Tag: $amwriting

“Trouble in Store” – Short stories my way:  Jack, the girl, and the shopkeeper

I have reworked the first part of the story with a few new elements about the characters and changed a few of the details of how the characters finish up in the shop before the policewoman makes her entrance.

This is part of the new first section is the one that involves the Jack, the girl, and the shopkeeper

 

Jack exchanged a look with the shopkeeper, who in return gave him a slight shrug as if to say he had no idea what this was about.

He could see the girl was not strung out on drugs; if she was it would be a good bet both would be shot or dead by now.  She was just the unfortunate partner of a boy who was on drugs and had found herself in a dangerous position.

Beth, his wife, had told him she didn’t like nor trust the shopkeeper and that her friend in the same apartment block had told her he had been seen selling drugs to youths who hung around just before he closed.  She had warned him it would not be safe, but he had ignored her.

It was a bit late to tell her she was right.

He took a half step towards the door, judging the distance and time it would take to open the door and get out.

Too far, and he would be too slow, his reward for running; a bullet in the back.

Perhaps another half step when she wasn’t looking.

 

The shopkeeper changed his expression to one more placatory, and said quietly to the girl, “Look, this is not this chap’s problem.”  He nodded in the direction of the customer.  “I’m sure he’d rather not be here, and you would glad of one less distraction.”

He could see she was wavering.  She was not holding the gun so steadily, and the longer this dragged on, the more nervous and unpredictable she would become.

And in the longer game, the customer would sing his praises no matter what happened if he could get him out of the shop alive and well.

This could still be a win-win situation.

 

The girl looked at Jack.  The shopkeeper was right.  If he wasn’t here this could be over. 

But there was another problem.  It didn’t look like Simmo was in any shape to getaway.  In fact, this was looking more like a suicide mission.

She waved the gun in his direction.  ‘Get out now, before I change my mind.’

As the gun turned to the shopkeeper, Jack wasn’t going to wait to be asked twice and started sidling towards the door.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

Is there something wrong?

I asked myself that question when about 1000 odd words into a current short story, one that I continue to go back to, but found an initial reluctance to write, and now seems to be difficult to continue.

Is the reason because I don’t feel like writing, that I’ve written myself into a corner, the story isn’t flowing, or there’s something else I’d rather be doing…

Like, scouring the internet…

Working on writing some blog posts, like this one…

Checking my email…

Checking my other blogs to see how many people have viewed my recent posts,

Or just puddle with anything other than what I should be doing.

The thing is, I know where most of the stories are going, it’s just a matter of sitting down, picking up the threads, and writing. Certainly, I could be working on one or another right now.

But, something is nagging at me.

I thought it was that I wanted to write another Being Inspired piece, having the photo I wanted to use for inspiration in my head. I sat down this morning and started it, and got seven or eight paragraphs done, and then it was time to go down to breakfast.

Attention diverted.

I could have written more after breakfast, but that seemed to segue into a chat over coffee that ran into lunch. It’s odd how it seems there is so much to talk about.

Then it’s been one excuse after another that has kept me from picking up that story and running with it. I could do it now, but that reluctance remains.

Perhaps tomorrow.

For now, I’m going to work on some crosswords and see if that doesn’t inspire me, and if it doesn’t I could always have an early night.

It’s the same every time we go away, on the run all day doing touristy stuff, making notes for later on, on the run, and then getting back to the room exhausted. After all, there is so much to see and do.

Maybe I’ll just reflect on today and worry about it tomorrow, except…

We have an equally hectic day planned.

Maybe I’ll get that holiday from writing after all.

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 1

We think of tropical Queensland having pristine white beaches and azure sparkling seas.

Not necessarily so.

This used to be a mangrove swamp.

Perhaps this is what happens when you mess with the natural environment, you’re left with something that’s not very nice.

There’s no beach, no sand, and sometimes not a very pleasant odor.

We can imagine what this might have looked like before man turned up to urbanize the area. In the background, there is an inlet and on either side lush vegetation.

It must have looked very inviting once upon a time. Now the shoreline is completely built on, the vegetation that was once there completely cleared, and the inlet leads to a marina.

Perhaps the story here might be about greedy destructive property developers who care not for anything but profits.  But in their quest to destroy, there is always someone else aiding and abetting, someone in government.

