Category: Fiction

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

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

They all start with –

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

And, the story:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What surprised her was my reaction.  None.

I simply asked where who, and when.

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

A week.

It was all the time I had left with her.

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

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

Is that all you want to know?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

People coming, people going.

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

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

Perhaps it was.

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

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

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 3/4

Days 3 and 4 – Writing exercise

…

There was a break in the proceedings, and I had just stepped out of the room to make a call.  I had excused myself for a few minutes, but for some reason, the atmosphere in the meeting room became oppressive.

Like someone had deliberately raised the temperature to just below comfortable.

The main doors opened out onto an elevator foyer, which was by a large glass observation deck that jutted out into space.  It was meant to be a feature where one could walk onto the glass floor and look down forty floors to the street below.

And if one looked out, almost the length of Central Park, and beyond.  I made the call, but there was no answer.  That was a surprise, because someone had always answered before.

Then, one moment I was looking down, all the way down to the sidewall, and the next moment, I was sitting in a chair by the double door entrance to the meeting room.

I had no idea how I got there.

It was like I had just woken from a long sleep, opened my eyes, and there I was.

But I didn’t know or couldn’t remember where that was, except I’d been there before.

“Sir?  Sir?”  A young lady in what looked like a military uniform was standing beside me, looking concerned.

I looked up, my eyes taking a moment to focus.

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

An odd question.  I felt alright; there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with me.

“Do you know where you are?”

Silly question.  I knew exactly where I was.

“Taking a break from the meeting.”

She looked perplexed.  “Sir, there is no meeting.  Not today.”

She addressed me as if she knew who I was.  I tried to stand, but I could not get out of the chair.  My whole body felt like a ton of weight.

I tried to think, and it was like walking under water against the tide.  I looked around me.  I know where this is, don’t I?

And yet nothing came into my mind.  Why was I here? Where exactly was here?

“I’m sorry.  It’s confusing.”

“Are you alright?”

All of a sudden if felt like the building was spinning, or perhaps I was, and the sensation was suddenly scaring me.

I closed my eyes and prayed it would stop.

It wouldn’t. 

But before I had time to ask for help, I lost consciousness.

…

I woke to the sound of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.  In fact, it had been in my subconscious before waking, and was probably what woke me.

It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t coming from a specific place, it just felt like I was right in the middle of an orchestra that was playing it.

Except when I surfaced, as if I had been underwater, it was simply there, in the air, all around me.

I was lying on the floor.

Odd, because in the back of my mind, my last thought was of being in the middle of a speech, though what it was about, for the moment, eluded me.

I looked around, but there was no one else.

The thought of looking out over Central Park returned, and I sat up.

Not in a room with windows.  Not with anything other than a camera with a red flashing light, near the roof.

I couldn’t see a door, but then, the lighting was subdued.

I stood, taking less effort than I thought it might and did a circuit of the walls.  It was too dark to see properly, but there would be a door.

Somewhere.

I tried to remember what happened, how I ended up in this room.  That would remain a mystery.  Before that, there was still that impression I had been in the middle of a speech.

About?

The interference and demands by the government in the execution of clandestine operations that are deemed secret, for obvious reasons.

I think I’d reached the point where I was looking around at the sea of expectant faces, of men and women who were waiting for the final argument.

I stopped on one particular face, a woman, about my age, who was relatively old, and a surprise in a room full of people who at best were in their late 30s.

Why was she there?

And why was she positioned so that it would be very difficult to see, much less identify her?

A fractional moment before moving on, fractional enough to lose track of where I was, and what I was about to say next.

What was I going to say next?

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

…

Another room, very bright, with a table and two chairs.  I was sitting on one.  It was a cheap plastic single mold very uncomfortable.

The sort used as outdoor furniture is built to endure seasons of dramatic climactic changes.  I had some myself out on the deck, back at the cabin, a place I realised I should be rather than here.

Where was here, by the way?

