Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect them.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half-brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 77

Day 77 – The Gimlet eye

…

How to Cultivate a “Gimlet Eye” for Detail – Lessons from George Orwell’s Early Years

“The writer’s job is to make sense of the world, and the only way to do that is to see it with a sharp, unflinching eye.” — paraphrasing George Orwell

When Eric Blair set out to become George Orwell, he didn’t start in a fancy study with a stack of literary journals. He lived “almost down and out” in the gritty back‑streets of London and the squalid basements of Paris, penning Down and Out in Paris and London while sleeping on a bench, sharing a room with a drunkard, or scrambling for a crust of bread. It was in those cramped, chaotic corners that he forged a gimlet eye—a razor‑sharp, probing vision that could pick out the smallest tremor of truth in a bustling crowd.

If you want to write with that same forensic clarity, you don’t need to abandon your apartment and take up a night‑shift in a soup kitchen (though it wouldn’t hurt). Instead, you can adopt the habits, mind‑sets, and practical techniques that turned Orwell’s lived‑in‑hardship into literary gold. Below is a step‑by‑step guide to sharpening your observational muscles, inspired by Orwell’s early apprenticeship.

1. Live “Just Inside the Fence” of the Experience You Want to Capture

Orwell’s ApproachHow to Apply It Today
Immersion – He worked as a ploughman, librarian, cook’s assistant, and bookshop clerk to feel the pulse of each world.Pick a micro‑environment you can access: a coffee‑shop kitchen, a warehouse, a community garden, a public transit hub. Take a shift, volunteer, or shadow for a week.
Economy of Comfort – He deliberately gave up comforts to feel the pressure of scarcity.Create constraints: Write from a coffee‑shop table for a month, limit yourself to a $10 lunch budget, or sleep on a couch for a few nights. The discomfort forces you to notice the details you’d otherwise gloss over.
First‑Person Documentation – He kept a notebook in his pocket, jotting down snippets of dialogue, smells, and sensations.Carry a small notebook or a notes app. Capture anything that strikes you: a bus driver’s sigh, the way rain smells on pavement, the pattern of a coworker’s sarcasm. Review weekly.

Pro tip: You don’t need to stay in poverty; you just need to touch its edges. Even a single night in a low‑cost hostel can give you a fresh lens.

2. Train Your Senses, Not Just Your Brain

Orwell’s prose is vivid because he recorded what he saw, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt.

SenseOrwell‑Inspired ExerciseQuick Daily Drill
SightSketch a street corner in 5 minutes – no details left out.Look at a city billboard for 30 seconds; write down every word, colour, and emotion it evokes.
HearingRecord ambient sounds on your phone, then transcribe the “conversation” of the city.Spend 2 minutes listening to a cafe. List every distinct sound and why it matters.
SmellWrite a paragraph that uses only olfactory cues to describe a place.When you enter a room, note the first three scents you notice.
TasteEat a simple meal (e.g., toast) and describe it as if writing a novel.At lunch, pick one ingredient and document how it changes through the dish.
TouchSit on a park bench for 10 minutes, catalog textures (bench wood, wind, your own clothing).Close your eyes for a minute; list everything you feel on your skin.

Consistently exercising each sense forces you to notice subtleties that most writers skim over.

3. Adopt the “Reporter” Mindset

Orwell started as a journalist (the BBC’s Indian service, the Tribune). Reporting taught him to:

  1. Ask the “Five Ws + H” of Every Scene
    • Who is present? What is happening? Where exactly? When (time of day, season, historical moment)? Why does it matter? How does it unfold?
    Practice: Choose a mundane event—like the line at a grocery store—and answer the five Ws + H in 150 words.
  2. Seek Contradictions
    • Orwell loved spotting the gap between what people say and what they do.
    Practice: Record a conversation, then write a short paragraph highlighting any mismatch between claim and action.
  3. Strip Away the Superfluous
    • He famously edited his drafts until each sentence earned its place.
    Practice: After a first draft, underline every adjective. Remove any that don’t add a concrete detail or a new nuance.

4. Make Space for “Idle” Observation

Orwell’s most striking passages often came from moments when he was waiting—on a train, in a queue, at a pub. Idle time is a fertile hunting ground for detail.

  • Schedule “Observation Walks”: 10‑minute walks with no destination, only the intent to notice.
  • Turn Commutes into Labs: Bring a small notebook onto the bus and note down one scene per ride.
  • Use “Micro‑Journals”: A single page per day with headings like Sound, Smell, Glimpse, Tension—you’ll be surprised how much accumulates over a month.

5. Read Like a “Reverse Engineer”

Orwell’s own reading habits helped him refine his eye.

  • Deconstruct a Paragraph: Pick a passage from Down and Out that dazzles you. Identify:
    • The concrete detail anchors the scene.
    • The sensory verbs (e.g., “clanged,” “stank”).
    • The underlying social commentary is hidden beneath the description.
  • Write a “Shadow” Version: Take the same scene and rewrite it without any adjectives, then rewrite again, adding only sensory nouns. Compare the effect.

