Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right
Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.
It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.
…
John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.
They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.
After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.
But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.
What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
——
One of the sentries came running into the church, out of breath and clearly agitated.
Blinky looked at him. “What is it, man?”
“The reinforcements, sir.”
“Theirs or ours?”
“German. Staff car, a panzer, and two trucks with soldiers.
He looked at me. “That’s a little over the top, or have you been more of a pest than usual?” He sighed. “How many men are in the castle”
“Twenty-plus, but this is not unexpected, just a little sooner than I was told it might happen. it simply means they know Meyer is coming.”
“This adds what, another twenty or thirty, and a tank. I mean, seriously, a tank. Why?”
“I think the target that we’re here to rescue is far more important than we’re being told. If he’s part of the V2 rocket program or just rockets in general, what does that suggest to you?”
I had an idea, but I hadn’t really thought too much about it. But somewhere in my subconscious there had been a movie, rather far-fetched when I saw it, Flash Gordon, a man who flies a rocket into outer space.
No one really believed it was possible, that it was akin to a modern-day fairy tale. Could it be possible that this one man, Meyer, could make that fairy tale become true?
Was Hitler’s eventual plan to send rockets into space? He had a chap called Von Braun, why would it matter about Meyer? Perhaps he wasn’t willing to share this fantastic knowledge.
“You’re talking impossible stuff. I’m guessing he knows where the rocket factories are, so we can bomb them. I’d want to stop someone with that knowledge, at any cost. I guess we’re now going to take out a panzer and kill a few more enemy soldiers. It might be why we came with explosive.”
Why did it not surprise me that someone knew more than they were letting on?
“Where are they headed, Sarge?”
“The castle.”
“Then we’re going to have to move on them before they get out and about. A panzer can do some serious damage. They’ll no doubt park it in the castle walls, so we’re going to need a way in, and out.”
“Got just the man. In the meantime, Sarge, follow them just to make sure they are going to the castle.”
“Sir.”
…
I searched the compound for Carlo but he had gone missing. It didn’t take much to guess where he had gone. I didn’t think he believed he could take on the whole German army on his own, but he would have heard about the new arrivals and gone to have a look where they ended up himself.
Since he knew the other entrances to the castle that none of us did. He would have much better access to the inside than any of us, and no doubt without the fear of being caught.
He was nowhere to be found, though one of Blinky’s soldiers said that he had seen Carlo leaving and thought it wise not to ask him where he was going.
It wasn’t until several hours later, as darkness fell, that both he and the soldier sent to follow the new arrivals, returned together.
Blinky called a conference, it was time to make a plan of attack.
The soldier reported the new arrivals had gone to the castle, in the main gate, and where to beyond that he couldn’t tell. They closed the gate, and he wasn’t following them in.
Carlo had more information because he had managed to get inside.
He’d even drawn a rough map of the castle and surrounding grounds. There were a series of lines drawn on that map, and it turned out, Carlo said, these were the drainage tunnels under the castle.
I was surprised to see that the tunnel I had tried to escape in however many days ago that was, was part of that drainage system.
As much as I was equally surprised that the drainage tunnels were big enough to have men walking in, and that they were a much more efficient manner to travel within the castle, via under the castle, useful no doubt in times of battles between the warring Italian cities.
The map also showed four underground entrances, three of which I knew about, the other I should have guessed because they would not have left one direction without an exit. The reason why no one knew about it was because it looked like the tunnel had collapsed and blocked the way.
That, Carlo said, was just an illusion.
That was going t be our way in.
Our force was small, five soldiers, myself, Enrico and Carlo, and two Resistance defectors. 10 against fifty battle-hardened soldiers. Of course, Carlo being Carlo said that would not be a problem,. A statement I took with a grain of salt until he said, “We have the means to even the odds.”
He had our undivided attention.
“We use the drains to create a diversion. The fools have parked their tank and trucks over the drains. You have brought explosives with timers?” Carlo looked at Blinky.
