F is for – Five Words

…

I’d heard about the show, one with a funny title that when people asked, they couldn’t quite get it exactly right, but close enough to “This was your life”.

I thought it was about dead people, odd, because I knew it was impossible to interview dead people, though those days, someone told me, anything was possible on television.

Then I thought it was about people almost at the end of their life, as a celebration of a celebrity, or someone famous.

It was a surprise to learn it was about ordinary people.

Like me.  You couldn’t find anyone more ordinary, or as several people told me, utterly forgettable.

That hurt, but in a sense, they were right.

Which made me wonder just how it was that I received a letter in the mail telling me I had been selected for an episode.

Of course, I thought someone was playing a hoax, and rang them, expecting to be laughed at, but no.  I was being asked to go on the show.

I have no idea why I agreed.

…

When I arrived at the studio, I was taken to an office where the executive producer told me what was going to happen: sign some papers to say I was not going to divulge details of the show before it was broadcast, and what my five words were.

They were different for each participant.

Today, they were recording five episodes.  I was going to be the last.

…

My words were Good, Afraid, Trouble, Look and Quiet.  I had plenty of time to think about them in relation to my story.

And that was the odd thing … I actually had a story.

“So,” the host said, in that mesmerising voice of hers that had both the audience and the participants entranced, “Tell us what the word Good means to you.”

Of course, it wasn’t just the word good, it was a better word that meant the same thing.

“It wasn’t just a good day, it was a fantastic, unbelievable day.”

I remembered it well, that last day of high school, when it was, in a lot of cases, the last time I would see my fellow classmates.

Most of them I never wanted to see again, because that final year had been marked by more lows than highs, culminating in my date for the Prom falling ill, and so I didn’t go.  Then I discovered she lied, went with my so-called best friend, and made last week unbearable.

So much so, I headed straight for the railway station and intended to hide at my grandmother’s house on the other side of the country.

The day started badly, arguing with my parents, arguing with my siblings, getting into three separate scuffles at school, then coming home and throwing a few things into a backpack and leaving before I saw anyone at home.

Every step from the house to the railway depot was a reminder of each betrayal, so by the time I sat in the waiting room, an hour before the train was due, I was mentally and physically exhausted.

I expected someone from home would come and try to persuade me to stay.

They didn’t.

Perhaps that was the final betrayal.  The fact that not one of my own family cared whether I stayed or left.

Very few people took the train.  Most people leaving town went to the airport and got a plane.  There was a bus, but it took forever to get anywhere, and the train was an acceptable alternative.

I was the only one leaving town by train.

Until I wasn’t.

Five students in that final year shared my disposition, in that we preferred to study, get good grades and then go to college.  The other three left a week before, gaining admission to an Ivy League university.

I hadn’t applied.

The other person was Alison Breton. 

She was one of those people who no one gave a second look at, or so much as a first.  She was clever, and all the boys didn’t like girls who were smarter than they.

She was also plain, or so it appeared, which caused most of the boys to point out her faults, such as how she presented herself.  Unlike the other girls who dressed to impress, wore make-up and looked stunning, even if it was an objectifying description, she preferred to be different.

I thought she was brave.

We barely spoke, though we were in the same study group with the three Ivy Leaguers.  Two of them were keen on her, but she was not the dating sort.  Or so they said.

Ten minutes before the train arrived, another person came and sat in the waiting room.

Alison Breton.

I ignored her for five whole minutes.  I mean, what could I say to her?

It was when the host mentioned the second word, “afraid.”

It was part of the truth and summed up how I felt about her.  I was afraid of her.  Afraid, or more to the point, literally terrified.

I had imagined many times what I would say to her, fabricating long, I thought, interesting conversations.

And if I let my imagination stretch a little further, I might have to admit I liked her, perhaps more than I should, but could and would never admit it.  One humiliation by a girl in a lifetime was enough, and my completely shattered ego couldn’t take another rejection.

Five whole minutes before she said, “So you’re leaving this dump too?”

It was obvious I was, though the dump was harsh.

And then words came out that were not my own.  “What’s your excuse?”

I knew the moment I tried to speak to her that it would be over.  Maryanne, the betrayer, was different.  I could speak to her, and because of that, I thought she was the one.

She smiled.  “Probably the same as yours.  James told me he loved me, but he didn’t.  Apparently, I’m the subject of a bet.”

I’d heard a rumour and couldn’t believe it.  Or perhaps I could.  Small town, small-minded boys, one ambition, to have what they couldn’t.

“Best get out of town then.”  My solution to the problem wasn’t a one-size-fits-all all.

