Category: Fiction

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 40

Here’s the thing…

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.

 

The passage heading towards the marina was littered with fallen rocks, timber beams, and roofing material. Much of the damage was in this wing, where the marina had started falling apart.

It was a problem with the foundations. A long and costly investigation had found that the marina’s foundations had been inadequately built on a shifting base, made worse by the seasonal water flow.

It was interesting to learn that the event that caused the start of the problems had not occurred in a hundred years, but had been noted in an early newspaper report, and only that it was a phenomenon, 

No one at the time had any interest in building there, and it was understood when the navy built its marina, there was no mention of anything untoward happening that would preclude the construction.

And, over the life of the project, nothing had happened. It was why, when the mall was being touted, no one really knew anything about flooding because it hadn’t happened in living memory.  That only came later, after the damage was done.

We reached the end of the passageway and found the stairs leading up to the walkway around the marina was closed off. Someone had pulled a board away and we could peer through the crack.

There was daylight beyond, and we could see the large cracks in the staircase, and along the walls either side.  There were two sets of stairs up both at the end of a mall passageway, and, in between, there were steps down into the carpark.  To one side of that was an elevator lobby, but the elevators would not be working.

But, just out of curiosity, I pressed the button.  The light came on, but nothing happened, and, a second later, it went out again.

I looked up, but Boggs had not moved from the top of the stairs.

These steps were not blocked by a barricade, but there would be some difficulty stepping over masonry that had fallen from the roof, which now had a gaping crack and a few pieces of concrete missing.  I could see the steel reinforcing and it was rusting.

A few years, all of it would eventually come down.

“You sure this is safe,” I asked.

“Been here a few times.  I reckon it hasn’t changed much in years.”

He was looking at the map again, and I peered over his shoulder.  The stairs were there but looking down we could only see as far as the landing.  There were cracked and broken tiles everywhere, and the handrail had been bent severely out of shape by a boulder now wedged in the rail.

Boggs put the map in his back pocket and said, “Follow me.”  He started walking slowly down the stairs, flashing his cell phone light ahead so we could see if there were any hazards.

At the landing, we looked further down the stairs, and these were cleaner.  Also, the wall which kept the marina out had a crack in it, and it was damp which meant water was seeping in.  The smell was of mold, and I wondered if that could be good for our health.

I followed him down to the first level of the carpark.  In the distance, looking back towards the front entrance of the mall, way in the distance was the slatted entrance gates, light seeping in through the cracks. 

Between us and those gates were several cars, crushed by a huge concrete beam that had fallen on them.  I remembered, then, that there had been a husband and wife in one of the cars at the time and they’d been killed.  Their children had been luckier, the youngest had to go to the restroom, and that minute delay had saved them.

Still, it would not be good seeing your parents killed in front of your eyes.

“This place is giving me the creeps,” I said and shuddered. 

They said there were ghosts, and I now believed them.

“What are we looking for?: I asked.

“Evidence of the underground river.”

“That would be long gone by now, since they built this lot over it, and some of it falling into it.”

“We shall see.” 

He then went down the next flight of steps to the bottom carpark, and I followed.  There was less debris on this level, but it was much darker down here, and with only Boggs’ cell phone light, we couldn’t see much else.

“That’s strange,” Boggs said, having taken a dozen or so steps to the right.

“What is?”  I wondered what his definition of the word strange was.

“There’s supposed to be an open section here where the wall fell away, pushed by the water flow last time it flooded.  The report said that a section here wasn’t anchored properly with formwork, hence the ease in which it was moved.”

I looked at the wall.  It seemed to be still intact to me.

Boggs pulled out a pocketknife and tapped it against the surface.

The false concrete chipped and fell away, and a closer inspection showed stippled plaster over plywood, very damp plywood.  Boggs extracted a knife and worked on the wall, clearing a foot square, the damp plaster easily peeling away.

A false wall, one that no one would think twice about if they were not looking for it.

