Searching for locations: An old country homestead, Canungra, Australia

Or to be more precise, the homestead at what is now O’Reilly’s vineyard, where there is a pleasant lawn out back running down to the river for picnics, an alpaca farm next door, and the homestead plays host to functions and wine tastings

My interest was that we had assumed there was a restaurant, and we were going to have lunch. There might be one, but not the day we visited, it was just cafe food or a picnic available.

I was more interested in the old homestead because it was a fine example of the homesteads built in the ‘outback’.

…

Today we are having lunch in the Platypus room, in the O’Reilly’s vineyard farmhouse, which, if you close your eyes and let your imagination run free, could see it as the master bedroom of a homestead.

Certainly, the building is old, made completely of timber, inside and out, with the traditional high ceilings to keep the heat at bay.

At one end, a large bay window, which would be ideal to sit and view the outside, past the sweeping verandah.  There is a small lawn and a rotunda, but beyond that what might have been extended gardens, is the vineyard.

The homestead is in an ideal position midway between the main road and the river, has the traditional surrounding verandah, and shows signs of being extended on almost all sides.

On the other side of the wide corridor that leads you to the bar, and, coincidentally, down the centre of the house, is a smaller bedroom, also used as a dining room, and ubiquitously named the library.

It may be small but it does have a fireplace, which the assumed master bedroom does not, but now I’m thinking that room might have been the morning room.

Behind the room, we’re in is another bedroom, or perhaps this might be the master because it does have a fireplace and is quite large.  And a name, the Ambassador room.  Now it serves as the pickup place for picnic baskets.

There is another room on the opposite side of the corridor called the Drawing Room but is not open to the public.  But, going into the room with the fireplace adjacent to it, you can sell the aroma of pizzas, so it’s probably an extension of the kitchen, and, walking around the outside that side of the house proves it to be the case.

After all, they do catering for weddings and need a very large food preparation area which I discovered runs down the whole of that side of the house.

At the end of the corridor I’d the bar and spare space, and running off that and behind that is where there is a large dining area, perhaps prior to COVID, the restaurant.

It’s not hard to imagine that area as a very large entertaining area, either for very large dinner parties, or dancing.

As for the food, it’s either a picnic basket or pizzas.  We chose the latter, not realising the bases were not homemade, but bought in.  

The toppings however were both plentiful and tasty.  It could have been hotter, because it was a cold day, and it was cold in the room.

As for something to do other than taste the wine, and buy a few bottles, you can get up close to the vines, which, at this time of the year gave been pruned back and look quite dead, look at or walk an alpaca, even feed it, or all of them, or go down to the river and see if you can spot a Platypus.

Perhaps next time we’ll have a picnic down by the river.

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 it.

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’.

Writing a book in 365 days – 245

Day 245

Writing exercise

…

The winds howled down the street as though the air itself knew what was happening and was not happy about it.

Did that mean the universe, such as it was, was in agreement with me, or with Annie.

My thoughts were swirling in unison with the wind, circling, not settling for a straight line, choosing to pick up leaves and dump them on me.

Did that mean I was wrong?

I had simply reacted as anyone would when they got a telephone call from one of their friends telling them they saw the woman you were supposed to be marrying in a week in a passionate embrace with her ex-boyfriend.

He had dumped her, and she had landed in my arms. Nearly all of my friends said I was a fool, that she would always go back, that the six years of history between them couldn’t be erased in a rebound romance, no matter how much I wanted it.

That was the thing. I had loved her from the first time I’d seen her 10 years ago, but never told her. Not until the big, public, awful breakup.

There’s no fool like an old fool, too good to be true; there was any number of sayings I could use.

Of course, hearing that news sent shock waves through me, and where I should have laughed it off, and had complete confidence in her commitment to me, there was the old demon that lacked self-confidence, that always had doubts I was good enough, that my friends were telling the truth.

And that demon took me to her, confronted her, and, well, now there wasn’t a wedding. No satisfactory explanation, angry words that couldn’t be taken back, and a lesson learned.

