Category: Fiction

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 4

How did I get into this mess in the first place?

I had a few moments for reflection…

…

When I opened my eyes, it was a revelation that I was still alive.

Whether or not I was still on one piece was not exactly the first thought that crossed my mind.

It was, oddly enough, how I got into this situation.

So, two days earlier…

Someone once told me it was not a good idea to ask your commander out to dinner. Not a date, just the fact you’d like to get to know her better.

Yes, my commanding officer was a woman.

I thought the dinner went well, we found some common ground, ice hockey, and baseball, albeit barracking for different teams.

Then, the next day when I went into ‘the office’, the operations officer called me aside.

“Who’d did you piss off?”

Good question, had I, and who? And asked, “You tell me.”

“Apparently the Commanding Officer. She asked me to put you on patrol, where nothing ever happens and it’s as boring as shit.”

Usually, I was in the front line, what they called in the army, cannon fodder. Some said I had a death wish.

I shrugged. “No doubt she has her reasons. I could think of worse assignments.”‘

“Well, till then you’re on standby. Make the most of it.”

Of course, the question I should be asking is why she had put me on patrol, where I was rostered for front line recovery.

When I got back to my quarters, I called her.

Her assistant answered, “The commanding officer is not available at the moment and has advised me that she will remain so for the next forty-eight hours.”

That was the end of the conversation.

How come she had not told me? Probably none of my business, but it was worrying.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

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 that 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 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.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping 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 he was not the concierge, and instead he 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, then clunked 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 lift lobby, only what was 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 to 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

The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 26

I have a small job

…

The trek from the car, along the red carpet, the flashing cameras, and reporters with microphones shoved in faces, was the longest 50 yards I’d ever taken.

To say I’d prefer to negotiate a minefield was an understatement.  She was polite, smiling, answering questions, and doing the red-carpet thing if that was what it was. 

I remained in the background adopting the bodyguard stance, not that of a partner or escort, guiding her on at the appropriate moment, and they left me alone.

Bodyguards were not news just an accouterment to the rich and famous.  I was glad that I fitted into the suit and didn’t look out of place.

On the other side, in that magical land of peace and quiet, an area that was reserved for the VIPs, I got a momentary look into a world that few were ever privy to.

Being a Royal Command Performance, I also got the unexpected surprise of being introduced to members of the Royal family, scary stuff indeed.  I’d only ever seen them in the papers and on TV, and oddly never in a good light.

How different they were in person.

Rodby seemed ill at ease, Martha in her element, and the countess took it all in her stride, perhaps showing that she was born into that life rather than acquiring it.

I’d found a quiet corner and Rodby it seemed had too.

“Another of your white lies comes home to roost.  You ask why I won’t come back, and this evening is all the proof you need.”

“It wasn’t anything to do with me.  Orders from above.”

“You don’t answer to anyone.”

The wry grin said otherwise.  “We all have our masters.”

“Who is she?”

At the moment she was across the room deep in conversation with one of the Royal party.

“A woman with a problem.”

And then it all became clear.  “This is low, even for you.”

“Not me.  This is Martha’s doing.  She has this unaccountable belief in you, which is surprising since I’ve never told her what it was you used to do.”

“And yet here we are.”

I was going to make a point of talking to Martha if only to dispute his account.  He could have chosen any one of a hundred more qualified people and yet here I was.  I had to believe it was not Martha’s intention for me to be here other than as a prospect for her friend the Countess.

“Indeed.”

The accompanying sigh was due to Martha making her way over to us. His brief moment of solitude was over.  I doubted Rodby had any time for what he called schmoozing, nor would he suffer the protection types that were in abundance in that room.  It reeked of wealth and privilege.

“There you two are.”

“I don’t like crowds,” I said.  At least I had a viable excuse.

She glared at Rodby.  “Go and make yourself amenable.  I want a moment with Evan.”

His dismay was complete.  I could tell he would rather face down a horde of enemy soldiers than face those people currently in the room.

After a moment where he might have considered an entirely different scenario, he thought the better of it and meandered off in the direction of the bar.

This was a Rodby I’d never seen before.

“Now, what are you doing with yourself these days?  Alan tells me you are adrift now Violetta is not there.”

How kind of him to say so.  Had I completely misjudged him, and this was going to be his pitch, by someone he knew I couldn’t say no to.

“I would not call in exactly adrift.”

“You know what I mean.  I’m sorry that I haven’t managed to catch up but I’ve been working on getting him to decide it’s time to retire.”

“I’m not sure what I could do to help you in that regard.”

“You don’t have to.  I have something else I would like you to do for me.  Heidi is one of those formidable forces that have the ability to take on the world, and beat it, but not when it comes to handling problems of her own.  The count, God bless him, used to take care of all that nonsense, but he’s not here, so, given what Alan has told me about you, nothing but glowing references I have to say, could you help her out?”

What could Rodby possibly say about me when he was sworn to secrecy?  In fact, why would he mention me to Martha above anyone else?  I was just an errand boy in terms of acquaintances.

“What exactly did he say?”

