Tag: #amwriting

A story page by page – PI Walthenson

How thrilled Harry Walthenson, Private Detective, had been to see his name painted on the translucent glass window in the door to his office.  Located in Gramercy Park, in an old building full of atmosphere, he had a space renovated to resemble that of Spade and Archer in a scene right out of the Maltese Falcon.  His desk had an antique phone like those used in the 1930’s, and a lamp that cast eerie shadows at night.  Along one wall was a couch, his bed for more nights than he wanted to remember, and on the other a filing cabinet, waiting for the big case files.

Up till now it had been missing cats and dogs.  Then, everything changed…

Starts at episode 1 – The Wrong Place, The Wrong Time

http://tinyurl.com/PIWalthenson01

To read the latest episode:  http://tinyurl.com/PIWalthenson59

 

My Website:  http://charles-heath.com

My blog:  https://aloysius5.wordpress.com/

 

Enjoy

 

PS  Please leave a comment, make a suggestion, or join in the conversation

Thoughts, maybe

Nostalgia

Ever hear someone say it was better in the old days?

I have.

I’ve been guilty of saying it myself.

But, was it?

When I was a child there was no such thing as personal computers and calculators.  Everything came out of books, and maths had to be done in you head.

Holidays were about joining up with other neighborhood children and making your own entertainment.  I remember for long time, as a child, we didn’t have television.

It was down to the meadows near the creek to pick blackberries, swim in the water, or raiding new housing estates for off-cuts to build a cubby house.

Not like today with television, video players, movies on demand, personal computers, game boys and a plethora of other entertainment choices.

Were we better off back in the old days?

We were in the sun with no idea that sunburn led to cancer and death.  Sunscreen was unheard of, so in that regard maybe not.

In the old days the only telephones were in the house and were expensive to use.  You could have a colored phone so long as it was black and made of bakelite.

It was a long time before we had plastic colored phones or even wall phones.  Those were also the days of telephone boxes, the only way the make a call when away from home

Now every man and his dog has a mobile phone/computer while on the move.  I know, they keep crashing into me on the street.

And then I also remember my father saying it’s not like the old days, so I had to wonder what he meant.

Perhaps it is an oft-used but less understood lament for a time when we remember we were happy and carefree, those days before mortgages, children, maxed out credit cards, and the children’s mobile phone bills.

Short Story Writing – The end of the story

The stage is set for the big finale, though I’m not quite sure how ‘big’ it’s going to be.

Jack is ready to go having been given the green light by the girl with the gun.  It seems collateral damage is not on the agenda for her, though he does admit to himself she is between that proverbial rock and hard place.

The store keeper still has a plan, shaky at best, to regain hold of the situation, once the customer is out of the shop.  Nervy or not, he doesn’t think she had the capability to pull the trigger.  He knows what sort of person it takes to do that, and she isn’t one of them.

The policewoman is not sure what to expect but thinks that surprise is on her side, and whatever is going on, she will be able to resolve it.  She has her weapon drawn and ready to use.  She had yet to shoot anyone with it

The girl is at the point of no return, that point where she had nothing left to lose.  Anything she had before was gone, destroyed by the choices she’d made.  No one ever handed out a manual on how you should live your life, or provide a list of people you should avoid, and her father’s prophetic words the last time they men came home with a thud, ‘your life is defined by the choices you make’.

She was not going to jail so it was going to be death or glory.

 

Now read on:

 

Jack had heard there were moments where, in a split second, your whole life flashes before your eyes.  His did, and what he saw he didn’t like.

But, then, neither was he very happy about the fact he was nearly out the door before the policewoman on the other side crashed into him and sent him sprawling to the floor.

That was about the same fraction of a second he heard the gun go off, twice, or so he thought, and knew he was a dead man, waiting for the bullet.

Another fraction of a second passed as the policewoman tried to unravel the mess they’d become, and in that moment in time felt the tugging at his sleeve and then, as if in slow motion, the sound of the glass door disintegrating behind him.

 

Annalisa was quite prepared to let the customer go.