I was going home to throw a few possessions into a bag, and I was leaving on the late train to anywhere but Deepwater Falls.

…

Sitting on the railway station platform, listening to the wind howling through the trees and shuddering with the cold that was being picked up from the snow-peaked mountains, it was a different type of purgatory.

Because of Annie, I was being forced to leave the place I loved, the place I called home.

I was going to leave anyway, before Annie, but becoming friends with her had changed my life. I kept to myself, and most kids kept their distance, only that jerk of a boyfriend she had before me, and a few of his cohorts preferred to bully people like me and others, because they could.

Now he would be insufferable. A loser before, a mega loser now. Well, I’d be a mega loser in another town. A long, long, long way away from the Falls. Antony could have her and the town. There was not much left after the highway bypassed it. Anyone who was anyone had already gone, and my parents were too old to move on.

Another sharp gust of wind sent a new round of shivers through me. The train was late.

i was the only person other than the station master at the station. When I went to the ticket office and he saw me, he just nodded. “Anywhere but here?”

“I bet it’s not the first time you’ve heard it?”

“No, and not the last. I reckon I’ll be the last and get to turn the lights off. New York or San Francisco?”

I could go either way.

“New York. Then Martha’s Vineyard, but I have to tell my Gran I’m coming first.”

“Pity about the…”

I knew what he meant. The town had been looking forward to something good happening, and everyone was invited to the wedding.

I simply shrugged and walked quickly to the waiting room, a little better protected from the wind than sitting on a bench on the platform.

Now, when I looked up, there was another person, backpack in hand, standing in the doorway.

The last person I expected to see.

Annie.

She looked at me for a moment, then sat on the other side of the room, about ten feet away.

Five minutes of utter silence reigned until she spoke first. “I’m sorry, Eddie. Very, very sorry.”

It was a bit late for apologies, if it was an apology. To be honest, I didn’t know what to think. But somewhere in amongst the condemnation of her behaviour, and my lack of trust, and having the time for the temper to cool, there was this small crack in the brick wall I was building, and through it I could see a girl who was confused, unable to firmly commit to one thing or another.

Anton was poison personified, and he had infected her. Time away from Anton had almost cured her, but his move on her a week or more, perhaps before the wedding, had the intended effect. If he couldn’t have her, no one could, much less me.

It had been a calculated move, preying on her vulnerability when her emotions would be all over the place, and he had succeeded.

Of course, the feelings in me were still running high. “Why are you here?” The tone was hardly conciliatory, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“I can’t stay here either. Everyone has turned against me.”

“Why? Your family is the town; they wouldn’t dare.”

More important than Antony’s surprisingly, considering how they big-noted themselves. It was why Annie and Antony were always expected to get together. It was why I never stood a chance. We had not lived in the town since it was created, way back when the indians camped by the river and hunted buffalo.

“Apparently, I ruined the only good thing to happen to me. My parents disowned me, told me I’d humiliated them. You too, they said. The one person who loved me for me, not because I am a Huckerby. And they’re right, Eddie. I let Antony get to me, and I ruined everything.”

The break in her voice told me she was on the very edge of breaking down, and then a few seconds later, I could hear her sobbing quietly, trying to hide it from me.

It didn’t mean she was contrite or sorry, only that she had let her parents down.

The train was coming, its horn piercing the night air, as it warned traffic that it was approaching a level crossing, about a mile from the station.

I stood. Time to go out.

“I was going to marry you, Eddie. What happened shouldn’t have. I was over him, finally, but I was out with friends who I thought were friends, and they invited him, just for a lark. And all those pre-wedding jitters, I had too much to drink and … and … that’s not even an excuse.”

The train was at the end of the platform, slowing to a stop.

“I don’t know what to say, Annie.”

“Let me come with you?”

“You’re really leaving?”

OK. I thought she had simply come down to try and talk me out of leaving. I never thought or believed for a moment she would go. She could have the pick of any man she wanted in the Falls or anywhere.

“Well, I can’t stay here. And you are the only one I know who cares about me, even though at the moment you must hate me more than anything.”

“You risked everything on the chance I still cared?”

