Tag: Author

Writing a book in 365 days – 81/82

Days 80 and 81

Write a piece and then edit it by reducing its size by 20 percent.

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First draft:

Growing up I did not believe l had one of those lovable faces.

My brother, known in school as the best looking boy of his graduating class, said it was a face only a mother could love.

He was mean.

Simone, a girl who was a friend, not a girlfriend, said my face had character.

She was charming and polite.

Looking now, in the mirror, l decided I’d aged gracefully.

I could truthfully say my brother had not, but that was as far as the comparison went.

My overachieving brother was the epitome of success in business, a veritable god zillionaire.  Everything he touched turned to gold.

My ultra successful sister, Penelope, had married into the right family perhaps by chance, but she was also a very learned scholar whose life was divided between her chair and the university and her social life with the rich and famous.

Then there was me.

I gave up on my chance at university because l was not the scholarly sort and didn’t last long.  Sadly l was the first of my family to be sent down from Oxford.

Instead, l took on a series of professions such as seasonal laborer, farmhand, factory worker, and lastly, night watchman.  At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.

It would not be enough for my parents who every year didn’t say it out loud but the disappointment was always there in their expressions.

My brother in his usual blunt manner said l was a loser and would never change.

My sister was not quite so blunt.  She simply said it was disappointing so much potential was going to waste.  I only asked her once what she meant and lost me after the first four-syllable word.

Finally, I’d taken their comments to heart and decided l would not be going home to the family Christmas holiday reunion.

I told my boss l was available to work the night shift over the holidays, the shift no one else wanted.

It was he said the time for reflection.  He hated his family as much as I did so we would be able to lament our bad luck though the long cold hours from dusk till dawn.

It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the North Pole.  I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.

The car was covered in snow.  The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.

It was going to be a white Christmas, all I needed.  I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.

As I approached my car, the light went on in an SUV parked next to my car.  The door opened and what looked to be a woman was climbing down from the driver’s seat.

She closed the door and leaned against the side of the car.  “Graham?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time, my ultra-successful sister, Penelope.  From what I could see, she didn’t look too well.

“What do you want?”

“Help.”

My help, I was the last person to help her or anyone for that matter.  But curiosity got the better of me.  “Why?”

“Because my husband is trying to kill me.”

The instant the last word left her lips I saw her jerk back into the car, and then start sliding down to the ground.  There was no mistaking the red streak following her as she fell.

She’d been shot from what could be a sniper rifle, which meant …

602 words long

…

After editing:

My parents were very wealthy, with an Upper Westside Apartment in Manhattan and a holiday house in Martha’s Vineyard. My sister had a successful medical career and married a most eligible bachelor, as expected, and my brother he was a politician.

I’d not seen any of them in at least five years, and they hadn’t called me.

You see, I was the black sheep of the family.  I dropped out of college when it all became too much and drifted.  Seasonal labourer, farmhand, factory worker, add job man, and night watchman. 

At least now I had a uniform and a gun and looked like I’d made something of myself.

It was hard to say why, but just before I was about to head out of the factory to end my shift, those thoughts about them came into my mind.   They might be gone, but I guess I will never forget them.  I wondered briefly if any of them thought about me.

It was 3 a.m., and it was like standing on the exact epicentre of the South Pole.  I’d just stepped from the factory warehouse into the car park.

The car was covered in snow.  The weather was clear now, but I could feel more snow coming.  A white Christmas?  That’s all I needed.  I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.

As I approached my car, the light went on inside an SUV parked next to my car.  The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.

“Graham?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.

I looked again and was shocked to see my ultra-successful sister, Penelope.  She was leaning against the front fender, and from what I could see, she didn’t look too well.

How on earth did she find me, after all the years that had passed?  Perhaps that sparked my un-conciliatory question, “What do you want?”

I could see the surprise and then the hurt in her expression.  Perhaps I had been a little harsh.  Whatever she felt, it passed, and she said, “Help.”

My help?  Help with what? I was the last person who could help her, or anyone for that matter, with anything.   But curiosity got the better of me.  “Why?”

“I think my husband is trying to kill me.”

Then, with that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.

My first thought was that she needed the help of a doctor, not a stupid brother, then a second thought, call 911, which I did, and hoped like hell they got here in time.

And, yes, there was a third thought that crossed my mind.  Whether or not I would be blamed for this event.

478 Words

Mission accomplished

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

A to Z Blog Challenge – April 2025 – F

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F is for — Fishing for information.  Without sounding like you are fishing

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What does it feel like when you answer all of their questions, and they don’t believe you?

