Days 53 and 54

The weekend writing exercise

We need to write a short story that includes, a shocking surprise, an unreliable narrator, and a nonlinear timeline.

…

There was no point asking Jack.

He was the witness who had fourteen different answers for the same situation, in fact, it changed every time you asked him.

I used to think that he did it deliberately, that it was his way of avoiding responsibility and it worked. No one asked him to do anything or asked his opinion, and that threw all of it on me, the younger and only sibling.

For that reason, I left home as soon as I could. Away from my parents who expected so much, and my brother, who was oblivious to the problems he was causing me.

Of course, there was always going to be something to drag me back to that place.

Very early on a Saturday morning, the one day I got to sleep in, the cell phone rang at the ungodly hour of 5:03 am. I remember the time because I also remembered who was calling.

My bother Jack.

I was not in a good mood. “What?”

“Fine way to talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you. Don’t call me again.” And then I disconnected the call.

I made the fatal mistake of not switching off the phone.

5:07am. Jack. He was going to keep calling. I sighed, got out of bed, picked up the phone and pressed the green answer button.

“Make it quick, I’m missing out on a much-earned sleep-in.”

“OK, if that’s the way you want it. Mum and Dad are dead.”

Jack was the original little boy who cried wolf.

“Of course they are. Are you sure they’re not at the mall shopping?” He had tried this story once before. He had half the town in uproar until they were found having coffee at a small cafe, and somehow made it all my fault. As usual.

“No. They would have told me.”

“They never tell you anything because you never can relay anything correctly. Just hang tight, they’ll be home soon enough.”

“They’ve been gone a week, nearly eight days. I think they’re dead.”

More than likely they’d gone on a holiday, told him, and he’d forgotten or got it jumbled up in that complicated mind of his. “There’s nothing wrong with them. They will be back.”

I hung up, this time switching off the phone, and went back to bed.

…

It was never going to end there. Nothing that involved Jack did, and his calling had brought all the bad memories flooding back, bad enough that it was no point going back to sleep.

I had to wonder, after all these years, my parents finally decided they’d had enough of him and just left. Certainly, the last time I had seen my mother, she was at the end of her tether. They had come to visit me in the big city, as they called it, and I got the impression being away was a relief.

I tried calling my mother’s phone and it rang out. It was charged, and on, not the state I’d expect if something had happened to her. My father didn’t have a phone, he said they were the devil’s toys to seduce us, and there were times when I agreed with him.

An hour later, my cell phone rang again. An unknown number. Usually, I didn’t answer them, but for some odd reason, I did.

“Richard Westly?”

“Yes.”

“Sherriff Jackson, Black Ridge County Sheriff’s Department. I assume you live in the old house at the end of Bridge Street?”

“I did. Haven’t been there for a dozen years or so. Why?”

Earlier this morning the next-door neighbour came over to check on them and found the house broken into, and all three occupants were dead. We believe all three are victims of foul play.”

“All three?”

“Your father, your mother, and your brother Jack.”

“When did they die? When did Jack die? Does anyone know?”

“The medical examiner is here, and the preliminary assessment is that they have been dead between four and seven days.”

“Jack too?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible. I was just speaking to him about an hour ago.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 53a

More about the story I’m writing

…

So, we have gotten past waking up in a strange place, the fact it is hot, and the effect of looking at the slow-moving blades of the fan swirling that hot regurgitated air, and momentarily panicking when there’s a knock on the door (yes, even I was hoping it was a genie with an air conditioner) we can move on.

Where are we? Somewhere in Africa, where there seemed to be a predominance of French, Belgian and English colonies, each speaking the language of its conqueror, and each still with a lasting reminder of those people who had been vanquished in that period after the Second World War when granting independence seemed the right thing to do.

In place of High Commissioners and District Officers, came the propped-up dictators who swore allegiance to the former coloniser in return for large sums of money and lots of guns and uniforms for their military.

Nothing much changed, the wealth was still in the few hands and the people still had nothing. Well, in those days of transition to the dictatorship they had plenty, but what could be given in abundance could quite easily be taken away. The Conlonisers army was replaced by police, and something more insidious, the secret police. The Coloniser tended to loan the police service senior officers to train and supervise.

Until of course, if the military decided it no longer liked the dictator there was a military coup.

Not yet, for this little country.

Increasingly accused of human rights abuses and secret activities against its citizens by the secret police, and negotiations for the next tranche of financial and other support, the country is, well, let’s call it what it is, blackmailed into holding a Human Rights Conference.