“We did. It was an afterthought. Thompson thought you might find a use for them.”
“Good. You have an expert?”
One of the soldiers, Corporal Spellman, put his hand up. “Tell me where to put them and I’ll make them go boom.”
“You come with me now,” Carlo said to Spellman. “We come back in an hour, maybe a little more, so be ready to leave.”
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 that 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 neighbour 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 in 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 moved 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 into 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 were 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, and where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I were 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 the 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 neighbours, 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 were 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 realised 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 were 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.”
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
A dark look crossed Boggs’ face telling me the name Ormiston wasn’t associated with anything good. I was still wondering how I had never heard anything about the family.
“How did you stumble across Fredrich Ormiston?”
“I told you I was keeping an eye on Alex. He and some chap who was, coincidentally, one of the guards we saw at the mall yesterday, they were talking about Ormiston. I’ve never heard of him.”
“That’s because the Ormiston’s disappeared from around here before the second world war. What did Alex have to say about him?”
“From what I overheard, he owned a large tract of land near Patterson’s Reach, that it stretched back to something called the fault line, that he sold the coastal area to the Navy and that’s where they put the dockyard, and other than that, not much. That guard had been doing some investigating for Alex and said he went to the library to ask Gwen. She’s still there by the way. She didn’t tell him very much, and even if she did know anything, she hates Alex and his friends as much as we do so she wouldn’t tell him.”
“She’d know of him. But she would be only one of a few, and those that do would be in the old folks’ home or dead.”
“And yet the name lights up your face, Boggs. How do you know about him?”
“Not me personally. My family. He and my grandfather were friends back in the day. He sold our family a large block near the river to run some cattle. My father wasn’t the first to have information about the treasure, and in fact, according to my dad’s diary, that original map we have was my grandfather’s.”
“How come you didn’t tell me about this before?”
“Not relevant. The map has always been in my family’s possession. My grandfather had made several attempts to find the treasure, and, one day, in a moment of forgetfulness, he told Ormiston about it. Well, you know how the thought of finding treasure can turn heads, Ormiston persuaded my grandfather to provide him with a copy of the map, and in return, he would fund a proper search party to see if they could find it. After all, he said, fifty percent of a trove was better than zero percent of nothing. By that time my grandfather was getting old, and the idea of finding the treasure was slipping through his fingers, so he agreed. Worst days work he ever did.”
“But Ormiston never found the treasure, did he?”
“That’s not the point. He did as he promised in the first instance, and they found nothing. It was a lot of money in pursuit of what could be compared to the holy grail. When my grandfather died, Ormiston decided he was no longer bound to any agreement, and mounted several more treasure hunts, and when my father tried to get him to adhere to the original agreement, Ormiston just brushed him off.”
“He still didn’t find anything. In the end, he lost his fortune and had to sell the land, hence the Naval Base. Do you know who got the rest?”
“Ormiston died on the last treasure hunt, and left massive debts behind, and a widow. They had several kids but no one knows where they went, and it was a long time ago. They had to sell the property to repay the debts. It went to property developers and then the Cossatino’s bought it. They moved in after Ormiston moved out. It’s why Patterson’s Reach is basically a no-go zone.”
I’d often wondered how the Cossatino’s came to town, and why it was they camped in Patterson’s Reach, away from the Benderby’s.
“Alex’s mate was talking about looking for relatives, though I’m not sure why.”
“There are no relatives, not according to my mother, but there were rumors that Ormiston had made extensive notes on all of his hunts, so from that perspective, if the documents existed, it would be useful to align what he knew with what my father says in his journal.”
A good point, and it might be still a possibility if the documents held at the library were to contain any journals. It also made sense, in my mind, why the Cossatino’s decided to run a map scam; had they come across Ormiston’s journals, and maps, and got Boggs father to base his fakes around those? It was starting to throw a giant cold shadow over the whole of this project, and that Boggs was simply missing the point.