But what if there was an even darker secret hiding just below the surface, and about to be uncovered.  How far would someone go to preserve that secret?

 

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 7

This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.

But, there’s more to come. Those were long flights…

And sadly when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start.

 

If it had been Jackerby in charge and not Johansson, I had no doubt I’d be at the end of a firing squad now.

Jackerby was not Army, nor a man of honour.  His gait, his manner gave him away, despite the fact he was out of his usual uniform.  I suspect now I had been taken care of, that would change, and we’d get to see his true colours.

After leaving the hall, I was escorted downstairs to the cellar, and where I knew there were a number of rooms with iron gated fronts, places I suspected, in olden days, enemies of the castle were held, enslaved or executed in these cells.

There were several male prisoners is the first two cells, awaiting their fate, one which would not include escaping to the other side, but perhaps something a lot worse than death.

At the end, there was another corridor, and several smaller cells, where second from the end, I was roughly shoved by one of the guards.  He was going to add the butt of his rifle to the back of my head for good measure, but Jackerby stopped him.

I was sure it wasn’t out of respect for Johansson.  It appeared that Johansson needed me for something else.

After the door closed I yelled out, “All the rooms upstairs filled?”

“Yes.  It’s high season.”  So Jackerby had a semblance of a sense of humour.

 

The room, if it could be called that, had a camp stretcher, a seat, and a bucket.  The light came from a burning torch out in the corridor, an interesting touch that electricity had not made it down this far.

The floor was cobbled, and, like the walls, damp.  There was an overbearing odour of mustiness in the room.

It was also cold, so these cells must be located not only under the old castle but underground.  That meant centuries of history, and probably a ghost or two.  I was sure terrible things had happened, down in these cells, not just back then but also recently.

Outside the wall, I could hear the sound of running water, so the back wall must border onto the stream.  And there must be a gap, or hole somewhere for the sound to reach me, but it was too dark to see.

When night fell, it was going to be a lot worse; the light wouldn’t be affected, but it was going to get a lot colder.  As it was the torchlight from the passage barely made an impact, and it took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust.  And I was sure there were rats, just waiting for the dark to come out to play.

I moved the seat to beside the door and sat down, trying to make myself comfortable, in a position where I might hear them coming if they came back.

Then a voice quite near, said, “What are you here for?”

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Just when you think you’ve found the right wordprocessor

It was as if Microsoft Word was sent down from that place in the universe where a group of torturers sit around a table to find new ways of making our lives just that little bit more difficult.

I mean, most of the time it works really well and behaves itself.

But…

Then there are the times, usually when you are stressed about a deadline, or you are nearly at the end of what you believe to be the most brilliant writing you have ever put on paper.

Then…

Disaster strikes.

It could be the power goes off, even for just a few seconds, but it’s enough to kill the computer.  It could be that you have reached the end and closed Word down, thinking that it had autosaved, all the while ignoring that little pop up that says, ‘do you want to save your work’?

It’s been a long day, night, or session.  You’re tired and your mind is elsewhere, as it always is at the end.

You always assume that autosave is on.  It was the last time, it has been since the day you installed it however long ago that was.

So…

When the power comes back on, you start the computer, go into Word, and it brings back all the windows you had open when the power failed, and the one with the brilliant piece you just wrote, it’s just a blank sheet.

Or up to where it last autosaved, which is nowhere near the end.

Or it didn’t save at all.

You forget the software updated recently and that always brings changes.  Usually unwanted changes.

By which time you have that sinking feeling that all is lost, deadline missed, brilliant work lost, it’s the end of the world.

You promise yourself you’re going to get Scrivener, or something else, where this doesn’t happen.

Or if you’re like me, you put the cat on the keyboard and tell him to sort the mess out.

In a word: Story

All of us writers know what this is, the sort of combination of words that all come together as a story.  A tale about anything whether it is true or just plain fiction.

A story can be long, or it can be short.  It could be a magazine or newspaper article, it could be what a child tells his or her mother or father when they get into trouble.

Come to think of it, I think that’s where I got an interest in writing stories because as a child I was always in trouble.

Of course, if you are telling certain types of stories,, then it’s bound to be a lie.  And made even worse if it is gossip!