6. Cultivate Empathy, Not Just Observation

Orwell didn’t just see poverty; he felt its weight. Empathy is the engine that turns raw data into a compelling narrative.

  • Practice “Perspective Shifts”: After observing a scenario, write a short paragraph as if you were one of the participants.
  • Use “Emotional Mapping”: Sketch a simple chart with the observed scene on one axis and possible emotional responses on the other. Identify which feeling is most resonant and why.

When you can inhabit the inner world of the people you observe, your details acquire moral and psychological gravity—just as Orwell’s descriptions of the “tramp” or the “shop‑assistant” do.

Putting It All Together: A 30‑Day “Orwellian Bootcamp”

DayActivityGoal
1‑3Choose a “micro‑environment” (café, subway, market). Spend 2‑3 hours there each day, notebook in hand.Immersion
4‑6Sensory drills (see/hear/smell/taste/touch) – 10 min each, using the same environment.Sensorial acuity
7Write a 300‑word scene using only sensory details; no dialogue or exposition.Pure observation
8‑10“Five Ws + H” exercise on a mundane event.Reporter mindset
11‑13Record a conversation; note contradictions.Critical listening
14Edit the 300‑word scene: cut every adjective that isn’t strictly necessary.Precision
15‑17Read a passage from Down and Out; deconstruct it. Write a “shadow” version.Reverse engineering
18‑20Empathy shift: rewrite yesterday’s scene from the viewpoint of a peripheral character.Emotional depth
21‑23“Idle observation” walks—no phone, notebook only for quick sketches.Spontaneous detail
24‑26Write a full 800‑word vignette that combines all senses and an undercurrent of social commentary.Integration
27‑30Peer review (or self‑review) focusing on: clarity of detail, emotional resonance, and concision. Refine.Mastery

At the end of the month you’ll have a short piece that could sit comfortably alongside Orwell’s early work—and a set of habits that will keep your gimlet eye honed for life.

Why It Matters

In an era of endless scrolling and algorithmic echo chambers, a writer who can pierce the surface and expose the hidden mechanics of everyday life offers something rare and valuable. Orwell’s legacy endures not because he was merely a chronicler of poverty, but because he made the invisible visible—and did so with a clarity that still rattles readers today.

By intentionally placing yourself at the edge of comfort, training every sense, asking relentless questions, and injecting empathy into each observation, you’ll develop that same gimlet eye Orwell wielded. The result isn’t just a richer description; it’s a deeper connection between your words and the world they intend to illuminate.

Takeaway: Observation is a muscle. The more you flex it—through immersion, sensory drills, and empathetic storytelling—the sharper it becomes. In the words of Orwell himself, “If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.” Let your keen eye be the tool that uncovers the truth you didn’t even know was there.

Ready to start? Grab a pocket notebook, step outside your comfort zone, and let the streets of your own city become the laboratory for your next great story. Your gimlet eye awaits. 🌍✍️

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

I remembered a bang.

I remembered the car slewing sideways.

I remember another bang, and then it was lights out.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.

Or I could be underwater.

Everything was blurred.

I tried to focus, but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.

What happened?

Why was I lying down?

Where was I?

I cast my mind back, trying to remember.

It was a blank.

What, when, who, why and where are questions I should easily be able to answer. These are questions any normal person could answer.

I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.

I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.

“My God! What happened?”

I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.

I was blind. Everything was black.

“Car accident; hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”

Was I that poor bastard?

“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.

“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”

“What isn’t broken?”

“His neck.”

“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”

I heard the shuffling of pages.

“OR1 ready?”

“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”

“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”

Magic.

It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.

Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time underwater.

Or somewhere.

I tried to speak but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.

Was it night or was it day?

Was it hot, or was it cold?

Where was I?

Around me, it felt cool.

It was incredibly quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or that was the sound of pure silence.  And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.

I didn’t try to move.

Instinctively, somehow, I knew not to.

A previous unpleasant experience?

I heard what sounded like a door opening, and noticeably quiet footsteps slowly came into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.

My grandfather.

He had smoked all his life until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that, he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way down the same path. I could smell the smoke.

I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.

I couldn’t.

I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later, the clicking of a pen, then writing.

“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a bad accident. You cannot talk or move; all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days and just came out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She had a very soothing voice.

Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.

“Everything is fine.”

Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.

“Just count backwards from 10.”

Why?

I didn’t reach seven.

Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning, I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.

It rose above the disinfectant.

She was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.

It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.

The next morning, she was back.

“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very severely injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”

More tests, and then when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. This was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.

The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”

Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accidents, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.

How could that happen?

That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact that I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment, was the fact that I could not remember before the crash either, or only vague memories after.

But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised I could not remember my name.

I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.

I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I will remember tomorrow. Or the next day.

Sleep was a blessed relief.

The next day I didn’t wake up feeling nauseous. I think they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that but not who I am?