She kept one eye on the shopkeeper and one on the customer, sidling towards the door.  The gun was ready to shoot the first person who made a wrong move.

Or so she told herself.  It was getting heavy in her hand, she was shaking almost uncontrollable now, and was getting more and more frightened of the consequences.  She didn’t think, if she aimed, she could hit the side of a barn let alone a person standing ten feet away from her.

The customer reached the door.

At exactly the moment he put his hand 0on the door handle to open the door, another person was pushing the door, trying to make their way in.

With force.

She saw the blue cap, guess it was the police, though she hadn’t heard the siren, but also guessed the shopkeeper might have a silent alarm.

Damn.

One shot, instantly in the direction of the door, not necessarily ailed at the two people now collapsing to the floor in a tangled mess, but at the door itself.

The impact, yet another guess, might shatter the glass and make it easier to escape.

After one more job.

The hell with Simmo.  He’d dragged her down the rabbit hole far enough.  Simmo knew her first name, that she had rich parents, but nothing else.  Besides, he was in such bad shape she didn’t think he’d recover.

The shopkeeper had no idea who she was, it was the first time she’d been to his shop, and now, after a few weeks with Simmo, not ever her mother would recognize her.

She swiveled the gun and aimed it at the shopkeeper and pulled the trigger.,  One less dealer in the city was good news not bad.

She saw it hit, not exactly where, but it caused him to twist and start falling to the ground, at the same time letting out a very loud scream.  Panic or anger?

She wasn’t waiting to find out.

A last glance at Simmo, now down for the count, she ran for the door, past the two on the floor, what she could now see was a policewoman with her weapon drawn, but unable to use it.

She crashed through the remainder of the glass shards put into the street and ran.

In the distance she could hear a police car coming, siren blaring.  A warning if there was ever one to run harder, up the road, down an alley, out into another street, then down into the subway.

Gone.

 

It took fifteen seconds to disentangle herself from the customer, pushing him away, and getting to her feet, weapon aimed.

At nothing but air.

The girl had gone, and then she had the vague recollection of a shadow passing her as she was facing the other way getting to her feet.

And running out the door.

Five more valuable seconds as her brain processed this piece of information, before it issued the command to go out the door and see which way she went.

Another ten seconds to get out the door, and see the police car coming from the same direction she had earlier, screeching to a halt outside the shop, a car door opening, and an officer getting out.

Margaret was guessing at the driver to drive down the road where she guessed the girl had run, managing to yell breathlessly at the office getting out, “She’s gone that way,” and pointing.

The officer relayed the message and closed the door as the car sped off.

“What happened?”

“Shots fired by a woman, more a girl, in the process of a robbery.”

She ran back inside the officer following.

The customer had moved to a corner and was standing, testing his limbs, with an expression that said he was amazed he was still alive.

“Over behind the counter.  She shopkeeper.  He was standing there.”

The policeman rounded the end of the counter and looked down.  “He’s here.  It’s not looking good.”

Margaret didn’t hear him.  She was calling an ambulance.

 

 

Next:  The whole story, first draft

 

Thoughts, maybe

Have you ever wondered how much of your life you have spent

a) waiting a doctor’s surgery or hospital appointment, and

b) waiting on the end of the phone to reach customer service, or a public servant.

In the first instance I have had a lot of recent experience with injured children and soouse, and, more recently myself.

What bothers me is that they give you a time and place and issue all the threats around the place if you don’t turn up on time, but it seems to be perfectly ok if they are late.

It could be for some perfectly logical reason but most of the time they don’t tell you why they’re runnibg late, and sometimes don’t even apologise.

Then there is the chairs they make you sit in, obviously specially designed so you do not get comfortable, especially in hospitals.

But the most infuriorating aspect?  Just how small the waiting room is and how often it is overcrowded with people also waiting to see a doctor.

They ask if we remain respectful but after an hour and a half in those chairs and not treating us with that same respect they ask for, I’m surprised I have only witnessed one case of angry patient.

In the second instance there are two circilumstances I take issue with.

The first is where you have to srlect from a menu and what you want isn’t one of the menu items and there’s no catch all just disconnection, and

After waiting patiently on the line for up to thirty minutes or more you hear the connection, you think you are about to get to aa agent and the call disconnects.

