Day 44

Why do we do it?

That’s the eternal question asked of nearly every writer/author whether successful or not.

Of course for the successful writer, though it’s hard to put a correct label on what constitutes successful, it’s either because we can make an adequate living out of it, and if it’s not that, for me anyway, it is the life of writing and the joy when someone reads a piece and leaves s review that makes it all worthwhile.

It’s not always about the money.

Most writers have a day job and squirrel themselves away in a variety of places they call their writing space and yoil long into the night, or over the weekends, trying to fit in everything else.

For most out happy times are when we are constructing a story, lost in another world, away from the everyday hustle bustle and problems usually left behind when the kids go to sleep.

I’m sure I would like to travel the world but it would only to be in search of locations of my stories, there is no such thing as a holiday that is just a holiday, and there’s a reason why Venice is a favoured location, as is London, as is New York.

These days when my other half is visiting doctors, hospitals, and specialists, those long hours in the waiting room are spent conjuring up new stories, working on current projects and just dreaming.

We spend a lot of time in these places, and she gets to read and I get to write. I’m sure a lot of the others wonder what it is that I am up to. Our GP whom we visit at least once a month and the wait can be up to about an hour has noticed when he comes out to call us in, and always asks what I’m up to.

If I didn’t have something to write, I think I would go bonkers.

Day 43

When a short story becomes a novel

It Started as an A to Z blog post and took NaNoWriMo to make it happen

…

Of late, I have been writing this year’s A to Z blog, which, since 2019, have been 26 short stories themed on the alphabet.

Last year, when I was writing a particular story, when I finished it, it seemed like there was more.

That’s when an idea hit me, and I started writing.  Some years, a particular story captures my attention, and I write another, which will come another of the 26, and rarely, I will write a third.

The thing is, it turned out to be a more interesting subject that had a larger story and do it began, adding chapters as the story developed in my mind, so that by the time November, and NANOWRIMO arrived it was almost a full length novel.

By the way, NANOWRIMO is short for National November Writers Month.  It has a website site, and the Writing Task, it is not a competition, is to write a novel of over 50,000 words over the 39 days of November.

I have done this for the last seven or eight years and managed to complete at least seven full-length novels.

Two of them so far have started as short stories, and I think there will be another this year.

The A to Z blog event is held in April and runs for 26 days, excluding Sundays.  Each blog entry is about a letter, starting with A.

In the first year, I did it with words. From then on, I decided to write short stories, starting with A is for: along with the title of the story.

So far, I have written nearly 250 short stories, of which about 20 have become what I call long short stories.

Day 43

When a short story becomes a novel

It Started as an A to Z blog post and took NaNoWriMo to make it happen

…

Of late, I have been writing this year’s A to Z blog, which, since 2019, have been 26 short stories themed on the alphabet.

Last year, when I was writing a particular story, when I finished it, it seemed like there was more.

That’s when an idea hit me, and I started writing.  Some years, a particular story captures my attention, and I write another, which will come another of the 26, and rarely, I will write a third.

The thing is, it turned out to be a more interesting subject that had a larger story and do it began, adding chapters as the story developed in my mind, so that by the time November, and NANOWRIMO arrived it was almost a full length novel.

By the way, NANOWRIMO is short for National November Writers Month.  It has a website site, and the Writing Task, it is not a competition, is to write a novel of over 50,000 words over the 39 days of November.

I have done this for the last seven or eight years and managed to complete at least seven full-length novels.

Two of them so far have started as short stories, and I think there will be another this year.

The A to Z blog event is held in April and runs for 26 days, excluding Sundays.  Each blog entry is about a letter, starting with A.

In the first year, I did it with words. From then on, I decided to write short stories, starting with A is for: along with the title of the story.

So far, I have written nearly 250 short stories, of which about 20 have become what I call long short stories.

Day 42

A writing exercise

…

She spent the first weekend of the month dreaming about the things she was too afraid of doing every other weekend of every other month of her life.

And those dreams did not include her using her real name Doris, but of someone more sophisticated, Delores, or Delilah, or Darcy, the name she was going to use for her firstborn daughter, not that it was ever going to happen.

It was just another one of those dreams, of dressing up, going out to a bar, sitting at the counter sipping on a long cool cocktail when a tall dark mysterious handsome man slipped into the seat beside her…

“Doris!”

The grating sound that resembled her name came from another room, a voice that was the product of a lifetime of smoking 50 cigarettes a day, a voice belonging to her mother, the woman who was stealing the very days of her life away from her.