Now I knew Winifred, the nurse, was preparing me for something unbelievably bad. She was upbeat and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”

So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.

But there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.

This time, I was left awake for an hour before she returned.

This time, sleep was restless.

Scenes were playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Other people, I didn’t know. Or I knew them and couldn’t remember them.

Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.

The morning the bandages were to come off, she came in early and woke me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.

“This morning, the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly, or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”

I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.

I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender; the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.

I was amazed to realise at that moment, I wasn’t.

I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.

I felt the bandage being removed and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.

Then a moment when nothing happened.

Then the pads are gently lifted and removed.

Nothing.

I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.

“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later, I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. There was ointment or something else in them.

Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.

She wiped my eyes again.

I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.

I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.

Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.

I nodded.

“You can see?”

I nodded again.

“Clearly?”

I nodded.

“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”

I couldn’t wait.

When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring; there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the most handsome of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.

I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.

They came at mid-morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. She was the distraction, taking my mind off the reality of what I was about to see.

Another doctor came into the room before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon who had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.

I found it hard to believe that if he were, he would be at a small country hospital.

“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months.”

Warning enough.

The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.

Then it was done.

The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with it. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.

I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand and was reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said, noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the result. The doctor said it was going to heal with little scarring. You have been extremely fortunate that he was available. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

She showed me.

I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess, I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.

And I still could not talk. There was a reason; he had worked in that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.

“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement in last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”

A new face?

I could not remember the old one.

My memory still hadn’t returned.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024-2026

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 4

It’s an unusual topic, but I was looking for a distraction from the rigours of NaNoWriMo, and this fitted the bill perfectly.

For someone who doesn’t really care about sport in general and is rarely able to find the time in between all the writing to actually sit down for several hours, and, in some cases, all day, today seems to have been an exception.

I got through my NaNoWriMo exercise earlier this morning, and since the Maple Leafs were playing today, I thought I’d fire up the computer and take a look at how they’re going.

By the time I’d found the streaming site, the game had started, but it was nil-all, so it was much the same as not missing the start.

I thought it odd that an Australian would be interested in ice hockey, but it seems I’m not alone.  Nor that others barracked for Toronto, Ottawa, and Edmonton, and all seem to dislike the New York Islanders with varying degrees of intensity.

Maybe because they’ve won ten straight games.

So, it takes a long time, almost halfway through the third period, for the first goal, and it’s the opposition, the Vegas Golden Knights.

Damn them.

And now I have this sinking feeling the game might slip away.  Their form can hardly be labelled stellar, and I thought I heard the home crowd booing them, but that must have been my imagination.

No, my dismay is misplaced, there it is, Mathews comes to life and evens up the scoreline.

And for the rest of the period, the goalie keeps the Golden Knights out.  As only the new, is he, goalie can when he’s on his game. Goalies all seem to look the same.

Once again, we’re in overtime, with more heart-in-mouth stuff, and, of course, the man we’ve been missing, Tavares, finally pulls the rabbit out of the hat.

It’s a pity we couldn’t be there in person to see it.

Maybe I could incorporate a hockey game into the spy story…

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

newdevilcvr6

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 46

Back on the alien vessel

…

Here’s the thing.

I personally believed that we wouldn’t be sitting on this alien vessel unless we had some value, or there was something about the group of so-called criminals that the alien captain didn’t have the authority to take decisive action.

“Hold that thought,” I said to him.  Then, “Number one?”

“Sir?”

“Are you still with the alien group?”

“Yes sir, awaiting orders?”

“Is the spokesman for the prisoners nearby?”

“A moment, sir.”  Silence for a minute, then, “He’s here, sir.”

“You wish to speak to me?” 

An odd thought, they all sounded the same.

“Yes.  I find it odd that the alien captain of this vessel hasn’t just destroyed our vessels and moved on, after all, if they have determined you are all criminals, what would be the difference between being left in a prison, or being executed? 

“I’m not sure what you are getting at.  For all intents and purposes, we are dead, to them and our homeworlds.”

It wasn’t the way he said it, but the way it was spoken.  And what was left unsaid.  It was a moment when you didn’t get the answer you wanted because you didn’t ask the right question.

“Now is not the time to be keeping secrets, because when our host comes back, the situation is going to end badly for you, and just as badly for us.  We’re all still here because you have something they want.  What is it?”

There was silence, but it was not generated by a refusal to speak, but more than the answer might have worse consequences than no answer.

Then, very quietly, he said, “Jai Ti.”

There are only three reasons that drive people to do the unthinkable.  Money, power, and a woman.

“She is not a so-called criminal, is she?”

“No.  She was indiscreet and found herself banished to the same detention center like us.  We are high-level detainees, rather than prisoners, who live in far better conditions than the more common criminal classes.”

“Let me guess, she was a so-called friend of one of the high council or someone of consequence in the political power structure.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“And they’re worried if she gets free, she might denounce the injustice?”