If Ormiston couldn’t find anything, and he had money to burn when he mounted the searches, perhaps it was just a myth. And who’s to say that Boggs’s grandfather didn’t make the whole thing up himself?
Just the same, until I was certain, I was going to keep the existence of the papers in the library to myself for the time being.
But, something else just occurred to me. “Do you have anything from your grandfather, in particular about the searches he made, with or without Ormiston?”
“Only that one with Ormiston. In the end, he concluded that it was his belief that Ormiston had deliberately set the wrong course, which was why they never found anything. He had used two different river heads as his basis, to which my grandfather tried to convince him otherwise. Of course, there were considerable differences of opinion, and after they returned, never spoke to each other again.”
Not surprising.
“Well, that adds some more background to the quest. Are you sure you have the right rivers as markers? I mean there are quite a few rivers and streams as well as a few lakes up and down the coastline?”
“My father was certain, and his father was before him. As am I. Let me know when you free next so we can continue the quest.”
I should not have doubted him, but the more he talked about Ormiston, the darker he was looking. It was probably for the best I left him alone for the afternoon if only to calm down.
I asked myself that question when about 1000 odd words into a current short story, one that I continue to go back to, but found an initial reluctance to write, and now seems to be difficult to continue.
Is the reason because I don’t feel like writing, that I’ve written myself into a corner, the story isn’t flowing, or there’s something else I’d rather be doing…
Like, scouring the internet…
Working on writing some blog posts, like this one…
Checking my email…
Checking my other blogs to see how many people have viewed my recent posts,
Or just puddle with anything other than what I should be doing.
The thing is, I know where most of the stories are going, it’s just a matter of sitting down, picking up the threads, and writing. Certainly, I could be working on one or another right now.
But, something is nagging at me.
I thought it was that I wanted to write another Being Inspired piece, having the photo I wanted to use for inspiration in my head. I sat down this morning and started it, and got seven or eight paragraphs done, and then it was time to go down to breakfast.
Attention diverted.
I could have written more after breakfast, but that seemed to segue into a chat over coffee that ran into lunch. It’s odd how it seems there is so much to talk about.
Then it’s been one excuse after another that has kept me from picking up that story and running with it. I could do it now, but that reluctance remains.
Perhaps tomorrow.
For now, I’m going to work on some crosswords and see if that doesn’t inspire me, and if it doesn’t I could always have an early night.
It’s the same every time we go away, on the run all day doing touristy stuff, making notes for later on, on the run, and then getting back to the room exhausted. After all, there is so much to see and do.
Maybe I’ll just reflect on today and worry about it tomorrow, except…
We have an equally hectic day planned.
Maybe I’ll get that holiday from writing after all.
With Only Six Minutes to Live – What Would Your Story Look Like?
“If you could see the end of your life, would you want to?” A question that feels like a scene ripped straight from a thriller, yet it lives in the quiet corners of our minds every time we glance at a ticking clock. Imagine the timer on your life’s narrative dropping to six minutes. No more coffee breaks, no “later, I’ll finish that project,” and no chance to scroll through one more meme. What would your story look like in that final, frantic, beautiful sprint?
1. The Flash‑Forward: A Rapid‑Fire Montage
When we think of dying, movies often give us a slow‐motion, tear‑stained goodbye. In six minutes, there’s no room for a soundtrack that swells over a long farewell. Instead, your brain would likely fast‑forward through the most vivid moments — a rapid montage that feels both cinematic and intimate.
Minute
What Pops Up
Why It Matters
0–1
The first time you felt truly alive – maybe standing on a mountaintop, your first kiss, or that “aha!” moment at work.
A reminder that life is made of peaks, not just the plateau.
1–2
The faces of people who shaped you – a parent’s smile, a mentor’s steady hand, a friend’s reckless laugh.
They’re the anchors that kept you tethered to humanity.
2–3
The mistakes you regretted – a broken promise, a missed chance, a harsh word.