Doris was never going to see 30, we’ll 35, alright then 41, again.

“What?”

She should not have yelled back, but it was the umpteenth time that day, and she was tired.  Her mother’s harking cough had kept her awake all night, and it wasn’t getting better.  She refused to go into palliative care where they could look after her, preferring to burden her youngest daughter with her care.  Payback, she said, for all the years she had to look after Doris.

Not the two older sisters who were married with children, who also got the same care as Doris, which basically amounted to zero.  The other two couldn’t wait to get away from home knowing what was going to happen.

“I need my pills.  Where are they?”

“In the yellow bottle next to the bed.”

The old woman knew exactly where they were.

“There isn’t any cold water!”

Doris shrugged.  It would be the third time she had refilled the water bottle.  What was she doing with it?

She waited another minute and then went to the refrigerator and got the jug of water, then went into the room.

It was hot and stuffy, and the window closed.  When she had last been in the room, it had been open.  There was also a slight hint of cigarette smoke in the room.  She had been smoking again, very much against doctors’ orders.

It meant her mother could move around and quite easily have come out.  Certainly, she could go to the window and put her head out, attempting to disperse smoke outside.

Doris filled the bottle.  “Next time, come out yourself.  You’re quite capable of walking and the exercise will do you good.”

“You heard the doctor.  No excessive movement.”

“Doesn’t stop you from breaking the rules and smoking.  You have emphysema, and smoking won’t help it.”

“I’m dying anyway. What do you care what I do?”

“More than you can obviously comprehend.  Do whatever you’re going to anyway.”

She turned and walked towards the door.  This battle of wills was never going to end, and she knew neither of them was going to win.

“What’s for dinner?”

She stopped and turned around.  At first, she was sympathetic, but that was before she realised her mother could be very manipulative.   “What do you care.  You won’t eat it anyway.”

“That’s because it tastes horrible.”

“That’s because of your treatment.  I’m just giving you what the doctor and dietician recommended.”

“Then I’d rather starve to death.”

Doris gave her a glare and left.  There was no point arguing with her.  All that would do was upset them both.

Respite came once a month when Doris was able to escape for a weekend, which inevitably ended up just staying at a small hotel not far from home, dining in the restaurant, and rising late to have breakfast in bed.

Just not having to wake to the barked sound of her name, “Doris,” reverberating through the passageways of their tiny house was reward enough.

But, there she gave free rein to her imagination and wondered what adventures she could get up to in just the course of one day.

This Saturday, she had arrived at the hotel and the proprietor, Jason Prederfield greeted her in his usual cheery manner, asked her the same question she had no doubt she asked all the guests on arrival then gave her the key to the room.

It was the same room each week, overlooking the park and playing fields, which in summer were hosting cricket matches and in winter soccer matches.  Sometimes she should go over and watch, but more often, just sat in the very comfortable old leather lounger chair near the window and read.

She was an avid reader of Mills and Boon romance novels and had brought three with her. 

More than once, she had wished that her life would be like a Mills and Boon, but there was no fairy godmother as there wasn’t a three-wish-granting genie.

If only there was.

She woke with a start, the sound of the book plopping on the ground after it slipped out of her hands waking her.

It was just beginning to get dark, and soon night would set in.  Time to dress for dinner.  This time, instead of going down to the hotel dining room, she was going to treat herself at an upmarket fish restaurant not far from the hotel.

She had seen in when out on a morning walk the last few weeks and decided it was time for something different.

She showered, went through the rigorous of applying her ‘face’ more carefully, added style to her email, then brought her special occasion dress, her version of a little black dress that was less revealing than it could be but just enough to make her feel at least five years younger.

An examination of the finishing product in the mirror told her that her life was not over yet, and maybe something might just happen.

And, even if it didn’t, she had, at the very least, felt a spark of excitement she hadn’t for a long time.

At the bottom of the stairs, she collected her coat from the rack and Jason helped her put it on and said that he had not seen her look better, in a tone that sent a shiver down her spine.

At the restaurant, she had made the booking in the name of Delores Sparks, using her surname but a change in the first.  Doris sounded plain, the name of a woman who would never frequent this restaurant.

While being escorted to her table, she noticed there were about a dozen other diners, married or not, couples, and she could feel the eyes of the men on her.

She ordered a glass of French Champagne, Bollinger, one she had seen advertised, and perused the menu.  For some odd reason, it was written in French, perhaps a mistake, but she smiled to herself.