Boggs then scraped sideways until the blade hit metal, then he scraped around it until a gate-type bolt was exposed.  It didn’t have a lock.  It was rusted shut, so Boggs found a rock and hit it a few times, shaking it loose.  He opened it, then tugged on it.

Was he expecting a door to open?

“Give us some help here.”

We both pulled on it, and it gave way, showering us in plaster pieces.  At least we weren’t smothered in dust.

As it opened, light flooded in, almost blinding me.

I let Boggs open it the rest of the way while my eyes adjusted.

Then I tentatively looked out.

From where we were standing, we could see the two levels of the marina walkway, broken away at this end above the doorway, and a big hole in the side wall of what was the marina pool.  We could see, and smell the seawater, and beyond, the ocean.

Looking down, there was a sheer drop of about 30 feet, and under us, there was an opening.  At that 30 feet was flowing water, and through the water, I thought I could see clothes.

“Is that a body down there?”

It looked like one.

“No.  Don’t think so.  Someone probably threw a clothed dummy down there for fun, once when this was open.  I’d say it was closed up to make the place safer. Anyway, we’ll soon find out.  We’re going down to have a look.”

© Charles Heath 2020

The 2am Rant: A blank look means you’re in another world

I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one.  That’s why, I guess, so many writers have an animal as a pet, someone to talk to, or just feel as though you are not alone in this quest.

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometimes the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.

Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

I’m sure his thoughts are not vague or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.

The cat’s world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna.  I am not that cat!

Unlike other professions, there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time.  Not while you are writing that next masterpiece.  It’s a steady sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.

Stories have to be written from beginning to end, not a bit here and a bit there.

It’s a bit like running a marathon.  You are in a zone, the first few miles are the hardest, the middle is just getting the rhythm and breathing under control, and then you hope you get to the end because it can seem that you’ve been going forever and the end is never in sight.

But, when you reach the end, oh, isn’t the feeling one of pure joy and relief.

And, yes, perhaps you’ve just created another masterpiece!

What I learned about writing – A simple joke can become inspiration

Spinning Shadows into Sparkle: The Zany Art of Conspiracy Comedy

Isn’t it fascinating how our minds gravitate towards patterns in the chaos? How the whispered “what if” can quickly blossom into a sprawling, intricate web of secret societies, hidden agendas, and dark forces pulling the strings? The appeal of a good conspiracy is undeniable, tapping into our deepest fears and our innate desire for meaning, even if that meaning points to malevolent forces.

But what if those shadowy figures wear mismatched socks? What if their nefarious plot hinges on the strategic deployment of artisanal pickles? What if the hero unearthing the truth is less a grizzled detective and more a bewildered barista?

This, my friends, is the magical alchemy we’re talking about: taking the genuine chill of darkness and paranoia, threading a dense tapestry of conspiracy, and then weaving through it with a generous dose of tongue-in-cheek humour and a plot so zany it practically winks at you. It’s a delicate dance, a narrative tightrope walk, but when executed well, it creates some of the most memorable and beloved stories out there.

So, how do we try to achieve this glorious narrative concoction?

1. Acknowledging the Shadow: The Foundation of Fear

You can’t have effective satire without a genuine understanding of what you’re satirising. The first step in threading dense conspiracies with humour is to start with the darkness. The paranoia needs to feel real, at least initially. The stakes should, at some level, be genuinely high.

  • How we do it: We establish an underlying threat that feels substantial. The shadowy organisation is powerful. Their goals are unsettling. Without that genuine undercurrent of dread, the humour lands flat. It’s the contrast with this genuine darkness that makes the absurdity sing. Imagine a secret society plotting global domination – that’s the serious core.

2. The Intricate Web: Conspiracies You Can (Almost) Believe

A “dense conspiracy” isn’t just a list of random bad things happening. It’s an interconnected narrative, a puzzle where every piece seems to fit, even if the grand picture is utterly bonkers.