The door opened, and an old woman came in.  She seemed familiar; I had seen her before.

Somewhere.

I never realised my memory was so bad.

She sat opposite, squirming to find a comfortable position, her expression telling me there wasn’t one.  Not for old folks.

“Emil?”

That was one of my names, but not today.

“Who?”

She smiled.  Damn, I know that face.

“Are we going to play games?”

Did we, once?  “Anastasia?  I think once I referred to you as the Tsar’s missing daughter.  You certainly looked like a Princess.”

“You remember?”

“Not exactly.  The face is familiar, and the name was dancing on the tip of my tongue.  If it is who I think you are, you look very good for a person whose been dead for twenty years.”

“You shot me.”

“In self-defence.  I still feel the aches and pains, and limp from that shot.  What did you expect?”

“I was trying to sound you so they wouldn’t capture you.”

“So, we both assumed the worst about each other.”

“You were never culturally attached.”

“You were never a maid.”

“A charming maid.”

“A very distracting maid.  Who was a spy?”

“Which made you what?”

“Still a cultural attache.  Who was asked by a weedy little man who smoked the most disgusting pipe tobacco, to find out if you were a maid.  I didn’t want to.”

“Except…”

“Weedy little men like him always have a backup plan that includes blackmail.”

“The photograph.”

Stormson, the head of the station in Moscow, believed no one, trusted no one, and treated everyone as if they were double agents.

It was not as if I didn’t know Anastasia was most likely a honey trap, and silly boys like me on first assignment overseas were the usual wide-eyed and naive fools.

“Old times.”

Except I didn’t think we were here for old times.

“I hear you retired?”  She squirmed again, and it seemed to favour her left side.  Old injury?

“A habit, in the mountains, away from prying eyes.  Peaceful, quiet.”

“Off the grid?”

“Way, way off the grid.  Why?”

“I need a favour.  You owe me.  I saved your life.”

“You tried to kill me.”

“If I had been, do you think we would be here now?”

Interesting point.  But, oddly, I knew in that moment that all of this was in my subconscious.  It wasn’t real. 

It had been triggered by seeing a face in the audience, at a briefing that had dragged me out of blissful retirement at the insistence of the man who had taken over my last job.

Ten years before.

…

Except that the only truthful part of what happened to me was that I was at a conference, delivering a pre-written speech.  My name may have added weight to the subject matter, but that was not why I was there.

The department had credible evidence that an old Russian master spy from the Cold War era had slipped into the country.  They had the blurry, almost indistinct photos to prove it.

I told them she was dead.  They told me she was not dead, and she was up to something.  They believed she wanted to see me.  That was why I was there.

And yes, I’d seen her, and yes, it had triggered an episode, and yes, now I was in hospital.  Waiting, it appeared, for her to arrive.

There was more to this than her wanting to see me.  We had a relatively minor encounter and my report back then was that I killed her.  I saw it happen.  It traumatised me for years afterwards.

It didn’t happen.  She didn’t come.  I thought she was just a ghost from my past.

A month later, they let me go home, back to the wilds of the forest, where my nearest neighbour was a mile away, where the security system I’d installed could pick up a mouse at a hundred years, a security system that had more backup systems in place than could be counted.

No one could penetrate the shield.

No one.

And yet when I got out of the car and closed the door, I could hear the strains of the Pastoral Symphony wafting down from the house. 

And by the time I made it to the veranda, she was leaning in the doorway, looking as devastatingly beautiful as always.

“Welcome home, Vasily.”

I smiled.  “Olga.  Any problems?”

“None that couldn’t be buried out back,” she waved her hand vaguely, “somewhere.  You?”

“Nobody cares about the dinosaurs anymore.  Except when they think an old adversary is back to wreak havoc.”

“I am like you, a dinosaur too.  We are dinosaurs together, yes?”

I had dreamed of this moment, and hadn’t thought the plane would work.  Not only did we have to fool my people, but she had to fool herself, a much more difficult proposition.