That is only one step removed from being connected … back at the selection menu and then sent to the back of the queue.

I’m sorry, but this technology is no advancement but I doubt if we will get back to the ‘old days’.

Of course there is that other major advancement in telephone answering technology, voice recognition.  I’ve been on the end of it, and quite frankly, it just doesn’t understand me.

Odd, I Know, because I speak very good English with no accent.  Perhaps that’s the problem.

I can’t wait for the first humanoid robots.  I hope they can understand me better than the inhuman phones do!

Thoughts, maybe

There is a saying ‘you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone’.

For a long time, in days before the current technological age, I didn’t really understand what that meant.

Until now.

How many times, in the last few days have I heard the question, “Where’s my mobile phone?”.

It seems we can lose almost anything else but, without the phone we are completely lost.

Then, the other day I heard, “We aren’t able to do very much because the microwave oven is broken.”

How did we manage in the days before we had such devices.  I know my grandmother used to have a wood stove and cooked everything, from bread to a roast to making a cup of tea.

I don’t think I ever had a cup of coffee at her house, but I have a lot memories of some amazing food.  No such thing as electric kitchen appliances, or a microwave oven, not in that house.

We had the same experience ourselves when one of the fridge/freezer units broke down, and severely restricted what we could cook and store, especially the freezer.

And perhaps that’s the problem.  We take so many things for granted, and live a life that is centred around convenience.

What  would happen if those conveniences were taken away?

Certainly, for me, I know, what it’s like to lose an important piece of equipment and having to improvise, but I’m not sure how we would react if we had a real catastophe.

I haven lost my phone yet.

Let’s hope it never happens.

Thoughts, maybe

Some people we know have come up for a holiday to what could be described as a very touristy location.

But is it for a ‘holiday’?

They have come from one state to another and are staying in what could be called an apartment, not a hotel.  They are here for a week.

They have a kitchen of sorts and can cook their own meals, unlike staying in a hotel room and having to eat out or in the hotel restaurant, and the apartment also has a mini laundry.

How much different is this to being at home?

Perhaps we need to have a definition for the word ‘holiday’ and its variations.  A lot of people use the term ‘vacation’.  Others use the term ‘leave’.  Leave’s not a very good description, because it can cover a number of types such as annual, sick, and maternity.

But whatever we want to call it, is it when you’re taking some time away from work?

Or is it when you go ‘away’, that is to say anywhere but home?

You say, ‘I’m going on holiday.”

We say, “Oh, where are you going?”

Some say camping.  Is that any different than staying in an apartment, or even a holiday house?  Still all the same chores, cooking, cleaning, washing.  It’s just a different place, and perhaps the only difference is the attractions, like fun parks, or activities such as swimming or surfing.

Some go boating, or house boating, and granted there is a little more excitement being on a river, a lake, or the ocean, but, there’s still the same drawbacks.

My preference is hotels, and not having to worry about the cooking and cleaning.

A friend of ours likes caravaning.

Another likes cruising the seven seas.  They love it, kids go into the child minding, there’s movies, strolling, swimming, relaxing, and everything is provided for.

Is this why so may people are now going on cruises, and hotels are so full these days?

I guess we are all different, and all have a description for what they will define as a ‘holiday’.

There will always those who will go camping and stay in self service places like apartments, but for me, a holiday is staying in a hotel, and not necessarily one with five stars.  We have found quite a few ‘quaint’ places researching on the internet.

Other than that, when I wake up every Monday morning, I wish is was the first day of a holiday, and that I didn’t have to go to work.

Thoughts, maybe

I remember one day many many years ago seeing a piece of graffiti in a railway tunnel:  “Being undead isn’t being alive”.

At the time I think I was suffering from a mega hangover.  Those were the days where there was no limit to stupidity, particularly when you had to go to work the next day.

But it made we wonder often over the next forty years what the graffiti artist was trying to tell the world.

Being undead?

I think they was alluding to the fact that being alive was more than just drawing breath and eating and sleeping.