In the end, we’re rarely defined by perfection; we’re defined by how we learned from the cracks.
3–4
Small joys you rarely mentioned – the smell of rain, a favorite song, the feel of a dog’s head on your lap.
These are the sensory stitches that quilt our daily comfort.
4–5
Your “why” – the purpose that pulled you through the mundane: a child’s hopeful eyes, a cause you championed, a dream you pursued.
Purpose gives the story its spine, the reason we keep turning pages.
5–6
A single, final image: a blank page waiting for the next writer, or perhaps a sunrise you’ll never see.
The ending is both a conclusion and a promise that stories never truly stop.
2. The Tone of a Six‑Minute Story
If a novel can be a slow burn, a six‑minute story is a sprint. The tone shifts from reflective to urgent, from lingering nostalgia to a fierce gratitude. Think of it as a haiku rather than an epic: every word must count, every image must hit.
“In six breaths, I’m whole.” – a line you might whisper to yourself as the seconds slip away.
This rapid cadence forces us to strip away fluff and get to the marrow. It’s less about the how and more about the what that matters most.
3. What We Usually Forget in the Rush
When the clock is ticking, we often overlook the small, uncelebrated moments that actually define a life.
The Quiet Acts: Holding a door, sharing a joke, listening without judgment.
The Unfinished Projects: Not the grand visions, but the half‑drawn doodles, the recipes you never perfected.
The “Almost” Stories: The road not taken, the love that could’ve been.
These are the hidden threads that, when pulled quickly, reveal the texture of who we really are.
4. A Mini‑Exercise: Write Your Six‑Minute Story
Grab a pen, your phone, or whatever medium feels natural. Set a timer for six minutes. Then answer these three prompts as fast as you can:
Who made you feel seen?
What moment made you feel truly alive?
What simple pleasure would you share with the world right now?
Don’t edit. Don’t overthink. Let the words flow like a sprint through a hallway you’ve run down a thousand times.
Example (under 60 seconds): “My mother’s laugh, the smell of pine after a winter storm, and the way my cat curls around my ankle when I’m reading.”
You’ll notice that, even in a frantic rush, the core of your narrative shines through.
5. Why This Thought Experiment Matters
a. It Re-Prioritises
By confronting the imminent end, we’re forced to reorder our priorities. The next time you’re stuck in a meeting that could be an email, ask yourself: “Will this be part of my six‑minute montage?”
b. It Sparks Empathy
If we all imagined our own six‑minute finale, we might speak softer, listen harder, and love deeper. Empathy becomes the default setting, not an afterthought.
c. It Fuels Action
A vivid, finite timeline can be a catalyst. You might finally call that friend you’ve been meaning to, start that side project, or simply put your phone down and look at the sky.
6. The Gift of a Blank Page
Six minutes may sound like a cruel limit, but it’s also a gift: the chance to see your story stripped down to its essential narrative arc. It asks you to:
Celebrate the peaks.
Own the valleys.
Embrace the in‑betweens.
And when the timer finally hits zero, the story doesn’t end; it passes – like a baton handed to the next generation, a memory whispered to a child, or an idea that sparks a future conversation.
Closing Thought: The Six‑Minute Challenge
I challenge you: live each day as if you only had six minutes left. Not in a morbid, anxiety‑inducing way, but as a reminder that time is precious, finite, and spectacularly yours.
When you next scroll past a notification, pause. When you hear a stranger’s laugh, linger. When you feel the weight of a deadline, ask: “Will this matter in my six‑minute story?”
Because in the end, the measure of a life isn’t the number of seconds it occupies, but the quality of moments we choose to fill them with.
What would your six‑minute story look like? Share in the comments – I’m eager to read the flash‑forwards that make us all feel a little more alive.
If you had only six minutes left, your story would be a rapid montage of peaks, people, regrets, tiny joys, purpose, and a final image of continuation. This thought experiment helps us re-prioritise, build empathy, and act with intention. Try the six‑minute writing exercise and see what truly matters to you.