She had taught herself French back in school and was now fluent.  One of those dreams was to visit France, but she never quite found the courage to go alone. 

Perhaps, after tonight…

The waitresses came, stood beside her, and waited patiently.  She gave her order in French and then had a quick conversation with the waiter, surprisingly able to speak the language.

It seemed to captivate some of the people around her.

A few minutes later, the maitre’d came over.  “Excuse me, madam.”

She looked up, wondering what the problem could be.

“We have a slight problem which you may be able to help us with.  We are fully booked and just realised we have a regular guest whom we can not accommodate…”

She glanced over to the front door and saw a middle-aged well-dressed man who looked on her opinion, either a banker, a lawyer, or an accountant.  He was a rather good-looking man at that.  Probably married, the good ones she discovered early on were always taken.

“Would it be possible to share a table?  He says he is prepared to pay for your dinner.  I will be happy to cover your drinks.  He has been here many times and I can vouch for his good character.”

Another glance, then back to the maitre’d.

“Of course.  I accept your kind offer.”

“Very good.  This will not be forgotten Madam, when you return.”

She deliberately didn’t turn around to watch as he was escorted to the table but as he appeared in front of her she rose to greet him.  In that moment she felt a little weakness in her knees, a strange reaction indeed.

“I must thank you, Miss, Mrs…”

“Just call me Delores.”

“Delores, what an interesting name.  My name is Jackson Courtney, Jack for short.”

They shook hands, a rather peculiar thing to do for her, perhaps not him, but the touch of hands was almost electric.  She had to quell her imagination or she might start blushing.

“Please, sit.”

They did and the waitresses came over for his drink order.

“I’ll have what Delores is having.”

The waiter nodded and left.

Delores smiled inwardly, noticing how he pronounced her name had that edge to it that might give a little shiver.

“What brings you to this restaurant?  I have to say I am somewhat surprised that you are dining alone.”

Oh, God.  She hadn’t quite thought that far ahead that she would have to give a proper and sensible conversation, one that didn’t include her telling him she was a full-time carer for her sick mother.

Delores was far more sophisticated.  She took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled.  “I try to find a small hotel and a different restaurant every so often after the hustle and bustle of London.”

“There’s no Mr Delores?”

“Is there no Mrs Courtney?”  Better to answer a question with a question and work on that air of mystery.

He smiled and it made all the difference to his expression.  Tanned, signs of being an outdoor type, hair lightly receding, but no greying.  There was more but that would do for now.

“Touche.  We should not dance on the boundaries.  Do you prefer the weather or our health as suitable topics?”

A sense of humour.  “Latest movies perhaps, a book, news that doesn’t involve politics, religion or that swamp on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“You don’t like America?”

“Oh, I love the country, I just don’t like half the people.  But that’s a woman’s perspective.  I suspect a man’s opinion would be different.”

And she swore to herself she was not going to talk politics.  “Sorry.  My personal opinions are mine and best left in my head.  Sometimes I speak without thinking, or perhaps it sounded better in my head.”

“You and me both.  I can and have put my foot in my mouth.”

His champagne came and they decided to focus on the menu.  He didn’t speak French.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025

Day 42

A writing exercise

…

She spent the first weekend of the month dreaming about the things she was too afraid of doing every other weekend of every other month of her life.

And those dreams did not include her using her real name Doris, but of someone more sophisticated, Delores, or Delilah, or Darcy, the name she was going to use for her firstborn daughter, not that it was ever going to happen.

It was just another one of those dreams, of dressing up, going out to a bar, sitting at the counter sipping on a long cool cocktail when a tall dark mysterious handsome man slipped into the seat beside her…

“Doris!”

The grating sound that resembled her name came from another room, a voice that was the product of a lifetime of smoking 50 cigarettes a day, a voice belonging to her mother, the woman who was stealing the very days of her life away from her.

Doris was never going to see 30, we’ll 35, alright then 41, again.

“What?”

She should not have yelled back, but it was the umpteenth time that day, and she was tired.  Her mother’s harking cough had kept her awake all night, and it wasn’t getting better.  She refused to go into palliative care where they could look after her, preferring to burden her youngest daughter with her care.  Payback, she said, for all the years she had to look after Doris.

Not the two older sisters who were married with children, who also got the same care as Doris, which basically amounted to zero.  The other two couldn’t wait to get away from home knowing what was going to happen.

“I need my pills.  Where are they?”