I wondered what their predicament was.  Had he or she just broken up with a partner, that painful time when one or other calls it quits.  I suspect that’s not being undead.  I knew what that was like because it had happened to me, and no doubt just about everyone else, over the years, and I can assure you, you know your alive.

It is a pain like no other, that emptiness you feel, the reaching for the phone to talk to the one person you thought understood you, only they are no longer there, turning to the seat where they usually sit, and there is no one there.

Or is it like that feeling of bring betrayed, that awful feeling when you discover your partner is cheating on you, and inevitably you are the last to find out.  No, you feel that pain and it can be overwhelming.

That everyone else knew and thought they’d spare your feelings, hardly spares your feelings and only makes the betrayal worse, because your friends were hardly acting as friends

Being undead?

Might it allude to the fact you have become invisible?  Might it be you have been abandoned by everyone and everything, that feeling of hopelessness?  I suspect it might have been a precursor to depression.

Being Alive?

Is it that sensation of first love, so wonderful and yet so precarious, trying not to do the wrong thing, and inevitably making mistakes.

Is it being with family, the people you love and those who love you, doing simple things, sometimes ending each other’s sentences, or thinking the same thought at the same time?

I guess that’s why, when I write a romance novel, there is always a happy ending.

Sorry, perhaps that’s give the ending away on some of my books!

Short story writing – Actions have consequences

It’s time for the policewoman to arrive.

There is such a thing as pure dumb luck.

If she did not walk through the door when she did then Jack would have walked away.

From the policewoman’s perspective:

 

She crossed the street from the corner instead of remaining on the same side of the street as she did every other night.  When she reached the other sidewalk, she was about 20 yards from the nearest window of the store.

As she crossed, she got a better view of the three people in the store, and noticed the woman, or girl, was acting oddly, as if she had something in her hand, and, from time to time looked down beside her.

A yard or two from the window she stopped, took a deep breath, and then moved slowly, getting a better view of the scene with each step.

Then she saw the gun in the girl’s hand, and the two men, the shopkeeper and a customer, facing her, hands up.

It was a convenience store robbery in progress.

She reached for her radio, but it wasn’t there.  She was off duty.  Instead, she withdrew, and called the station on her mobile phone, and reported the robbery.  The officer on the end of the phone said a car would be there in five minutes.

In five minutes there could be dead bodies.

She had to do something, and reached into her bag and pulled out a gun.  Not her service weapon, but one she carried in case of personal danger.

 

Guns are dangerous weapons in the hands of professional and amateur alike.  You would expect a professional who has trained to use a gun to not have a problem, but consider what might happen in exceptional circumstances.

People freeze under pressure.  Alternately, some shoot first and ask questions later.

We have an edgy and frightened girl with a loaded gun, one bullet or thirteen in a magazine, it doesn’t matter.  It only takes one bullet to kill someone.

Then there’s the trigger pressure, light of heavy, the recoil after the shot and whether it causes the bullet to go into or above the intended target, especially if the person has never used a gun.

The policewoman, with training, will need two hands to take the shot, but in getting into the shop she will need one to open the door, and then be briefly distracted before using that hand to steady the other.

It will take a lifetime, even if it is only a few seconds.

Actions have consequences:

 

The policewoman crouched below the window shelf line so the girl wouldn’t see her, and made it to the door before straightening.  She was in dark clothes so the chances were the girl would not see her against the dark street backdrop.

Her hand was on the door handle about to push it inwards when she could feel in being yanked hard from the other side, and the momentum and surprise of it caused her to lose balance and crash into the man who was trying to get out.

What the hell…

A second or two later both were on the floor in a tangled mess, he gun hand caught underneath her, and a glance in the direction of the girl with the gun told her the situation had gone from bad to worse.

The girl had swung the gun around and aimed it at her and squeezed the trigger twice.

The two bangs in the small room was almost deafening, and definitely disorientating.

Behind her the glass door disintegrated when the bullet hit it.

Neither she or the man beside her had been hit.

Yet.

She felt a kick in the back and the tickling of glass, then broke free as the man she’s run into rolled out of the way.