“Nothing of any importance other than to say you were a good man in a crisis.”  She smiled. “And we both know that could mean almost anything from catching a mug of coffee before it splashed over a tetchy diplomat to saving a pilotless plane about to crash into a mountain.  What I’m asking will not involve either of these scenarios or at least I hope not.”  Perhaps she just saw my expression, a mixture of curiosity and dismay.  “I’m not selling this very well, am I?”

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to sell.”

The bell rang to signify the audience to head for their seats, or in our case, a box.  Opera was so much better from the boxes, particularly when those below looked up in awe, expecting to see a celebrity.

“We’re having drinks after the opera.  We’ll talk more then.” 

Rodby was walking over with the countess.

The look on his face was priceless

© Charles Heath 2022

What I learned about writing – Cliches

So, standard practice tells us that as writers we must avoid cliches at all costs.

It’s a great idea. Because you are writing to potentially a great many people, the notion that most of them will have no idea what you are talking about, or understand the relevance, it’s best not to leave them perplexed when they read something they don’t understand.

A great example of this was many years ago when I worked with a chap who was a recent immigrant from Russia. His English was reasonable, that is, he could speak in a manner I could understand, but there were times when he stopped, searching for the English equivalent.

I would have called it a quaint accent. Others would be less accommodating.

But…

I found that I tended to speak with a lot of English idioms and cliches, some of which he did not understand, and so I spent a lot of time translating them. He was not at all ashamed of not knowing them, but wanted to.

Thus, for a few months, I became an ESL teacher and found it quite amusing, especially when he told me what the Russian equivalents were. And, yes, Russians do have their own cliches, and we westerners cop a few really interesting ones.

And, yes, I use cliches in stories, or at least until the third draft when I realise that they don’t belong, and even when they last a little longer, the editor’s blue pencil gets them every time.

But, and there’s always a but…

What if your protagonist speaks in cliches?

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 112

Day 112 – What if the book you’re writing has a similar plot and characters to another book

…

The “Accidental Copycat”: What to Do When Your Story Feels Too Familiar

We’ve all been there. You’re halfway through your manuscript, the plot is finally clicking, and then—thud. You’re scrolling through a bookstore shelf or browsing Goodreads, and you see it. A book that was published two years ago that features a protagonist agonisingly similar to yours, a plot twist you thought was genius, and a setting that feels like a carbon copy of your own world.

Panic sets in. Am I a thief? Is my book unoriginal? Should I delete the file and start over?

Take a deep breath. Before you hit “delete,” let’s unpack why this happens and why it’s usually not the catastrophe you think it is.

1. The “Great Ideas” Phenomenon

There is an old adage in the writing world: “There are no new stories, only new ways to tell them.”

Human storytelling is built on archetypes. Whether it’s the Hero’s Journey, the “Enemies to Lovers” trope, or the “Small Town Secret,” we are all drawing from the same well of universal themes. If your book feels similar to another, it’s likely because those themes resonate with the collective human experience.

If you didn’t consciously sit down with that other book open on your desk to copy it, you aren’t stealing. You are simply participating in a genre.

2. The Difference Between Trope and Theft

There is a massive difference between plot points and execution.

  • The Trope: Two characters get stuck in an elevator and fall in love.
  • The Theft: You copy the specific dialogue, the unique way one character clears their throat, the specific backstory about their dying goldfish, and the exact sequence of events down to the minute.

If you are using the same general framework as another author, you are writing in a genre. If you are using their specific, unique creative choices (their “voice,” their specific, non-trope-based world-building quirks, or their specific phrasing), that’s where the ethical line blurs.

3. Your Perspective is Your “Secret Sauce”

Even if you and another author started with the same “what if” prompt, your story will end up completely different. Why? Because you are not that author.

  • Your Life Experience: The way you describe grief, love, or a sunrise is colored by your own unique traumas, joys, and perspective.
  • Your Character Voice: Characters are the sum of their choices. If your protagonist makes a choice different from the “original” character, the entire ripple effect of the story changes.
  • Your Pacing and Tone: One author might write your shared plot as a dark, gritty noir; another might write it as a bubbly, fast-paced comedy.

4. How to Conduct a “Sanity Check”

If the similarities still bother you, perform these three steps to gain clarity:

  1. Read the “Other” Book: It sounds counterintuitive, but if you haven’t read it, you might be scaring yourself over nothing. Read it to see if the “similarities” are actually just superficial tropes.
  2. Identify the “Soul” of Your Story: Ask yourself, “What is the one thing I am trying to say that no one else can say exactly like me?” If you can answer that, lean harder into that element.
  3. Twist the Narrative: If you feel like your plot beat is too derivative, change it. Give your character a different motivation. Put the story in a different setting. Introduce an antagonist that complicates the “cliché.”

The Bottom Line

Originality isn’t about being the first person to come up with an idea; it’s about being the most authentic person to express it.

Don’t let the fear of “stealing” paralyse your creativity. If you are writing from a place of genuine passion, your voice will shine through, regardless of how many other books explore similar territory. Keep writing. The world hasn’t read your version yet—and that version is the only one that truly matters.

