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Writing a book in 365 days – 300

Day 300

A slice of life, or a slice of imagination?

…

The Feast of the Impossible: Why We Don’t Want a Slice of Life, But a Slice of the Imagination

There is a culinary term often used in creative circles: the “slice of life.” It refers to narratives that capture the ordinary, the mundane, the painfully relatable reality of human existence. It’s the story of the difficult commute, the awkward first date, the slow, inevitable march of rent payments and domestic chores.

And while critics and readers praise these narratives for their mirror-like accuracy, a growing chorus of us—the dreamers, the schemers, the creators—have started to push the plate away.

We are perfectly familiar with reality. We live in it every day. Why, then, should we dedicate our precious leisure time to consuming its reheated leftovers?

We are not interested in a slice of life; what we want is a slice of the imagination.

The Tyranny of the Mundane

The argument against the strict “slice of life” isn’t an argument against authenticity; it’s an argument against limitation.

Reality, for all its occasional beauty, is often characterised by bureaucratic ennui, disappointing physics, and a predictable set of social rules. The slice of life, at its most restrictive, holds us hostage to these limitations. It dictates that things must be believable, that characters must struggle with only the problems we currently possess, and that the scope of human experience must fit within the current legal code and the known laws of thermodynamics.

When we turn to art, literature, or media, we are not looking for confirmation that the world is exactly as depressing and limited as we suspected. We are looking for a lift.

We seek the moment of transcendence—the moment that allows us to step outside the constraints of our five senses and the 24-hour news cycle. The slice of life provides comfort in shared familiarity; the slice of the imagination offers freedom in glorious impossibility.

The True Taste of Imagination

What exactly is this “slice of the imagination”?

It is the narrative that begins not where the road ends, but where the road should have begun if we had been allowed to choose the construction materials ourselves.

It is the hidden history whispered by an exiled queen on a planet visible only through a telescope carved from ice. It is the intricate workings of a clockwork city powered by collective dreams. It is the raw, untamed emotion of a character whose heartbreak causes the actual atmosphere to fracture.

Imagination gives us narratives designed not to confirm the limits of our world, but to test the limits of our humanity under impossible pressures.

Why Imagination Is More Authentic Than Reality

Despite popular misconception, investing in the imaginative is often a deeper, more rigorous exploration of truth than merely documenting the real.

  • It isolates the core idea: If you want to explore the nature of sacrifice, you can write a story about a parent giving up a promotion for their child (a slice of life). Or, you can write about a space traveller forced to stop the flow of time at the exact moment their daughter smiles, knowing they will be trapped alone in that instant forever (a slice of imagination). The latter, while impossible, isolates and intensifies the emotional truth of sacrifice far more effectively.
  • It offers universal empathy: A narrative depicting the specific political struggles of 1980s Eastern Europe might struggle to resonate with a modern teenager in Sydney. However, a story about an oppressed people fighting a magically-enforced totalitarian regime (Fantasy) or resisting a hive-mind alien force (Sci-Fi) speaks directly to the universal human impulse for freedom, regardless of the historical moment.
  • It is the blueprint for the future: Every innovation, every breakthrough, every architectural marvel that defines our modern existence began as a “slice of the imagination.” The aeroplane, the smartphone, the idea of universal healthcare—all were once impossible concepts derided by those content with the current “slice of life.” To celebrate the imagination is to celebrate potential itself.

The Imperative of Invention

To choose imagination is not to choose childish escapism; it is to choose necessary fuel. We need stories built out of invented metal and arcane logic because they train our minds to accept the possibility of a world radically different from the one we inhabit.

The imagination is the muscle we use to solve problems we haven’t encountered yet.

It is the necessary ingredient for those who refuse to accept the status quo—the engineers, the artists, the social reformers, and the writers who believe that if Reality is flawed, the only ethical response is to invent something better.

So, the next time you sit down to read, watch, or create, allow yourself to look past the documentary style and the accurate mirroring of your weekly routine. Demand complexity. Demand strangeness. Demand dragons, ships that sail between dimensions, and philosophical conundrums posed by sentient black holes.

Take the slice of the imagination. It’s a messy, glorious, impossible meal, and it’s the only one that truly nourishes the soul.

What is the most important “impossible” story that changed your perspective on the world? Share your favourite slice of the imagination in the comments below!

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Budapest

Budapest Beyond the Guidebook: 5 Adventures on the Road Less Travelled

Budapest. The Pearl of the Danube. A city of majestic architecture, thermal waters, ruin bars, and a history that echoes through every cobblestone street. It’s a city that rightfully earns its place on countless travel bucket lists, beckoning with the grandeur of the Parliament, the panoramic views from Buda Castle, and the vibrant pulse of Szimpla Kert.