Let’s also throw into the mix a leader of the rebels, or no, freedom fighters, who is as slippery as an eel. He reminds me of the Scarlet Pimpernel, hiding in plain sight. Let’s add a world-class Human Rights activist as the keynote speaker, someone respected everywhere but inside this country, and dangle a red rag in front of the bull.

We have our world-weary recovering fix-it man, and now we know why he’s there.

He’s the ‘invisible’ bodyguard.

But, like the proverbial steak knives, there’s more. Twenty years and a name change, his instructions are to watch over the keynote speaker, but doesn’t realise it is the same woman he almost married, and had he, his life would be so very different.

That’s going to be some reunion.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 53a

More about the story I’m writing

…

So, we have gotten past waking up in a strange place, the fact it is hot, and the effect of looking at the slow-moving blades of the fan swirling that hot regurgitated air, and momentarily panicking when there’s a knock on the door (yes, even I was hoping it was a genie with an air conditioner) we can move on.

Where are we? Somewhere in Africa, where there seemed to be a predominance of French, Belgian and English colonies, each speaking the language of its conqueror, and each still with a lasting reminder of those people who had been vanquished in that period after the Second World War when granting independence seemed the right thing to do.

In place of High Commissioners and District Officers, came the propped-up dictators who swore allegiance to the former coloniser in return for large sums of money and lots of guns and uniforms for their military.

Nothing much changed, the wealth was still in the few hands and the people still had nothing. Well, in those days of transition to the dictatorship they had plenty, but what could be given in abundance could quite easily be taken away. The Conlonisers army was replaced by police, and something more insidious, the secret police. The Coloniser tended to loan the police service senior officers to train and supervise.

Until of course, if the military decided it no longer liked the dictator there was a military coup.

Not yet, for this little country.

Increasingly accused of human rights abuses and secret activities against its citizens by the secret police, and negotiations for the next tranche of financial and other support, the country is, well, let’s call it what it is, blackmailed into holding a Human Rights Conference.

Let’s also throw into the mix a leader of the rebels, or no, freedom fighters, who is as slippery as an eel. He reminds me of the Scarlet Pimpernel, hiding in plain sight. Let’s add a world-class Human Rights activist as the keynote speaker, someone respected everywhere but inside this country, and dangle a red rag in front of the bull.

We have our world-weary recovering fix-it man, and now we know why he’s there.

He’s the ‘invisible’ bodyguard.

But, like the proverbial steak knives, there’s more. Twenty years and a name change, his instructions are to watch over the keynote speaker, but doesn’t realise it is the same woman he almost married, and had he, his life would be so very different.

That’s going to be some reunion.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 52

Where does inspiration come from – 1

…

A particular author who wrote a book on writing, one of many it seems, opined that the main source of inspiration is … you!

Just look at your family … there’s a definite gold mine of characters right there, and mine is no exception. I could write a story for each of them, and what might happen if they all came together at a reunion. Yes, perhaps that’s not a good idea.

Who’s been to a wedding, or funeral, and …

Then there are your friends. You know the saying, you can pick your friends and not your relatives. Yes true, but sometimes they pick themselves. These friends are from school, though I no longer have any from that time, work, as you transition through your work life these change, and for me, the earlier characters were just that, characters, and a lot of them turn up in stories.

There is where you live, the city, the country, places you;ve been on holiday, the people you meet, the regions.

I know when I go on holiday it is another source of information and experiences and I take lots of photos and make copious notes of everything, people, food, sights, events, and experiences.

What happens to you in those first years, from primary school to graduation, then perhaps university or trade school, to where you start working, the changes in vocations for many different reasons, the partners you find, stay, leave, forget, or pine over, all these emotions are grist to the mill.

Later in life, those experiences are not quite as poignant or perhaps as memorable, but that’s most likely because you are more settled and less adventurous. I found that with the coming of grandchildren and reading to them as young children, it was a time when I started inventing my own stories for them, and then for them to read the stories back to me.

Now I have a three-volume princess story that was written over time for them, about their growing up, and exploration of the world around them becoming a vast source of material.

Inspiration is, quite literally, all around you.

Day 52

Where does inspiration come from – 1

…

A particular author who wrote a book on writing, one of many it seems, opined that the main source of inspiration is … you!

Just look at your family … there’s a definite gold mine of characters right there, and mine is no exception. I could write a story for each of them, and what might happen if they all came together at a reunion. Yes, perhaps that’s not a good idea.

