Tag: Author

Writing a book in 365 days – 245

Day 245

Writing exercise

…

The winds howled down the street as though the air itself knew what was happening and was not happy about it.

Did that mean the universe, such as it was, was in agreement with me, or with Annie.

My thoughts were swirling in unison with the wind, circling, not settling for a straight line, choosing to pick up leaves and dump them on me.

Did that mean I was wrong?

I had simply reacted as anyone would when they got a telephone call from one of their friends telling them they saw the woman you were supposed to be marrying in a week in a passionate embrace with her ex-boyfriend.

He had dumped her, and she had landed in my arms. Nearly all of my friends said I was a fool, that she would always go back, that the six years of history between them couldn’t be erased in a rebound romance, no matter how much I wanted it.

That was the thing. I had loved her from the first time I’d seen her 10 years ago, but never told her. Not until the big, public, awful breakup.

There’s no fool like an old fool, too good to be true; there was any number of sayings I could use.

Of course, hearing that news sent shock waves through me, and where I should have laughed it off, and had complete confidence in her commitment to me, there was the old demon that lacked self-confidence, that always had doubts I was good enough, that my friends were telling the truth.

And that demon took me to her, confronted her, and, well, now there wasn’t a wedding. No satisfactory explanation, angry words that couldn’t be taken back, and a lesson learned.

I was going home to throw a few possessions into a bag, and I was leaving on the late train to anywhere but Deepwater Falls.

…

Sitting on the railway station platform, listening to the wind howling through the trees and shuddering with the cold that was being picked up from the snow-peaked mountains, it was a different type of purgatory.

Because of Annie, I was being forced to leave the place I loved, the place I called home.

I was going to leave anyway, before Annie, but becoming friends with her had changed my life. I kept to myself, and most kids kept their distance, only that jerk of a boyfriend she had before me, and a few of his cohorts preferred to bully people like me and others, because they could.

Now he would be insufferable. A loser before, a mega loser now. Well, I’d be a mega loser in another town. A long, long, long way away from the Falls. Antony could have her and the town. There was not much left after the highway bypassed it. Anyone who was anyone had already gone, and my parents were too old to move on.

Another sharp gust of wind sent a new round of shivers through me. The train was late.

i was the only person other than the station master at the station. When I went to the ticket office and he saw me, he just nodded. “Anywhere but here?”

“I bet it’s not the first time you’ve heard it?”

“No, and not the last. I reckon I’ll be the last and get to turn the lights off. New York or San Francisco?”

I could go either way.

“New York. Then Martha’s Vineyard, but I have to tell my Gran I’m coming first.”

“Pity about the…”

I knew what he meant. The town had been looking forward to something good happening, and everyone was invited to the wedding.

I simply shrugged and walked quickly to the waiting room, a little better protected from the wind than sitting on a bench on the platform.

Now, when I looked up, there was another person, backpack in hand, standing in the doorway.

The last person I expected to see.

Annie.

She looked at me for a moment, then sat on the other side of the room, about ten feet away.

Five minutes of utter silence reigned until she spoke first. “I’m sorry, Eddie. Very, very sorry.”

It was a bit late for apologies, if it was an apology. To be honest, I didn’t know what to think. But somewhere in amongst the condemnation of her behaviour, and my lack of trust, and having the time for the temper to cool, there was this small crack in the brick wall I was building, and through it I could see a girl who was confused, unable to firmly commit to one thing or another.

Anton was poison personified, and he had infected her. Time away from Anton had almost cured her, but his move on her a week or more, perhaps before the wedding, had the intended effect. If he couldn’t have her, no one could, much less me.

It had been a calculated move, preying on her vulnerability when her emotions would be all over the place, and he had succeeded.

Of course, the feelings in me were still running high. “Why are you here?” The tone was hardly conciliatory, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“I can’t stay here either. Everyone has turned against me.”

“Why? Your family is the town; they wouldn’t dare.”