It only worked because of my successor.  Not a man who understood the intricate details of any case.  All results driven, at any cost, and the quicker the better.

She held out her hand.  “Come.  I have prepared a feast.”

No doubt, I thought as I closed the door, in more ways than one.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

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

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

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

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

…

In a word: Order

I gave the order to my assistant to order the supplies we needed in order to maintain stock levels.

Oh, yes, the word order is one of my favourites, because it can confuse the hell out of many people in its simplicity and yet complexity.

I gave the order, it’s what happens in the armed forces, and a lot of other places, but mostly we would associate it with organisations that have hierarchical authority.

The military, for one, cut orders, the means of sending one of its minions to another place, or to do a specific job.

Order supplies, well, just about anyone can order something from somewhere, usually on the internet, and sometimes require or are given an order number so it can be tracked.

In order to maintain, in order to get what I want, in order to get elected, this is just another way of using the word, with the aim of achieving something, though I’m sure there’s probably a better way of expressing these sentiments.

Law and order, well, doesn’t everyone want this, and doesn’t it always turn up in an election campaign, and seems to be the first thing sacrificed after the election.  The thing is, no one can guarantee law and order.

There is the law and there is administering it.  There is no order that comes with it, we just hope that order is maintained, and deplore the situation when it isn’t.

Perhaps in order to maintain law and order, we might need more police.

Then, of course, there is alphabetical order, and numerical order, where things can be designated from A to Z, like this challenge, or from 1 to 10, or more.  We can sort words alphabetically, numbers numerically and data items by keys or an index.

This is naturally called a sort order.

Then there is my car, or bike, or washing machine, or mixmaster.  They are currently in good working order, though that might not last.

And lastly, in deference to all those out there who are thinking of becoming dictators, it’s always possible, one day, there will be a new world order.  They might actually be in their own particular order, whose intellect might be (?) of the highest order.

Surely that is one order too many.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 26

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…

 

Mayer realized something was terribly wrong when they reached the outskirts of Weimar and passed through the checkpoint on the outskirts of the city.

It was the sixth such checkpoint and each time the Standartenfuhrer told the sentries that they were escorting a valuable prisoner, and being mere German Army soldiers, most of the Obergefreiter rank, and not willing to argue with an SS Colonel.

Then he remembered there was a large Government building in the city and assumed that was where they were talking to him.

Except they were either lost or taking the long way to get there because they were taking back streets.  When he asked why, he was told to be quiet, or they would silence him.

When they reached the outskirts of the city on the other side, still heading south, he knew something else was going on.  It was then he started to think that these men might not necessarily be Nazi’s.  After all, there had to be other people who were sickened by the atrocities that were going on, particularly to the labor from the camps.

He understood the need for labor, just not the way his superiors went about getting it.

They passed through the next checkpoint without any questions and soon caught up to a convoy of trucks with what looked like prisoners in the back.

It was the first time he had seen either of the two officers look worried.

Then a soldier on a motorcycle turned around and came back to check on the vehicle and its occupants.  He flagged them to the side of the road, got off his bike and there was no mistaking the itchy trigger finger on the gun he was loosely holding.

In front of their car, the last truck in the convoy turned a corner and disappeared.

“Where are you going?” the motorcyclist asked.

Mayer noticed he was not army but SS of a lower rank Scharfuhrer, and though of a lower rank, there was still the superiority of just being SS.

The Standartenfuhrer looked the soldier up and down and then opened the door to the car and got out.  He took two steps towards the cyclist.

“Do you know who you are addressing Scharfuhrer, what is your name?  I will take this insubordination to your superior officer.”

Mayer had seen similar men in his unit back at Nordhausen, including one, when in a hotel having lunch heard one of a group of army soldiers being rowdy.  He singled the loudest of them, told him to be less noisy and the soldier laughed at him.

