Once again, instead of writing, I have been obsessing over the planning and creation of a website for the book.
And, that being the case, now I have to give the book a name so I can name the site/blog after it.
The word Starburst has featured in the story so tentatively I’m going to name it “The Starburst Conspiracy”
The site will be on WordPress. There will be progress blog posts, there will draft writing and possible chapters for beta reading and comment. There will be separate pages for each of the characters.
I’m not sure how I’m going to build an email list so perhaps I’ll build a following first.
So, having mapped out a plan for the site, I’ve made the first post and written the ‘About’ page which basically gives a bit of history about the book.
Bear in mind the original book of about 400 pages scribbled over a long period of time, and not really a book in the sense of the word (more a collection of ideas set in some form of chronology) and set in the early eighties and will probably stay there but will be the basis for the new novel.
Another interesting aspect of this exercise is to see how far I have come writing-wise in the last 30 years and how easy it is to spot the issues with the original manuscript.
I’ve also created a master page for the cast of characters and only a page for the main character so far. Others will follow.
There will be another page with an ongoing, updated synopsis.
Shortcuts to these pages, as the information flows will be in subsequent posts.
For now, it’s back to writing, after a long gap, and the ideas have been churning in my head.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
But, it seems our hero has ‘escaped’ and had found his way back home.
Except not quite how he expected it would be.
Rest was impossible while so many thoughts about my recent experiences were swirling around in the back of my head. Now, when thinking it through, it made sense that they make sure I was found alive, but in very bad shape.
Two reasons, one, to remind me that they could do whatever they liked to me, and the second, to appease Breeman, who, no doubt realizing a helicopter was missing, would send out search teams, a no-fly zone or not.
But it was a calculated risk assuming I would not tell Breeman, or someone else, about what had happened to me, whether they believed it or not.
That led to the next thought, why was I still alive. It would be just as easy to kill me and be discovered after dying from injuries received in the crash. Supposition, they still needed me, or, and this was a hail Mary at best, they needed access to the base, and Breeman.
Did that mean either of the two men I’d seen at the other camp would suddenly turn up? My money was on Colonel Bamfield. He was my first Commanding Officer, he had a keen interest in me from the get-go, and he was the one who facilitated my transfer to my current base before I knew he was working for ‘other interests’.
I still didn’t want to think it was the enemy.
Another question popped into my head, what was his, or their, interest in Breeman because the line of questioning centered on her.
My best guess was that it was no accident I was on that helicopter, that she had directed the pilot to make a flyover, and wasn’t expected that we would be shot down and that she had assumed there would be no repercussions on either myself or the pilot.
It was also clear that if she had to explain how I came to be where they found me, and the fact no one had launched a similar attack of the rescue team, that what happened was simply a breach of orders, and a court-martial offense.
It would solve Bamfield and his new friend’s problem. Whatever the outcome of the court-martial she would be sent home, relieved of her command.
It seemed the military, as always, had a mind of its own, and not always have the best interests of its personnel at heart.
The Unsung Epic: How Everyday Life Becomes Riveting Prose
“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.”
It’s a line that resonates deeply with anyone who loves a good story. We crave the heightened stakes, the emotional rollercoasters, the twists and turns that define our favorite books, films, and series. But what if I told you that the “dull bits” aren’t always so dull? What if the real magic lies not in eliminating them, but in learning to see the drama hidden beneath their unassuming surface?
The challenge is enticing: Can we take everyday events and turn them into riveting prose? My answer, unequivocally, is yes. And in doing so, we don’t just write better stories; we learn to live a richer, more observant life.
Beyond Explosions: What Is Drama, Really?
First, let’s redefine “drama.” It’s not always grand gestures or world-ending stakes. At its core, drama is about conflict, tension, and emotion. It’s about a character wanting something and facing obstacles in getting it. It’s about choices, consequences, and the raw vulnerability of being human.
Consider that infamous “dull bits” pile: commuting, waiting in line, doing laundry, making coffee. On the surface, these are the unglamorous necessities of existence. But with a writer’s eye, they become potential stages for micro-dramas.
The Writer’s Superpower: Perspective and Pressure
The secret weapon for transforming the mundane is perspective. It’s about zooming in, acknowledging the internal monologue, and applying pressure.