  • How we do it: We layer the clues, introduce a cast of characters with mysterious motives, and connect the dots between the utterly mundane and the outrageously sinister. Perhaps a global drought is linked to a mega-corp’s new line of flavoured seltzer. Maybe the disappearance of garden gnomes is a precursor to an alien invasion. The logic, however flawed, must be internally consistent within its own absurd framework. The more intricate the web, the more satisfying its eventual, often ridiculous, unravelling. It makes the audience feel smart for “figuring it out,” even if what they’ve figured out is that pigeons are the true global overlords.

3. The Knowing Wink: Tongue-in-Cheek Humour

This isn’t slapstick for its own sake (though a little never hurt!). “Tongue-in-cheek” implies a shared understanding, a subtle nod to the audience that “we know this is ridiculous, and that’s the point.”

  • How we do it:
    • Character-driven absurdity: A villain who meticulously plans world domination but forgets their lunch. A reluctant hero whose biggest concern is finding strong coffee. The deadpan delivery of utterly insane dialogue.
    • Situational irony: The world-ending device being housed in a municipal library’s lost-and-found. The most devastating secret being revealed on a children’s TV show.
    • Subversion of tropes: Taking every classic conspiracy theory cliché (the all-seeing eye, the secret handshake, the cryptic message) and twisting it just enough to make it funny without losing its essence.
    • Self-awareness: The narrative often winks at its own ridiculousness, but never breaks character entirely. It’s about finding the humour within the grand conspiracy, not just overlaying it.

4. Embracing the Bizarre: The Zany Plot

This is where the gloves come off and imagination truly runs wild. If the conspiracy is the skeleton, the zany plot is the vibrant, unpredictable flesh.

  • How we do it: We throw out conventional narrative structures and embrace escalating absurdity. Where a secret society’s ultimate weapon might be a mind-control disco ball, or the key to decoding ancient alien texts involves mastering the art of interpretive dance. The plot twists aren’t just unexpected; they’re wildly, joyfully ludicrous. The solutions to the grand mystery are often simpler (or infinitely more complicated) than anyone could have imagined. Think unexpected car chases involving unicycles, secret lair entrances hidden behind a perpetually broken vending machine, or a climax involving a very confused squirrel.

5. The Secret Sauce: Balance and Juxtaposition

Ultimately, the magic lies in the blend. It’s a constant push and pull between the serious and the silly, the ominous and the outright absurd.

  • How we do it:
    • Pacing: We know when to lean into the genuine tension and dread for a moment, making the audience genuinely concerned, before puncturing that tension with a perfectly timed gag.
    • Contrast: A serious, menacing monologue from a villain, immediately followed by the revelation that they’re wearing bunny slippers. A crucial clue found written on a napkin from a questionable fast-food joint.
    • Anchoring Characters: Often, one or two characters serve as the audience’s anchor, reacting to the madness around them with relatable bewilderment or exasperated cynicism, which amplifies the humour.

Creating a narrative that blends darkness and paranoia with dense conspiracies, tongue-in-cheek humour, and a zany plot isn’t just writing; it’s an art form. It’s about acknowledging the very real anxieties that fuel conspiracy theories, then bravely, playfully, and subversively laughing in their face. It’s about building a world that feels both terrifyingly familiar and delightfully insane. And when it works, it’s an unforgettable journey into the heart of madness, where you’re never quite sure whether to gasp in fear or double over with laughter.

What are your favorite examples of stories that nail this unique blend? Let us know in the comments below!

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 194

Day 194 – Characters and their conversations

…

Beyond the Final Word: Why Character Intentions Drive the Best Conversations in Fiction

“Dialogue should be a series of pitched battles in which the characters are trying to get what they want.”

Every fiction writer eventually encounters a scene where two characters are talking, yet the pages feel utterly lifeless. The exchange is grammatically correct, it moves the plot forward, and it delivers the necessary information. And yet, it bores the reader to tears.