“I know you do. I know you’ve loved me forever. I was too stupid or too wrapped up in my own little world to notice, not until Antony dumped me, and you were there to pick up the pieces.”

The train stopped, and I could see the station master come out of his office.

He watched Annie and me walk to the end of the carriage.

“I don’t deserve another chance, but if there’s just a small part of you that still has feelings for me, or wants to give me one last chance…”

She stood there, tears running freely down her cheeks, the look on her face the most beautiful I had ever seen, and it melted my heart right there. I had hoped she would come; it would be a sign, but I was not going to make it easy for her.

I held out my hand.

“I’m going to Grans. You know she hates you, so if your willing to brave her, then please, come with me.”

She smiled.

“You are not going to let me off easily, are you?”

“Did you think I would?”

“No, and I deserve it. But like you, I know that one day she will love me as much as you do.”

Just above the wind, I heard the station master yell out, “Get on the blasted train before I freeze to death,” and then blow the whistle.

We didn’t need to be asked twice.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

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 I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment was the fact 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. Others, 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, if he were, that 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 his work. “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 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

In a word: Bar

There’s more than one way … er, perhaps it’s better to say, there are many ways to use the word bar, which is not bad for a three-letter word.

Bar, the one you associate with drinks, in hotels, restaurants and we’ll, just bars.

Probably the best type of bar you might find me in is a Sports Bar, where you can snack on buffalo wings a tall glass of beer and watch with ice hockey in winter or baseball in summer.

It’s one I use from time to time when asked, what will we do, and the reply is often let’s go to a bar.  The best bars are underground, dark and dingy, full of eclectic people, with a band playing almost passable music or better still jazz

Bar, as in the legal variety

There are so many legal references to using bar, that the one that I am most familiar with is being admitted to the bar which means that you can now practice law.

Raising the bar, if that’s possible, where the bar is that imaginary level which offers sinks very low.  When someone says they’re going to try and raise the bar, you may be assured there will be a long battle ahead, simply because people generally find it hard to change.

Bar, as in we are not going to let you in here.  Yes, this is the irksome one where you find yourself, often for reasons unknown, barred from somewhere or something.  This may also be referred to by saying everyone may enter bar you.  

Bar, as in an iron bar, the sort that is sometimes used as a blunt force object by villains to remind the victim they owe any one of a loan shark, bookie or the mafia.  God help you if it is all three.

There are also iron bars of a different sort, those that are set in concrete outside a window most likely in a prison where the objective is to prevent escape.

It gives rise to an old expression, that person should be behind bars.

Then there is just a bar, such as a bar of gold, which I’m sure we’d all like to have stashed away, but not necessarily in the mattress, or the more common variety, a chocolate bar, which I have one now.  What’s your favorite?

And just to add to the list of meanings you can always refer to sashes or stripes as bars.

Confused?  Well, there’s still music, and the bane of yachtsmen, sand bars but I think we’ll leave it there.

Welcome to the English language

“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’.

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“Anyone can have a bad day” – a short story

It had been one of those days, you know, the sort where you hoped when you woke up again, it would be a distant memory if not gone altogether. Everything had gone wrong: the handover from my shift to the next was longer than usual, I got home late to find the building’s security system malfunctioning, and after everything that could have gone wrong had, I was late getting to bed, which meant I was going to be tired and cranky even before my shift started.

But what topped it all off was that the alarm didn’t go off. It was not as if I hadn’t set it; I remembered doing it. There was something else in play.

I rolled over and instantly noticed how dark it was. It was never this dark. It was why I chose an apartment as high up as I could; there would always be light coming from the advertising sign on the roof of the building over the road at night, or direct sunlight not blotted out by surrounding buildings.

I also left the curtains open, deliberately. I liked the notion of being able to see out, sometimes looking at the stars, other times watching the rain, but mostly to see that I was not in a dark place.

Not like now.

I got out of bed and went over to the window. Yes, there were lights, but they were all the way down on the street level. Everywhere else, nothing. It had to be a power blackout. Our first in a long time. I should have noticed the air conditioning was not on, and it was almost silent inside the room.