But what if you’ve already seen the iconic sights, or perhaps you’re simply tired of following the well-worn path? What if you crave a deeper connection, a more authentic encounter with this incredible city?

If your adventurous spirit whispers for something different, something just off the main tourist radar, then pack your curiosity. We’re about to explore five truly unique experiences in Budapest that promise a new perspective and memories distinct from the typical postcard shots.

1. Descend into Budapest’s Hidden Labyrinth: The Pál-völgyi or Szemlő-hegyi Caves

Forget the surface for a moment and journey into Budapest’s fascinating underworld. Beneath the city, an extensive network of limestone caves riddles the earth, formed by ancient thermal waters. While few tourists venture here, these natural wonders offer a thrilling escape.

Why it’s unique: Unlike most cave systems, these are right beneath a bustling capital city! You’ll trade city noise for geological silence, marvelling at incredible stalactite and stalagmite formations, crystal growths, and narrow passages. The Pál-völgyi Cave offers a more adventurous, helmet-and-headlamp caving experience (guided, of course), while the Szemlő-hegyi Cave is more accessible, known as the “underground flower garden” for its stunning mineral formations.

Road Less Travelled Bonus: You’ll be one of the few experiencing an ancient, geological side of Budapest often overlooked. It’s an active, immersive adventure that feels a world away from the city above.

2. Bathe Like a Local: Rudas Thermal Bath (and its Rooftop Pool!)

Everyone knows Széchenyi and Gellért. They’re stunning, no doubt. But for a truly authentic, less-crowded thermal experience steeped in history, head to Rudas Thermal Bath. Dating back to the Ottoman occupation, Rudas offers a glimpse into centuries-old bathing traditions.

Why it’s unique: Rudas maintains designated gender-specific days in its beautiful 16th-century octagonal main pool (check their schedule!), offering a more traditional and serene experience. But the real hidden gem? It’s a contemporary rooftop panoramic hot tub. Imagine soaking in warm thermal waters, overlooking the magnificent Chain Bridge and the Danube, especially as the city lights up at dusk.

Road Less Travelled Bonus: While not entirely undiscovered, Rudas offers a far less ‘tourist factory’ feel than its more famous counterparts, allowing for a more reflective and local bathing ritual, especially on single-sex days. The rooftop pool is pure magic.

3. Ride the Whimsical Hungarian Children’s Railway (Gyermekvasút)

Step back in time and into a truly charming piece of Hungarian history. The Children’s Railway is no theme park ride; it’s a fully operational, narrow-gauge railway line winding through the picturesque Buda Hills, and almost every role – from ticket inspector to signalman – is performed by children (aged 10-14), under adult supervision.

Why it’s unique: It’s a fascinating relic of the socialist era, designed to teach children responsibility and discipline. The kids take their roles very seriously, making for a delightful and slightly surreal experience. The journey itself offers beautiful views of the surrounding forests and hills, a welcome green escape from the city’s concrete.

Road Less Travelled Bonus: Far from the city centre, this is a heartwarming, quirky, and surprisingly educational experience. It’s perfect for families, history buffs, or anyone seeking a genuinely unique interaction with Hungarian culture and its past.

4. Dive into Pinball Heaven at the Flippermúzeum (Pinball Museum)

If you’re looking for something purely fun, nostalgic, and utterly unexpected, the Budapest Pinball Museum is your answer. Tucked away in a basement close to Margaret Bridge, this vibrant museum houses over 160 playable pinball machines and arcade games, from the 1940s to the latest models.

Why it’s unique: It’s not just a museum; it’s an interactive arcade where your entrance fee grants you unlimited play for the entire day! You can spend hours immersed in the delightful clangs, flings, and flashing lights of pinball history, challenging friends or simply reliving childhood memories.

Road Less Travelled Bonus: This isn’t on any standard itinerary, making it a fantastic discovery for those craving entertainment beyond traditional sightseeing. It’s a quirky, joyful experience that appeals to all ages and offers a lively break from historical tours.

5. Explore the Ancient Charms of Óbuda

While everyone flocks to Buda Castle or Pest’s vibrant districts, take a tram or bus to Óbuda, the oldest part of Budapest. This tranquil district, effectively Budapest’s “Old Town,” predates the unification of Buda and Pest and offers a distinctly different atmosphere.

Why it’s unique: Here, you’ll find charming Baroque squares like Fő tér (Main Square), dotted with sculptures, quaint cafes, and local shops. Explore the ruins of Aquincum, an ancient Roman city that once thrived here, complete with an amphitheatre. Óbuda feels like a separate, sleepy village, with its own pace and unique history.