The next thing he remembered was the other solders carrying their dead leader out of the hotel.  The Standartenfuhrer had shot him, on the same charge, insubordination.  Would this Standartenfuhrer do the same?

He had learned that day the SS, especially the higher-ranked officers, didn’t tolerate anything, and as one, he was expected to do the same.

“Sir.  It is my job to ask questions, as you are fully aware.  I was given orders, and I obey those orders.”  Suddenly the man was less confident.

“I understand that.  It is of no concern to you where we are going, only that it is on urgent and classified Reich business.  It is of no concern to anyone but the Oberfuhrer I report to, and I will have to report to him on why I was delayed.  You name Scharfuhrer?”

“I have no wish to delay you, sir.”  He saluted, got back on his motorcycle and left, speeding up to catch up to the rest of the convoy.

The Standartenfuhrer got back in the car.

“That was close,” the driver said.  In English.

Mayer was proficient in English as his father had told him that it would stand him in good stead one day.  He just omitted to tell anyone he worked with, or when he was recruited.  They had asked, and he thought it wisest to say no.

Now, these two men were speaking English.  It was not unknown for SS officers to speak English, as well as several other languages like Dutch, French and Italian. He had a little French, and less Italian.

“Who are you?” Mayer asked again but sticking to German.

The Standartenfuhrer glared at his driver.

“This is the point where it depends on how you answer the next question whether we execute you here, or we continue.  Bear in mind that if you tell us a lie, you will be shot.”  The Standartenfuhrer also spoke in German.

The English Mayer decided was to correct to be from an Englishman, only a German who had learned it as a second language, and definitely as an SS officer.  Perhaps these two were charged with interrogating English prisoners, though that didn’t explain why they had taken him.

All of a sudden, he had a very bad feeling about this kidnapping.  It was a kidnapping, and these men were taking him to a different location, perhaps to torture him.  He had heard rumors, but since it came from a fellow SS officer, he considered it to be true.

“The question?” he stammered, nerves getting the better of him.

“Do you want to get out of Germany?”

What?  IT wasn’t [possible that anyone could know that.  He’d only admitted that sentiment to one person, and he knew he could trust them not to tell anyone.  OR could he?

And, was this a trick question.  If he answered no, it meant they could charge him with crimes against the Reich for having the blueprints of the V2 rocket?  And if he said yes, would they execute him here on the side of the road?

There was no answer that wouldn’t see him shot.

So better to say he was fed up with the conditions he’d been working under, get shot, and never return.

“Yes.”  Of course, there was a pertinent question to add to that reply, “How did you know?”

“You had the plans and specifications outside the bunker.  An executable offense.  I believe you do not like the idea of the German High Command using these rockets as weapons.”

“Most of us on the project do not, but we have to do as we are told.  For obvious reasons.”

“So far so good,” the Standartenfuhrer switched back to English.  “We know you speak English, in fact we know quite a lot about you.  As you’ve obviously guessed, we are not going to and interrogation site, but further south to Italy where there is an escape route set up by the resistance.”

“Who do you work for?”

“OSS.  We are probably worse off than you in that if we get caught, we will be shot as spies.  But, so far we’ve had good luck, except for that nosy motorcyclist.  I expect he will not keep his mouth shut and report us.”

“You won’t get that far.  With petrol rationing, this car is going to run out long before we get to the border.”

“Don’t you worry about the details.  That’s our job.  You just sit back, do as we ask, and everything should be alright.  Very few people question an SS officer of my rank.” 

He looked at his driver. 

“Now, let’s get the hell out of here before that nosy fool comes back with reinforcements.”

 

© Charles Heath 2020

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 9

Nine

I was left alone sitting in front of the bank of monitors that showed the room with Angelina, the room with Gabrielle and Fabio, a standoff brewing, the passage outside the room where two men were waiting, and a series of passageways, and other rooms that were empty.