Why? Because the characters are simply arriving at what they want to say, rather than wrestling with the turbulent, messy journey of how they get there.

To master the art of subtext and realistic human interaction, we can look to one of the 20th century’s most brilliant stylists. The celebrated Anglo-Irish novelist and short-story writer Elizabeth Bowen had profound insights into the architecture of conversation. Bowen understood that in great fiction, dialogue is rarely about the destination; it is about the struggle of intention.

In this post, we’ll explore why characters should focus more on what they intend to say rather than the tidy sentences they finally arrive at, drawing inspiration from Elizabeth Bowen’s literary philosophy.

The Elizabeth Bowen Perspective: Conversation as a Secret War

Elizabeth Bowen viewed the surface of life—and polite conversation especially—as a delicate, often deceptive crust over boiling depths. To Bowen, dialogue was never just an exchange of data. It was a social dance, a power struggle, a form of concealment, and an act of psychological warfare all at once.

In her critical writings and through the immaculate prose of novels like The Death of the Heart and The House in Paris, Bowen demonstrated that people rarely say exactly what they mean. Instead, they circle their desires. They hint, they deflect, they use small talk as a shield, and they weaponise silence.

When characters’ conversation is overly streamlined—when they immediately arrive at crisp, articulate summaries of their feelings—the psychological realism evaporates. Real people are hampered by pride, fear, social conditioning, and a lack of self-awareness.

Bowen’s characters speak not to deliver exposition, but to assert themselves against a hostile or indifferent world. The magic happens in the gap between what is intended and what is actually uttered.

What Happens When Characters “Arrive” Too Fast?

Let’s look at the two approaches: dialogue driven by arrival versus dialogue driven by intention.

The Trap of the “Arrival” Dialogue

When a writer focuses on what a character arrives at saying, the dialogue often falls into the trap of “on-the-nose” writing or pure exposition.

  • Example (Arrival):Mark: “I am leaving you because you never pay attention to my emotional needs, Sarah.” Sarah: “That’s not fair. I’ve been stressed about my mother’s illness, but if you’re going to be selfish, maybe we should break up.”

Why it fails: It’s efficient, but it feels robotic. Real human beings in the middle of a breakup rarely diagnose their relationship with the clinical precision of a marriage counsellor in the first three seconds. They are defending their egos, deflecting blame, and masking panic.

The Power of “Intention” Dialogue

When characters are driven by what they intend to say—the subtextual desire to wound, to plead, to hide, or to conquer—the conversation becomes a living, breathing thing.

  • Example (Intention):Mark slammed the refrigerator door harder than necessary, rattling the jars inside. “You leave that wet towel on the counter every single day.” Sarah didn’t look up from her phone. “Some of us have actual responsibilities outside of interior decorating, Mark.” Mark: “Right. Responsibilities. Must be nice.”

Why it works: Mark intends to say, “I feel neglected and invisible in this house,” but that requires vulnerability. Instead, he arrives at a petty complaint about a towel. Sarah intends to say, “Don’t make me feel guilty; I am drowning under pressure,” but she arrives at a counter-attack. The tension comes from the reader feeling the heavy, unspoken weight of their true intentions beneath the trivial words.

3 Ways to Apply Bowen’s Wisdom to Your Writing

If you want to shift your character conversations away from neat arrivals and toward messy, intention-driven power struggles, try these three techniques:

1. Give Every Character a Hidden Agenda

Before writing a scene, ask yourself: What does this character want from the other person by the end of this conversation?

  • Do they want validation?
  • Do they want to hide a secret?
  • Do they want to provoke a reaction without taking the blame for starting a fight?

When characters have an active internal agenda, their dialogue will naturally become evasive, tactical, and charged with subtext.

2. Interrupt the Thought Process

In real life, we edit ourselves mid-sentence. We start to say one thing, realise how it sounds, and pivot sharply.

  • Let your characters trail off.
  • Let them change subjects abruptly when they feel vulnerable.
  • Use action beats (gestures, glances, fidgeting) to show the friction between their brain and their mouth.