“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

“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment, Will’s life slowly starts to unravel, and it’s obvious to him that it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule: don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 112

Day 112 – What if the book you’re writing has a similar plot and characters to another book

…

The “Accidental Copycat”: What to Do When Your Story Feels Too Familiar

We’ve all been there. You’re halfway through your manuscript, the plot is finally clicking, and then—thud. You’re scrolling through a bookstore shelf or browsing Goodreads, and you see it. A book that was published two years ago that features a protagonist agonisingly similar to yours, a plot twist you thought was genius, and a setting that feels like a carbon copy of your own world.

Panic sets in. Am I a thief? Is my book unoriginal? Should I delete the file and start over?

Take a deep breath. Before you hit “delete,” let’s unpack why this happens and why it’s usually not the catastrophe you think it is.

1. The “Great Ideas” Phenomenon

There is an old adage in the writing world: “There are no new stories, only new ways to tell them.”

Human storytelling is built on archetypes. Whether it’s the Hero’s Journey, the “Enemies to Lovers” trope, or the “Small Town Secret,” we are all drawing from the same well of universal themes. If your book feels similar to another, it’s likely because those themes resonate with the collective human experience.

If you didn’t consciously sit down with that other book open on your desk to copy it, you aren’t stealing. You are simply participating in a genre.

2. The Difference Between Trope and Theft

There is a massive difference between plot points and execution.

  • The Trope: Two characters get stuck in an elevator and fall in love.
  • The Theft: You copy the specific dialogue, the unique way one character clears their throat, the specific backstory about their dying goldfish, and the exact sequence of events down to the minute.

If you are using the same general framework as another author, you are writing in a genre. If you are using their specific, unique creative choices (their “voice,” their specific, non-trope-based world-building quirks, or their specific phrasing), that’s where the ethical line blurs.

3. Your Perspective is Your “Secret Sauce”

Even if you and another author started with the same “what if” prompt, your story will end up completely different. Why? Because you are not that author.

  • Your Life Experience: The way you describe grief, love, or a sunrise is colored by your own unique traumas, joys, and perspective.
  • Your Character Voice: Characters are the sum of their choices. If your protagonist makes a choice different from the “original” character, the entire ripple effect of the story changes.
  • Your Pacing and Tone: One author might write your shared plot as a dark, gritty noir; another might write it as a bubbly, fast-paced comedy.

4. How to Conduct a “Sanity Check”

If the similarities still bother you, perform these three steps to gain clarity:

  1. Read the “Other” Book: It sounds counterintuitive, but if you haven’t read it, you might be scaring yourself over nothing. Read it to see if the “similarities” are actually just superficial tropes.
  2. Identify the “Soul” of Your Story: Ask yourself, “What is the one thing I am trying to say that no one else can say exactly like me?” If you can answer that, lean harder into that element.
  3. Twist the Narrative: If you feel like your plot beat is too derivative, change it. Give your character a different motivation. Put the story in a different setting. Introduce an antagonist that complicates the “cliché.”

The Bottom Line

Originality isn’t about being the first person to come up with an idea; it’s about being the most authentic person to express it.

Don’t let the fear of “stealing” paralyse your creativity. If you are writing from a place of genuine passion, your voice will shine through, regardless of how many other books explore similar territory. Keep writing. The world hasn’t read your version yet—and that version is the only one that truly matters.

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta reader’s view

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well, not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest.  Then, inexplicably, she disappears.  That might have been the end of it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum: find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father, who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

…

The book can be purchased here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

…

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 3

Dreaming I was in the desert…

But it was just another episode of the helicopter story, we’re back on the ground after that fateful jump, things are not going quite as planned.

Do they ever in life or death situations?

…
Yards were like miles, and I didn’t have the time to reach the weapon.  I could see the pickup going around the burning wreck as he of the helicopter and approach me.

But, being the optimist I was I had to try.

And fail.

The pickup was on me before I’d made it halfway, stopping about a foot from me.  Any further and it would have run me over.

I got to my knees and put my hands on my head not giving them any immediate reason to kill me.  The man who had fired the rocket got out of the vehicle moments after it stopped.

A man in military garb, not very old.  And not a foreigner.  I was expecting South American, but not ostensibly one of us.  A glance inside the vehicle showed the driver was a woman, in civilian clothes.

A surprise, yes.

“Mr. James I presume.”  English, well spoken.

Another surprise or more than one, that he spoke English and knew who I was.

“We were expecting you but not be quite so dramatic entrance.  Please stand.”

Kneeling had been difficult; I was not quite sure how standing was going to work.  I was still recovered from the impromptu exit from the helicopter.

I tried and fell back on the ground.  I looked up at him.  “Sorry, the legs are still a little rubbery.”

He simply shook his head, leaned over and dragged me to my feet, then slung me over his shoulder, carried me to the rear of the pickup and tossed me in.  I just managed to avoid hitting my head on the floor.

The man climbed in the back and then slapped the back of the cab.

Crunching gears, an over-revving engine, then a jerky start.  It was not going to be a comfortable journey.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2022