Zoom In: A spilled coffee isn’t just a stain; it’s the sudden, hot shock, the ruined shirt on the morning of a crucial presentation, the ripple effect of lateness. The drama isn’t the coffee itself, but what it means to the person experiencing it.
Internal Monologue: We rarely share the full, rich narrative of our minds. What anxieties bubble up while waiting for a delayed train? What silent arguments play out as we fold a partner’s forgotten items? The internal world is a universe of untold stories, rife with hope, fear, regret, and determination.
Apply Pressure: Take any everyday event and ask: What if something goes wrong? What if the stakes are slightly higher for this particular character?
The Commute: It’s not just a drive; it’s a desperate race against the clock to pick up a child from daycare before late fees kick in. The brake lights ahead aren’t just an inconvenience; they’re a physical manifestation of rising panic.
The Grocery Store: It’s not just a shopping trip; it’s the careful balancing act of an elderly person on a fixed income, trying to make healthy food last an entire week from a dwindling budget. Every price tag is a small, quiet battle.
The Awkward Conversation: It’s not just polite small talk; it’s a son trying to delicately broach a sensitive subject with his aging father, hoping to connect before it’s too late, fearing misinterpretation or dismissal.
Unearthing the Micro-Conflicts
Everyday life is brimming with small conflicts:
Person vs. Self: The internal debate over whether to speak up, to forgive, to take a risk, or to stick to the comfort of routine.
Person vs. Nature/Environment: The unexpected downpour when you forgot your umbrella, the power outage during a critical deadline, the unreliable public transport.
Person vs. Person (Subtle): The passive-aggressive note from a roommate, the slight that goes unaddressed, the unspoken tension across a dinner table, the small power plays in a queue.
These mini-struggles, when given the prose treatment, become relatable and powerful. They remind readers of their own quiet battles and hidden heroics.
The Art of Observation and Sensory Detail
To write riveting prose from the ordinary, you must become an exceptional observer.
What do you see? Not just objects, but the way light falls, the subtle expressions on faces, the wear and tear of time.
What do you hear? The hum of the refrigerator, the distant rumble of traffic, the specific cadence of a voice.
What do you feel? The cold ceramic of a mug, the ache in tired muscles, the prickle of irritation.
What do you smell and taste? The comforting aroma of baking bread, the metallic tang of fear, the bitterness of burnt toast.
These details ground your reader in the moment, making even the most mundane scene vivid and immersive.
So, Can We Do It?
Absolutely. By acknowledging the inherent drama in our struggles, choices, and interactions – no matter how small – we unlock a boundless reservoir of material. We aren’t cutting out the dull bits; we’re illuminating the hidden drama within them.
Next time you’re waiting in line, stuck in traffic, or simply watching the world go by, challenge yourself. What’s the story here? What’s at stake for the person beside you? What internal monologue is playing out in your own mind?
The world isn’t just a stage for grand narratives; it’s a collection of countless, intricate, and often riveting personal epics, waiting for us to notice, understand, and perhaps, to write them down.
What “dull bit” of your day do you think holds a hidden story? Share in the comments below!
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.
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.
The Unsung Epic: How Everyday Life Becomes Riveting Prose
“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.”
It’s a line that resonates deeply with anyone who loves a good story. We crave the heightened stakes, the emotional rollercoasters, the twists and turns that define our favorite books, films, and series. But what if I told you that the “dull bits” aren’t always so dull? What if the real magic lies not in eliminating them, but in learning to see the drama hidden beneath their unassuming surface?
The challenge is enticing: Can we take everyday events and turn them into riveting prose? My answer, unequivocally, is yes. And in doing so, we don’t just write better stories; we learn to live a richer, more observant life.
Beyond Explosions: What Is Drama, Really?
First, let’s redefine “drama.” It’s not always grand gestures or world-ending stakes. At its core, drama is about conflict, tension, and emotion. It’s about a character wanting something and facing obstacles in getting it. It’s about choices, consequences, and the raw vulnerability of being human.
Consider that infamous “dull bits” pile: commuting, waiting in line, doing laundry, making coffee. On the surface, these are the unglamorous necessities of existence. But with a writer’s eye, they become potential stages for micro-dramas.