As Elizabeth Bowen showed us, the most telling moments in a conversation are often the things left unsaid, or the sentences that fracture before they can be completed.

3. Let Misunderstandings Breed Conflict

When characters are aiming for an intention rather than a neat conclusion, they will inevitably miss each other’s points. Character A is speaking from a place of fear; Character B is interpreting it as an attack.

This friction creates authentic dramatic irony. The reader understands the tragic or comedic mismatch between what the characters intend to communicate and how their words are actually landing.

Conclusion: Embrace the Mess

Great dialogue is never a straight line. It is a zigzag path of sidesteps, false starts, defensive maneuvers, and buried longings.

By following Elizabeth Bowen’s implicit advice—prioritising the volatile, underlying intentions of your characters over the neat, polished sentences they eventually arrive at—you will breathe authentic life into your scenes. Stop letting your characters say exactly what they mean right away. Let them struggle to say it, let them fail, and watch your fiction transform into something unforgettable.

What are your favourite examples of subtext-heavy dialogue in literature? How do you handle character intentions in your own writing? Let us know in the comments below!

…

‘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

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 194

Day 194 – Characters and their conversations

…

Beyond the Final Word: Why Character Intentions Drive the Best Conversations in Fiction

“Dialogue should be a series of pitched battles in which the characters are trying to get what they want.”

Every fiction writer eventually encounters a scene where two characters are talking, yet the pages feel utterly lifeless. The exchange is grammatically correct, it moves the plot forward, and it delivers the necessary information. And yet, it bores the reader to tears.

Why? Because the characters are simply arriving at what they want to say, rather than wrestling with the turbulent, messy journey of how they get there.

To master the art of subtext and realistic human interaction, we can look to one of the 20th century’s most brilliant stylists. The celebrated Anglo-Irish novelist and short-story writer Elizabeth Bowen had profound insights into the architecture of conversation. Bowen understood that in great fiction, dialogue is rarely about the destination; it is about the struggle of intention.

In this post, we’ll explore why characters should focus more on what they intend to say rather than the tidy sentences they finally arrive at, drawing inspiration from Elizabeth Bowen’s literary philosophy.

The Elizabeth Bowen Perspective: Conversation as a Secret War

Elizabeth Bowen viewed the surface of life—and polite conversation especially—as a delicate, often deceptive crust over boiling depths. To Bowen, dialogue was never just an exchange of data. It was a social dance, a power struggle, a form of concealment, and an act of psychological warfare all at once.

In her critical writings and through the immaculate prose of novels like The Death of the Heart and The House in Paris, Bowen demonstrated that people rarely say exactly what they mean. Instead, they circle their desires. They hint, they deflect, they use small talk as a shield, and they weaponise silence.

When characters’ conversation is overly streamlined—when they immediately arrive at crisp, articulate summaries of their feelings—the psychological realism evaporates. Real people are hampered by pride, fear, social conditioning, and a lack of self-awareness.

Bowen’s characters speak not to deliver exposition, but to assert themselves against a hostile or indifferent world. The magic happens in the gap between what is intended and what is actually uttered.

What Happens When Characters “Arrive” Too Fast?

Let’s look at the two approaches: dialogue driven by arrival versus dialogue driven by intention.

The Trap of the “Arrival” Dialogue

When a writer focuses on what a character arrives at saying, the dialogue often falls into the trap of “on-the-nose” writing or pure exposition.

  • Example (Arrival):Mark: “I am leaving you because you never pay attention to my emotional needs, Sarah.” Sarah: “That’s not fair. I’ve been stressed about my mother’s illness, but if you’re going to be selfish, maybe we should break up.”

Why it fails: It’s efficient, but it feels robotic. Real human beings in the middle of a breakup rarely diagnose their relationship with the clinical precision of a marriage counsellor in the first three seconds. They are defending their egos, deflecting blame, and masking panic.