Road Less Travelled Bonus: You’ll experience a quieter, more residential side of Budapest, encountering fewer tourists and more locals going about their daily lives. It’s a chance to savour genuine Hungarian village charm within a major metropolis, and to walk among Roman ruins without the usual crowds.

Budapest is a city that keeps on giving, especially when you step away from the well-trodden path. These five adventures offer a glimpse into the city’s diverse soul, inviting you to connect with its history, nature, quirks, and local life in truly memorable ways. So, next time you’re planning a trip to the Hungarian capital, dare to take the road less travelled. You might just discover your own personal pearl.

What are your favourite Budapest hidden gems? Share them in the comments below!

What I learned about writing – You cannot force yourself to write

Yesterday, the dark clouds were swirling overhead, and there was an air of impending doom all around.

Much like those few hours before a storm is about to hit, one of those really big ones with very loud thunder that feels like it’s over your roof and not moving, and, a short time later, the deafening sound of torrential rain.

You know the feeling, you could cut the air with a knife.

I’ve been in that state of mind for some time now, but yesterday something changed.

It wasn’t the internet, that was still as dreadful as ever, despite the assurances we get that we will have the best internet in the world.  The best joke, I think they mean, after spending $50 billion on it, I had better speeds on my 300 baud modem 20 odd years ago.

Sorry, I had to have another whinge about it.  Politicians are such liars.

No, it was not something I could put my finger on.

But…

What was it?

Yes…

I found I could write again.

Well, I could always write, but it was a matter of forcing myself to sit down and do it, as if it were a chore I really didn’t want to do.   And how easy it was to get sidetracked on social media.

Not today.

Today, I simply looked at the writing I wanted to do, and it all came to me without having to stare at the blank screen, waiting for the words to appear, and then find myself deleting them over and over.  Yesterday, writing 500 words really meant writing 5,000 crappy words and continually revising.

Today I am going to write 5,000 words, and it will be all good.

Let’s hope it continues into tomorrow.

 

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Vienna

Vienna Beyond the Waltz: 5 Off-Beat Gems You Can’t Miss

Vienna. Just the name conjures images of majestic palaces, grand opera, and perhaps a slice of perfectly decadent Sachertorte. It’s a city steeped in imperial history, a classic tourist destination, and rightly so.

But what if you’ve already seen Schönbrunn, wandered the Ringstrasse, and gazed upon The Kiss? What if you’re pulling into Vienna on a road trip, looking to veer off the well-trodden tourist path and discover something truly unique?

Welcome to the Vienna that locals cherish—the road less travelled. Here are five essential, yet unconventional, things to do in the Austrian capital that will enrich your trip and leave you feeling like a true insider.

1. Dive into the Depths at the Third Man Museum

For fans of Cold War intrigue and cinematic history.

Forget typical movie museums; the Third Man Museum (Dritte Mann Museum) is a passion project run by dedicated enthusiasts. Tucked away in the less flashy 4th district (Wieden), this spot is a tribute to the iconic 1949 film The Third Man, which captured post-war Vienna’s atmosphere perfectly.

You’ll find thousands of artifacts, from original film posters, props, and scripts, to rare footage and historical documents detailing the Allied occupation of the city. It’s slightly cluttered, intensely atmospheric, and wonderfully niche. It doesn’t just celebrate the film; it gives you a fascinating look at the real city it was shot in.

  • Insider Tip: Check the opening times carefully—they are usually only open on Saturdays!

2. Take a Dip (or a Stroll) Along the Old Danube (Alte Donau)

For escaping the urban hustle without leaving the city.

When the summer heat hits, Viennese locals head not to a crowded beach, but to the Alte Donau—the horseshoe-shaped former main stream of the Danube. This tranquil area is miles away from the tourist crush and offers a refreshing, almost lakeside atmosphere right in the heart of Vienna’s 22nd district.

You can rent a rowboat, a pedal boat, or even an electric boat and enjoy the quiet waters, surrounded by charming boathouses and lush green banks. There are also several public bathing areas (known as Strandbäder) perfect for a swim.

  • Why it’s off-beat: Most tourists only see the straightened, industrial New Danube. The Alte Donau provides a glimpse into Vienna’s softer, more recreational side.

3. Seek out Hundertwasser’s Quirky Architectural Utopia

For lovers of color, curves, and defying convention.

While many tourists flock to the famous Hundertwasserhaus (a quirky apartment block), the real secret lies in visiting the other projects of the visionary Austrian artist, Friedensreich Hundertwasser.