The Writer’s Superpower: Perspective and Pressure
The secret weapon for transforming the mundane is perspective. It’s about zooming in, acknowledging the internal monologue, and applying pressure.
Zoom In: A spilled coffee isn’t just a stain; it’s the sudden, hot shock, the ruined shirt on the morning of a crucial presentation, the ripple effect of lateness. The drama isn’t the coffee itself, but what it means to the person experiencing it.
Internal Monologue: We rarely share the full, rich narrative of our minds. What anxieties bubble up while waiting for a delayed train? What silent arguments play out as we fold a partner’s forgotten items? The internal world is a universe of untold stories, rife with hope, fear, regret, and determination.
Apply Pressure: Take any everyday event and ask: What if something goes wrong? What if the stakes are slightly higher for this particular character?
The Commute: It’s not just a drive; it’s a desperate race against the clock to pick up a child from daycare before late fees kick in. The brake lights ahead aren’t just an inconvenience; they’re a physical manifestation of rising panic.
The Grocery Store: It’s not just a shopping trip; it’s the careful balancing act of an elderly person on a fixed income, trying to make healthy food last an entire week from a dwindling budget. Every price tag is a small, quiet battle.
The Awkward Conversation: It’s not just polite small talk; it’s a son trying to delicately broach a sensitive subject with his aging father, hoping to connect before it’s too late, fearing misinterpretation or dismissal.
Unearthing the Micro-Conflicts
Everyday life is brimming with small conflicts:
Person vs. Self: The internal debate over whether to speak up, to forgive, to take a risk, or to stick to the comfort of routine.
Person vs. Nature/Environment: The unexpected downpour when you forgot your umbrella, the power outage during a critical deadline, the unreliable public transport.
Person vs. Person (Subtle): The passive-aggressive note from a roommate, the slight that goes unaddressed, the unspoken tension across a dinner table, the small power plays in a queue.
These mini-struggles, when given the prose treatment, become relatable and powerful. They remind readers of their own quiet battles and hidden heroics.
The Art of Observation and Sensory Detail
To write riveting prose from the ordinary, you must become an exceptional observer.
What do you see? Not just objects, but the way light falls, the subtle expressions on faces, the wear and tear of time.
What do you hear? The hum of the refrigerator, the distant rumble of traffic, the specific cadence of a voice.
What do you feel? The cold ceramic of a mug, the ache in tired muscles, the prickle of irritation.
What do you smell and taste? The comforting aroma of baking bread, the metallic tang of fear, the bitterness of burnt toast.
These details ground your reader in the moment, making even the most mundane scene vivid and immersive.
So, Can We Do It?
Absolutely. By acknowledging the inherent drama in our struggles, choices, and interactions – no matter how small – we unlock a boundless reservoir of material. We aren’t cutting out the dull bits; we’re illuminating the hidden drama within them.
Next time you’re waiting in line, stuck in traffic, or simply watching the world go by, challenge yourself. What’s the story here? What’s at stake for the person beside you? What internal monologue is playing out in your own mind?
The world isn’t just a stage for grand narratives; it’s a collection of countless, intricate, and often riveting personal epics, waiting for us to notice, understand, and perhaps, to write them down.
What “dull bit” of your day do you think holds a hidden story? Share in the comments below!
This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 71 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.
So there are words on paper, and three times I’ve tried to fix it, or, perhaps just make it sound better because reading it in my head, there’s too little background and too many questions.
The flow of the story isn’t working for me, so I guess it’s time to sit down and work out what it is I’m trying to say.
The notion that our main character, Graham, is a loser seems to shine through, and that’s not what I’m trying to portray him as. No, far from it, it’s been a lifetime of bad choices that have put him where he is, and he knows it.
So, in part, this is about owning your mistakes, and it’s my job to make him come across as a hero in waiting. There’s good in him, perhaps too much, but there is also that attitude that led to all those bad choices, the one that can get him into trouble, and a sort of intransigence inherited from his father, that has more or less got him ostracised from the family.
I want this character to be a chop off the old block, both of whom are the type not to back down, not to say sorry, and, to quote a rather apt allegory, would cut their nose off to spite their face.