Like I felt now.

In a very bad place, because no matter what I said, it didn’t fit their narrative.

The main interrogator, Jake, no surnames provided, had a story.  He told me that story, over the last three days, a story that painted me guilty of a crime that I didn’t commit, couldn’t commit, wouldn’t commit.

My problem?

I could not prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was where I was at the time with someone who could never be named.

Ever.

So my guilt was circumstantial, and it would not be the first or the last person to spend a lifetime in jail for a crime they did not commit.

I guess that was the penalty for a stolen night with the woman I could never be with, never be seen with, and never spend the rest of my life with.

I was glad that this country did not partake in torturing confessions out of their suspects, but then, even if they did, I would die long before I said one word.  I’d been there before and had only just survived that interrogation.

I wondered if Jake knew that.

He had been pacing around the small room like a caged tiger.  We’d been at it for six hours.  While he looked thoroughly exhausted, I had remained cool and collected despite the exaggeratedly warm room.

It was their version of sweating answers out of you.

I was denied cold water, and water to a thirsty man was like gold to a fossicker.  He knew I needed a drink.

He stopped pacing, turned, and glared at me.

“Let’s go over this again.”

Of course, keep repeating the same story over and over until it becomes fact, until you give a nuance that gives that story credibility, that first chink in the armour that can be exploited.

When you’re tired, when you try not to give in, to waver, to give an expression that can be construed as a confession or agreement.

“The timeline tells us you were at your office until 3 pm.  We have CCTV footage of your departure by the front foyer.  You take an Uber to the Cyber Cafe, getting there at 3:54 pm.  There you stay until 6:17 pm where you take another Uber to the Hotel Jackson, arriving at 7:24 pm.  Your cell phone confirms these times, along with CCTV evidence.  Why did you go to the hotel?”

Here’s the tricky part.  Firstly, the hotel is a special hotel in that there is no CCTV surveillance anywhere inside or out.  They could only confirm my presence there by my phone’s GPS.  Secondly, they could not get confirmation of any guest within that hotel because the government used it to house ‘special’ guests.  Thirdly, by using the hotel, I was bound to an NDA to never divulge why I was there.

It didn’t stop Jake from fishing.

“You know I can’t tell you that.  And you are fully aware of the reasons.”

“It’s not helping your alibi.”

“Keep going.  So far, you have my movements.”

“You claim you stayed the night at the hotel, going to your room and staying there until 8:03 am the next morning.”

“That is correct.”

Except it wasn’t, technically.  I was in the hotel, on the same floor, but in an adjoining room from 8:00 pm to 7:00 am.  It didn’t matter, I didn’t leave the hotel.

However…

Jake contends that it was ten minutes if I hurried down a back alley under cover and out of sight of any CCTV coverage to another hotel where someone that looked like me was caught on tape going in the back entrance of a seedy hotel, carefully avoiding looking at any camera, both inside and outside, up to a room on the fourth floor by the rear stairs, murdered a man named Joseph Flines and then returned just as expeditiously being caught on CCTV on the way out not ten minutes later.

That was inconclusive, but there was a kicker…

I had an argument with an unnamed man outside my work building several hours before I left, at times heated, and where Flines had a swing and a miss, after screaming he was going to kill me, adding that the world needed to know what kind of heinous criminal I was.  He said quite loudly and openly that my reputation and livelihood would be over once everyone knew the truth.

I had no idea who he was, and I was even more mystified at why he believed I was a heinous criminal.  It was the last time I saw him until the police arrested me.  All I could think of was that he had mistaken me for someone else.

“How do you explain the confrontation outside your workplace earlier?”

“He has confused me with someone else.  I had never seen him before.”

“And yet he knows you by name.”

“I’m not exactly anonymous in this city. A lot of people who know who I am, and can recognise me.  It’s not the first time some stranger had walked up to me to have words, sometimes disparaging.  I’m sure you have found these instances and realised that I have nothing to do with them either.  My job is not exactly one people see eye to eye with, so there’s bound to be some dissenters.”

A lot, perhaps, because it was left to me to make the hard decisions because those who were supposed to didn’t and hid behind me and blamed me when the media was looking for a scapegoat.

I was not sure how Flines was affected by any decision I’d made, but it was a possible link.  Jake hadn’t made that connection yet.  Neither had I.

“So you admit…”

“Nothing, and it would serve you well not to start jumping to conclusions without a shred of evidence.”

“We’re close, very close.  People like you have the ability to hide in plain sight, but not this time.”