But it was a response to the host dropping the word trouble.  And then looked and was quiet.  It seemed they were all intertwining in the narrative that was unfolding.

“That doesn’t explain your desire to leave, other than the Maryanne humiliation.  I guess a month away from here might make it go away.”

“It won’t.  I have brothers who will never let me forget.  You grow up in this place, no one forgets the trouble, or more appropriately, your legacy.”

“It’s always us quiet kids, eh, the ones who don’t make a fuss, who are studious and respectful, who don’t want to be noticed.  No matter how we look or feel.  I tried to be invisible.”

“It made you stand out more than the Maryannes.  I was just fodder for girls like her, pandering to the mores of the football team, and you know what they were like.”

Being smart didn’t make us immune to being hurt or hoping against hope that we had a chance.

We both heard the sound of the horn in the distance, a warning that the train was approaching the railway crossing, about two or three miles outside of town.

The train, like always, was running late.

She stood.  “Where are you going?”

“San Francisco.  My grandmother.  She has a large house and many unusual friends.  She was an actress once, when Hollywood was going through its black and white phase.”

“I’m going there too.  My mother’s sister, though I suspect she isn’t.  Maybe we can pretend we’re brother and sister, to be safe.”

I shrugged.  Why not?  Once we got there, I’d probably never see her again.

…

“Except,” Alison said, holding my hand, and talking to the host with that whimsical expression she had when telling others the story of how we met, “we talked and talked and fell in love, got married, have five amazing children, twelve equally amazing grandchildren, and just lived our lives.  Nothing special, and yet to us, very, very special.”

And then, surprisingly, our time was up.  I had expected it would take half the time allotted.  Instead, it was two hours later, and no one, not any of us, had noticed.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

F is for – Five Words

…

I’d heard about the show, one with a funny title that when people asked, they couldn’t quite get it exactly right, but close enough to “This was your life”.

I thought it was about dead people, odd, because I knew it was impossible to interview dead people, though those days, someone told me, anything was possible on television.

Then I thought it was about people almost at the end of their life, as a celebration of a celebrity, or someone famous.

It was a surprise to learn it was about ordinary people.

Like me.  You couldn’t find anyone more ordinary, or as several people told me, utterly forgettable.

That hurt, but in a sense, they were right.

Which made me wonder just how it was that I received a letter in the mail telling me I had been selected for an episode.

Of course, I thought someone was playing a hoax, and rang them, expecting to be laughed at, but no.  I was being asked to go on the show.

I have no idea why I agreed.

…

When I arrived at the studio, I was taken to an office where the executive producer told me what was going to happen: sign some papers to say I was not going to divulge details of the show before it was broadcast, and what my five words were.

They were different for each participant.

Today, they were recording five episodes.  I was going to be the last.

…

My words were Good, Afraid, Trouble, Look and Quiet.  I had plenty of time to think about them in relation to my story.

And that was the odd thing … I actually had a story.

“So,” the host said, in that mesmerising voice of hers that had both the audience and the participants entranced, “Tell us what the word Good means to you.”

Of course, it wasn’t just the word good, it was a better word that meant the same thing.

“It wasn’t just a good day, it was a fantastic, unbelievable day.”

I remembered it well, that last day of high school, when it was, in a lot of cases, the last time I would see my fellow classmates.

Most of them I never wanted to see again, because that final year had been marked by more lows than highs, culminating in my date for the Prom falling ill, and so I didn’t go.  Then I discovered she lied, went with my so-called best friend, and made last week unbearable.

So much so, I headed straight for the railway station and intended to hide at my grandmother’s house on the other side of the country.

The day started badly, arguing with my parents, arguing with my siblings, getting into three separate scuffles at school, then coming home and throwing a few things into a backpack and leaving before I saw anyone at home.

Every step from the house to the railway depot was a reminder of each betrayal, so by the time I sat in the waiting room, an hour before the train was due, I was mentally and physically exhausted.

I expected someone from home would come and try to persuade me to stay.

They didn’t.

Perhaps that was the final betrayal.  The fact that not one of my own family cared whether I stayed or left.

Very few people took the train.  Most people leaving town went to the airport and got a plane.  There was a bus, but it took forever to get anywhere, and the train was an acceptable alternative.

I was the only one leaving town by train.

Until I wasn’t.

Five students in that final year shared my disposition, in that we preferred to study, get good grades and then go to college.  The other three left a week before, gaining admission to an Ivy League university.

I hadn’t applied.

The other person was Alison Breton. 

She was one of those people who no one gave a second look at, or so much as a first.  She was clever, and all the boys didn’t like girls who were smarter than they.