Graham’s intransigence led to his refusal to follow his father into business, refusal to go to University despite having the necessary qualifications, and just to round out the defiance, his choice of women whom he knew would meet with family disapproval.
And these factors, over a period of time, saw him bounce from a low-paying job to jobs with no prospects, and a string of failed relationships, until this moment in time, where he was basically on his own, working the graveyard shift as a security guard. The sort of job where qualifications weren’t looked for and workmates looked like and probably were ex-cons.
There are a few more details like the older brother, Jackson, politician and schemer, the same as his father before him (the seat was passed down through the family), like the younger sister who is a highly successful surgeon, married into immense wealth. His brother had been less successful in the marital stakes but what he lacked in a wife was more than made up with a string of highly eligible and beautiful women.
And, no, he doesn’t resent the fact they’re rich, or that his parents were, too, just that they treated him with contempt.
It was almost five years since the last time he had seen any of them, that last time he attended the family Christmas in Martha’s Vineyard, the ‘Stockdale Residence’ an ostentatious sprawling fifty-room mansion that, in a drunken rage, he’s tried to burn down.
Once again, he had not received an invitation to the next, due in a few days, and it was not entirely unexpected.
Graham has his faults, but that even, five years ago, had pulled him off the road to self-destruction, helped along by a year stint in jail where he learned a great many lessons about life itself, and survival.
The four years since?
A lot of regrets, and a lot of repentance. Life after jail was a lot worse than life trying to defy the family and the system. There were two roads he could have gone down, and thankfully for him, it was not the wrong one.
So, he’s back on the path, a whole lot wiser, a whole lot tougher.
That might not have been exactly what I was thinking for him over the first three attempts. I don’t think any character really begins to shine until halfway through, as you find him meeting various challenges in ways even you, as the writer, find quite unexpected.
Is that the end result of being a pantser over being a planner?
I don’t think, even as a planner, you can create a character that’s not going to change, or even surprise you, as the story evolves.
And somehow I don’t think I’m about to change from one to the other.
I’m back to writing, sitting at the desk, pad in front of me, pen in hand.
The only thing lacking, an idea
It’s 9:03 am, too early to start on a six-pack.
I need to try and concentrate on the job at hand, but it isn’t working.
Blogging, websites, Twitter and Facebook, all of these social media problems are swirling around in my mind.
The more I read the more it bothers me that if I don’t have the right social media presence if I do not start to build an email list, all of my efforts in writing a book will come to naught. And especially so, if I don’t hire a professional to do my cover. Another problem to add to the ever-growing list.
Then I start trawling the internet for information on marketing and found a plethora of people offering any amount of advice for anything between a ‘small amount’ to a rather large amount that gives comprehensive coverage of most social media platforms for periods of a day, a week or a month. I don’t have a book so it’s a bit early to be worrying about that.
I move onto the people who offer advice for a cost on how to build a following, how to build a web presence, how to get a thousand Twitter followers, how to get thousands of email followers before the launch.
The trouble is I’m writing a novel, not a nonfiction book, or have some marvelous 30-page ebook on how to do something, for free just to drive people to my site. I’m a novelist, not a handyman so those ideas while good is not going to help me. And there are enough people out there telling the rest of us how to be a writer, how to be a marketer and then some. The problem is, most of them are one long advertisement, offering the ‘real’ answers’ for money.
I’m not sure how many people have my email address, but I’m getting over a hundred emails a day, all asking me to buy some sort of guaranteed service.
Yet another problem to wrestle with along with actually creating a product to sell in the first place.
Except I’m supposed to be writing for the love of it without the premeditated idea of writing for gain or getting rich quick.
What am I missing here?
So should l be writing short stories and offering them for free to drive people to my site? These would have to be genre-specific so it needs time and effort and fit into a convenient size story that will highlight or showcase my talent.
Or should I create a website for the novel and set up pages for the characters and get some interaction going that way? It will be difficult without giving the whole plot away so if I do it will have to be carefully managed. And, in doing so, it will be taking me away from what I’m supposed to be doing, writing.