More important than Antony’s surprisingly, considering how they big-noted themselves. It was why Annie and Antony were always expected to get together. It was why I never stood a chance. We had not lived in the town since it was created, way back when the indians camped by the river and hunted buffalo.

“Apparently, I ruined the only good thing to happen to me. My parents disowned me, told me I’d humiliated them. You too, they said. The one person who loved me for me, not because I am a Huckerby. And they’re right, Eddie. I let Antony get to me, and I ruined everything.”

The break in her voice told me she was on the very edge of breaking down, and then a few seconds later, I could hear her sobbing quietly, trying to hide it from me.

It didn’t mean she was contrite or sorry, only that she had let her parents down.

The train was coming, its horn piercing the night air, as it warned traffic that it was approaching a level crossing, about a mile from the station.

I stood. Time to go out.

“I was going to marry you, Eddie. What happened shouldn’t have. I was over him, finally, but I was out with friends who I thought were friends, and they invited him, just for a lark. And all those pre-wedding jitters, I had too much to drink and … and … that’s not even an excuse.”

The train was at the end of the platform, slowing to a stop.

“I don’t know what to say, Annie.”

“Let me come with you?”

“You’re really leaving?”

OK. I thought she had simply come down to try and talk me out of leaving. I never thought or believed for a moment she would go. She could have the pick of any man she wanted in the Falls or anywhere.

“Well, I can’t stay here. And you are the only one I know who cares about me, even though at the moment you must hate me more than anything.”

“You risked everything on the chance I still cared?”

“I know you do. I know you’ve loved me forever. I was too stupid or too wrapped up in my own little world to notice, not until Antony dumped me, and you were there to pick up the pieces.”

The train stopped, and I could see the station master come out of his office.

He watched Annie and me walk to the end of the carriage.

“I don’t deserve another chance, but if there’s just a small part of you that still has feelings for me, or wants to give me one last chance…”

She stood there, tears running freely down her cheeks, the look on her face the most beautiful I had ever seen, and it melted my heart right there. I had hoped she would come; it would be a sign, but I was not going to make it easy for her.

I held out my hand.

“I’m going to Grans. You know she hates you, so if your willing to brave her, then please, come with me.”

She smiled.

“You are not going to let me off easily, are you?”

“Did you think I would?”

“No, and I deserve it. But like you, I know that one day she will love me as much as you do.”

Just above the wind, I heard the station master yell out, “Get on the blasted train before I freeze to death,” and then blow the whistle.

We didn’t need to be asked twice.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 245

Day 245

Writing exercise

…

The winds howled down the street as though the air itself knew what was happening and was not happy about it.

Did that mean the universe, such as it was, was in agreement with me, or with Annie.

My thoughts were swirling in unison with the wind, circling, not settling for a straight line, choosing to pick up leaves and dump them on me.

Did that mean I was wrong?

I had simply reacted as anyone would when they got a telephone call from one of their friends telling them they saw the woman you were supposed to be marrying in a week in a passionate embrace with her ex-boyfriend.

He had dumped her, and she had landed in my arms. Nearly all of my friends said I was a fool, that she would always go back, that the six years of history between them couldn’t be erased in a rebound romance, no matter how much I wanted it.

That was the thing. I had loved her from the first time I’d seen her 10 years ago, but never told her. Not until the big, public, awful breakup.

There’s no fool like an old fool, too good to be true; there was any number of sayings I could use.

Of course, hearing that news sent shock waves through me, and where I should have laughed it off, and had complete confidence in her commitment to me, there was the old demon that lacked self-confidence, that always had doubts I was good enough, that my friends were telling the truth.

And that demon took me to her, confronted her, and, well, now there wasn’t a wedding. No satisfactory explanation, angry words that couldn’t be taken back, and a lesson learned.

I was going home to throw a few possessions into a bag, and I was leaving on the late train to anywhere but Deepwater Falls.

…

Sitting on the railway station platform, listening to the wind howling through the trees and shuddering with the cold that was being picked up from the snow-peaked mountains, it was a different type of purgatory.