“In the yellow bottle next to the bed.”

The old woman knew exactly where they were.

“There isn’t any cold water!”

Doris shrugged.  It would be the third time she had refilled the water bottle.  What was she doing with it?

She waited another minute and then went to the refrigerator and got the jug of water, then went into the room.

It was hot and stuffy, and the window closed.  When she had last been in the room, it had been open.  There was also a slight hint of cigarette smoke in the room.  She had been smoking again, very much against doctors’ orders.

It meant her mother could move around and quite easily have come out.  Certainly, she could go to the window and put her head out, attempting to disperse smoke outside.

Doris filled the bottle.  “Next time, come out yourself.  You’re quite capable of walking and the exercise will do you good.”

“You heard the doctor.  No excessive movement.”

“Doesn’t stop you from breaking the rules and smoking.  You have emphysema, and smoking won’t help it.”

“I’m dying anyway. What do you care what I do?”

“More than you can obviously comprehend.  Do whatever you’re going to anyway.”

She turned and walked towards the door.  This battle of wills was never going to end, and she knew neither of them was going to win.

“What’s for dinner?”

She stopped and turned around.  At first, she was sympathetic, but that was before she realised her mother could be very manipulative.   “What do you care.  You won’t eat it anyway.”

“That’s because it tastes horrible.”

“That’s because of your treatment.  I’m just giving you what the doctor and dietician recommended.”

“Then I’d rather starve to death.”

Doris gave her a glare and left.  There was no point arguing with her.  All that would do was upset them both.

Respite came once a month when Doris was able to escape for a weekend, which inevitably ended up just staying at a small hotel not far from home, dining in the restaurant, and rising late to have breakfast in bed.

Just not having to wake to the barked sound of her name, “Doris,” reverberating through the passageways of their tiny house was reward enough.

But, there she gave free rein to her imagination and wondered what adventures she could get up to in just the course of one day.

This Saturday, she had arrived at the hotel and the proprietor, Jason Prederfield greeted her in his usual cheery manner, asked her the same question she had no doubt she asked all the guests on arrival then gave her the key to the room.

It was the same room each week, overlooking the park and playing fields, which in summer were hosting cricket matches and in winter soccer matches.  Sometimes she should go over and watch, but more often, just sat in the very comfortable old leather lounger chair near the window and read.

She was an avid reader of Mills and Boon romance novels and had brought three with her. 

More than once, she had wished that her life would be like a Mills and Boon, but there was no fairy godmother as there wasn’t a three-wish-granting genie.

If only there was.

She woke with a start, the sound of the book plopping on the ground after it slipped out of her hands waking her.

It was just beginning to get dark, and soon night would set in.  Time to dress for dinner.  This time, instead of going down to the hotel dining room, she was going to treat herself at an upmarket fish restaurant not far from the hotel.

She had seen in when out on a morning walk the last few weeks and decided it was time for something different.

She showered, went through the rigorous of applying her ‘face’ more carefully, added style to her email, then brought her special occasion dress, her version of a little black dress that was less revealing than it could be but just enough to make her feel at least five years younger.

An examination of the finishing product in the mirror told her that her life was not over yet, and maybe something might just happen.

And, even if it didn’t, she had, at the very least, felt a spark of excitement she hadn’t for a long time.

At the bottom of the stairs, she collected her coat from the rack and Jason helped her put it on and said that he had not seen her look better, in a tone that sent a shiver down her spine.

At the restaurant, she had made the booking in the name of Delores Sparks, using her surname but a change in the first.  Doris sounded plain, the name of a woman who would never frequent this restaurant.

While being escorted to her table, she noticed there were about a dozen other diners, married or not, couples, and she could feel the eyes of the men on her.

She ordered a glass of French Champagne, Bollinger, one she had seen advertised, and perused the menu.  For some odd reason, it was written in French, perhaps a mistake, but she smiled to herself.

She had taught herself French back in school and was now fluent.  One of those dreams was to visit France, but she never quite found the courage to go alone. 

Perhaps, after tonight…

The waitresses came, stood beside her, and waited patiently.  She gave her order in French and then had a quick conversation with the waiter, surprisingly able to speak the language.

It seemed to captivate some of the people around her.

A few minutes later, the maitre’d came over.  “Excuse me, madam.”

She looked up, wondering what the problem could be.