The apartment had windows that opened, not very far, but enough to allow some airflow, and the room felt stuffy, so I opened one in the bedroom. Instantly, sounds drifted up from street level, and looking down, I could see the flashing lights of police cars and fire trucks, as well as the sounds of sirens.

The cold air was refreshing.

It took a few minutes before I realised the elevators would not be working, and I remembered the only pitfall of having a high-up apartment, it was a long way down by the stairs, and even longer going back up.

In the distance, I could see other buildings, about ten blocks away, with their lights on. It had to be a localised blackout, or perhaps a brownout. We had been having problems across the city with the power supply caused by an unexplained explosion at several power stations on the grid.

Some were saying it was a terrorist attack, others were saying the antiquated infrastructure had finally given out.

My attention was diverted from the activity below by the vibration of my cell phone on the bedside table. I looked over at the clock and saw it was 3:10 in the morning, not a time I usually got a phone call.

I crossed the room and looked at the screen, just as the vibrating stopped. Louis Bernard. Who was Louis Bernard? It was not a name I was familiar with, so I ignored it. It wasn’t the first wrong number to call me, though I was beginning to think I had been given a recycled phone number when I bought the phone. Perhaps the fact that it was a burner may have had something to do with it.

About to go back to the window, the phone started ringing again. The same caller, Louis Bernard.

Curiosity got the better of me.

“Yes?” I wasn’t going to answer with my name.

“Get out of that room now.”

“Who….” It was as far as I got before the phone went dead.

The phone displayed the logo as it powered off, a sign that the battery was depleted. I noticed then, although I’d plugged the phone in to recharge, I’d forgotten to turn the power on.

Damn.

Get out of that room now? Who could possibly know firstly who I was, and where I was living, to the point they could know I was in any sort of danger?

It took another minute of internal debate before I threw on some clothes and headed for the door.

Just in case.

As I went to open the door, someone started pounding on it, and my heart almost stopped.

“Who is it?” I yelled out. First thought: don’t open it.

“Floor warden, you need to evacuate. There’s a small fire on one of the floors below.”

“OK. Give me a minute or so, and I’ll be right out.”

“Don’t take too long. Take the rear stairs on the left.”

A few seconds later, I heard him pounding on the door next to mine. I waited until he’d moved on and went out into the passage.

It was almost dark, the security lighting just above floor level giving off a strange and eerie orange glow. I thought there was a hint of smoke in the air, but that might have been the power of suggestion taking over my mind.

There were two sets of stairs down, both at the rear, one on the left and one on the right, designed to aid quick evacuation in the event of a calamity like a fire. He had told me to take the left. I deliberately ignored that and went to the right side, passing several other tenants who were going towards where they’d been told. I didn’t recognise them, but then, I didn’t try to find out who my fellow tenants were.

A quick look back up the passage, noting everyone heading to the left side stairs, I ducked into the right stairwell and stopped for a moment. Was that smoke I could smell? From above, I could hear a door slam shut and voices. Above me, people had entered the stairwell and were coming down.

I started heading down by myself.

I was on the 39th floor, and it was going to be a long way down. In a recent fire drill, the building had been evacuated from the top floor down, and it proceeded in an orderly manner. The idea was that starting at the top, there would not be a logjam if the lower floors were spilling into the stairwell and creating a bottleneck. Were those above stragglers?

I descended ten floors and still hadn’t run into anyone, but the smell of smoke was stronger. I stopped for a moment and listened for those who had been above me. Nothing. Not a sound. Surely there had to be someone above me, coming down.

A door slammed, but I couldn’t tell if it was above or below.

Once again, I descended, one floor, two, three, five, all the way down to ten. The smoke was thicker here, and I could see a cloud on the other side of the door leading out of the stairwell into the passage. The door was slightly ajar, odd, I thought, for what was supposed to be a fire door. I could see smoke being sucked into the fire escape through the door opening.

Then I saw several firemen running past, axes in hand. Was the fire on the tenth floor?