Smug, the first time he let any emotion into his tone.  That told me a great deal.  There was a connection.  It would have to be obscure, very obscure, one that I’d never guess existed.

He took a drink from his water bottle and glared at me, daring me to ask for a sip so he could deny it.  Yes, he looked like the man who held all the cards.

“How long has it been since your fiance died?”

What did that have to do with anything?  I said as much.

“Just answer the question.”

If this was court, my lawyer would be asking for relevance.

“Three years.”

“Her killer was never found.”

“I was in Hong Kong at the time if that’s what you are implying.”

Yes, they did try to pin that on me as well, but there was sufficient evidence to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt I didn’t do it or have anything to do with it.

“I was not.  But, can you explain why your wife met with the victim, Joseph Flines, several times, about weeks before she died.”

Could I? No.  Did I know?  I did not.  Did I know exactly what she did? Other than that, she was a corporate lawyer charged with keeping high flying executives out of jail when they committed so-called human errors in their business transactions.

Smoothing the waters, she said.  She never passed moral judgments, just found loopholes.  Did she care about those who were unjustly wronged? No.  Not her problem.  If they hired good lawyers, her job would be so much harder.

I loved her, not her job.  I wanted to investigate her death.  I was not allowed to.  Orders from above.

But as for Flines…

“If you say so.  I know nothing about her business or anyone she dealt with.”

“Three years you were together.  Very close.  And you claim…”

Fishing again.  Pushing buttons.  Get a reaction, and then run with it.

“It’s a situation you would have no understanding of.  After all, you haven’t had a relationship last longer than nine months, and one that had you suspended for three months.  There are lines that you do not cross, and both Margret and I knew where those lines were.  Clearly, you don’t.”

There was a pounding on the door, not unexpected.  It was only a matter of time before Jake crossed a line.  The door opened a fraction, a whispered conversation, heated, then, “This isn’t over.”

He then left, closing the door loudly behind him.

I had time to think about what sort of relationship Margaret may have had with Flines.  From what I knew of him, he had more enemies than friends, the result of a background check after he confronted me.

A seedy private investigator that swam down in the sewer of nasty divorce cases, there were upwards of fifty disgruntled husbands he had outed, and yet Jake and his team could not find one eligible perpetrator from that list.

I’d found ten, and that was just at first glance.

What would Margaret want with the likes of him when she had one of the best teams of investigators in the country at her disposal?

I didn’t have time to come to any sort of conclusion before the door opened, and an elderly woman came in and, after closing the door, leaned against it

She reminded me of the librarian at high school, the same severe expression, severe hairdo, and severe suit.

“You are going to be a proper pain in the proverbial backside, Mr Jones.  I know who you are, I know what you do, and I know that damnfool head of department you work for.  I apologise for Jake.  The man doesn’t understand discretion or when to keep information to himself.”

“Flines association with Margaret.  I didn’t kill the man, no matter how you try to stitch a timeline together.”

“Sadly, I have to agree.  I so wanted to wrap this up, but you don’t always get what you want.  You tell Jimmy hello from Betsy.  He’ll know who it is.  Oh, and by the way.  Anything you hear in this room stays in the room.  Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

“Very good.  You may go.”

Jake had overstepped his brief.  It would not be the first time someone in his position made a mistake in disclosing information that could queer a case.

But that was always a risk when you had to go on a fishing expedition.  What staggered me was the connection between Flines and Margaret, which on the surface could have circumstantially sealed my fate.

It still didn’t tell me why Flines had come after me, unless he thought I was working in concert with Margaret, and at a guess, she had caused him grief over a case.  Maybe he was not working for her, but for someone opposed to her, and she had to discredit him.

I hadn’t been able to investigate and still couldn’t, so perhaps I’d never find out.  And there was that one other small problem.  I was not supposed to know about my wife and Flines’s connection.

Why?

Maybe when I saw ‘Jimmy’, I’d find out.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 10

More about my story

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Back to the knock on the door…

His partner, sent over by the boss as a surprise, arrives at his door, and he is shocked.  He works alone, this was not discussed and leads to a call back.

Threats are delivered; she stays.  In her own room of course.

As I’m writing these information pieces I note over the days the story repeats or changes a little.  This is because as I’m writing it, the story changes the characters, the situations, the places as I fill in the gaps, and flesh out the story, little pieces that change from my original thoughts.