The Writer’s Tightrope: Navigating the Unique Challenges of Humour, Sci-Fi, Thrillers, and Mystery
Every genre of fiction comes with its own unwritten social contract between the author and the reader. When you pick up a sci-fi novel, you agree to board the spaceship. When you open a cozy mystery, you accept that a body is about to drop in a quiet English village.
However, honouring that contract is easier said than done. Writers constantly walk a tightrope, balancing on the edge of reader expectations. How far can you push the envelope before a reader rolls their eyes and puts the book down? How do you manipulate a reader’s reaction without telegraphing your punches? And, most importantly, when do you ask the reader to suspend their disbelief, versus when do you have to assume their reaction?
Let’s dive into the distinct challenges of writing humour, science fiction, thrillers, mysteries, and detective novels, and explore the psychological dance between author and audience.
1. Science Fiction: Building Bridges Over the Abyss of Disbelief
Science fiction is the ultimate test of the reader’s willingness to suspend disbelief. By definition, sci-fi asks the audience to accept things that do not exist—faster-than-light travel, sentient AI, alien biology, or dystopian societal collapses.
The Challenge: The “Threshold of Credibility”
If a writer changes too many laws of physics or logic all at once, the reader experiences cognitive overload and checks out.
Suspension of Disbelief: Sci-fi writers rely heavily on Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s concept of the “willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith.” To achieve this, authors use the “Doorstop Rule” or internal consistency. You can invent magical technology (like a warp drive), but once you establish the rules of that technology, you cannot break them just to get your characters out of a tight spot.
Assuming the Reaction: A sci-fi writer must assume the reader’s reaction to the mundane will mirror their own. If humanity has been living on Mars for three centuries, how do they curse? What do they eat? If the author assumes the reader can extrapolate these details from familiar human experiences, the futuristic world instantly feels grounded.
2. Humour: The Most Fragile Genre in Print
Humour is arguably the hardest genre to write because comedy is entirely subjective. What has one reader howling with laughter might leave another stone cold.
The Challenge: Timing on the Printed Page
Unlike stand-up comedians who can use pauses, facial expressions, and tone of voice, a humour writer only has black ink on white paper.
Suspending Belief in Comedy: Absurdist or satirical humour often requires the reader to suspend disbelief regarding logic. Think of Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, where the improbability drive turns attackers into a bowl of petunias and a sperm whale. The reader must accept the sheer madness of the universe.
Assuming the Reaction: Humour writers must accurately predict reader reactions. Comedy relies on subverting expectations (the “rule of three” or the comedic pivot). If the writer assumes the reader will zig, but the reader zags too early, the punchline falls flat. The challenge is meticulously controlling the rhythm of the sentence so the reader’s internal monologue delivers the punchline with the exact right cadence.
3. Thrillers: The Art of Manufactured Anxiety
Thrillers are adrenaline-fueled rollercoasters. Whether it’s a political conspiracy, a ticking-time-bomb scenario, or a psychological cat-and-mouse game, the goal is to keep the heart rate elevated.
The Challenge: Pacing and Plausibility Fatigue
In a thriller, the protagonist is often subjected to an escalating series of impossible obstacles. If the stakes are too low, the reader gets bored. If the danger escalates too wildly without respite, the reader experiences “plausibility fatigue.”
Suspending Disbelief: Readers of thrillers are generally forgiving of high-octane action sequences (think of the Jack Reacher or Jason Bourne series), provided the pacing is fast enough that they don’t have time to stop and think, Wait, how did he survive that explosion? The momentum of the plot does the heavy lifting for the suspension of disbelief.
Assuming the Reaction: Thriller writers constantly anticipate the reader’s psychological reaction—specifically, dread, curiosity, and relief. The author sets up a trap, assumes the reader will feel a sense of impending doom, and then delivers a twist. If the writer misjudges the reader’s reaction, a supposed “shocking twist” becomes predictable, draining all the thrill out of the novel.