Head to the Kunst Haus Wien, which houses a permanent exhibition of his work and is a museum designed entirely in his organic, colorful style. Afterward, explore the nearby Müllverbrennungsanlage Spittelau (Spittelau Waste Incineration Plant). Yes, an incinerator. Hundertwasser converted this industrial structure into a dazzling, gold-topped, eco-friendly fairytale castle, proving that even infrastructure can be art.

  • The Road Less Traveled Angle: While the Hundertwasserhaus is always packed, exploring these other sites gives you a much deeper appreciation for his unique architectural philosophy.

4. Experience Wine Culture in the Vienna Woods (Wienerwald)

For unparalleled views and authentic Austrian wine (Heuriger).

Did you know Vienna is one of the world’s only major capital cities with significant vineyards located within the city limits?

Skip the central bars and drive (or take the tram) to one of the picturesque suburbs nestled against the Wienerwald (Vienna Woods), such as Grinzing or the lesser-known Neustift am Walde.

Here you’ll find traditional Heuriger—rustic taverns run by the winemakers themselves. They serve their young wine (often a delightful white Grüner Veltliner) alongside simple, delicious homemade buffets (Brettljausen). The atmosphere is relaxed, the view over the city often stunning, and the experience authentically Viennese.

  • When to Go: Visit in late summer or early autumn for the best harvest atmosphere.

5. Step Back in Time at the Central Cemetery (Zentralfriedhof)

For history, grandeur, and an eerily serene experience.

A cemetery might seem like a morbid suggestion, but Vienna’s Zentralfriedhof is a sprawling, peaceful, and historically important destination that few tourists bother visiting. It’s so vast (the second largest in Europe) it even has its own bus line!

It is a beautiful park, yes, but its true draw is the honor graves (Ehrengräber). Here you can pay respects to icons like Beethoven, Schubert, Strauss, Brahms, and Arnold Schoenberg. The architectural splendor of the Art Nouveau church (St. Charles Borromeo Cemetery Church) is also breathtaking.

  • Why it’s worth the detour: It’s a profound testament to Vienna’s cultural importance and a uniquely quiet place for reflection, far from the central crowds.

Vienna offers endless classical charm, but for the true explorer on a road trip, the city rewards those who look beyond the main squares. Park your car, put on your walking shoes, and discover the quirky, colorful, and wonderfully authentic side of Austria’s imperial heart.

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself.  Feeling the dampness of the pillow, and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs. Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived.  He’d heard her and Mrs. Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs. Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines.  She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied.  Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity.  And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain.  Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs. Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one.  Coming up to the new arrival she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner.  Would you like to sit with Mr. Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  He purposely didn’t look back.  In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six.  Out of a thousand!

“If Mr. Henshaw doesn’t mind….”  She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so.  Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.”  Mrs. Mac promptly ushered her over.  Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you.  You are most kind.”  The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone but made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs. Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be.  There was something about him.

His eyes, they mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying?  There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No.  That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?”  Seconds later she realized she’d spoken it out loud, had hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilization, and home, as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal.  All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up.  “Rest.  And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note.  No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs. Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but realized it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observance, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown.  And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame.  They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was he could do with a decent feed.  In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr. Henshaw?”

He looked up.  “Henshaw is too formal.  Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs. Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere.  It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs. Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself.  Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle.  “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought.  He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone.  Then, to Mrs. Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses.  After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation.  “How did you arrive?  I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question, otherwise she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me I had an accident.  I ran up the back of another car.  Of course, it didn’t matter to him the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.”  His attempt at humour failed.  “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs. Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling.  She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living,” Michelle asked in an off-hand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser.  I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, and tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work.  I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you.  I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night and then smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

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Writing a book in 365 days – 300

Day 300

A slice of life, or a slice of imagination?

…

The Feast of the Impossible: Why We Don’t Want a Slice of Life, But a Slice of the Imagination

There is a culinary term often used in creative circles: the “slice of life.” It refers to narratives that capture the ordinary, the mundane, the painfully relatable reality of human existence. It’s the story of the difficult commute, the awkward first date, the slow, inevitable march of rent payments and domestic chores.

And while critics and readers praise these narratives for their mirror-like accuracy, a growing chorus of us—the dreamers, the schemers, the creators—have started to push the plate away.

We are perfectly familiar with reality. We live in it every day. Why, then, should we dedicate our precious leisure time to consuming its reheated leftovers?

We are not interested in a slice of life; what we want is a slice of the imagination.

The Tyranny of the Mundane

The argument against the strict “slice of life” isn’t an argument against authenticity; it’s an argument against limitation.