“She feels she did nothing wrong.  She claims she did not tell anyone, as per her agreement with the individual in question.  The situation is exacerbated by the fact they people have a very strict moral code, and relationships, shall we say, that is extra, and severely frowned upon, and for a leader who is expected to set an example.”

“And this leader…”

“The rules don’t necessarily apply depending on who you are.  Unfortunately, it is a problem across the many homeworlds here.  An enlightened society doesn’t necessarily mean what we and others are led to believe.”

“We have the same problems.  Thank you for your honesty, it may help, it might not.”  I had all I needed.  “Number One.”

“Sir.”

“No need to stay, I have no intention of getting between the passengers or the alien captain, so get back to the ship as quickly as you can and be ready on the bridge.  General?”

“Sir?”

“You are ordered to defend the ship by whatever means at your disposal, without regard to that personnel not aboard.  Do you understand?”

I expected a but because I was basically telling him that if he had to fire upon the Russian ship or the Alien ship, both senior officers and some crew would be in danger.

As far as I was concerned, the ship and 2000 others were more important.

“Under protest, but I understand.  Sir.”

“Number one?”

I also expected to get the standard lecture, which was well within his purview, but instead, “Understood, sir but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Second?”

“Sir?”

“You have the bridge until either Number One or I return, otherwise you know what the standing orders are.”

“Understood.”

It was the precise moment the alien captain returned.

“I’ve spoken to the high council.  We are also monitoring a high level of activity on your ship.”

“If it’s a war you want, it’s a war you’ll get.  I think it’s time for the truth, something you have been playing, as we say, fast and loose with.  I told you exactly why we’re here, you haven’t.  I don’t approve of my compatriots’ actions, but he has, as anyone from our world would grant preliminary asylum to anyone who asks for it, pending a thorough investigation.  That investigation starts and ends with two words, Jai Ti.”

For a man with an expressionless face, it wasn’t hard to tell I’d hit the nerve.

“Alas, as you may or may not appreciate, we are in a difficult situation.”

“Dare I say it, but for an enlightened civilization, you seem to have all the same problems we do.  We could have resolved this much earlier had you just stated the facts.”

“Then you are prepared to return the prisoners.”

“Prisoners, yes, but with a suggestion.  The princess, no.  Unfortunately, you’re going to have to censure the leader that broke the rules.”

“And if that’s not possible?”

“Then I will take her home, and whatever happens after that is on his head, and to a lesser extent, yours.”

“Even if it means your ship is destroyed, and all those crew members die needlessly.”

“More have died for less, but noble cause.  Do as you wish, but I strongly advise you not to test our resolve.”

The alien captain turned to the Russian captain.  “If you hand over the prisoners, all of the prisoners, you will free to leave.”

“Sorry.  It’s a tempting offer, but it doesn’t solve the problem for future explorers.  Eliminating us will just bring more, in the not-too-distant future, only they will be hostile.  You might be able to live with the short-term consequences, but given what we are learning about your relations with other worlds, who are they going to blame for the problems you caused in the name of short-term expediency?”

A few seconds later four new aliens appeared, each in a particular style of dress.

Members of the high council?

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2022

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 3

Having got through my quota of words for the NANOWRIMO project, I turned my mind to another story I’m writing.

It started out as a bit of a lark, just to see if I could write a story that fitted around with an old castle we’d visited in Tuscany, after hearing stories of the pockmarks on the walls attributed to gunfire.

It conjured up a group of men occupying it with a single mission: to capture and return a high-ranking German boffin who wanted to defect to the Allies.

The twist is, of course, that the occupiers are British, sent there to facilitate the repatriation to England, but the men are really German double agents.

A bit far-fetched, but from some of the stories I’ve read and shows I’ve seen, it’s not quite beyond the realms of possibility.

And, after all, it is fiction.

So, parts of this story have been running around in my head, waiting for a time to put it on paper.  Now is that time.

So, three more episodes have just been completed, and I’m thinking of watching Von Ryans Express again just to keep the mood going.

Oh, and the NANOWRIMO project, it’s proceeding apace.

My spy survives the action-packed start, battered and bruised, and contemplating his next move. It’s tough where the only retirement plan you have open to you is death

A to Z – April – 2026 – C

C is for – Coming home

…

“I’m sorry,” Barnaby said in his usual matter-of-fact manner, “but this is the end. You have done your bit. Now it’s time to move on.”

Sitting next to Barnaby in the back of the limousine, I could not believe what I was hearing. “This is the end?”

“No. Just the end of your service. You have gone above and beyond. We are grateful, very grateful. But now it’s time to reintegrate into the world.

“Where are we?”

“In the city we picked you up from all those years ago.”

“Cinnamon Falls?”

The limousine slowed and then stopped. The shades went up on all the windows of the car, and I could see a park, the bandstand, and a row of dead-looking rose bushes. There was a layer of snow on the ground and piled up by the side of the road.

“Your hometown.”

Was it? I was sure I came from some small backwater place, but it was so long ago, and I’d been to so many places, what I was looking at was as alien as if they had dropped me off on Mars.