4. Mysteries and Detective Novels: Playing Chess with the Reader
While thrillers focus on action and survival, mysteries and detective novels focus on intellect and truth. These genres operate like a complex puzzle box.
The Challenge: Fair Play vs. Absolute Deception
The golden rule of the classic detective novel (popularised by Agatha Christie and the Detection Club) is “fair play.” The reader must have access to the exact same clues as the detective.
Suspending Belief in Detectives: Modern readers often have to suspend a bit of disbelief regarding the sheer volume of murders that seem to follow amateur sleuths around (looking at you, Jessica Fletcher from Murder, She Wrote). Furthermore, classic hard-boiled detective novels require us to accept a deeply cynical, hyper-competent private eye who can take a severe beating in Chapter 3 and be fully functional by Chapter 4.
Assuming the Reaction: This is where the detective writer’s job becomes a psychological chess match. The writer must deeply understand human psychology and reader bias. They rely on the reader making assumptions (such as confirmation bias or misdirected suspicion) to hide the identity of the killer in plain sight. If the writer assumes the reader will suspect the butler, they might deliberately frame the butler to create a red herring, playing directly into the reader’s preconceived notions of genre tropes.
Suspension of Disbelief vs. Reader Assumption: Two Sides of the Same Coin
When examining these diverse genres, we see that writing is fundamentally an act of empathy. The writer is constantly asking:
“What do I need them to believe?” (Suspension of disbelief—accepting dragons, warp drives, or impossibly brilliant detectives).
“How do I expect them to react?” (Reader assumption—laughing at a joke, holding their breath during a chase scene, or gasping at a plot twist).
If you ask too much suspension of disbelief without grounding the emotional reality of the characters, the story feels fake. If you fail to accurately assume the reader’s emotional and intellectual reaction, the story falls flat—either becoming predictable (in mysteries/thrillers), confusing (in sci-fi), or unfunny (in humour).
Conclusion
Ultimately, mastering these genres requires a delicate touch. A great writer doesn’t just throw impossible scenarios at a page or hope a joke lands; they carefully calibrate the reader’s psychology. By respecting the unspoken contract of the genre while skillfully managing what the reader believes—and how they will react—authors can craft unforgettable stories that resonate long after the final page is turned.
Are you working on a manuscript right now? Which genre do you find the hardest to balance—keeping the reader believing, or predicting their emotional reaction? Let us know in the comments below!
Discovering Podgorica’s Hidden Gems: A Road Less Travelled
Nestled on the banks of the Morača River, Podgorica is often overshadowed by its mountainous neighbours and coastal rivals in the Balkans. But for those willing to venture beyond its bustling city centre, this Montenegrin capital holds a trove of quiet enchantments. If you’re craving a deeper, more offbeat experience, here are five extraordinary ways to unlock Podgorica’s soul.
1. Step Back in Time in Donja Lastva
Tucked just a short walk from the city centre, the historic neighbourhood of Donja Lastva is a labyrinth of cobblestone streets, 19th-century stone houses, and vibrant murals. Once a medieval merchant district, its peaceful atmosphere offers a stark contrast to Podgorica’s modern core. Stroll through hidden courtyards, admire the architecture, and sip a coffee at a local kafana (traditional café) to savour life at a slower pace. Don’t miss the Old Jewish Quarter, a poignant reminder of the community that once thrived here.
2. Unwind on Vrmac Hill
For panoramic views of the city and the surrounding mountains, head to Vrmac Hill. A short, family-friendly hike leads to a vantage point dominated by the Ethnographic Museum of Montenegro and a historic fort. The well-maintained trails are perfect for a morning walk or sunset picnic. In spring, the hillside bursts into colour with wildflowers, while autumn offers fiery foliage. It’s a favourite among locals, but rarely crowded with tourists.