Because of Annie, I was being forced to leave the place I loved, the place I called home.

I was going to leave anyway, before Annie, but becoming friends with her had changed my life. I kept to myself, and most kids kept their distance, only that jerk of a boyfriend she had before me, and a few of his cohorts preferred to bully people like me and others, because they could.

Now he would be insufferable. A loser before, a mega loser now. Well, I’d be a mega loser in another town. A long, long, long way away from the Falls. Antony could have her and the town. There was not much left after the highway bypassed it. Anyone who was anyone had already gone, and my parents were too old to move on.

Another sharp gust of wind sent a new round of shivers through me. The train was late.

i was the only person other than the station master at the station. When I went to the ticket office and he saw me, he just nodded. “Anywhere but here?”

“I bet it’s not the first time you’ve heard it?”

“No, and not the last. I reckon I’ll be the last and get to turn the lights off. New York or San Francisco?”

I could go either way.

“New York. Then Martha’s Vineyard, but I have to tell my Gran I’m coming first.”

“Pity about the…”

I knew what he meant. The town had been looking forward to something good happening, and everyone was invited to the wedding.

I simply shrugged and walked quickly to the waiting room, a little better protected from the wind than sitting on a bench on the platform.

Now, when I looked up, there was another person, backpack in hand, standing in the doorway.

The last person I expected to see.

Annie.

She looked at me for a moment, then sat on the other side of the room, about ten feet away.

Five minutes of utter silence reigned until she spoke first. “I’m sorry, Eddie. Very, very sorry.”

It was a bit late for apologies, if it was an apology. To be honest, I didn’t know what to think. But somewhere in amongst the condemnation of her behaviour, and my lack of trust, and having the time for the temper to cool, there was this small crack in the brick wall I was building, and through it I could see a girl who was confused, unable to firmly commit to one thing or another.

Anton was poison personified, and he had infected her. Time away from Anton had almost cured her, but his move on her a week or more, perhaps before the wedding, had the intended effect. If he couldn’t have her, no one could, much less me.

It had been a calculated move, preying on her vulnerability when her emotions would be all over the place, and he had succeeded.

Of course, the feelings in me were still running high. “Why are you here?” The tone was hardly conciliatory, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“I can’t stay here either. Everyone has turned against me.”

“Why? Your family is the town; they wouldn’t dare.”

More important than Antony’s surprisingly, considering how they big-noted themselves. It was why Annie and Antony were always expected to get together. It was why I never stood a chance. We had not lived in the town since it was created, way back when the indians camped by the river and hunted buffalo.

“Apparently, I ruined the only good thing to happen to me. My parents disowned me, told me I’d humiliated them. You too, they said. The one person who loved me for me, not because I am a Huckerby. And they’re right, Eddie. I let Antony get to me, and I ruined everything.”

The break in her voice told me she was on the very edge of breaking down, and then a few seconds later, I could hear her sobbing quietly, trying to hide it from me.

It didn’t mean she was contrite or sorry, only that she had let her parents down.

The train was coming, its horn piercing the night air, as it warned traffic that it was approaching a level crossing, about a mile from the station.

I stood. Time to go out.

“I was going to marry you, Eddie. What happened shouldn’t have. I was over him, finally, but I was out with friends who I thought were friends, and they invited him, just for a lark. And all those pre-wedding jitters, I had too much to drink and … and … that’s not even an excuse.”

The train was at the end of the platform, slowing to a stop.

“I don’t know what to say, Annie.”

“Let me come with you?”

“You’re really leaving?”

OK. I thought she had simply come down to try and talk me out of leaving. I never thought or believed for a moment she would go. She could have the pick of any man she wanted in the Falls or anywhere.

“Well, I can’t stay here. And you are the only one I know who cares about me, even though at the moment you must hate me more than anything.”

“You risked everything on the chance I still cared?”