The Hollywood team were away in their own area monitoring events and working on scenarios and props.  Their number included two

scriptwriters who were working on scenarios of what he might do next, as if they were writing a thriller novel.

My money was on escape.

There was no value in staying, or in choosing either one woman or the other, because men like Fabio only think of themselves when it comes to the crunch.

If Amy told him he could leave, but not take either of the women, he’d take it.

Ten minutes passed, then Amy arrived outside the door to Gabrielle’s room.  She had one of the men pound on the door, then yell out his time was up.  After telling him to stay back from the door, they opened it.

My view of him inside the room showed him standing just back from the arc the door would take as it swung open.  Was he planning something?  If it was me…

“Come on out, it’s time to meet the people who are employing me,” Amy said.

Something new.  There were no people employing her, and she would definitely not hand him over to the police, so I had to ask myself, what was her play here?

Then I noticed how her two guards were standing.  Not exactly in a manner that would stop him if he made a break for it.  Or maybe I was wrong, reading more into it that there was.

Or not.

As one of the men stepped into the room the bring him out, he crashed into him, pushing him into Amy, and then, in turn, pushing her into the other guard, and in the vital few sends it took for them to regain their balance, he was off, running up the passage.

I saw the look on her face when she looked up at the camera.

This was meant to happen.

Then they took off after him.

I kept track of him on the monitors.  He ran madly up the first passage, and when he got to the end and had to go left, he stooped and checked to see where his pursuers were. 

Not far behind, making a lot of noise.

But, as far as I could see, not trying all that hard to catch up with him. 

Around the corner there were several doors.  He tried them but they were locked.  OK.  This was a pre-determined ‘escape’ where he had to take the route she’d organised for him.

At the next corner there was a door that looked like it exited outside the building.  He tried to escape through it, but it had a newish chain and padlock holding it closed.  It opened a little, and there was a tantalising hint of daylight, and freedom just beyond his reach.

The sound of plodding steps pushed him further along the passage, until it opened out into a large area with a roller door on one side.  That was the entrance/exit, where cars came and went.  It had a concrete floor, roof, a number of columns, and no windows.  At one end, the furthest from where he came in from the passage was another door.

About 20 yards into the carpark, he stopped and did a full turn, looking for another exit.  He saw the door at the end but didn’t immediately start running towards it.

He looked back towards the door he had just come through, perhaps expecting to see his pursuers, but I could see Amy and the two men holding back, just out of sight back from the doorway.

The next move was Fabio’s.

He waited a minute, then two, before starting walking towards the door at the other end.  There was no panic in his movements, which suggested he thought the door would be locked like the others.  Maybe he’d worked out this was where he was supposed to be.

For what?

AS expected, when he reached and tried the door, it didn’t open.  He took about twenty steps back in the direction he’d come and stopped.

“OK,” he yelled out, “I’m here for a reason.  Come out, come out, wherever you are?”

I watched her transition from the passage to the carpark.

When she stopped they were about 100 yards apart.

“Why am I here?” he yelled out.

“To meet the people who wanted you rescued.”

“Are you saying my escape wasn’t an escape?”

“You’re here.  I figured you’d have to try eventually.  Why not let it happen on my terms?”

I zoomed in on his face and saw that his expression was one of anger, that she had played him.  But, unarmed, and alone, he was not going anywhere.

A loud clang came from the other end of the carpark, and the door that had been closed to him opened.

He turned, and I could see his intent, to make a dash for the door, except when the first person came into the carpark, he stopped dead.

I recognised the man instantly.

Benito.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 9

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, 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.

An interrogation and a revelation.

…

I think I just about reached that same conclusion just seconds before she uttered it.  But, I didn’t think this was the time to air my own thoughts on the matter.

The question I did ask was, “It appears our service has been compromised.”

She glanced at me almost condescendingly.  “It appears so.  Have you got your cell phone?”

I had it with me and gave it to her.  I had it ready because I knew they would ask for it.  It had a record of orders given, and phone conversations made, before, during, and after the operation.