Another door slammed shut, and then above me, I could hear voices. Or were they below? I couldn’t tell. My eyes were starting to tear up from the smoke, and it was getting thicker.

I headed down.

I reached the ground floor and tried to open the door leading out of the fire escape. It wouldn’t open. A dozen other people came down the stairs and stopped when they saw me.

One asked, “Can we get out of here?”

I tried the door again with the same result. “No. It seems to be jammed.”

Several of the people rushed past me, going down further, yelling out, “There should be a fire door leading out into the underground garage.”

Then, after another door slammed shut, silence. Another person said, “They must have found a way out,” and started running down the stairs, the others following. For some odd reason I couldn’t explain, I didn’t follow. A mental note popped up in my head telling me that there was only an exit into the carport from the other stairs; on this side, the exit led out onto an alley at the back of the building.

If the door would open. It should push outwards, and there should also be a bar on it, so when pushed, it allows the door to open.

The smoke was worse now, and I could barely see or breathe, overcome with a coughing fit. I banged on the door, yelling out that I was stuck in the stairwell, but there was no reply, nor could I hear movement on the other side of the door.

Just as I started to lose consciousness, I thought I could hear a banging sound on the door, then a minute later, what seemed like wood splintering. A few seconds after that, I saw a large black object hovering over me, then nothing.

It was the culmination of a bad night, a bad day, and another bad night. Was it karma trying to tell me something?

…

When I woke, I was in a hospital, a room to myself, which seemed strange since my insurance didn’t really cover such luxuries. I looked around the room and stopped when I reached the window and the person who was standing in front of it, looking out.

“Who are you?” I asked and realised the moment the words came out, they made me sound angry.

“No one of particular importance. I came to see if you were alright. You were very lucky, by the way. Had you not stayed by that door, you would have died like all the rest.”

Good to know, but not so good for the others. Did he know that the fire door was jammed? I told him what happened.

“Someone suspected that might be the case, which is why you were told to take the other stairs. Why did you not do as you were told?”

“Why did the others also ignore the advice?” It was not a question I would deign to answer.

“They didn’t know any better, but you did, and it begs the question, why did you take those stairs?”

Persistent and beginning to bother me. He sounded like someone else I once knew in another lifetime, one who never asked a question unless he knew the answer.

The man still hadn’t turned around to show me his face, and it was not likely I’d be getting out of bed very soon.

“You tell me?”

He turned slightly, and I could see his reflection in the window. I thought, for a moment, that it was a familiar face. But I couldn’t remember where it was from.

“The simple truth is you suspected the fire was lit to flush you out of the building, and you thought taking those stairs would keep you away from trouble. We both know you’ve been hiding there.”

Then he did turn. Hiding, yes. A spot of trouble a year or so before had made leaving Florida a necessity, and I’d only just begun to believe I was finally safe.

I was not.

They had found me.

And it only took a few seconds to pull the silenced gun out of his coat pocket, point it directly at me, and pull the trigger.

Two stabbing pains in the chest, and for a moment, it was as if nothing had happened, and then, all of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe.

The last thing I saw and heard was several rounds from at least two guns, voices yelling out in the passage, and people running.

As I lay dying, my last thought was that it had been a good run, but no one can run forever.

© Charles Heath 2021-2025

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 81

As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.

Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

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This is Chester.  Today we’re looking at the tennis.

Well, I’m looking at the tennis, and he’s pontificating over the climate change crisis.

I’m not sure if he actually knows what climate change is all about because I seem to be missing the point.

Down here where fires are raging in various parts of the country, it seems that everyone wants to jump on the climate change bandwagon, looking for something or someone to blame.

Yes, the Prine Minister has copped his fair share, because it seems he doesn’t quite agree there is such a thing, but that seems to be the mantra of any conservative political party because at their heart is the promise to benefit industry rather than what’s best for the people.

This seems to be Chester’s view too but slightly amended to include the cats.

If only cats could vote!

That thought, of course, scares the living daylights out of me, because as you know we belong to cats, not the other way around.

Would we all become slaves?

“Aren’t you already?  It seems to me nothing will change.”