“I know you do. I know you’ve loved me forever. I was too stupid or too wrapped up in my own little world to notice, not until Antony dumped me, and you were there to pick up the pieces.”

The train stopped, and I could see the station master come out of his office.

He watched Annie and me walk to the end of the carriage.

“I don’t deserve another chance, but if there’s just a small part of you that still has feelings for me, or wants to give me one last chance…”

She stood there, tears running freely down her cheeks, the look on her face the most beautiful I had ever seen, and it melted my heart right there. I had hoped she would come; it would be a sign, but I was not going to make it easy for her.

I held out my hand.

“I’m going to Grans. You know she hates you, so if your willing to brave her, then please, come with me.”

She smiled.

“You are not going to let me off easily, are you?”

“Did you think I would?”

“No, and I deserve it. But like you, I know that one day she will love me as much as you do.”

Just above the wind, I heard the station master yell out, “Get on the blasted train before I freeze to death,” and then blow the whistle.

We didn’t need to be asked twice.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 244

Day 244

Is there a simple way to learn and write poetry?

…

Unleash Your Inner Poet: The Surprisingly Simple Path to Writing Poetry

For many, the word “poetry” conjures images of dusty tomes, cryptic verses, and the terrifying prospect of iambic pentameter. It feels like a secret club with an impossible initiation. But what if I told you that, at its heart, poetry is actually one of the most accessible and freeing forms of expression?

The question “Is there a simple way to learn and write poetry?” can be answered with a resounding yes. It’s not about memorising rules, it’s about re-learning how to see, feel, and play with words.

Here’s how to demystify the process and start your own poetic journey:

1. Ditch the “Rules” (For Now)

The biggest barrier to writing poetry is the self-imposed pressure to conform to traditional structures. Forget rhyme schemes, meter, and sonnet forms when you’re starting out. Think of them as advanced techniques you can explore later, if you choose.

Your focus should be on free verse. This is poetry without a strict rhythm or rhyme, allowing you to focus purely on imagery, emotion, and word choice. It’s the perfect playground for beginners.

2. Become a Keen Observer

Poetry is born from attention. The most powerful poems often come from everyday moments, seen through a fresh lens.

  • Engage your senses: What do you see, hear, smell, taste, touch right now?
  • Notice the details: Not just “a tree,” but “the ancient oak, its bark grooved like an old man’s face, leaves shivering in the morning breeze.”
  • Capture emotions: How does a situation make you feel? Don’t just name the emotion; describe its physical manifestation. (“My heart thrums like a trapped bird.”)
  • Carry a notebook (or use your phone): Jot down interesting words, phrases, snippets of conversation, or sensory observations as they strike you. These are your raw materials.

3. Read Poetry (But Don’t Feel Intimidated)

Reading poetry isn’t about understanding every single line or deciphering hidden meanings. It’s about hearing the music of language, seeing how others play with words, and discovering what resonates with you.

  • Start with contemporary poets: Many modern poems are more accessible and relatable than historical works.
  • Explore different styles: Read free verse, haikus, spoken word, lyrical pieces.
  • Read aloud: This helps you hear the rhythm and flow, even without rhyme.
  • Don’t force it: If a poem doesn’t click, move on. There’s so much out there!

4. Play with Words Like Building Blocks

Think of words as your paint, your clay, your musical notes.

  • Metaphor & Simile: How is one thing like another? (The moon is a fingernail clipping.) How is one thing another? (The moon is a pearl in the sky.)
  • Imagery: Use words that create vivid pictures in the reader’s mind.
  • Sound: Notice alliteration (slippery silver snakes), assonance (the mellow wedding bells), and how different sounds feel in your mouth.
  • Concision: Poetry often says a lot with a little. Can you trim unnecessary words?

5. Start Small and Simple

Don’t aim for an epic poem on your first try.