For a review, or in this case, a search for the guilty.

I watched her put in the passcode, and go to the messages, and bring up the one sent to me, to attend the briefing.  It was all in order, no different to the previous five, with all the right designations and protocols.

“There was no reason to suspect it was anything but a real callout.”

Another glance at the screen, she put it on the desk next to the file.  “No, it looks real enough.”

Thought best kept to myself; how the hell did someone outside our organisation, know so well our inner workings?  I wanted to ask the question but refrained from doing so.

It also explained, now that I thought about it, the reason why the target had said he was one of us.  We had been hunting him so someone else, and enemy organisation perhaps, so they could kill him.  The question was, why?  Had he made a discovery, the evidence he was referring to that a certain Alfred Nobbin might have.

Perhaps a good idea, for the time being, to keep that snippet of information to myself.  After all, this new person in front of me could be one of Severin’s people.

Where I was sitting was not a familiar place to me, though I had been to the building before, which is why I knew where to go for this interview.  AS for the people, everyone I’d met so far, other than the other team members, bar one, I’d known from training.

So, now another expected question from me, or at least, if I was on the other side of the table, it’s one I’d expect to be asked.  “Just who was I working for, if it was not for us?”

Assuming she was one of us.

“That’s what we intend to find out.  Who was the target?”

I gave her the description we’d been given, and a copy of his photograph that had been circulated at the briefing.  I’d kept one of them, and luckily no one noticed it missing.  It was fortuitous that’s I’d copied the photo before I had to give it to her, which was right then.

There was not a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

“So, not one of us?” I asked.

For an interrogation, she wasn’t asking many relevant questions.

She looked up.  “Why would you say that, if your mission was to keep him under surveillance?”

“Which we now know was not sanctioned, so we have to assume that we had been persuaded to find and track one of our own agents.  You look as though you didn’t recognise him?”

“I don’t try to remember every agent we have in the field, here and overseas.  There a few too many for that.  But I’ve got a request out for his identity.  He didn’t say who he was?”

“No.”

“Anything at all that might be useful?”

“That he was one of us, who’d made a mistake, and feared we’d set the dogs on him.”

“Yes.  Someone definitely did that.”

© Charles Heath 2019

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My second novel 1

That dreaded second novel

…

Beyond the First Draft: How to Survive and Thrive with Your Second Novel

You typed the two most beautiful words in the English language: “The End.”

After months, maybe years, of blood, coffee, and a thousand tiny miracles, you did it. You wrote a novel. You navigated the treacherous waters of the middle, wrestled with a climax, and gave your characters the ending they deserved. There’s a euphoria that comes with that moment, a dizzying, wonderful high.

And then, a quiet question begins to echo in the silence where your keyboard’s clatter used to be.

“So… what’s next?”

For many writers, the prospect of the second novel is more terrifying than the first. The first was fueled by naivete and a story burning so hot it had to be told. It was a great learning curve, the discovery of your own voice. The second novel… that’s different. That’s the one with expectations. The one where you have to prove it wasn’t a fluke.

They say we all have one book in us. But what’s required to start the second one? It’s not just about finding a new idea. It’s about a fundamental shift in your approach as a writer.

1. Give the First Book Its Wings

Before you can even think about Book Two, you have to let Book One go.

This is harder than it sounds. Your first novel is your baby. You’ve obsessed over every sentence, every piece of dialogue. But holding onto it too tightly creates a creative bottleneck. The pressure to replicate its success—or avoid its perceived failures—can be paralysing.

Think of your first book as a beautiful bird you’ve nurtured. It’s time to open the window and let it fly. It has its own life now. Your job is not to clone it. Your job is to move on to the next nest.

2. Be a Beginner Again (Seriously)

You finished a novel. You know what a turning point is. You understand the three-act structure. You’re a veteran, right?

Wrong.