The Power of “Intention” Dialogue

When characters are driven by what they intend to say—the subtextual desire to wound, to plead, to hide, or to conquer—the conversation becomes a living, breathing thing.

  • Example (Intention):Mark slammed the refrigerator door harder than necessary, rattling the jars inside. “You leave that wet towel on the counter every single day.” Sarah didn’t look up from her phone. “Some of us have actual responsibilities outside of interior decorating, Mark.” Mark: “Right. Responsibilities. Must be nice.”

Why it works: Mark intends to say, “I feel neglected and invisible in this house,” but that requires vulnerability. Instead, he arrives at a petty complaint about a towel. Sarah intends to say, “Don’t make me feel guilty; I am drowning under pressure,” but she arrives at a counter-attack. The tension comes from the reader feeling the heavy, unspoken weight of their true intentions beneath the trivial words.

3 Ways to Apply Bowen’s Wisdom to Your Writing

If you want to shift your character conversations away from neat arrivals and toward messy, intention-driven power struggles, try these three techniques:

1. Give Every Character a Hidden Agenda

Before writing a scene, ask yourself: What does this character want from the other person by the end of this conversation?

  • Do they want validation?
  • Do they want to hide a secret?
  • Do they want to provoke a reaction without taking the blame for starting a fight?

When characters have an active internal agenda, their dialogue will naturally become evasive, tactical, and charged with subtext.

2. Interrupt the Thought Process

In real life, we edit ourselves mid-sentence. We start to say one thing, realise how it sounds, and pivot sharply.

  • Let your characters trail off.
  • Let them change subjects abruptly when they feel vulnerable.
  • Use action beats (gestures, glances, fidgeting) to show the friction between their brain and their mouth.

As Elizabeth Bowen showed us, the most telling moments in a conversation are often the things left unsaid, or the sentences that fracture before they can be completed.

3. Let Misunderstandings Breed Conflict

When characters are aiming for an intention rather than a neat conclusion, they will inevitably miss each other’s points. Character A is speaking from a place of fear; Character B is interpreting it as an attack.

This friction creates authentic dramatic irony. The reader understands the tragic or comedic mismatch between what the characters intend to communicate and how their words are actually landing.

Conclusion: Embrace the Mess

Great dialogue is never a straight line. It is a zigzag path of sidesteps, false starts, defensive maneuvers, and buried longings.

By following Elizabeth Bowen’s implicit advice—prioritising the volatile, underlying intentions of your characters over the neat, polished sentences they eventually arrive at—you will breathe authentic life into your scenes. Stop letting your characters say exactly what they mean right away. Let them struggle to say it, let them fail, and watch your fiction transform into something unforgettable.

What are your favourite examples of subtext-heavy dialogue in literature? How do you handle character intentions in your own writing? Let us know in the comments below!

…

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 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 her down for the last three months, and if she 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 that 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 that 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 was 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 who, where, 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 just shrugging and asking 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 the intimacy we used to have, where 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 was instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position, he had not taken advantage of the situation like some might.  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.  At 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, followed 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 out of the final turn, and we were braking so that it would stop 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 the new job, the last thing she’d want was a reminder of what she left behind.  New friends, new life.

We packed her bags, threw out everything she didn’t want, a free trip to the op shop with stuff 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 had been 6 different types of planes departing, 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 to 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 2020-2026

…

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

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 38

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…

…

It didn’t surprise Johannesen there were about twenty prisoners down in the dungeons, though he was surprised to find that the dungeon area was quite large, and in several sections. The fact they smelled of wine told him that once, the cells were used at storage areas for bottles of wine.

Several of the cells that were furthest from the downstairs entrance, and recently boarded over caused several overzealous resistance fighters of Leonardo’s to start smashing walls looking for it.

Johannsen tried not to think about Leonardo. He was the very worst of men, a pig even by German standards.