Reality, for all its occasional beauty, is often characterised by bureaucratic ennui, disappointing physics, and a predictable set of social rules. The slice of life, at its most restrictive, holds us hostage to these limitations. It dictates that things must be believable, that characters must struggle with only the problems we currently possess, and that the scope of human experience must fit within the current legal code and the known laws of thermodynamics.

When we turn to art, literature, or media, we are not looking for confirmation that the world is exactly as depressing and limited as we suspected. We are looking for a lift.

We seek the moment of transcendence—the moment that allows us to step outside the constraints of our five senses and the 24-hour news cycle. The slice of life provides comfort in shared familiarity; the slice of the imagination offers freedom in glorious impossibility.

The True Taste of Imagination

What exactly is this “slice of the imagination”?

It is the narrative that begins not where the road ends, but where the road should have begun if we had been allowed to choose the construction materials ourselves.

It is the hidden history whispered by an exiled queen on a planet visible only through a telescope carved from ice. It is the intricate workings of a clockwork city powered by collective dreams. It is the raw, untamed emotion of a character whose heartbreak causes the actual atmosphere to fracture.

Imagination gives us narratives designed not to confirm the limits of our world, but to test the limits of our humanity under impossible pressures.

Why Imagination Is More Authentic Than Reality

Despite popular misconception, investing in the imaginative is often a deeper, more rigorous exploration of truth than merely documenting the real.

  • It isolates the core idea: If you want to explore the nature of sacrifice, you can write a story about a parent giving up a promotion for their child (a slice of life). Or, you can write about a space traveller forced to stop the flow of time at the exact moment their daughter smiles, knowing they will be trapped alone in that instant forever (a slice of imagination). The latter, while impossible, isolates and intensifies the emotional truth of sacrifice far more effectively.
  • It offers universal empathy: A narrative depicting the specific political struggles of 1980s Eastern Europe might struggle to resonate with a modern teenager in Sydney. However, a story about an oppressed people fighting a magically-enforced totalitarian regime (Fantasy) or resisting a hive-mind alien force (Sci-Fi) speaks directly to the universal human impulse for freedom, regardless of the historical moment.
  • It is the blueprint for the future: Every innovation, every breakthrough, every architectural marvel that defines our modern existence began as a “slice of the imagination.” The aeroplane, the smartphone, the idea of universal healthcare—all were once impossible concepts derided by those content with the current “slice of life.” To celebrate the imagination is to celebrate potential itself.

The Imperative of Invention

To choose imagination is not to choose childish escapism; it is to choose necessary fuel. We need stories built out of invented metal and arcane logic because they train our minds to accept the possibility of a world radically different from the one we inhabit.

The imagination is the muscle we use to solve problems we haven’t encountered yet.

It is the necessary ingredient for those who refuse to accept the status quo—the engineers, the artists, the social reformers, and the writers who believe that if Reality is flawed, the only ethical response is to invent something better.

So, the next time you sit down to read, watch, or create, allow yourself to look past the documentary style and the accurate mirroring of your weekly routine. Demand complexity. Demand strangeness. Demand dragons, ships that sail between dimensions, and philosophical conundrums posed by sentient black holes.

Take the slice of the imagination. It’s a messy, glorious, impossible meal, and it’s the only one that truly nourishes the soul.

What is the most important “impossible” story that changed your perspective on the world? Share your favourite slice of the imagination in the comments below!

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

In a word: Stick

Everyone knows what a stick is, it’s a lump of wood that you throw out in front of you, and if your dog is inclined to, he will run out and fetch it back.

Of course, there’s the obstinate ones who just lie down on the ground and look at you like you’re foolishly throwing away something useful.

For instance, that stick, and a few others that would be very useful to light a campfire, or just a woodfire in the house, during winter.

Or it can be a stick of wood needed for something else, like a building project, of those highly secret affairs that go on in the locked shed at the bottom of the garden.

I’m sure the dog who refuses to fetch sticks knows exactly what is going on there but is disinclined to say.

But..

If you are looking at the gooey sense of the word, there is an old saying, if you throw enough mud, some of it sticks’.

Yes, you can stick stuff to stuff, such as words cut out of various newspapers to make up a ransom or warning note.

Too many mystery movies, I know.

Paint will stick to timber or any surface, really.

Mud sticks to the bottom of shoes or boots and becomes analysable evidence.

I can stick to you like glue, which means that where you go, I go. This is quite handy if you are trying to stop an opposition player from scoring in a game.

I can use a walking stick, beat someone with a stick, use a stick to fly a plane, or use a gear stick to move a car.

I’m sure, if you think about it, you can come up with a dozen more ways to use it.

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.