I will think of something new as a question is asked, and one will be that our journalist is a feature writer and has been published in reputable newspapers.  This, of course, sets his bona fides as cover, but I added another detail: he can actually write.  If not mentioned before, he has a history with the keynote speaker.  They are inevitably going to meet, though in his role as protector, which is not supposed to happen.

What plan ever goes by the book?

In the early stages of the story, he will meet with the girl in white, the policeman, maybe he’ll run into the head of the secret police, and maybe the keynote speaker.

Then there is the leader of the rebels.

In between all of this, he had to get used to the fact he now has a shadow, and she cannot be cut out.  It’s no coincidence that she will do very nicely as a distraction, but who is it she will be distracting if not our protagonist?

NANOWRIMO – April 2025 – Day 7

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The Fourth Son

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You have to love the way things can go from bad to worse to utterly impossible.

I’m not one of those people who can write the typical fairy tale “I found a prince to marry, the dream of every young girl.”

No, there has to be a conspiracy theory involving a whole bunch of conspirators that might not be conspirators but an over-active imagination and reading too many thriller books in his spare time.

Why can’t it just be an avalanche and a few missing people?

Perhaps the problems are who the missing people are.  No, not the ordinary people who are not really missing but just thought briefly to be; it’s those other people.

The ones that make the story more compelling, not just an hour and a half of Hallmark movie fun.

So the inevitable happens: the king dies earlier than expected, actually while the prince is on his way home in the “corporate” jet, and a few other problems present themselves and things get intense.

Don’t they always?

Hang on, what happened to Ruth?

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 10

More about my story

…

Back to the knock on the door…

His partner, sent over by the boss as a surprise, arrives at his door, and he is shocked.  He works alone, this was not discussed and leads to a call back.

Threats are delivered; she stays.  In her own room of course.

As I’m writing these information pieces I note over the days the story repeats or changes a little.  This is because as I’m writing it, the story changes the characters, the situations, the places as I fill in the gaps, and flesh out the story, little pieces that change from my original thoughts.

I will think of something new as a question is asked, and one will be that our journalist is a feature writer and has been published in reputable newspapers.  This, of course, sets his bona fides as cover, but I added another detail: he can actually write.  If not mentioned before, he has a history with the keynote speaker.  They are inevitably going to meet, though in his role as protector, which is not supposed to happen.

What plan ever goes by the book?

In the early stages of the story, he will meet with the girl in white, the policeman, maybe he’ll run into the head of the secret police, and maybe the keynote speaker.

Then there is the leader of the rebels.

In between all of this, he had to get used to the fact he now has a shadow, and she cannot be cut out.  It’s no coincidence that she will do very nicely as a distraction, but who is it she will be distracting if not our protagonist?

Writing a book in 365 days – 80

Day 80

Embedding twists and contradictions

Examples: ‘I loved her like a rabbit loves a rattlesnake’, ‘stealing a man’s wife, that’s nothing, but stealing his car, that’s larceny’, and ‘Not every man’s death is a crime’.

Come up with one of your own…

…

What’s not to say about the notion of a good contradiction? That’s the mainstay of most people I know; you think you know them, and you suddenly realise that you don’t.

And I think this works really well with the love interest in a thriller or mystery.

How do you know whether you are falling for an axe murderer or an innocent bystander?

You don’t.

So, there she is, standing on the corner of the street, under a flickering street lamp, smoking a cigarette. You’re watching the tendrils of smoke drift upwards until a burst of air blasts it away, and then the whole process starts over again.

The burning question in your mind: Will I go up to her and ask if she’s free for a drink?

She might be waiting for someone, or she might be waiting for someone like me to go up and ask her. What have you got to lose?

That voice of the devil sitting on your shoulder chimes in, perhaps she waiting for a chump like you so she can fulfill an order for a kidney, or liver.

And that face, all the innocence of Mata Hari rolled into the epitome of the girl next door.

The thing is, I’d never seen the typical girl next door to know what one looked like.

What am I looking for, a whirlwind romance, a walk in the park, or a quick and painless death?

I took two steps in her direction, determined to make the move, and stopped as a car pulled up beside her. A flick of the butt, a smile, she gets in the car and it drives off.

Oh, well, I guess I’ll be drinking on my own. Again.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

NANOWRIMO – April 2025 – Day 6

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The Fourth Son

…

Let’s get a Lear jet and fly out.  That should make an impression.

It does.

The morning our and the evening back

While in the air on the return journey, after a successful day of trying to explain where his country is and what relevance it had, other than that oracle of oracles, the internet said, a problem erupts back home.