Welcome back to square one.

The sophomore slump is real because writers mistakenly believe they should be experts now. They think this next book should be easier. It won’t be. Every story is a new mountain to climb, and the terrain is always different. The only way to approach it is with a beginner’s mind: curious, open to failure, and ready to learn.

Give yourself permission to not have all the answers. The process that got you through the first draft of your first book might not work this time. Be willing to be a student again.

3. Refill the Creative Well

Writing a novel is an act of extreme emotional and creative output. It is draining. Chances are, your well is looking a little dusty and dry right now. You can’t draw water from an empty well.

You need to refill it. This isn’t a passive act; it’s a crucial part of the process.

  • Read. Read voraciously and widely. Read outside your genre. Read bad books and figure out why they don’t work. Read great books and let them remind you why you wanted to do this in the first place.
  • Live. You cannot just be a writer. You have to be a human first. Go to museums. Take a different route home. Eavesdrop on conversations in a coffee shop. Have new experiences. Your second novel’s inspiration is hiding in the living of your life, not in staring at a blank page.
  • Rest. Your brain has been running a marathon. Let it recover. Take a week—or a month—away from writing. Your story will be there when you get back, and you’ll see it with fresher eyes.

4. Find a New “Why”

Your first novel was likely driven by a story you had to tell. It was a personal demon, a lifelong dream, a world you couldn’t escape. That kind of passion is a powerful engine. It’s hard to manufacture.

The secret to starting the second novel is finding a new “why.” It can’t be about deadlines or agents or reader expectations. It has to be a story that excites you on a fundamental level. A character who intrigues you, a question that won’t leave you alone, a theme you’re burning to explore.

When you find that, the external pressure fades. You’re not just writing a “second novel”; you’re writing your next novel.

5. Embrace the Ugly First Draft (All Over Again)

You know this, but you need to hear it again: the first draft is allowed to be terrible.

Anne Lamott’s concept of the “shitty first draft” is a gift for every writer, but it’s a lifeline for the second-time author. You know what a polished final product looks like now, which makes the messy, chaotic first draft even more discouraging.

Resist the urge to edit as you go. Silence the inner critic that compares this new, messy work to the finished product of your last. Give yourself the freedom to write poorly, to write scenes that will get cut, to follow a plot into a dead end.

The magic isn’t in the first draft. The magic is in the revision. That’s a skill you honed with your first book. Trust it.

Your Next Chapter

The first novel proved you could do it. The second novel proves you are a writer. It’s the transition from a single, magnificent effort to a sustainable practice. It’s about building a career, one word at a time.

So yes, the pressure is real. But so is the experience you’ve gained. You are more capable than you were before. Be kind to your beginner self, find the story that sets your soul on fire, and start climbing.

The view from the top of this next mountain will be worth it.

What’s your biggest fear or excitement for writing a second novel? Share in the comments below!

What I learned about writing – Our stories may be guided dreams



We are told sometimes that it’s possible our writing is nothing more than a guided dream. So says Jorge Luis Borges in Doctor Brodies report.

Wow! If only I could guide my dreams.

They are a mess at the best of times and always end before I get to the good part.

That’s why I am writing a series called The Cinema of My Dreams. I lie awake at night staring at the ceiling, and instead of seeing darkness, I see the plots of my stories playing out. They never go where I want them to, but that’s because life doesn’t always play ball.

It’s the way my stories are written, an episode at a time, and not fully knowing what’s going to happen. As I write, I am writing like I’m the reader, hanging on every word, leaping from cliffhanger to cliffhanger.

Admittedly, it can be nerve-wracking, especially when an idea for the next episode doesn’t materialise, but I get there. Inspiration sometimes comes from anywhere at any time.

But most people like to have a plan, and that, to me, means you know every aspect of the story before you write it. I don’t like that because it would take too long to create the outline.

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey.  Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there.  She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions.  Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife.  Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

…

lovecoverfinal1