  • Try a Haiku: (5-7-5 syllables, usually about nature) – forces you to be concise.
  • Write about a single object: A forgotten coffee cup, a wilting flower, a dusty book.
  • Describe a single moment: The exact second the rain started, the taste of your morning coffee, the sound of a distant train.
  • Start with a strong image or feeling: Let that lead you.

6. Embrace the First Draft (It’s Supposed to Be Messy!)

Your first attempt won’t be perfect, and that’s okay. Think of it as a brain dump. Get all your ideas and feelings down on paper.

  • Don’t edit as you go: Just write.
  • Let it sit: Come back to it later with fresh eyes.
  • Revise: This is where the magic happens. Trim, expand, rearrange, swap words, sharpen images. Read it aloud to catch awkward phrasing.

7. Share (When You’re Ready)

Sharing your work, even with one trusted friend, can be incredibly empowering. It provides a new perspective and helps you grow. Join a local writing group, an online forum, or just read it to your cat!

Poetry isn’t about being “profound” or “intellectual” from the get-go. It’s about connecting with your own voice, observing the world with fresh eyes, and finding beauty in the ordinary. The most simple way to learn and write poetry is simply to begin. Pick up a pen, open a document, and let your words flow. The world is waiting for your unique song.

Another excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – A sequel to ‘What Sets Us Apart’

…

It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone.  It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air.  In summer, it was the best time of the day.  When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.

On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’.  This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.

She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable.  The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day.  So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.

It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her.  It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

I sat in my usual corner.  Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner.  There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around.  I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria.  All she did was serve coffee and cake.

When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?”  She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.

“I am this morning.  I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating.  I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise.  I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”

“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me.  I have had a lot worse.  I think she is simply jealous.”

It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be.  “Why?”

“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”

It made sense, even if it was not true.  “Perhaps if I explained…”

Maria shook her head.  “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole.  My grandfather had many expressions, David.  If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her.  Before she goes home.”

Interesting advice.  Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma.  What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?

“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.

“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much.  Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone.  It was an intense conversation.  I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell.  It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”

“It is indeed.  And you’re right.  She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one.  She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office.  Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”

And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful.  She had liked Maria the moment she saw her.  We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived.  I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.

She sighed.  “I am glad I am just a waitress.  Your usual coffee and cake?”

“Yes, please.”

Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.

I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one.  What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.

There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it.  We were still married, just not living together.

This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her.  She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.

It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.

There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd.  She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right.  It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.

But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings.  But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.

Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart.  I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit.  The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.

I knew I was not a priority.  Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.

And finally, there was Alisha.  Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around.  It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties. 

At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata.  Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan.  She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores.  We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated.  It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.

It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard.  I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.

She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top.  She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.

Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak.  I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.

Neither spoke nor looked at each other.  I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”

Maria nodded and left.

“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests.  I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence?  All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”

My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.

“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us.  There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”

“Why come at all.  A phone call would have sufficed.”

“I had to see you, talk to you.  At least we have had a chance to do that.  I’m sorry about yesterday.  I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her.  I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”

An apology was the last thing I expected.

“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington.  I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction.  We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”

“You’re not coming with me?”  She sounded disappointed.

“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress.  You are so much better doing your job without me.  I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband.  Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less.  You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it.  I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”

It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement.  Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points.  I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever.  The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.

Then, her expression changed.  “Is that what you want?”

“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways.  But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”

“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”

That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud.  “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan.  You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy.  While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”

“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance.  I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother.  She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right.  Why do you think I gave you such a hard time?  You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously.  But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”

“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”

“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”

“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”

I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead.  Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers.  Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen.  Gianna didn’t like Susan either.

Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her.  She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.

She stood.  “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face.  “Of course not.  I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship.  I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”

I had been trying.  “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan.  I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”

She frowned at me.  “As you wish.”  She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table.  “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home.  Please make it sooner rather than later.  Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”

That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car.  I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.

No kiss, no touch, no looking back. 

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2025

strangerscover9

Writing a book in 365 days – 244

Day 244

Is there a simple way to learn and write poetry?