Who’s been to a wedding, or funeral, and …

Then there are your friends. You know the saying, you can pick your friends and not your relatives. Yes true, but sometimes they pick themselves. These friends are from school, though I no longer have any from that time, work, as you transition through your work life these change, and for me, the earlier characters were just that, characters, and a lot of them turn up in stories.

There is where you live, the city, the country, places you;ve been on holiday, the people you meet, the regions.

I know when I go on holiday it is another source of information and experiences and I take lots of photos and make copious notes of everything, people, food, sights, events, and experiences.

What happens to you in those first years, from primary school to graduation, then perhaps university or trade school, to where you start working, the changes in vocations for many different reasons, the partners you find, stay, leave, forget, or pine over, all these emotions are grist to the mill.

Later in life, those experiences are not quite as poignant or perhaps as memorable, but that’s most likely because you are more settled and less adventurous. I found that with the coming of grandchildren and reading to them as young children, it was a time when I started inventing my own stories for them, and then for them to read the stories back to me.

Now I have a three-volume princess story that was written over time for them, about their growing up, and exploration of the world around them becoming a vast source of material.

Inspiration is, quite literally, all around you.

Day 51

Why do we write?

…

It seems everyone has a reason, and for all of those whom I have talked to, mostly say they do it for the love of writing.

If we were writing to make our fortune, I’d say none of us would last longer than a year. For some of us, myself included, I never gave up my day job until I retired and then could devote myself to it with more effectiveness.

That idea of doing a 10-hour day and then going home to do another was never possible. Writing took a back seat and was done when I could. I kept writing to keep the creative e juices flowing but my heart was not in it.

Yes, I finished a few stories, and a book or two, but the non-exciting part of the exercise, editing and marketing never was my strong point, and it wasn’t until I retired that it all came together, and five books were published and another twenty in various stages of completion.

I do not write with the intention of becoming an international bestselling author. It’s a nice thought, but it’s a field where there are millions of others toiling away, and some will get that break, while others may never. My stories sell, people read them, and the reviews are satisfying. That’s enough for me.

Still, one day it might happen. We can never predict the future. I might write a story that some editor might read and think it’s worthy of being published. That would be nice. But, in the meantime, I will keep creating my quirky characters who inhabit a strange world, meet others like them, and who are equally as different, and sometimes combine to create a little magic.

And as the purveyor of happy endings, and in these perilous times where we all need a little cheering up more than we realise, perhaps after the story is over, they can look back over that short period of getting to know those people that it was time well spent.

Day 51

Why do we write?

…

It seems everyone has a reason, and for all of those whom I have talked to, mostly say they do it for the love of writing.

If we were writing to make our fortune, I’d say none of us would last longer than a year. For some of us, myself included, I never gave up my day job until I retired and then could devote myself to it with more effectiveness.

That idea of doing a 10-hour day and then going home to do another was never possible. Writing took a back seat and was done when I could. I kept writing to keep the creative e juices flowing but my heart was not in it.

Yes, I finished a few stories, and a book or two, but the non-exciting part of the exercise, editing and marketing never was my strong point, and it wasn’t until I retired that it all came together, and five books were published and another twenty in various stages of completion.

I do not write with the intention of becoming an international bestselling author. It’s a nice thought, but it’s a field where there are millions of others toiling away, and some will get that break, while others may never. My stories sell, people read them, and the reviews are satisfying. That’s enough for me.

Still, one day it might happen. We can never predict the future. I might write a story that some editor might read and think it’s worthy of being published. That would be nice. But, in the meantime, I will keep creating my quirky characters who inhabit a strange world, meet others like them, and who are equally as different, and sometimes combine to create a little magic.

And as the purveyor of happy endings, and in these perilous times where we all need a little cheering up more than we realise, perhaps after the story is over, they can look back over that short period of getting to know those people that it was time well spent.

Day 50

Today’s discussion point: autobiography.

…

Who’s to say whose life would be more interesting than another.

Of course, we all think our lives are meaningful, and we have done many things that would interest someone else if we were to put them down on paper.

I have read a few, and some were quite good, they went on about a specific period, or periods where they had a role that, at the time, would have been designated secret, but once that had past, people could be told what really happened.

I speak of one person who was very involved in the machinations of World War Two from the British standpoint, and I found it fascinating.

Someone else, however, would have found it very boring. It was not Winston Churchill, whose life I did read about, but someone else that very few would remember.

I like reading the life stories of other writers and some of the material is quite fascinating, and sometimes blatant name-dropping. That period between the two world wars still fascinates me, and I would have loved to be involved with that group of writers.