“We have a slight problem which you may be able to help us with.  We are fully booked and just realised we have a regular guest whom we can not accommodate…”

She glanced over to the front door and saw a middle-aged well-dressed man who looked on her opinion, either a banker, a lawyer, or an accountant.  He was a rather good-looking man at that.  Probably married, the good ones she discovered early on were always taken.

“Would it be possible to share a table?  He says he is prepared to pay for your dinner.  I will be happy to cover your drinks.  He has been here many times and I can vouch for his good character.”

Another glance, then back to the maitre’d.

“Of course.  I accept your kind offer.”

“Very good.  This will not be forgotten Madam, when you return.”

She deliberately didn’t turn around to watch as he was escorted to the table but as he appeared in front of her she rose to greet him.  In that moment she felt a little weakness in her knees, a strange reaction indeed.

“I must thank you, Miss, Mrs…”

“Just call me Delores.”

“Delores, what an interesting name.  My name is Jackson Courtney, Jack for short.”

They shook hands, a rather peculiar thing to do for her, perhaps not him, but the touch of hands was almost electric.  She had to quell her imagination or she might start blushing.

“Please, sit.”

They did and the waitresses came over for his drink order.

“I’ll have what Delores is having.”

The waiter nodded and left.

Delores smiled inwardly, noticing how he pronounced her name had that edge to it that might give a little shiver.

“What brings you to this restaurant?  I have to say I am somewhat surprised that you are dining alone.”

Oh, God.  She hadn’t quite thought that far ahead that she would have to give a proper and sensible conversation, one that didn’t include her telling him she was a full-time carer for her sick mother.

Delores was far more sophisticated.  She took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled.  “I try to find a small hotel and a different restaurant every so often after the hustle and bustle of London.”

“There’s no Mr Delores?”

“Is there no Mrs Courtney?”  Better to answer a question with a question and work on that air of mystery.

He smiled and it made all the difference to his expression.  Tanned, signs of being an outdoor type, hair lightly receding, but no greying.  There was more but that would do for now.

“Touche.  We should not dance on the boundaries.  Do you prefer the weather or our health as suitable topics?”

A sense of humour.  “Latest movies perhaps, a book, news that doesn’t involve politics, religion or that swamp on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“You don’t like America?”

“Oh, I love the country, I just don’t like half the people.  But that’s a woman’s perspective.  I suspect a man’s opinion would be different.”

And she swore to herself she was not going to talk politics.  “Sorry.  My personal opinions are mine and best left in my head.  Sometimes I speak without thinking, or perhaps it sounded better in my head.”

“You and me both.  I can and have put my foot in my mouth.”

His champagne came and they decided to focus on the menu.  He didn’t speak French.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025

Day 41

Writing about what you know and your opinion’s relevance

The thought that someone reading your world, be it an article, a short story, a technical diatribe, a novel, or a work of nonfiction, would think at some point that it’s boring would be unthinkable.

But…

You know the subject, you know the bits that interest you; you do not find it boring, no, not in the least.

And yet lost in your own world, it’s fascinating stuff, and it pours out on the pages as liquid gold.

You can not forget that relevant or not the subject matter had to engage the reader and keep them reading until the last pages.

That adage, wiring about what you know, is a good one, but it only goes so far.

So clearly, when writing a novel, the story has to engage the reader at pages 1, paragraph 1, and sentence 1. And believe me, that’s not an easy thing to do.

We’ve been talking about the art of keeping the reader’s attention for a few days now, with various quotes coming from authors who have tackled the problem themselves.

It happens.

It’s why my stories go through half a dozen, if not more, rewrites and edits. I find the first edit after writing a complete story better to be done after leaving it for six months. Then it’s like reading it for the first time, and it’s very easy to pick up the lapses and boring bits.

If there are any.

Day 41

Writing about what you know and your opinion’s relevance

The thought that someone reading your world, be it an article, a short story, a technical diatribe, a novel, or a work of nonfiction, would think at some point that it’s boring would be unthinkable.

But…

You know the subject, you know the bits that interest you; you do not find it boring, no, not in the least.

And yet lost in your own world, it’s fascinating stuff, and it pours out on the pages as liquid gold.

You can not forget that relevant or not the subject matter had to engage the reader and keep them reading until the last pages.

That adage, wiring about what you know, is a good one, but it only goes so far.

So clearly, when writing a novel, the story has to engage the reader at pages 1, paragraph 1, and sentence 1. And believe me, that’s not an easy thing to do.

We’ve been talking about the art of keeping the reader’s attention for a few days now, with various quotes coming from authors who have tackled the problem themselves.