…

Unleash Your Inner Poet: The Surprisingly Simple Path to Writing Poetry

For many, the word “poetry” conjures images of dusty tomes, cryptic verses, and the terrifying prospect of iambic pentameter. It feels like a secret club with an impossible initiation. But what if I told you that, at its heart, poetry is actually one of the most accessible and freeing forms of expression?

The question “Is there a simple way to learn and write poetry?” can be answered with a resounding yes. It’s not about memorising rules, it’s about re-learning how to see, feel, and play with words.

Here’s how to demystify the process and start your own poetic journey:

1. Ditch the “Rules” (For Now)

The biggest barrier to writing poetry is the self-imposed pressure to conform to traditional structures. Forget rhyme schemes, meter, and sonnet forms when you’re starting out. Think of them as advanced techniques you can explore later, if you choose.

Your focus should be on free verse. This is poetry without a strict rhythm or rhyme, allowing you to focus purely on imagery, emotion, and word choice. It’s the perfect playground for beginners.

2. Become a Keen Observer

Poetry is born from attention. The most powerful poems often come from everyday moments, seen through a fresh lens.

  • Engage your senses: What do you see, hear, smell, taste, touch right now?
  • Notice the details: Not just “a tree,” but “the ancient oak, its bark grooved like an old man’s face, leaves shivering in the morning breeze.”
  • Capture emotions: How does a situation make you feel? Don’t just name the emotion; describe its physical manifestation. (“My heart thrums like a trapped bird.”)
  • Carry a notebook (or use your phone): Jot down interesting words, phrases, snippets of conversation, or sensory observations as they strike you. These are your raw materials.

3. Read Poetry (But Don’t Feel Intimidated)

Reading poetry isn’t about understanding every single line or deciphering hidden meanings. It’s about hearing the music of language, seeing how others play with words, and discovering what resonates with you.

  • Start with contemporary poets: Many modern poems are more accessible and relatable than historical works.
  • Explore different styles: Read free verse, haikus, spoken word, lyrical pieces.
  • Read aloud: This helps you hear the rhythm and flow, even without rhyme.
  • Don’t force it: If a poem doesn’t click, move on. There’s so much out there!

4. Play with Words Like Building Blocks

Think of words as your paint, your clay, your musical notes.

  • Metaphor & Simile: How is one thing like another? (The moon is a fingernail clipping.) How is one thing another? (The moon is a pearl in the sky.)
  • Imagery: Use words that create vivid pictures in the reader’s mind.
  • Sound: Notice alliteration (slippery silver snakes), assonance (the mellow wedding bells), and how different sounds feel in your mouth.
  • Concision: Poetry often says a lot with a little. Can you trim unnecessary words?

5. Start Small and Simple

Don’t aim for an epic poem on your first try.

  • Try a Haiku: (5-7-5 syllables, usually about nature) – forces you to be concise.
  • Write about a single object: A forgotten coffee cup, a wilting flower, a dusty book.
  • Describe a single moment: The exact second the rain started, the taste of your morning coffee, the sound of a distant train.
  • Start with a strong image or feeling: Let that lead you.

6. Embrace the First Draft (It’s Supposed to Be Messy!)

Your first attempt won’t be perfect, and that’s okay. Think of it as a brain dump. Get all your ideas and feelings down on paper.

  • Don’t edit as you go: Just write.
  • Let it sit: Come back to it later with fresh eyes.
  • Revise: This is where the magic happens. Trim, expand, rearrange, swap words, sharpen images. Read it aloud to catch awkward phrasing.

7. Share (When You’re Ready)

Sharing your work, even with one trusted friend, can be incredibly empowering. It provides a new perspective and helps you grow. Join a local writing group, an online forum, or just read it to your cat!

Poetry isn’t about being “profound” or “intellectual” from the get-go. It’s about connecting with your own voice, observing the world with fresh eyes, and finding beauty in the ordinary. The most simple way to learn and write poetry is simply to begin. Pick up a pen, open a document, and let your words flow. The world is waiting for your unique song.