She was also plain, or so it appeared, which caused most of the boys to point out her faults, such as how she presented herself.  Unlike the other girls who dressed to impress, wore make-up and looked stunning, even if it was an objectifying description, she preferred to be different.

I thought she was brave.

We barely spoke, though we were in the same study group with the three Ivy Leaguers.  Two of them were keen on her, but she was not the dating sort.  Or so they said.

Ten minutes before the train arrived, another person came and sat in the waiting room.

Alison Breton.

I ignored her for five whole minutes.  I mean, what could I say to her?

It was when the host mentioned the second word, “afraid.”

It was part of the truth and summed up how I felt about her.  I was afraid of her.  Afraid, or more to the point, literally terrified.

I had imagined many times what I would say to her, fabricating long, I thought, interesting conversations.

And if I let my imagination stretch a little further, I might have to admit I liked her, perhaps more than I should, but could and would never admit it.  One humiliation by a girl in a lifetime was enough, and my completely shattered ego couldn’t take another rejection.

Five whole minutes before she said, “So you’re leaving this dump too?”

It was obvious I was, though the dump was harsh.

And then words came out that were not my own.  “What’s your excuse?”

I knew the moment I tried to speak to her that it would be over.  Maryanne, the betrayer, was different.  I could speak to her, and because of that, I thought she was the one.

She smiled.  “Probably the same as yours.  James told me he loved me, but he didn’t.  Apparently, I’m the subject of a bet.”

I’d heard a rumour and couldn’t believe it.  Or perhaps I could.  Small town, small-minded boys, one ambition, to have what they couldn’t.

“Best get out of town then.”  My solution to the problem wasn’t a one-size-fits-all all.

But it was a response to the host dropping the word trouble.  And then looked and was quiet.  It seemed they were all intertwining in the narrative that was unfolding.

“That doesn’t explain your desire to leave, other than the Maryanne humiliation.  I guess a month away from here might make it go away.”

“It won’t.  I have brothers who will never let me forget.  You grow up in this place, no one forgets the trouble, or more appropriately, your legacy.”

“It’s always us quiet kids, eh, the ones who don’t make a fuss, who are studious and respectful, who don’t want to be noticed.  No matter how we look or feel.  I tried to be invisible.”

“It made you stand out more than the Maryannes.  I was just fodder for girls like her, pandering to the mores of the football team, and you know what they were like.”

Being smart didn’t make us immune to being hurt or hoping against hope that we had a chance.

We both heard the sound of the horn in the distance, a warning that the train was approaching the railway crossing, about two or three miles outside of town.

The train, like always, was running late.

She stood.  “Where are you going?”

“San Francisco.  My grandmother.  She has a large house and many unusual friends.  She was an actress once, when Hollywood was going through its black and white phase.”

“I’m going there too.  My mother’s sister, though I suspect she isn’t.  Maybe we can pretend we’re brother and sister, to be safe.”

I shrugged.  Why not?  Once we got there, I’d probably never see her again.

…

“Except,” Alison said, holding my hand, and talking to the host with that whimsical expression she had when telling others the story of how we met, “we talked and talked and fell in love, got married, have five amazing children, twelve equally amazing grandchildren, and just lived our lives.  Nothing special, and yet to us, very, very special.”

And then, surprisingly, our time was up.  I had expected it would take half the time allotted.  Instead, it was two hours later, and no one, not any of us, had noticed.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

E is for Empire State Building

…

Making a plan, having certain expectations, taking that leap of faith that all of us are destined to do at least once, I found myself standing at the top of the Empire State Building, on the last day of the twelfth month, exactly five years after making a promise in exactly the same place, I would be there.

There was a 3 pm in there, but that was flexible, because I always liked to be early.

It had been after high school graduation, after the prom, every bit the magical moment it was meant to be, with the girl of my dreams, Margaret Cates.  We had spent those last years of high school together, studying hard, each helping the other achieve the grades needed to enter the best University.

There was no talk of romance, of a life together, or anything other than of being brought together, almost inseparable.  We were voted the most likely to be married and living contentedly in a house with a picket fence and three children.

Expectations were what parents had, and both of our parents were best friends, who simply chose to believe the inevitable would happen.  Graduation, a combined family trip to New York to see the sights, culminating in New Year’s Eve at the top of the Empire State Building.

That was where we made the promise, no matter what, we would reconvene, that was Margaret’s word, at the same time.  It was also the first time we kissed, and I think it took a week before my heart rate went back to normal.

Soon after that, Margaret left.  She had been accepted into her university of choice.  Her parents were surprised, and my parents were in shock. 