That story might even be my interpretation of events, and as it happens, it’s possible no two stories are the same, especially if I and others had witnessed the same event.

This is not to be confused with the other version, storey, which is a single level in a building, one that might have thirty or more stories.

And, just to add to the confusion, living in Brisbane in Australia we have the Storey Bridge.

Searchings for locations: Oreti Village – No two sunrises are the same – 1

Oreti village, Pukawa Bay, North Island, New Zealand

On the southern tip of Lake Taupo

Our first morning there, a Saturday.  Winter.  Cold.  And a beautiful sunrise.

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This was taken from the balcony, overlooking the lake.

The sun is just creeping up over the horizon

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It gradually gets lighter, and then the sun breaks free of the low cloud

It lights up the balcony

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And the trees just beyond, a cascade of colorful ferns.

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It looks like its going to be a fine day, our first for this trip, and we will be heading to the mountains to see snow, for the first time for two of our granddaughters.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 6

This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.

But, there’s more to come. Those were long flights…

And sadly when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start.

 

On the way back I decided to call my enemies the holy trinity.  Jackerby, Johansson and Wallace.  It would be interesting to see who took the lead.

Back in the main hall, I was told to sit in one of the antique chairs.  No one bothered to tie me up.  No need.  Three of the guards were strategically placed so I couldn’t escape, or if I tried to attack any of my captors, I would be shot.

At first, it was Jackerby and three guards, men from the landing party looking no different than they would on any mission.  If they were English, which they were not.  No one spoke.  I guess there wasn’t much to talk about.  It is told me that Jackerby wasn’t the man in charge.

If there was a separate man in charge of the stormtroopers, he didn’t show himself.

By the time Johansson joined us, I’d deduced it was he who was in charge of this operation.  Wallace was referring to him and was not showing his face.  He was in situ, he had been left in charge of the castle, and in the ‘end of war’ scenario, using it as a staging point for filtering enemy scientists and experts who were leaving quickly before the war ended, making sure they found their way to the allied side.

Of course, since he had taken up residence, those people fleeing the war had dried up to a trickle, and it was now understandable why.  Now that it was clear to me he was working for the Germans, he just wasn’t letting them all go.  If they were going to lose the war, then the victors would only get some of the spoils.

The question was what was happening to everyone else who didn’t make it.

Back in London, someone realised something was going terribly wrong, and so they sent me.  Someone else had said there might be a nest of traitors; another described them as double agents, on both sides of the channel.

My job was to find out what was happening, and now I had.  The possibility that I might get killed in the process had been flagged as a risk, but that hadn’t been a deterrent.  I had visited the castle before the war as an archaeological exercise and had been keen to come back and take another look.

Unfortunately, I had not had time to file a report, but up till now it would not be much, and given my current circumstances, I might not be able to inform them, but at least I knew the investigators in London were right.

And it looked like it was true Johansson had friends in London because my arrival had been telegraphed.  One attempt to blow me up, and now, nothing less than a dozen enemy storm troopers to make sure I didn’t leave.

“London finally realise what’s going on here?”

“In a manner of speaking.  They weren’t sure, but I guess we now have proof.”

“You have circumstantial proof, but basically nothing actionable.  They really have nothing, and won’t until you return, or report, neither of which you are going to be able to do for a while.  Not until we finish here what we started.”

I was tempted to ask what that was but knew better.  Another day.

I glared at him.  “Why?”

“I assume you are referring to myself being a double agent?  I was caught up in London just as the war broke out.  There was no question what side I was going to be on, it just meant getting into a good position, and then using it for the good of my country.  There’s quite a few of us, actually.”

I didn’t doubt that.

“So you let quite a few through to set up your credentials, and now, in the dying stages of the battle, when the real experts are trying to leave, you’re preventing them.”

“Not the best solution to a problem.  I’m sure, if you were standing here and losing the war, you’d be doing the same.  You’d hardly want those secrets in enemy hands.”

“The war’s over.  It’s just a matter of time.”

“This one, maybe.  The next one we’ll win.”

I admired his confidence.  It also explained the syphoning of boffins.  They may have missed their opportunity in this war, but regroup somewhere and prepare, who knows what might happen in another ten years time.