It happens.

It’s why my stories go through half a dozen, if not more, rewrites and edits. I find the first edit after writing a complete story better to be done after leaving it for six months. Then it’s like reading it for the first time, and it’s very easy to pick up the lapses and boring bits.

If there are any.

Days 39 and 40

Another writing exercise, this time requiring three elements: a car accident, a betrayal, and a historical event. It’s not exactly a walk in the park, but with a little thought, perhaps we can conjure up a story.

…

A car accident, a betrayal, a historical event

…

When people refer to mixed marriages, they often refer to different religions, such as a protestant marrying a Catholic.

If only our problems were that simple.

No, we were from two opposing families whose views of their contribution to the founding of our city varied widely and had since the early 1800s.

Samantha and I had viewed all of this squabbling with very jaundiced eyes and largely ignored it as it blazed around us and had spent those first five years together blissfully, despite the turbulence.

That all changed when we arrived at her parent’s house, or rather a manor house, a place that they said reflected their standing in the town for our weekly dining engagement. 

This was one of the better dinners, even though there were twelve Benleys and only one Jacobson, me.  Partisanship was forgotten until over coffee at the end, and Samantha announced that she was pregnant.

Those statements, you could hear a pin drop, and you could cut the sir with a knife, were both equally relevant. 

Her father, at the head of the table, started turning purple and making strange sounds.  Her mother, sitting next to her, said in a quiet voice, “You said you were never having children,” and the horrified looks on her sisters’ faces spoke volumes.

Samantha looked at me and shrugged.

It was the first I knew that she was never having children, but I did remember her saying that before we were married, she had to make a silly promise to her father.  I guess I knew what it was now.

“Right,” I said in my calmest voice, “I think it’s time we left.  I have an early morning tomorrow.”

I stood and went over to Samantha and stood behind her seat.  I could see the disappointment on her face.  She had been overjoyed with the news because we had been trying for nearly a year.

She had not mentioned or agreed with whatever promise she had made.

She stood slowly, her mother relinquishing her hand.  “It is good news, Sam,” she said.

“This should not have happened.”  Her father had finally found his voice, and it was almost hoarse.  “The very idea!”

“It’s a child, not a monster.  And if you are going to behave like this, it will be a child you will never see.  Any of you.”

I could see the pink tinges reaching her cheeks, a sure sign she was getting very angry.  She was not someone you made angry.

“How dare you…”  he spluttered.

She tucked in a deep breath, and I could see she was trying to calm herself.  “How dare you.  Who do you think you are?  You seem to think that because you have all this land and this great big house, and fingers in everyone’s business you’re somebody in this city.  Perhaps in that fat head of yours, you are, but if you remember, I said I was going to research the origins of this city and our place in it.”

“We are this city.  It’s ours.  My forebears worked very hard to make it what it is.”

“Your forebears murdered and stole to get everything you hold so dear.  And I’m going to tell everyone at the Historical Society annual festival next week.  Shock, horror, you’ve been, wr all have been living off the proceeds of ill-gotten gain.  And you know what’s worse, you knew about all this time.  All of it.  So much for trying to sabotage my research efforts.  I’ll be honest, I’m glad I don’t have the Henley name anymore.”

The old man couldn’t speak and flipped back in his chair.  What was there to say?  I was as gobsmacked as everyone else around that table.  I mean, I knew the legends, but no one believed them.

I knew Samantha was researching the family history but not as far back as she had.  There was that one night when she came back from the state capital where she believed there were documents relating to the early days, the wild west she had called it.  There had been an arrangement with Wyatt Earp or one of those famous characters, and she had thought the Henleys had been lawmen.

Perhaps not.  Apparently, they had been on the other side of the law, but no one could produce anything because the documents were missing or perhaps didn’t exist.  That night, she had returned with the blackest of expressions, and I didn’t ask.

“Now, we’re leaving.  We will not be back.”

We walked calmly and quietly to the car, and before she got in, she looked back at the scene she had nearly every day of her life, the only real home she had known.

And now knowing it wasn’t really hers or the Henleys, if the legend was true, the original Henley worked for the then owner of the property which was basically everything, including the town, and then one night in the bar of the hotel they were playing poker, and the owner, plied with whiskey lost the title over a losing hand.

The story went, and he went home and was unable to live with the shame, set fire to the house, killing everyone in it.  That’s how the Henleys got their start.