“Sure as hell doesn’t look like anywhere I’d come from.”

“Well, our records don’t lie. You have your ID, which is your real name, documents to prove it, and a bank account with enough funds to tide you over till you find a job.”

“Job?”

“Yes. You know. A place where you go, toil for eight hours and then go home. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Impossible. You’ve been trained to be anyone, anywhere, and do anything. I have complete faith in you.”

“Will I see you again, anyone again?”

“No. When you get out of the car, that’s it. We never existed. Now, it’s time to go.”

I could see there was no arguing with Barnaby. He had said, a long time ago, this time would come. It had. I opened the door. A cold blast of air came in.

I shrugged. “Thanks for the ride.”

In more ways than one.

I got out, took a last look at the old man, then closed the door. I watched the car drive off, until it turned the corner and disappeared.

It was the first day of the rest of my life.

…

Cinnamon Falls was one of those small, forgettable little towns scattered about the Midwest.  My parents had been ranchers, as had their parents before them and so on.

Other family members were shopkeepers, soldiers on the frontier, and immigrants before that. 

Now, I had no idea who they were.

My parents had died very recently, my older brother, Sherman, and his wife, Madeleine, the proverbial childhood sweetheart he’d known from grade school, who were the ranchers now, were the only family I knew.

The rest had died out or moved on.

I stood on the sidewalk and looked at the bandstand.  My first kiss was under that roof, with a girl called Amy Deacon, the minister’s daughter.

He was a fire-and-brimstone preacher of the old school who castigated his flock every Sunday about sins and the wrath of God.  Everyone was too scared not to turn up.

I wondered what had happened to her.  Married to Archie, her prom date no doubt.  I was going to ask her, but somehow never got around to it.  She was my first love, the one who really hurt when it didn’t work out.

The first flakes of snow that had been chasing us into town started to fall, and it was going to get cold.  There was no time to look up whether Sherman, my brother, was still on the farm; that was a tomorrow job.

Today I’d get a room at the hotel and decide what to do tomorrow.

The Falls Motel was old and decrepit when I left 20 years ago and hadn’t improved except for a coat of paint.

The sign had a missing ‘l’ in Falls, and the no vacancy sign had no ‘ancy’.  There were three cars outside the 20 rooms, which meant it was not full.

Darkness was setting in as I reached the front door, and it opened with a screech from unoiled hinges.  Perhaps that was how the receptionist knew there was a customer.

Or not.  After a minute, I banged on the desk bell, the one that had a handwritten sign that said, ‘ring for service’. 

Not immediate service anyway.

A girl about 15 or so came out of the back room, swaying to music that I couldn’t hear.  Ear buds.

She pulled one out and said, “What do you want?”

The obvious, I thought.  “You do have rooms for the night, don’t you?”

She looked at me like I was from another planet.  “Duh.  You want a room?”

“Please.”

She shoved a book in front of me with a pen without a lid.  “Sign in.”

I put my name and no address because I didn’t have one, then scribbled a signature.

“Card or cash.”

“Cash.”  I pulled out my wallet.

“A hundred bucks.”

It was a bit more than the last time I stayed there.

She slapped a key with the number 10 attached to it.  “You want breakfast, the diner’s 200 yards up the road.  Leave by 10 am.”

By the time I got to the door, she was gone.

The snow was falling harder by the time I reached the door.  Two rooms I passed that had cars out the front had TV’s blaring. 

When I opened the door, I was greeted by a combination of disuse and disinfectant.  It could be worse.  It could be better.

The bathroom had soap and shampoo, the bed had clean sheets, and the TV had CNN.  It was as much as anyone could hope for.

…

Like any time in a new or different city, I woke slightly disoriented.  It took a minute or two to remember who I was and why I was there.  Not on an operation, but as a cast-off.

It was still dark, but early, about the time I usually woke.  The snow had stopped, but the cold had become more intense.  I put the air conditioner on, but it only blew cold air.

I dressed and headed up to the diner.

It was once owned by a relative, but it was clear that someone else owned it now.  None of my relatives was Chinese.  I sat at the counter, and a middle-aged lady who looked like one of my grade teachers served coffee.

There were a half dozen customers, some sitting in booths, and the chef behind the servery was looking busy.  He shoved two plates of fried stuff on the servery and banged a bell.  The middle-aged lady collected and delivered them to a man and a woman in a booth.

They had been arguing quietly as I came in and were now looking at me.  Townspeople trying to identify a stranger, perhaps.

The middle-aged lady returned.  “From outta town?”

“Yes and no.  I’ll have the special.”

It didn’t say what it was, but it was one of three items on the menu board above the servery.

She wrote it down and gave it to the chef.

The coffee was oddly good.

A police car pulled up outside the diner in a specially marked parking space, and a Deputy got out.  He was slightly older than me, bigger and stronger and in his tailored uniform looked good.