Just to meet and talk to Ernest Hemmingway, for one. Or F Scott Fitzgerald as another. Then there is Agatha Christie or Ngaio Marsh, or Ian Fleming. The stories he must have to tell.

Going back in time, perhaps Wilkie Collins and very definitely Charles Dickens, Anthony Trollop and a quick trip over to Russia to drop in on Leo Tolstoy or even Boris Pasternak.

As for my story …. it would be thirty-five shades of boring.

Day 50

Today’s discussion point: autobiography.

…

Who’s to say whose life would be more interesting than another.

Of course, we all think our lives are meaningful, and we have done many things that would interest someone else if we were to put them down on paper.

I have read a few, and some were quite good, they went on about a specific period, or [periods where they had a role that, at the time, would have been designated secret, but once that had past, people could be told what really happened.

I speak of one person who was very involved in the machinations of World War Two from the British standpoint, and I found it fascinating.

Someone else, however, would have found it very boring. It was not Winston Churchill, whose life I did read about, but someone else that very few would remember.

I like reading the life stories of other writers and some of the material is quite fascinating, and sometimes blatant name-dropping. That period between the two world wars still fascinates me, and I would have loved to be involved with that group of writers.

Just to meet and talk to Ernest Hemmingway, for one. Or F Scott Fitzgerald as another. Then there is Agatha Christie or Ngaio Marsh, or Ian Fleming. The stories he must have to tell.

Going back in time, perhaps Wilkie Collins and very definitely Charles Dickens, Anthony Trollop and a quick trip over to Russia to drop in on Leo Tolstoy or even Boris Pasternak.

As for my story …. it would be thirty-five shades of boring.

Day 49

A writing exercise – starting with:

…

The day he sold the house on Mulberry Lane where he had laid his head to sleep every night of his life was, he thought, the happiest he had ever been.

It was not as if it started out as a house of horrors, in fact, from the moment he could remember the house, about six or seven, it had been an idyllic refuge. That was what his mother had told him, before he went to boarding school, before she remarried, before that man who told him the first day they met he was going to send him away, as far away as possible.

Those days before his world was turned upside down…

…

He stood in from of the cottage, now almost resumed by the forest it had been nestled in. He just just barely see the window on the second floor, a special room his first father had built into the roof, a room with a view of the valley and the small stream that ran through it, of the fields with the cattle and sheep, or crops, and then grass as far as they could see.

It was his playground, the play hide and seek, to go down to the stream and swin on hot days in the summer, or pretend that he was a pirate on the high seas.

And then after dinner, a story from his mother, he lay his head on the pillow and dreamed of the adventures he would have when he grew up.

Then, on a cold stormy night that world changed a little. His father had been in an accident and he was not coming home. it was just going to be them, and that life would not change.

For what seemed a long time, it didn’t. Then another man came, a man who seemed to make his mother happy, but there was something about him. He didn’t like him, and he soon discovered the man didn’t like him.

There was a wedding, and they went away, leaving him with his Aunt, a rather severe woman who lived in Scotland, a long way away from his house in the forest. He was there for what seemed a long time, then hos mother returned alone and told him that his new father wanted to travel, and that she was going to travel with him and he would be going to a special school for children with parents that travelled.

He asked why he couldn’t go with them, but she said was that he was better off in the special school. He would live there, and get a special education, one that if he stay with them, he wouldn’t. Then, as suddenly as she appeared, she was gone.

…

He did not know that it would be the last time he would see her. He did not know that his mother had left responsibility for him with his Aunt. He was upset when she didn’t visit him at the school, or come get him during the holidays. Those times he went to Scotland to stay with his aunt.

He did not know until he left the school that his mother had died that first year in boarding school, or that his new father had murdered he and stole her fortune and his inheritance.

And now, standing in front of that house where he had been happiest, he tried very hard to remember his father and his mother, but not remember either of them. Only that horrid man who had stolen everything from them.

That man he had buried at the back of the house down the bottom of the well.

He spend six years tracking him down, and when he made an appointment to see him, the man had not recognised him. It took a week to assume his identity and take everything back. What was left of the fortune, the inheritance which hadn’t been touched, and the house which he discovered the man had not visited or maintained. The man had perpetrated the same evil of a dozen other women, and he took all of that too.

Then he told the man what he’d done and told him if he wanted it back to come to the cottage in the forest. He was surprised the man agreed.

He had advertised the property, and had a single buyer contact him. The original owner of the property. The offer was acceptable, they shok hands on the deal, and after a final look, and a lot of memories returning briefly, he left.

Those memories were of his childhood, and now that chapter had closed, he could finally get on with his life.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025