misunderstanding.”

“Such matters are, though at first it might seem serious.  These are people we have known and traded with for centuries.  It is good that it came to nothing.”

“Jacques tells me you locked down the castle.  Was that necessary?”

“I decided in your absence that I was going to run some battle plans to keep the men alert.  All this inactivity tends to make the men slack.”

“Are there any wars imminent.  I know you have spies in every kingdom.”

Not something he was supposed to be aware of, but necessary.  Long periods of peace could turn into war very quickly.  Which reminded me, my spy in the Queen’s kingdom had not reported recently, and I had to accept he had been discovered.

“None reported and none that I’m aware of.”

“Good.  Now, the Queen has requested that she return home briefly for a visit.  I am considering making it a state visit.  What do you think?”

“You command, I make it happen.”

He looked me up and down in a manner i had not seen before.  I was not sure it was admiration or utter horror.

“Perhaps the words, your Queen, sire, is a traitor, might be more appropriate.  You had to believe that I would find out what you did and why.”

“My job is to protect the King and the kingdom.  Sometimes it is better not to know the details, Sire.”

“Well, thankfully, you didn’t sulk.”

“It’s not in the job description, sire.”

“And you can stop calling me Sire, Joe.  Harry is more appropriate.  What do you recommend we do with her?”

“Nothing.  Once she realised that her brother was missing, she should get the message.  I would not recommend going to her kingdom on a state visit, given the circumstances.  You might agree to let her Hugo, but only with her own people.  If you do, she might not come back.”

“She was party to the plot?”

“I would not wish to comment, Harry.”

“Right.  Organise her visit.”  He stood.  “I’m going to bed, and hopefully tomorrow everything we be as it should be “

If only it were.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

What I learned about writing – Don’t be repetitive

So, the keynote here is that as writers, we should not repeat ourselves.

Repeat what?

I think the bottom line here is that we shouldn’t basically write the same thing over and over. I noticed that movies often take the view that if the first one is successful, they just switch a few things around, substitute the bad guy, and it’s business as usual.

This was prevalent with a couple of John Wayne westerns, Rio Bravo and El Dorado. It was much the same with Superman 1, 2 and 3, and the Spiderman movies.

The thing is, I’m almost guilty as charged with several of my books. The problem is to get out of your comfort zone and write something completely different.

I have a YA fantasy story in three volumes about an unlikely princess who saves the realm.

I am writing a Sci-Fi novel simply because I wanted to go into outer space. The only way I’ll ever get there is inside my imagination, and that being the case, it’s a riot.

I keep trying to write a romance novel; it has always fascinated me how Mills and Boon writers manage to fit them into 187 pages. I try, but brevity doesn’t seem to be my thing. At any rate, I get so far, and then it veers off into espionage.

I’m guessing I’m going to have to try harder not to veer off the path.