Ben Frasher.  Dad was a sheriff; his dad was a sheriff, it was how things worked.  Ben, though, has been a wild youth, so it was a surprise to see he had followed in his father’s footsteps.

He adjusted the uniform after getting out, holstered the gun, looked at his reflection on the car window, and then came in.

A younger girl, a waitress come bounding out of the back.  “Deputy Frasher, the usual?”

He smiled.  “Of course, Daisy.”  A nod to the middle-aged lady, a quick look around at the customers, and then stopping at me.

I’d changed considerably in 20 years, and he might not recognise me.

“Jack Dawson?”  There was incredulity in his tone.

“It might not be.”

“But there again it might.  When did you get back?”

To him, it seemed like it was only yesterday I left town.

“Last night.”

He came over and sat on the seat next to mine.  I would have preferred he hadn’t, but he was the law.

“Been home?”

“No.”

“Going home?”

“Depends.”

My brother was either going to welcome me or shoot me.  He had threatened the latter when I told him I had to go.  It wasn’t for the reasons he thought it was, and not the lies certain people spread after I was gone.

20 years was a long time, maybe they’d forgotten, but knowing this town, I doubted it.

“You won’t be welcome.”

An understatement.  “It’s been a long time.”

“I can take you, of you like.  It might help prevent trouble.”

It might, or I might not get there.  The Frashers, father and sons, never liked us.  “I’ve got to collect a car and take myself.  Thanks for offering.”

The young waitress put a takeaway cup of coffee on the counter in front of him and smiled.

He nodded in her direction.  “Thanks, Daisy.”  He picked it up and walked slowly towards the door, then stopped and turned.  “No trouble, Jack.  This is a peaceful town now.”

…

It was odd that he thought that I would be the one to start any trouble when, in the first instance, in what could only be described as an ambush, father and son Frasher came after my brother and me based on a lie.

And if anything, the only one in our family who had the right to pick up a shotgun and use it would be me, not my brother.  We both knew who the problem was and who took the fall, but it was how they spun the story after I left.

I was never expected to come back.  I never expected that I would be deposited back in my hometown. 

Maybe Barnaby didn’t know what he had done, but that was hard to believe when he often bragged that he knew everything and could be trusted.  This was just the sort of stunt he would pull, either as a test or an active scenario.

It was not a test.

It was a scenario that was designed to take a problem off his hands.

The middle-aged server dropped a takeaway coffee on the counter in front of me.  “It’s cold out, and you’ll need it.”

“You weren’t one of my grade teachers, were you?  Miss Penman?”  I thought I recognised her.

She smiled.  “My mother.  You’re Jack Dawson.  She always said you were one of the good ones.  I didn’t believe for a moment you were the one who burned the Frasher barn down.  They haven’t improved over the years, doubt they ever will.  You were lucky to escape this place.”

She picked up the empty plate.  “Don’t hang around.  Go see your brother, then leave quietly.  The town is not the same one you left behind.”

I’d seen that expression before, many times.  Fear.  And sadness.

“I’m not planning on staying.  I wasn’t planning on visiting, but sometimes shit happens.”

“That it does.”

…

The car rental place had three cars out front.  The storefront had been recently painted, and the windows looked new.

It looked to me like they’d been replaced, and a closer look, before going in, showed glass fragments inside, under the ledge.

Intimidation?

The man behind the counter was not a local.  The car company was a branch of a well-known brand.  He looked up as I came in.

“How can I help you?”

“I have a car booked.”

“Name?”

“Dawson.”

He looked at his computer and frowned.  “This tells me you cancelled the booking.”

“Ten minutes ago?”

He looked at the screen.  He shook his head and didn’t look at me.

“Frasher called you.  Which car was set aside?”

“The red Acura.”

I held out my hand.  “Don’t mess with the people who made the booking.  Frasher is about to find that out.”

He took the key off the wall rack and gave it to me.  “There’s no excess if you have an accident.  Try to return it in the same condition as you picked it up.  A full tank of gas would be appreciated.  Have a nice day, Mr Dawson.”

Before I got in the car, I looked up and down the street.  Next block, tucked in behind a Ford, was a cruiser.  Watching and waiting.

The Frashers were worried.  My return caused them more angst than my family simply because I was the one who knew the truth.

…

I got in the car, pulled out of the parking space and onto the main road that passed through the town, and then on to the crossroad five miles outside of town.

The police cruiser followed me, keeping pace.

At the intersection where the lane to what used to be my home and the main road in and out of town, two cruisers and a large Suburban, the vehicle of choice for the current sheriff, blocked the three roads.

Another cruiser joined the one behind me, and when I stopped, about five cars from the roadblock, they stopped a similar distance behind me.

An odd thought popped into my head: if I had a gang, they could be robbing the main street shops right now because all the police were here.

I typed a message on the phone and sent it to the one number in my contact list, then got out of the car.  I did not have a weapon like I would usually, so it was an unusual feeling.

It is, I thought, what it is.  not the time to be worrying about consequences.