Quickly on her feet, she saw the girl had gone, and wasted precious seconds getting up off the floor, then out the door to find she had disappeared.

She could hear a siren in the distance.  They’d find her.

 

If she had not picked that precise moment to enter the shop, maybe the man would have got away.

Maybe.

Is she had been aware of the fact he was allowed to leave.

He was lucky not to be shot.

Yet there were two shots, and we know at least one of them broke the door’s glass panel.

 

Next – the epilog

Thoughts, maybe

I’ve been trawling the endless collection of twitter descriptions provided by their users, noting that there is a restriction of 140 characters.

How do you sum yourself up in 140 characters?

I don’t think I can, so we tend to put down a few catch phrases, something that will draw followers.  I’m thinking the word ‘aspiring’ will be my catch word.

I’m aspiring to be a writer, or is that author?  Is there a difference, like for instance, one publishes ebooks on Amazon, one publishes hard copies in the traditional manner?

Is there a guide to what I can call myself?

Quite simply put, but in more than 140 characters, married happily, two wonderful children, three amazing grandchildren, and a wealth of experience acquired over the years.

Actually that sounds rather boring doesn’t it.

Perhaps it would be better if I was a retired policeman, a retired lawyer, a retired sheriff, a retired private investigator, a retired doctor, someone who had an occupation that was a rich mine of information from which to draw upon.

Retired computer programmers, supermarket shelf stackers, night cleaners, accounts clerks and general dogsbody s don’t quite cut the mustard.

I have also become fascinated with the expression ‘killer biography’.  Does it mean that I have to be a ‘killer’?

Better than the self confession above.  Should we try to embellish our personal history in order to make it more appealing?

It’s much the same as writing about daily life.  No one wants to read about it, people want to be taken out of the hum drum of normalcy and be taken into a world where they can become the character in the book.

And there you have it, in a nutshell, why I write.

I want to escape the mundanity of everyday life, and become something, someone else, and, with a little luck I want to you, the reader, on the ride with me.

 

 

Thoughts, maybe

I’ve been sitting at this desk staring at the screen thinking of what to write that might interest other people.

Seems I’m not too good at it.

So, I moved seats, to sit opposite the writer’s chair and took a good long hard look at the person, the so-called writer, conjuring up in my mind, if I was someone I’d just dragged in off the street, what would I ask?

Would I bother?

I mean most of of walk down the street trying to avoid everyone else, and anything bad that might happen.

But I’m here now, so for a free cup of tea and a Doubletree cookie, I consider myself bribed.

Question 1:  Why on earth would you want to write when there’s a billion other books out there?  Seems a complete waste of time to me.

[Answer] Good point, most days when I get out of bed, or rather stare at the ceiling from under the covers, I wonder why I bother to get up.

OK that’s the borderline manic depressive speaking, and most likely suffering from a hangover, trying to get those last 1,000 words for the day done.

Question 2: You write when you’re drunk?  That must make a lot of sense, not!

This person has found me out in two questions.

[Answer] No, a little Scotch helps oil the wheels on the mind.

Question 3:  What do you do for inspiration?

[Answer] Thinking up new and novel ways of killing off people I drag in off the street to ask me questions about myself.  No, sorry, didn’t mean that.  I haven’t a mean bone in my body.  Inspiration you say?

Look around.

The inquisitor does.  There are seven floor to ceiling bookcases full of my favorite authors, about 4,000 or so books, aside from the reference library that is mostly in e-book format which run to about 10,000.

Question 4:  You read all of these?

[Picks up a copy of ‘Kill Me If You Can’ by James Patterson]  This one.

I nod yes.  I have read most of them.  I tell him writers must read.  Someone told me that a long time ago.  Not only thrillers and crime, but the classics.  I found War and Peace heavy going, but not so much as Madame Bovary, or Vanity Fair.

You can ask one more question.

Question 5:  Can I borrow this book [James Patterson]

As always the answer is yes.  I encourage people to read.  It doesn’t have to be my work.  It would be nice but I;m realistic enough to know there’s a billion other books out there I have to compete with.

Maybe tomorrow.