I was not.  It was the plan.  Margaret had a plan for everything. There was no plan with me in it.  Not in those first five years.  I was sad but not devastated.

I said to my parents, if we were meant to be, she would come back.  I had to set her free.

…

My plan was there was no plan.  I got the grades, and I got accepted into my University of choice.

At the end of the second year, I was in a what could only be described as a car crash, and was badly injured, to the extent that I had to put my life on hold.

I would recover, not one hundred per cent but enough to continue whatever path I’d chosen, but with some limitations.  The doctor was upbeat, and my parents were upbeat.

I went home, not quite in the manner I’d intended.  I was assured that life was like that, and I had to accept, accident or no accident, life was full of unexpected challenges.

…

Summer Atkins was probably the most irritating, aggravating, and ingratiating person on the planet.

She lived next door, one of five girls, the eldest, and coincidentally in my grade at high school.  In fact, she was in all the grades from Elementary.

She was gawky, awkward, loud and clumsy.  It was not her fault.  She had a kind heart, always the first to volunteer for the worst jobs, and suffered a lot at the hands of the boys and the girls, too.

I was not pleased to say when I looked back at my time that I was one of them, and probably the only one who apologised after the prom for what had been, at times, unforgivable.  The prank for the prom was probably her lowest point.

It took a week before she would come out of her room, and I came over every day to join the few who actually cared about her.  After Margaret left and before I followed, we spent time together, where she asked me what she needed to do to just get to talk to a guy like me.

I thought it strange.  She was talking to me, I was talking to her, we had coffee and cake at the diner and hung out.  She had no aspirations to go to college, just to help her parents look after her siblings and work in the diner.  I had suggested she might want to do something for herself, and she looked at me strangely.  I did not, she said, understand her.

We parted awkwardly, with this thing I had done, but what it was, I had no idea.  It ended when she told me that if I was waiting for Margaret, I would be waiting a long time.  How did she know anything about what my expectations were?

…

I came back home under the radar.  I didn’t want anyone to know because I had set myself a high bar, and I was never going to reach it.

I felt that I had become a disappointment to my parents, and while they put on a brave face, and my siblings were polite, it was clear that they were happy for me to hide away, and my siblings were happy to see the high flyer crash and burn.  Kid would be kids, I expected no less.

So when Summer unexpectedly knocked on the door, a certain element of panic went through the house.  Upstairs, I heard that voice drift up the stairs with mixed emotions.  I wanted to see her, but I didn’t want to see her.

Not like this.  It was an odd feeling, and I couldn’t understand what fuelled it.  It was Summer, she wouldn’t care, more likely revel in the fact.  How the mighty had fallen.

My mother answered the door.

“Mrs Abercrombie, you look tired?”  The grating tone had gone, her voice had softened, and there was genuine concern in it.

“It’s…”

She caught herself before mentioning my name.  It had been a secret for about a month.  I was surprised Summer had not called earlier.

My mother shifted the topic.  She was good at that.  “How is your father?  That latest bout of chemotherapy cannot be helping the diner.”

“He’s responding to the treatment, and we’re managing.  How are you faring without Allen?  I’m sorry I should have come over more often.”

“It’s fine.  We’re all coping with life as best we can.”

“How is Allen, if I may ask?”

That was Summer.  Gets the bit between her teeth and doesn’t let go.

My mother was not one to lie.  Obfuscate but not lie.  Not outright.  But confronted…

“Something’s wrong,” she said in a hushed voice, so low I couldn’t barely hear her.  I could virtually see my mother’s face.  It had always been expressive.  It’s why she could never play poker.

It went quiet for a minute or two, and I knew it was time to brace myself.  Summer was the last person I wanted to see, perhaps the only one other than Margaret, not that I expected her to drop everything.

Again, I couldn’t explain why, other than showing vulnerability. 

A few minutes passed while I was hoping my mother would explain that I didn’t want to see anyone, that I wanted to be better before facing the outside world.  Whether Summer would accede to a request if leaving me alone was moot.

If she knew I was there, she would not hesitate to come up and remind me of the Allen of old, with the shoe now firmly on the other foot.

I tried hiding under the covers, but she had X-ray eyes.  I knew she was in the room; I could feel her presence.  And the scent she used was a hint of primrose.  Once it was far stronger, but I suspect she had mastered the art of cosmetic use.

“You will suffocate long before I leave, Allen.  I’m not the same girl you left behind.  I don’t hate you.  I did for a while, but then I realised you cared when all the rest didn’t.  I’m sorry we parted angry.”

She sounded reasonable, far more reasonable than I expected.  She should have still been angry, if not with me, but with the others.