“Legends only tell part of the story,” she said. “Only one person knew there was a survivor from the ranch burning down, a daughter, rescued from the ashes the next morning by one of the players in that eventful car game.  Henley cheated.  He was renowned for cheating at cards and killing the men who called him out.  The man who saved her told her how he did it.  She went to the sheriff and told him bur no one believed the word of a ten year old so nothing happened.

“Except he filed a report of the matter, and fifty or so years later, at another card game, he pulled the same trick and was called out.  He died in the ensuing duel.  Fifty years, no one put the evidence together or knew about it.”

“The girl?”

“Lived a comfortable life back east as a school teacher and let her memories of life on the ranch become the inspiration for a book, the manuscript I now have.  I found one of her direct relatives who had so many bits and pieces accumulated over the years.  Technically, this is all hers, theirs, but it’s a little too late.  Besides, she said they couldn’t be bothered trying to contest it.

“Sometimes it’s best just to be no one in particular.  Like us.”

We got in the car.  It was a sight at night, in the middle of a wide open space, virtually untouched from the time when it was built over a hundred years ago.

“Are you really going to tell everyone at the Historical Society?”

“No.  What’s the point.  People will just say it’s a legend that anyone can bend to say whatever they want.  There’s proof, but with the lawyers my father has, none of it will ever see the light of day.”

I shrugged.  She was right.  My father crossed Henley, and Henley sued him out of existence.

It was about a half mile from the ranchhouse to the main road and I took it slowly because the roadway was in need of repair.

The night was dark, clouds covering the moon making the headlights a necessity to see where we were going.

About half way we could hear the sound of another car but could not pick up the direction it was coming from. 

Until it came up behind us very quickly and crashed into the rear of our car shoving us into a spin and sliding off the side of the roadway into a ditch.

Not expecting it we were tossed around inside the cabin like rag dolls, the seat belts only saving us so much.  Both of us hit our heads and were dazed if not semi unconscious.  In a few seconds it was over.

The headlights showed the dust storm kicked up by the spinning cars and then through the dust I could see three men carrying rifles, masks covering their faces.

My mind returned to the old days of stagecoaches and outlaws holding them up. 

It was not possible.

They stopped about twenty feet from the car, loaded the first round, and aimed their weapons at us. In what I thought was a familiar voice, the middle one spoke, “This is what you get for meddling in other people’s affairs.”

He looked from one to the other, then started shooting.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Days 39 and 40

Another writing exercise, this time requiring three elements: a car accident, a betrayal, and a historical event. It’s not exactly a walk in the park, but with a little thought, perhaps we can conjure up a story.

…

A car accident, a betrayal, a historical event

…

When people refer to mixed marriages, they often refer to different religions, such as a protestant marrying a Catholic.

If only our problems were that simple.

No, we were from two opposing families whose views of their contribution to the founding of our city varied widely and had since the early 1800s.

Samantha and I had viewed all of this squabbling with very jaundiced eyes and largely ignored it as it blazed around us and had spent those first five years together blissfully, despite the turbulence.

That all changed when we arrived at her parent’s house, or rather a manor house, a place that they said reflected their standing in the town for our weekly dining engagement. 

This was one of the better dinners, even though there were twelve Benleys and only one Jacobson, me.  Partisanship was forgotten until over coffee at the end, and Samantha announced that she was pregnant.

Those statements, you could hear a pin drop, and you could cut the sir with a knife, were both equally relevant. 

Her father, at the head of the table, started turning purple and making strange sounds.  Her mother, sitting next to her, said in a quiet voice, “You said you were never having children,” and the horrified looks on her sisters’ faces spoke volumes.

Samantha looked at me and shrugged.

It was the first I knew that she was never having children, but I did remember her saying that before we were married, she had to make a silly promise to her father.  I guess I knew what it was now.

“Right,” I said in my calmest voice, “I think it’s time we left.  I have an early morning tomorrow.”

I stood and went over to Samantha and stood behind her seat.  I could see the disappointment on her face.  She had been overjoyed with the news because we had been trying for nearly a year.

She had not mentioned or agreed with whatever promise she had made.

She stood slowly, her mother relinquishing her hand.  “It is good news, Sam,” she said.

“This should not have happened.”  Her father had finally found his voice, and it was almost hoarse.  “The very idea!”

“It’s a child, not a monster.  And if you are going to behave like this, it will be a child you will never see.  Any of you.”

I could see the pink tinges reaching her cheeks, a sure sign she was getting very angry.  She was not someone you made angry.