So how did this conversation veer off the path of tennis, to climate change, to voting, to slaves?

This is like being at a party with too much alcohol flowing.

Come to think of it, there is a half bottle of scotch missing, and Chester has been acting strange lately…

 

 

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 47

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Chasing leads, maybe

When the room was empty and only Richards and I remained, he cut the ties that bound my hands and legs.

“Bad business,” he said.

I sat again, and flexed the muscles that had begun to stiffen up whilst tightly bound.

“I’m assuming you know a woman by the name of Jan?” I said. “She told me she was working for MI6 so I’m assuming you’re her handler.”

“When she chooses to be handled, yes.  Jan is just one of her names.  She’s currently missing, and I think we now know why?”

“Her work,” I nodded towards the body.

“God no.  She’s charged with chasing down leads and then calling the cavalry.  We had a tracker on this chap, found him, and had him in a safe facility awaiting interrogation, what we thought was safe at any rate, and Jan and another agent watching over him until the interrogation team arrived.  When the interrogation team got there everyone was gone, but with enough blood on the floor to paint a pretty clear picture.  Maury had been interrogated and killed there, dumped here, with no indication of the whereabouts of our agents.  She told me this guy and another trained you, and others, in rather strange circumstances.  A bogus operation. To what end?”

“From what I could tell, a single surveillance operation.  Me and a dozen others.  Cut loose after it failed, those of us that survived, that is.”

“A lot of effort to achieve nothing.”

“Pity we can’t ask him what it was about?”  I looked over at the body.  Maury was hardly recognizable.  Whoever carried out the interrogation had been either in a hurry or in a bad mood.

“Indeed.  She told me this chap called O’Connell was involved.  Now so?”

Another rule that popped into my head from the training: never share information with other agencies unless you absolutely had to.  I had no doubt if Dobbin was here, he would agree, but he wasn’t.

I wondered if I should tell him she had allegiance to another branch of the secret services, or mention Dobbin.

“He was the surveillance target.  We were charged with observing him, but not what he was suspected of.  I followed him as far as the exploding shop, got temporarily disorientated after the blast,, but managed to reacquire the target, following him to an alley where I spoke briefly to him before Maury and Severin arrived, and he was shot, apparently killed.”

“Either he was or he wasn’t.”

“The body disappeared.  My view is he is still alive, somewhere.”

“That explosion was supposed to be caused by a gas leak.”

“Standard operational doubletalk.  A journalist was killed, apparently in the shop waiting for the target.  It went up after the target passed, I’m assuming his tradecraft was to check first then go back.  Never got a chance.  I think now given the circumstances, the journalist was going to hand something off.  I’ve been asked a number of times by various people about a USB drive.  You know anything about it?”

“This is the first I’m hearing about anything about a USB drive.  You know what was on it?”

“Above my pay grade, I was told.”

“OK.  What about this Severin character?:

“All I have is a phone number, and that, I think we can both agree, will be a burner.”

“Agreed, but it might be useful.”

I gave it to him and he put it on his phone.

A new team of men in white suits arrived at the door, no doubt MI5 forensic specialists, and two more agents, bigger and tougher, what I would call the muscle.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to come back to the office to answer a few more questions.  It’s not custody, but mandatory co-operation.”

“And if I refuse?”

“It might make their day if you know what I mean.”

I shrugged.  One I might be able to take, but not the both of them.  And they both looked like they would be happy to teach me the error of my ways if I tried to escape/

“That won’t be necessary.  I’m taking him with me.”

“Dobbin just came to the door, flashing an MI6 warrant card.

“I’ve been charged with cleaning this mess up.”

“And so you shall, but not including this agent.  Orders from above, reasons why, as they say, are above your pay grade.

I suspect the warrant card said Dobbin outranked him.  Did our people have fake MI6 IDs?

“This is highly irregular.”

“Call your boss, if you don’t like it.  I can wait.”

I could see the reluctance in his face.

He glared at me.  “Go, but don’t go too far.  I still might get clearance to have another chat.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

Writing a book in 365 days – 244

Day 244

Is there a simple way to learn and write poetry?