It makes the relevance of his return all the more imperative.  That’s just while he’s in the air.  When he lands, the problem becomes a disaster, and by the time he goes to a press conference, the first and only one without much training, he is shoved into the spotlight as a result of an impossible situation.

It is the first of many for the young prince, a principal spokesman for his country alongside the ambassador.

What happened to stargazing on the roof and relaxing with a cold bottle of beer with the most difficult problem; whether hw would be able to see the stars.

It was time to find the witch who had cast a hundred years of bad luck on him.

Writing a book in 365 days – 80

Day 80

Embedding twists and contradictions

Examples: ‘I loved her like a rabbit loves a rattlesnake’, ‘stealing a man’s wife, that’s nothing, but stealing his car, that’s larceny’, and ‘Not every man’s death is a crime’.

Come up with one of your own…

…

What’s not to say about the notion of a good contradiction? That’s the mainstay of most people I know; you think you know them, and you suddenly realise that you don’t.

And I think this works really well with the love interest in a thriller or mystery.

How do you know whether you are falling for an axe murderer or an innocent bystander?

You don’t.

So, there she is, standing on the corner of the street, under a flickering street lamp, smoking a cigarette. You’re watching the tendrils of smoke drift upwards until a burst of air blasts it away, and then the whole process starts over again.

The burning question in your mind: Will I go up to her and ask if she’s free for a drink?

She might be waiting for someone, or she might be waiting for someone like me to go up and ask her. What have you got to lose?

That voice of the devil sitting on your shoulder chimes in, perhaps she waiting for a chump like you so she can fulfill an order for a kidney, or liver.

And that face, all the innocence of Mata Hari rolled into the epitome of the girl next door.

The thing is, I’d never seen the typical girl next door to know what one looked like.

What am I looking for, a whirlwind romance, a walk in the park, or a quick and painless death?

I took two steps in her direction, determined to make the move, and stopped as a car pulled up beside her. A flick of the butt, a smile, she gets in the car and it drives off.

Oh, well, I guess I’ll be drinking on my own. Again.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

A to Z Blog Challenge – April 2025 – E

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E is for “Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining” – Just a romantic story ala Hallmark

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I was once told that there are five ways of doing something,

The right way

The wrong way

My way

Your way, and,

The way it should have been done!

For the better part of my life, I always believed my way was the right way, and that was fine while I was responsible only for myself.

Once you add someone else to the equation, then suddenly, everything you do becomes far more complicated.

So, how did that happen?

The first tendrils of light were flickering through the window, between the cracks on the curtain.

I couldn’t sleep, not so much because the bed was uncomfortable, but because of the decisions I had made.

I looked at the calm, serene expression on the face of the woman I tried ever so hard not to fall in love with.  In my line of work, there was no room for such sentimentality.

Being a lone wolf was a necessity.

Those words rolled around in my head, over and over I heard Rawlings speech the day we began, that first day of the rest of our lives.

Do not get attached to anyone, anywhere, anything.  Do not live in one place, do not have a regular pattern of movement, do not stay in one particular hotel more than once, do not drive the same car.

If you believe you’ve been compromised, go off-grid.

Where we were was as off-grid as you could get.

It wasn’t so much that I had dragged Penelope into this mess. It was more that she had invited herself along for the ride.

Two nights before, I sent a message to say I needed to see her.  She suggested dinner and picked a restaurant, small and easy to blend in and at the same time keep an eye out for trouble.

She had recognised my preferences.  That should have been a red flag, but I let feelings into that equation.

I arrived first, doing the mandatory check outside for anything unusual, then going inside, assessing the threat level and exits, and then sitting at a table near the rear.

It was the first time I wondered if there would be a time in my life when I could stop looking over my shoulder.

Penelope arrived ten minutes later, knowing I didn’t like arriving late, dressed plainly so that few people registered her arrival.  Those that did, I noted.

She saw me, smiled, and came over after a brief word with the waitress who had ushered me to the table.

The waitress followed with a bottle of champagne and two glasses, poured, and left us alone.  A quick glance around the room didn’t identify any problems, but with Penelope sitting next to me, my judgement was compromised.

She took a sip and did that little shiver thing every time she first sipped her champagne, and then said, “What is so urgent I had to drop everything?”

She had one of those mesmerising voices that could take you down a rabbit hole and never want to come back.

I shook my head, trying to clear it.  It didn’t work.

The speech I had rehearsed in my head sounded appropriate … in my head.  Now, in front of her, it sounded ridiculous.

“I have to go away.”

“So.  You’ve done that before.”

“Permanently.”