“How dare you…”  he spluttered.

She tucked in a deep breath, and I could see she was trying to calm herself.  “How dare you.  Who do you think you are?  You seem to think that because you have all this land and this great big house, and fingers in everyone’s business you’re somebody in this city.  Perhaps in that fat head of yours, you are, but if you remember, I said I was going to research the origins of this city and our place in it.”

“We are this city.  It’s ours.  My forebears worked very hard to make it what it is.”

“Your forebears murdered and stole to get everything you hold so dear.  And I’m going to tell everyone at the Historical Society annual festival next week.  Shock, horror, you’ve been, wr all have been living off the proceeds of ill-gotten gain.  And you know what’s worse, you knew about all this time.  All of it.  So much for trying to sabotage my research efforts.  I’ll be honest, I’m glad I don’t have the Henley name anymore.”

The old man couldn’t speak and flipped back in his chair.  What was there to say?  I was as gobsmacked as everyone else around that table.  I mean, I knew the legends, but no one believed them.

I knew Samantha was researching the family history but not as far back as she had.  There was that one night when she came back from the state capital where she believed there were documents relating to the early days, the wild west she had called it.  There had been an arrangement with Wyatt Earp or one of those famous characters, and she had thought the Henleys had been lawmen.

Perhaps not.  Apparently, they had been on the other side of the law, but no one could produce anything because the documents were missing or perhaps didn’t exist.  That night, she had returned with the blackest of expressions, and I didn’t ask.

“Now, we’re leaving.  We will not be back.”

We walked calmly and quietly to the car, and before she got in, she looked back at the scene she had nearly every day of her life, the only real home she had known.

And now knowing it wasn’t really hers or the Henleys, if the legend was true, the original Henley worked for the then owner of the property which was basically everything, including the town, and then one night in the bar of the hotel they were playing poker, and the owner, plied with whiskey lost the title over a losing hand.

The story went, and he went home and was unable to live with the shame, set fire to the house, killing everyone in it.  That’s how the Henleys got their start.

“Legends only tell part of the story,” she said. “Only one person knew there was a survivor from the ranch burning down, a daughter, rescued from the ashes the next morning by one of the players in that eventful car game.  Henley cheated.  He was renowned for cheating at cards and killing the men who called him out.  The man who saved her told her how he did it.  She went to the sheriff and told him bur no one believed the word of a ten year old so nothing happened.

“Except he filed a report of the matter, and fifty or so years later, at another card game, he pulled the same trick and was called out.  He died in the ensuing duel.  Fifty years, no one put the evidence together or knew about it.”

“The girl?”

“Lived a comfortable life back east as a school teacher and let her memories of life on the ranch become the inspiration for a book, the manuscript I now have.  I found one of her direct relatives who had so many bits and pieces accumulated over the years.  Technically, this is all hers, theirs, but it’s a little too late.  Besides, she said they couldn’t be bothered trying to contest it.

“Sometimes it’s best just to be no one in particular.  Like us.”

We got in the car.  It was a sight at night, in the middle of a wide open space, virtually untouched from the time when it was built over a hundred years ago.

“Are you really going to tell everyone at the Historical Society?”

“No.  What’s the point.  People will just say it’s a legend that anyone can bend to say whatever they want.  There’s proof, but with the lawyers my father has, none of it will ever see the light of day.”

I shrugged.  She was right.  My father crossed Henley, and Henley sued him out of existence.

It was about a half mile from the ranchhouse to the main road and I took it slowly because the roadway was in need of repair.

The night was dark, clouds covering the moon making the headlights a necessity to see where we were going.

About half way we could hear the sound of another car but could not pick up the direction it was coming from. 

Until it came up behind us very quickly and crashed into the rear of our car shoving us into a spin and sliding off the side of the roadway into a ditch.

Not expecting it we were tossed around inside the cabin like rag dolls, the seat belts only saving us so much.  Both of us hit our heads and were dazed if not semi unconscious.  In a few seconds it was over.

The headlights showed the dust storm kicked up by the spinning cars and then through the dust I could see three men carrying rifles, masks covering their faces.

My mind returned to the old days of stagecoaches and outlaws holding them up. 

It was not possible.

They stopped about twenty feet from the car, loaded the first round, and aimed their weapons at us. In what I thought was a familiar voice, the middle one spoke, “This is what you get for meddling in other people’s affairs.”

He looked from one to the other, then started shooting.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025