“OK.  If you don’t come out, I’ll get in there with you.  You know me well enough to know I will.”

Did I know her well enough?  I never took the opportunity.  No one wanted to because she didn’t fit the other girls’ profile.  It wasn’t like that at University, there it was simply a competition.  There was dating, but it was more convenient than romance.  There were not many hours left in a day for extracurricular activities.

When I peeled back the covers, it was like seeing an angel, the sun shining in the window, throwing a glow over her.  Summer had changed from the awkward, ugly duckling into a graceful Swan.

A look of concern crossed her face.  Just lifting the covers was a difficult task, like most normal movements we all took for granted.  It was getting easier and less painful, but it would take time.

“What happened to you?”

“A car and I had a disagreement.  It won.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me.  How long have you been here?  What do you need? Tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”

…

Summer basically glued me back together.  It was, she said, one of her projects, others minding the children of silly sisters, nursing her farther past cancer, keeping up her waitress job at the diner, and just being Summer, the girl who always pitched in.

Such was the value of her help that my mother said I should marry her before someone else snapped her up.  Just before I was to go back to University, I did just that, but she rejected me.

There was someone else, and he was going to propose any day.

I could respect that.  Whatever I thought she might think of me, I would forever be one of those boys who made her life hell.  I didn’t deserve someone like her.  I just got on the train and left.

But the truth was, I was never the same again.

How could I?

I had tried to tell Margaret, but the terms of the pact were clear.  5 years, do your thing, meet and discuss.  If feelings were the same, who knew what might happen?

I was disappointed I hadn’t been able to find her, but I had a story to tell.

A year after returning, I gave it up.  I didn’t have the same enthusiasm, and feeling like a failure, I didn’t go home.  I simply pretended everything was fine and moved to New York and found work in a rather offbeat bookshop in Queens.

It fuelled my love of literature, and after reading anything and everything, I started writing my version of the Great American Novel.  Small-town boy makes it big in the big city.  A bit like my life, really.

Which brings us back to the Empire State Building.

3pm.

And Margaret.

I saw her and thought she was coming to the spot.  She looked different, older, smarter, and with a touch of elegance and sophistication.

Halfway, I saw her smile and then wrap her arms around this bear of a man whom I instantly recognised.  I mean, you would have to live under a rock not to know him.

Her parents were there, and a bunch of media people.  The oohs and ahhs told me it was the moment he went down on one knee; it was going to be a News At 6 moment.

I was but a distant memory, forgotten in her moment of agreeing to be Mrs Albert Johnstone Gerythorn III.

I guess the employee of an eclectic bookshop was hardly a match for a multi-billionaire, or one who was soon to be.

“Sucks to be you.”

It did.  That voice, the one that had grated on my nerves nearly all of my school years, came from behind me.

I knew who it was.  I didn’t turn around.

“I knew it was a mistake to tell you my innermost secrets.”

“Oh, I would not have missed this for the world.”

I felt her hand slip into mine and her body move closer. 

“Five years is a long time.  People change.”

“People like us change, Allen.  People like her do not.”

“I thought you were getting married?”

“So did I.  I guess we were both wrong.  Found that cute little bookshop of yours.  If I didn’t know you better, I’d be guessing you’ve started that great American novel.  Am I right or am I right?”

“You know me too well.  You want to stay, or shall we find another circus, something a little more our style?”

“Do we have one?”

“Of course.  Everyone has style.”

Then I noticed Margaret was coming towards us, a rather serious expression on her face.  Had she finally recognised me?

“Excuse me, but the photographers would like to get some photos of my fiancée and me by this corner.  It would be most appreciated.”

No.  No sign of recognition.

Summer instead smiled sweetly, ” Of course, Margery Mugmouth, the pleasure would be all ours.”

It was Margaret’s nickname among those girls she trashed, and she instantly recognised Summer, and then me.

“Five years, to the day.  You came.  Have a happy life, Margaret.”

With that, we left.

A reporter, or just someone with a notepad, was scribbling frantically and then tried to head us off at the elevator.  Just too late.  The doors closed.

“The nerve,” Summer said.  “That was our corner.  Or I hope it will be.”

“So did I.  Would you like to marry me?” I asked.

The elevator went silent, except for the whishing sound of it going down.

“She made a face, quite amusing, and then said, “Yes.”

People outside the elevator when it arrived thought something bad had happened, given the roar and applause which followed us out into the foyer after it arrived.

Five years, on the last day of the last month at 3 pm, something did happen.  I proposed to the girl of my dreams.  I just hadn’t realised it until then.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026