Expression change, not happy.  When she frowned, it was like the darkness setting in.  “Where?”

“England.”

“Why?”

“It was always a possibility, but I didn’t think it would be this soon.”

“When?”

“Tonight.  It was just sprung on me.”

“So …”

“I can’t do long distance, and I couldn’t ask you to come with me.  You have your aspirations, and that promotion is just around the corner …”

“We should break up?”

It’s definitely not a happy face now.

“I don’t want to, but there’s practicality in play.  I don’t want you to lose what you have worked so hard for “

“Then don’t go.”

It wasn’t an option, and I couldn’t explain why.  And if I did, she would be out the door so fast her feet wouldn’t touch the ground.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

And whilst that might be true, I was not going to get the time to argue the point.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement by the door.

Two men, scanning the room, stopped on me.

I sighed.  If I was on my own, it would simply be a matter of sliding down and getting out the rear entrance, not six feet from where we were sitting.

An extra body, not sitting closer to the door, and now a target, just proved Rawlings statement.  The thing is, she was not going to become collateral damage.

Not today.

They, like me, had stopped to assess the damage, knowing that I was not going to go quietly, and that people were going to die.  Their issue was that other diners had looked up at them and would now remember their faces.  It added just enough of a hesitation factor.

Penelope and I not so much, but if the restaurant had CCTV, that was all moot.  Camera over the front door, camera over the door to the kitchen.

“We have to go,” I said quietly.

She, too, had seen the two men and had instantly recognised trouble.  Textbook thugs, the way Hollywood portrayed their bad guys.

“Who are they?”

“Trouble.”  I had a gun, but using it in this confined space was a recipe for disaster.  I could shoot them, but between me and them was a dozen unpredictable humans.

They hadn’t moved.  A waitress was moving towards them.

I grabbed her hand and, in one fluid motion, slid out of the booth and pulled her to her feet, and then dragged her through the kitchen doorway.

Movement by the door, one shoved the waitress whilst the other drew his weapon, and three shots thwacked into the closing door.

Seconds later, we were through the back door, and the men were in pursuit until I turned, pulled out the gun, and shot the both of them as they came out the doorway.

Not to kill.  It was never my first choice unless I had no choice.

I didn’t give her time to think. I just pulled her along, up another alley to the main street and plenty of foot traffic to blend in.

She had not pulled her hand away.  Yet.

“What just happened?”  She spoke quietly, but not with a hint of hysteria, just breathlessness.

“The reason why I wanted to break up.  I have a past, and it’s about to catch up with me.  Those men would shoot the both of us dead, without hesitation.  Chances are you still have a degree of anonymity, but it won’t last long if you stay with me.”

“What did you do?”

“I tried to save a friend and failed.  He was in trouble, and I thought I could fix it.”

“And made it worse?”

“Things tend to go sideways when I get involved.  Wrong people, bad intelligence, or just plain bad luck.”

I wasn’t going to add it was one of our own people who was trying to find me.  I unmasked him quite by accident.  No one knew he was playing on both sides of the street, and he wanted to keep it that way.

“Then I guess you’re stuck with me.  Tell me you have a plan.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I don’t like the life I have, and I was about to go back home.  Believe me, you’ve saved me from a fate worse than death.”

I was not that sure she had traded up.  I could see the bright look in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, and adrenaline flowing through her.  When that subsided, everything would be different.

It was a case of damned if you do or damned if you don’t.  I shrugged.  “OK.  Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 79

Day 79

What drives your writing

…

This is not a thing that pushes you every day, but there are times when something or someone will prey on your mind, and it will not be settled until you have ‘vented’.

I have to say that from time to time, the concept of venting has come over me when writing a blog piece, particularly when the folly of politicians and/or corporations is just too much. There has been a moment when a particular person has enraged me, but these people generally find themselves in a caricature.

Then there is that long-term project of the history of my family, and my brother, being the fountain of all knowledge of them, sometimes has a sit down and relates all these stories about them and after which I sit down and write as much about them as I can remember.

This I feel, is distinct from those times when I am writing a novel, apart from the incentive provided by NaNoWriMo where the race is on to get it done in 30 days. Other times, like for instance at the moment I am working on a story that is very fresh and very accessible in my mind, and therefore available to write.

I started about four days ago for a new section and have written nine new chapters in 4 days, and there is still more. While this story wants to be written, I will get it down, albeit in raw form, because it has changed a few times plot-wise since I started.

But that is me, and it is not for everyone. I often find myself writing about five or six stories at once, and yes, sometimes it can be confusing.