Of course, I could get someone else to set all this up for me, but I haven’t got fifty dollars, let along the $5,000 they are asking. Yes, I can create a free site, yes, I can find a cheaper option if I looked hard enough, but, again, it takes me away from my primary objective.
I don’t think I will have a good night’s sleep again with all of these social media problems I’m going to have.
Oh well, back to the book. It’s time to have a nightmare of a different sort!
When I opened my eyes I was in a room, not immediately recognizable, because it looked like my room, in my parent’s house where I grew up, when I was a young boy.
The curtains fluttered on the other side of the room, around the edges a muted light that could have been the moon or street lighting.
It was warm, the breeze pushing pas the curtain material and washing over me in gentle waves. I was hot and could feel the sweat on my brow.
It reminded me of the long summer days, the warmth stretching into the night, and the cool breezes that made the endless heat bearable, where the only covering you needed was a sheet, and then sometimes not.
There was movement, also, on the other side of the room, a figure curled up in a chair, the form of which was framed as a silhouette against the indistinct light, now a little brighter. My eyes were rapidly adjusting, and shapes were becoming clearer.
I turned my head slightly and saw a door with a window in it, slightly ajar. My bedroom door had never had a window,
I tried to speak but couldn’t, my throat dry, and made swallowing difficult. It felt like something was stuck in my throat.
I tried to think, but it made my head hurt, and, then, a thousand images flashed before my eyes, or what seemed like a thousand, of a time I’d never known about.
Not until now.
Of a past that I’d known was lurking somewhere in my mind. Of a missing period of my life that had been, up till now, locked away, and beyond my grasp.
And for a good reason.
It was awful.
No. It was horrendous.
No. It was worse than that. Words could not describe the images, the feelings, the despair, the hopelessness.
And then I screamed. Bound, in pain, feeling a charge of electric current run through me, trying to beg them to stop, only to find my mouth stuffed with a filthy, horrible tasting rag, making me gag.
Then it stopped, and I slumped back, easing the muscles that had tensed in pain, opening my eyes to see a man, Chinese, holding a knife over me, saying, “You will tell me what I want to know” over and over, then slowly pushing the knife near my shoulder, the pain unbearable as I screamed and begged for him to stop.
And as suddenly it started, it stopped.
It had to be a dream. It had to be.
Then nothing.
I’m not sure about the knife wound, what impact or damage it may have or cause so some investigation is needed.
And that’s not where it ends. More of the nightmare tomorrow!
It’s still a battle of wits, but our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because the enemy if it is the enemy, doesn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
It was the smell, all hospitals seemed to smell the same. Antiseptic.
And the first face I saw was Breeman’s.
How?
If I could speak, which for some reason I knew I couldn’t, the first question would be, ‘Where am I?’
“Welcome back,” Breeman said. “You gave us a few days of grave concern at the crash. You’re in the base hospital, and lucky to be alive.”
OK, a few days missing, but lucky to survive? I got out without a scratch, or did I?
I looked sideways and down. Nothing but bandages, and, yes, plaster. Broken bones?
“How you survived being thrown from the wreckage is anyone’s guess. A search party found you last night, almost dead. Broken legs, shattered shoulder, ribs, even a skull fracture. The doctors are astonished. So am I.”
She was holding my hand, a very unlike commanding officer thing to so, and it looked like a tear in her eye. Perhaps our so-called casual fling was a little more than that.
“But you rest. I’ll come back later when you’re better.”
Last I remember, except for some sore ribs, I’d been intact, and unharmed from the jump out of the helicopter.
Now, it appeared, I was the very epitome of a crash victim. What the hell had happened to me from the time I was in the cell, getting that injection, and now?
Clearly, the people in the other camp didn’t want me to die. But, surely they realized I would tell Breeman about my experiences at the camp.
Or not. If anything, what I would have to tell them would be considered the ramblings of someone in very bad condition, mind wandering in the desert while fighting for his life, and then on return, ramblings fuelled by very high doses of painkillers.
And the fact none of it could be corroborated. It was unlikely any flyover would locate the base if anyone was foolish enough to fly in the no-fly zone.
And, pushing the paranoia limits, I guessed that they would have someone in the base who was feeding them information, that’s how they knew so much about what was going on here.
I would have to lie low and choose my friends carefully.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 