…

Unleash Your Inner Poet: The Surprisingly Simple Path to Writing Poetry

For many, the word “poetry” conjures images of dusty tomes, cryptic verses, and the terrifying prospect of iambic pentameter. It feels like a secret club with an impossible initiation. But what if I told you that, at its heart, poetry is actually one of the most accessible and freeing forms of expression?

The question “Is there a simple way to learn and write poetry?” can be answered with a resounding yes. It’s not about memorising rules, it’s about re-learning how to see, feel, and play with words.

Here’s how to demystify the process and start your own poetic journey:

1. Ditch the “Rules” (For Now)

The biggest barrier to writing poetry is the self-imposed pressure to conform to traditional structures. Forget rhyme schemes, meter, and sonnet forms when you’re starting out. Think of them as advanced techniques you can explore later, if you choose.

Your focus should be on free verse. This is poetry without a strict rhythm or rhyme, allowing you to focus purely on imagery, emotion, and word choice. It’s the perfect playground for beginners.

2. Become a Keen Observer

Poetry is born from attention. The most powerful poems often come from everyday moments, seen through a fresh lens.

  • Engage your senses: What do you see, hear, smell, taste, touch right now?
  • Notice the details: Not just “a tree,” but “the ancient oak, its bark grooved like an old man’s face, leaves shivering in the morning breeze.”
  • Capture emotions: How does a situation make you feel? Don’t just name the emotion; describe its physical manifestation. (“My heart thrums like a trapped bird.”)
  • Carry a notebook (or use your phone): Jot down interesting words, phrases, snippets of conversation, or sensory observations as they strike you. These are your raw materials.

3. Read Poetry (But Don’t Feel Intimidated)

Reading poetry isn’t about understanding every single line or deciphering hidden meanings. It’s about hearing the music of language, seeing how others play with words, and discovering what resonates with you.

  • Start with contemporary poets: Many modern poems are more accessible and relatable than historical works.
  • Explore different styles: Read free verse, haikus, spoken word, lyrical pieces.
  • Read aloud: This helps you hear the rhythm and flow, even without rhyme.
  • Don’t force it: If a poem doesn’t click, move on. There’s so much out there!

4. Play with Words Like Building Blocks

Think of words as your paint, your clay, your musical notes.

  • Metaphor & Simile: How is one thing like another? (The moon is a fingernail clipping.) How is one thing another? (The moon is a pearl in the sky.)
  • Imagery: Use words that create vivid pictures in the reader’s mind.
  • Sound: Notice alliteration (slippery silver snakes), assonance (the mellow wedding bells), and how different sounds feel in your mouth.
  • Concision: Poetry often says a lot with a little. Can you trim unnecessary words?

5. Start Small and Simple

Don’t aim for an epic poem on your first try.

  • Try a Haiku: (5-7-5 syllables, usually about nature) – forces you to be concise.
  • Write about a single object: A forgotten coffee cup, a wilting flower, a dusty book.
  • Describe a single moment: The exact second the rain started, the taste of your morning coffee, the sound of a distant train.
  • Start with a strong image or feeling: Let that lead you.

6. Embrace the First Draft (It’s Supposed to Be Messy!)

Your first attempt won’t be perfect, and that’s okay. Think of it as a brain dump. Get all your ideas and feelings down on paper.

  • Don’t edit as you go: Just write.
  • Let it sit: Come back to it later with fresh eyes.
  • Revise: This is where the magic happens. Trim, expand, rearrange, swap words, sharpen images. Read it aloud to catch awkward phrasing.

7. Share (When You’re Ready)

Sharing your work, even with one trusted friend, can be incredibly empowering. It provides a new perspective and helps you grow. Join a local writing group, an online forum, or just read it to your cat!

Poetry isn’t about being “profound” or “intellectual” from the get-go. It’s about connecting with your own voice, observing the world with fresh eyes, and finding beauty in the ordinary. The most simple way to learn and write poetry is simply to begin. Pick up a pen, open a document, and let your words flow. The world is waiting for your unique song.