The sheriff and his mentors did likewise; those other than the sheriff waited by their cars, weapons drawn but not pointing them at me.

Yet.

I walked to the front of my car and leaned against the bonnet, hands where they could see them.  Deputies in this county had a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later.

The sheriff walked five steps towards me and stopped.  He took a moment, then took off the dark glasses.  He looked old and tired.

“Sheriff Frasher,” I said in my most congenial tone.  What came out sounded like I was being strangled.

“Jack.”  He shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if his boots were new and hurting his feet.  Then, “You need to turn around and go back to the airport, and back to where you came from.  This town doesn’t need or want you.”

“I think that’s more about you not wanting me here, Sheriff.”

“I want what’s best for the town.  That means not having you here to stir up trouble.”

I looked around at the deputies by their vehicles.  Three of them were Frashers.  I guess anyone could be a Deputy these days.

“I’m not here to stir up trouble.  I’m just here to see my brother, but with all this attention, I have to wonder why you don’t want me to see him.”

“He might not want to see you.”

True, but the sheriff could not know that for sure.  “Well, be that as it may, I will still be visiting my brother.”

“Just… ” His cell phone started ringing. 

I saw him look at the screen with a perplexed expression before answering.  The stiffening of the shoulders and the almost standing to attention told me this was neither a conversation he wanted, but, most of all, wasn’t expecting.

To tell the truth, neither was I, nor at least not as soon as this.  But then Barnaby always knew how to put the wind up people, people whom others never dared to try.

I heard the sheriff distinctly say no several times, and ‘of course’ once near the end of the conversation.

A few seconds later, it was over.  After another long, mournful glare at the screen, he put the phone back in his pocket.

Then he looked at me with a curious expression. 

“Just who the hell are you?”

“No one.  I’m sure if you looked me up, you would find no trace of me from the day I left this town till I arrived back yesterday.”

“Then how…”

“That is a long story.”

A sudden gust of wind came from the north, bringing with it the promise of more snow.  It was not the time to be standing around talking.

I shivered, partly because of the cold, but mostly from a momentary memory of another time, in another country, with similar people, people obsessed with wealth and power.

Frasher was either too stupid or too stubborn to let this go.

“Enlighten me.”

I sighed.  Light snow started to fall out of the sky.  The wind picked up, and a blizzard was in the offing.  I left in a blizzard, to me it was an omen.

“Giles Bentley, Sheriff.”  I held up my cell phone.  “You have a choice.  Now.  In five minutes, you won’t.  I’m sure you and your deputies have better things to do.”

He still didn’t look happy, but then, once I mentioned the name that had not been mentioned before, he didn’t have much of a choice.  And given his expression, he knew he had overstepped.

“Wrap it up, boys, and get back to work.  Now.”

They didn’t need to be told twice.  The snow was coming down much thicker and settling on everything.  Another half hour we would be snowed in.

I got back in my car and started the engine.  By the time I was ready to drive, all but the Sheriff’s vehicle had gone.  A last look at me, he got in his vehicle and moved to the side of the road.

As I drove past, I could see him on his cell phone, talking and gesturing, like a man who knew his time was up.

…

Everybody had a piper they had to pay.  Frasher was no exception.  Barnaby was no exception.  Neither was I.  There was always someone above our pay grade pulling strings.

My father made a mistake 20 years ago, and I paid the price for that mistake.  No one but my father and Giles Bentley knew exactly what it was, and Frasher had been the one to oversee it.

Lies had been told by all three to cover it up.

I was never supposed to return to Cinnamon Falls, but Frasher senior and my father had both died recently, and Barnaby decided that I should not be punished any more.

It was the subject of a text I received just as I was about to finally fall asleep.  Typical poor timing that was Barnaby’s modus operandi.

I hadn’t been retired.  I had been released, my sentence over.  My troubles were over. 

I drove those last five miles wondering if I could ever just close my eyes and sleep peacefully, the sort of sleep where you weren’t expecting trouble, where you no longer had to look over your shoulder.  A 20-year habit that would be hard to break.

I drove under the sign that announced you were entering the Excelsior Ranch, the Dawson family home for over a hundred and fifty years, reputedly won by Alexander Dawson in a card game.

Such stories were told and retold until they became just that, stories with no basis in fact; they just sounded good on paper.

The thing is, it was true, we had the piece of paper, signed by the hapless Bentley, the gambler and wastrel relative, who lost it in a card game, a document witnessed by a Frasher.

It was a story that changed depending on who told it.  Now it didn’t matter.  All promises and obligations were discharged.  The Excelsior belonged to the Dawsons.  The County Sheriff would always be a Frasher, and the Bentleys had a presidential candidate who didn’t need a scandal.

I felt sorry for Sheriff Frasher.  Well, maybe not.  The Frashers always were dumb as dog shit.

I stopped the car at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the veranda where Sherman and Madeleine were waiting.

I got out, and for a moment, the snow stopped swirling.  Long enough for me to get up the stairs and under cover.