Martina had been put in a cell not far from Leonardo’s wine cache. There was purpose in that, he could get drunk and then take it out of the woman who had made him look stupid. Come to think of it, he thought, it wouldn’t be too hard for a ten-year-old to do that.

The cell door was locked, but Johannsen had a key. He had meticulously gone through all the keyrings and loose keys that had been found and those that didn’t have an immediate use had been stored in the dungeon guardroom.

Matching keys to locks had been one of his secret tasks, under the disguise of being given the job by Wallace to match keys to locks for them. There were a few short in the end, keys to rooms, and cells that seem to serve no purpose. One had become Johannessen’s hideaway.

It was part of a plan he had been formulating, one where he could take prisoners and hide them. Of course, it wouldn’t work for the moment because the prisoners had to be moved on as soon as possible, and staying in the castle, even if the others didn’t know where they were, would invite a microscopic search. It would need Atherton’s knowledge of the castle, and whether there was another escape route they could use.

It was another of his works in progress, one that was highly likely to fail.

He stood back from the door and looked at the crumpled heap on the floor that was once the leader of the resistance. Leonardo had interrogated her before bringing her back, half-dead, to the castle, and in doing so had made it impossible for anyone to interrogate her further. Had that been the reason why Leonardo had bashed her senseless?

He saw a hand move by her side, and a low groan.

He spoke quietly, in English, “Are you able to come closer to the door?” He knelt down, trying to get a better look at her injuries. Abrasions, and bruising. Swollen eyes, possible broken nose, blood spatter everywhere on her clothing which remarkably was relatively intact. He had suspected Leonardo of doing a lot worse and may still have.

She lifted her head slightly, “Who are you?”

“I could be a friend.”

She laughed, then coughed, and blood came out of her mouth. Broken ribs possibly, and a punctured lung. She might be too injured to move.

“There are no friends in this place, just Tedeschi.” She lowered her head and closed her eyes. Her breathing was irregular and shallow. Definitely broken ribs, he thought. And not likely to survive another interrogation. Not if Jackerby was going to conduct it.

“I’d like to help you if I can.”

“Everyone in here, we’re beyond help. You know that because you’re one of them.”

“Some of us care what happens to people.”

She pushed hard to move around slightly to face him, laying her head on the side to face him. “Which one are you?”

“Johannsen.”

“Yes, Johannesen. Atherton mentioned you. As untrustworthy as the rest. But for me, I’m all but dead, but I’ll humor you. Get me out of here and away from that bastardo Leonardo, and I might believe you.”

Atherton. This might be an opportunity to find out how he could get in contact with him, knowing of course, she wasn’t going to tell him where Atherton was.

“If you want to get away from here, we need Atherton. He’s the only one who knows this place inside out.”

He could see her shaking her head, as painful as that might be.

“He’s not.”

“Then is there anyone who does?”

“There is.”

“Who?”

Again she laughed and it sounded like the death rattle of her last breath. “You think I’m that far gone that I would tell you anything?”

“If you want to escape, I can only get you so far.”

“There is no escape. Believe me. If there was, I would be gone. Save your trickery and lies for someone who might be gullible enough to believe you. I’m quite prepared to die, the fact I’ve lived this long is what some would call a miracle.”

With that she turned away, coughed, and went silent. She wasn’t dead, but death wasn’t far away.

When Johannesen reluctantly left the cell, he only made it to the turn towards the steps up when he ran into Jackerby.

Had Jackerby been somewhere near and overheard their conversation.

“You have a rather interesting interrogation technique,” Jackerby said.

Johannesen groaned inwardly. He had heard.

“Sometimes it’s better to try and infuse hope in the subject rather than resignation. I was trying to get her to tell me where Atherton is.”

“And did she?”

“What do you think. After what Leonardo did, she’s not likely to tell us anything. I’m sure if we had taken a different approach…”

“Yes, softly softly. Doesn’t work. Just leave the heavy lifting to us, and don’t bother coming down to revisit the prisoners. Otherwise, I might believe you really are trying to help them escape.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

‘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 realises 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

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 39

Here’s the thing…

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 instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

 

A shiver went down my spine, and I took it for the omen it was.