No one in London had come up with this sort of doomsday scenario.  We knew what they were capable of, more sophisticated air force with jet fighters, far more deadly and wide sweeping bombs, by some sort of miracle we’d stopped them this time, but the next?

 “What happens now?”

“You behave, you’ll live to fight another day.  You make trouble, we’ll execute you.  To me, you’re just another prisoner of war, but I’m not sending you to Germany.”

Simple choice.

“Why should I believe you?”

“I am an officer of the army, who serves his country with pride and honour.  You have my word; that should be enough.”

Oddly enough, I believed him.

“I assume my accommodation awaits?”

A flick of his hand, and Jackerby and two guards, escorted me out of the room.

I had thought surrender was going to be a lot more difficult than that.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

I should be on holiday but…

You would think that going away for a few days, you would be able to drag yourself away from writing.

You would think, after doing it every day for the last six months, it would be time to take a break. But, the trouble with good intentions and being in a different place, there’s a ton of new and different places and things to write about.

We are away primarily for a wedding, with part of it being a Chinese Tea Ceremony, and at course I’ve been reading up on it, and there is any number of descriptions, making it difficult to get a clear idea of what happens.

I guess I’m going to have to wait until the day, next Friday.

In between, there will be a dinner that will have as the centrepiece, Peking duck, my absolute favourite duck dish.

I had it last in Hong Kong two years back before the riots at the restaurant in the Peninsular hotel, and it was exquisite.

Then it’s my brother’s 70th birthday. As he is working feverishly on the family history, and having jetted off many times overseas tracking down the long lost relatives we knew nothing about, it’ll be time for a progress report.

I must admit that some of those relatives have roused my writer’s curiosity. When I helped clear out my parent’s house after they moved into a retirement home, we found a great deal of ancestral material, the most interesting of which is, would you believe, was about my mother.

We have found a whole lot of letters she received from her first boyfriend and then from my father. It shows a side to her I never knew about, and a side to my father that given what I know of him, is totally out of character.

There will no doubt be more on this subject later.

And finally but not least there was a baby announcement, always a subject of much joy and happiness.

This is only day two. There is definitely more to come.

“Trouble in Store” – Short stories my way:  Adding some back story for clarity

I have reworked the first part of the story with a few new elements about the characters and changed a few of the details of how the characters finish up in the shop before the policewoman makes her entrance.

This is part of the new first section is the one that involves the shopkeeper`:

  

This wasn’t the shopkeeper’s first hold up.  In fact, over the years there had been a dozen.  But only one got reported to the police, and that was only because the robber was shot and killed.

He’d taken a bullet that night, too, which, from the police point of view, made him a concerned citizen simply defending himself.

The rest had been scared off by the double-barrel shotgun he kept under the counter for just such emergencies.

The young punk who came into the shop with his girlfriend had pulled out the pistol and told him if he reached for the shotgun he’d shoot him.  The kid looked unstable and he’d backed away.

When the kid collapsed, he should have gone for the shotgun, but instead, he thought he could get to the gun before the girl realized what was happened.  She wasn’t an addict and clearly looked like she was only along for the ride.  Her expression, when the kid pulled out the gun told him she’d known nothing about her partner’s true intentions.

But, he wasn’t fast enough, and she had the gun pointing at him before he’d got past the counter.

From one pair of unpredictable hands to another.

Like the girl, he was just as surprised when the customer burst in the door, just before closing time.

The situation might have been salvageable before the customer came in the door, getting the girl to go along with the robbery being about money, but there was no denying what the kid on the floor’s problem was.

Damn.

He had to try and salvage the situation simply because there was a lot of money involved, and other people depending on him.  He looked at the boy, on the floor, then the girl.

“Listen to me, young lady, you would be well advised to let this man go as he suggests.  And, please put the gun down before someone gets hurt.  Your friend needs medical help and I can call an ambulance.”

The girl switched her attention back to him.  “No one’s going anywhere, so just shut the hell up and let me think.”

The storekeeper glanced over at the customer. 

He’d seen him come into the shop once or twice, probably lived in the neighborhood, the sort who’d make a reliable witness, either a lawyer or an accountant.  Not like most of the residents just beyond the fringe of respectability.

If only he hadn’t burst into the shop when he did.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020