“Jack.”  Sherman held out his hand.

“Sherman.”  I took it, and we shook hands like two men sealing a deal.

Then it was hugs all round until I saw Amy Deacon standing back.  She smiled and said, in her usual laconic manner, “You are a sight for sore eyes, young Jack.”

I was home, once and for all.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 76

Day 76 – Writing Exercise

…

That was the trouble with waiting rooms.  It was the calm before the storm.

Some days they were empty with a plethora of seats to choose from, and others where you couldn’t find anywhere to sit, or the last place was next to a screaming baby.

I hated being sick, but I hated going to the doctor more.

Today it was filling fast.  The old system was first come first served but that lasted a week because no one observed the rules.  The nurse would come out and ask who was next, and the jostling began.

Now you made an appointment and thought we were seen in appointment order.

That was fine, but as the day slid by, the times slid too, and a two pm appointment could very easily become a three thirty one.

That was the price of popularity.  Perhaps it was time for a change.

…

There was a new surgery on the main road not far from me, and there had been a letter drop advising of it opening.

It used all the problems of my usual practice as selling points for us, prospective patients to change.  The thing was, all the staff were Chinese.  I wondered if that meant we would have interpretation errors or language issues.

This was the problem with some of the doctors at the hospital, that language issue, only it was more international.

It was a good thing that I had a smattering of Mandarin from my days as a roving diplomat, before I met the one person who shared my desire to see the world.  She was sitting next to me, reading a novel on her Kindle, a present from our daughter.  We were both here to assess the practice.  For us and others.

Sitting in the new waiting room, the aromas of fresh paint, new carpet and an air freshener all compete with each other for dominance.   The chairs were comfortable, special seats for the aged, like us, away from the playpen for parents with children.

The magazines and newspapers were not from the 19th century, old doctors cast off’s for luxury houses, luxury cars, and hotels no one could afford.  Books in a bookshelf for all ages of children, contemporary magazines for parents with and without children.  And one or two for the retired, like us.

These were the front pages of one magazine, the golden years outfit our lives.  Melinda simply snorted almost in derision. Like me, we were still wondering when those golden years were going to start. And, she muttered, she was still trying to figure out how a 20-year-old columnist could know what our so-called golden years were.

If we had been in our 60s, they would be long gone.

There were only a few waiting; perhaps the idea of changing from the usual doctors with the gruff manner and quick turnaround hadn’t yet translated into enough disdain to make that change.

Perhaps they would let us crash test dummies pave the way, providing word-of-mouth recommendations, or not.

The young girl manning the reception desk, one of three, was bright and enthusiastic, a change from the dour, all-business middle-aged gossips, who didn’t wrestle too hard with the obligations of their NDA with their practice

The small town was one where everyone knew everyone else, and sadly, their business.  Perhaps in this practice, secrets would remain secrets.

A doctor came out and called a name. 

A lady sitting two seats along slowly got to her feet.  The sight of the youthful Chinese doctor seemed to worry her.

He added an aside, one that I translated as Don’t be scared.  I looked at her.  She seemed just that.

She had picked up on the Chinese words.

I said quietly as I stood to help her, “There’s nothing to worry about.  I wouldn’t be here if there was.”

She looked me up and down, then shuffled in his direction, shaking her head.  The last time I’d seen her was at the other surgery, giving the stern receptionist a lecture on lateness and how people didn’t have time for tardiness.

It had fallen on deaf ears.

I sat down again.

A few minutes later, it was our turn, right on the precise time of our appointment.  We were taken to a room that was equally fresh, new, and sterile, where the germs would die of fright long before they got to infect anyone.

Our doctor was female, and looked like she was fresh out of medical school and hardly had any accent at all.  Her English was perfect, and she knew her medical stuff.  She diagnosed Melinda’s ailment and a few other minor ailments that other doctors had dismissed, recommending a Chinese herbalist if she was so inclined.

She would be.

A reasonable payment, and we were on our way.

Taking the bus, as it pulled away from the curb, she asked, “What do you think?”

“Definitely.  What an interesting way to collect information on everyone who goes there.”

“You think there will be more?”

“Everywhere.  It’s the new method of intelligence gathering, and how easy is it to get everything you need to know about someone?”

“Gonna tell Joey?”

“Maybe.  He might think we’re paranoid again.”

“Maybe not then.  We’ll send a coded message.  That’ll get them thinking.”

I nodded.  I picked up a flyer off the floor.  Another new Surgery in the next town.  Chinese doctors. 

I showed it to Melinda.  “Infiltration by stealth.”  She sighed.  An intelligence agent’s work was never done; they just moved into surveillance. 

After all, who would suspect two old over-the-hill retirees?

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Searching for locations: Brisbane botanical gardens, Australia

The flowers were out in full bloom the day we took the grandchildren for ‘a walk in the park’.

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Of particular interest was the Japanese garden with a trail with rocks,and mini waterfalls

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And as a fitting end to the day, a chance to feed a family of ducks

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