Nothing good came of being in a place where you were not supposed to be.

I shook it off.

“Does that look like someone we knew, once?”

He looked at the mannequin, then shook his head.  “No, should it?”

“Seems odd they didn’t come back to collect their stock.  I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as this when the cracks first appeared.”

“Here it was.  Walls crumbled, and in places the roof collapsed.  Two shop staff got hit by a falling beam.  One later died.  There was a long court battle over that.”

I did not remember much of what happened.  My mother said it was just another tragedy brought on by greed.  It was probably why I had such contempt for the rich.

Boggs did a rotation with his light, and in the direction of the marina, there was a central square over which was a skylight, only it was dirty and little light was getting through.  It was just enough to see that the plants had all overgrown and taken over, and it was strange to see pylons covered in creeper, and shrubs growing through seats.

There had been a pond in the middle of that square, but it was probably empty now, and if it had water, it would be contributing to the smell.

In the other direction, there was darkness, the mall heading towards the front entrance.

Boggs started walking towards the square.

That was when I realised he had brought an old map of the shopping centre and had been looking at it when I joined him.

From the square, there were elevators and steps up to the second level where there were restaurants and entertainment areas, as well as the entrance to the multiplex cinemas.  The stairs went down to the carpark.

There were two levels of carpark under the main building, and it was the lower car park that had occasionally flooded.

When we reached the square, it seemed lighter than I first thought, but that was because my eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkness, making objects clearer.  We had to brush past some of the tree branches to reach the pond.

I was wrong.  There was water in it, and it was reasonably clear.  I guess without man to pollute it, nature had taken over.  Here the aroma was more like a park after the lawns had been mowed.

Boggs had turned off his light as we approached the pond, and it was fortunate he had.  We both heard the sound of a brick, or rock, hitting the floor, and a moment later, the faint glow of torchlight.

Other people exploring the wilderness.

“How many people know about that entrance?”

It sounded to me like they were coming back from the marina.

“I don’t know.  I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here if that’s what you’re thinking.”

It wasn’t.  Not my first thought, anyway.

He headed towards the stairs next to the elevator lobby, remarkably clear of rubble and undergrowth, and started walking down the stairs, into the darkness. I followed, reluctantly, and inwardly sighed in relief when he stopped on the first landing.  There was a rumour that there were ghosts down on the car park levels.

We went just far enough down to be hidden from the other visitors.  Unless they decided to use this particular staircase.

The light was less intense as it approached the square, and then we saw two figures.

At least one was a male, tall, and smoking a cigarette.

“God knows why the boss wanted us to check this hell hole.  There’s no one here but us.”  It was the tall man speaking.

He waved his torch around, including once in our direction.  At the distance they were from us, the light had no effect.

“You know the boss, he has an active imagination.  Perhaps if he hadn’t buried the bodies down here, it wouldn’t be an issue.  Come on, this place gives me the creeps.”

Another man, and, now, I could see they were dressed in what looked like security guards’ clothes.  Why on earth would anyone want to keep an eye on this place?  And who was their boss?

Another wave of the torches and they continued their way towards the front of the mall.

“So,” Boggs said with a curious inflection in his tone, “there are bodies buried down here.”

“A figure of speech,” I said.  “No one would be that stupid to bury bodies down here.”

“Why not.  No one comes here, except adventurers like us, so it’s a perfect place for either the Cossatino’s or the Benderby’s to hide stuff down here.  How many people do you think either of them has killed over the years?”

Allegedly quite a few.  It was, when I thought about it, quite a good place to hide a body.  I just hoped we didn’t find one.

We waited another five minutes, just in case they came back, but they didn.t.  I followed Boggs up the stairs and we headed towards the center of the square.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Marina.  Got to check something first.”

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2026

© Charles Heath 2020