3. Get Cultured at the Ethnographic Museum
Perched on Vrmac Hill, this quirky museum is a window into Montenegro’s rural heritage. Wander through recreated village houses filled with traditional costumes, farming tools, and folk art. The museum also hosts rotating contemporary art exhibitions, making it a fascinating blend of old and new. Pro tip: Visit on a weekday to have it mostly to yourself!
4. Shop and Savour at the Podgorica Municipal Market
For a taste of local life, head to the Podgorica Municipal Market (Pazar). Open six days a week, this bustling bazaar is a riot of colour and aroma. Sample krompiruša (Montenegrin potato soup), fresh ražnjići cheese, and fragrant herbs. Haggle for handmade crafts or pick up a jar of truffle honey from the region’s famed forests. It’s a feast for the senses—and your wallet!
5. Visit the Đurđe Krstić House – A Literary Pilgrimage
Poet and writer Đurđe Krstić (1879–1934) is Montenegro’s Shakespearean figure, and his 19th-century stone house in Podgorica is a modest tribute to his legacy. Now a museum, it’s housed in a simple, ivy-clad building where he once lived. Inside, you’ll find his personal library, manuscripts, and memorabilia. Though it’s a niche spot, it offers a poetic insight into Montenegro’s cultural heart.
Tips for Exploring Off the Beaten Path
Best Time to Go: Visit during the shoulder seasons (May–June or September–October) for milder weather and fewer crowds.
Transport: Most of these spots are walkable within the city centre, but consider renting a bike for a leisurely pace.
Taste the Local Flavour: Pair your explorations with a stop at Café Jelena or Risto – Montenegrin Cuisine for authentic, home-style meals.
Podgorica’s charm lies in its contrasts: history meeting modernity, tranquillity nestled next to the city’s pulse. By straying from the well-worn paths, you’ll uncover a city that’s unafraid to show its soul—and it’s waiting for you to discover it. So, pack your curiosity and let Podgorica surprise you, one hidden gem at a time.
Well, we all know what a sheet is, it’s one of those things you put on a bed. A bottom sheet, a fitted sheet, a top sheet, and a flannelette sheet.
It could also be a piece of paper, e.g. pass me a sheet of paper, please, only to get in reply, what size?
There can be a sheet of flames. It’s best if you see one get away as fast as you can.
Of course, that fire can be put out by rain sheeting down.
You can have a sheet map, which is one that opens out. Funny how you can never get them folded back the same way. And a problem when you’re in a car and open it out – hang on, I can’t see out the window!
That lake is a lovely sheet of water, very still just as the sun comes up, and then, what a reflection. Great if you are a landscape painter.
Then there’s sheet metal, which I did in school and wasn’t very good at.
If you’re a philatelist, then there’s always a sheet of stamps that might be worth something in a hundred years.
Then, if it is worth millions, you might turn white as a sheet with shock.
But the best of all, if you drink too much, it is said you are ‘two sheets to the wind’.
When you’re given another chance, it is like being given a clean sheet.
And another form might be to do with sailing, when you sheet a sail, which is to say you are making it either tauter or less taut.
Yes, you know what it is, and it can be very unpleasant when it hits – hail.
Hailstones as big as golf balls, hailstones that make small or large dents in your car, smash windows, wreck trees, and, sometimes, give the appearance that snow has just fallen.
And hail with snow equals sleet, and it’s not very pleasant to be caught in it.
Of course, there’s a different sort of hail, one that you might also not want to be subject to, that from someone across the street trying to get your attention.
Or a hail that you do want someone or something to stop; a taxi, or cab
Or a ship across the water… though I’m not sure why you, personally would want to hail a ship
Perhaps you could be praised in some way, like, he hailed from London – no, not yelled so loudly he could be heard in New York
And no, we do not go around saying, Hail Minister, or Hail Friend! Not unless we’ve used a time machine and gone back to ancient Roman days
This is not to be confused with the word hale
Yes, it can be something you eat, and I hear it’s very good for you
Or that man is hale and hearty, which means in good health – and I have to say I’m envious because I’m anything but hale
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 