Writing a book in 365 days – 242/243

Days 242 and 243

Writing exercise – Fired from your favourite job and chose a different career

…

The thing about being an investigative journalist, it was at times a very dangerous job.

Because when that word ‘investigative’ is properly interpreted by the recipient of the title, you will find yourself at one time or another dealing with very nasty and sometimes life-threatening situations.

Investigations are rarely run from the comfort of a desk. It was a coal face job; it required the nurturing of contacts over time, and it required knowledge of the law, the courts, in fact, practically the whole justice system.

I wanted to be a lawyer until I realised I would have to defend scumbags. Do that, or property law, divorces, wills and inheritance, or perhaps something equally less interesting. So I chose the next best profession, journalism.

It took a few years to get to the right desk.

Then, having finally made it to the top, so to speak, there was a management restructure. Not entirely unexpected because paper media was a dying breed, and everything was going digital. It meant I had to make a few subtle changes, like deadlines, which were now same-day news, no overnight, eschewing the piece before publication the next day.

With the management upheaval came a new editor. That new editor brought his son, a so-called wunderkind, and as I learned very quickly, the person who wanted my job. I discovered this very interesting piece of information when I was called into the editor’s office and told my piece was not good enough, and they were running the ‘wunderkinds’ piece.

I read it. Flasking, full of supposition and inaccuracies, but fitted the criteria for the ‘new’ punchier news we were writing for the ‘new’ audience, the under-25s who liked their news in short, sharp sentences with no interest in whether it was true or not.

The days of true journalism were gone. We might as well send it out in test message speak.

I told the editor it hadn’t been fact-checked, it had seventeen inaccuracies or downright wrong statements, and overall, it was rubbish.

In response, he gave my desk to the wunderkind.

My response, perhaps a little hasty but definitely made in anger. I quit.

…

Of course, like any decision made in anger, when you wake up the next morning and realise what you have done, there is that moment of regret. That disappeared when the face of the wunderkind reappeared, staring into the editor’s office, a supercilious ‘I’ve won’ look on it, and even more elated when he saw me pack my stuff into the box.

It just made me mad all over again.

My phone vibrated, left on vibrate, so I wasn’t woken up overnight. I knew when the news leaked out that I had left, a few people would ring and ask why.

Or not. The media these days is a fickle business.

I saw the name flash up on the screen, Jane, and I would have to ring her back. She and I went through University together, fierce rivals for the campus paper job, and in writing the best articles. She was always one step ahead of me, but that was because she was better.

I like to think I’d caught up in recent months, but now I was not so sure what was going to happen.

“I’m told you quit.” No hello, no how are you? It was probably in the middle of an interview while the interviewee was taking a break from one of her relentless interrogations.

“Painted myself into a corner.” It was more or less the truth.

“More likely, Jacques screwed you over.”

Wunderkind had a name. And, no, he was not part French. It was a pretentious interpretation of his usual boring name of Jack.

“He apparently writes what children want to read. We’re diversifying from paper to instant release on the media website. Paywall subscriptions and verified hits are all the rage. My stories are too ‘heavy’ and long-winded. Murton would be turning in his grave.

Murton was the previous editor, a proper editor, feared but fair, who took me on as one of them know-it-all university types, to what a good journalist was supposed to be. The Democrats’ losing the last election killed him, literally. The night Kamala Harris conceded, he had a fatal heart attack.

“That isn’t news, that’s just waffle.”

“Not my problem any more.”

She let that sink in, and then asked, “What are you going to do. I hear there are a few posts up for grabs, especially with someone with your connections and experience.”

I had thought that too. There were at least three rival media outlets that would take me on in a heartbeat, but the thing is, what happened at my own place would inevitably happen everywhere else, because the truth of the matter was that paper was a dinosaur.

The news was going to change to that immediate, cryptic, full of lies and supposition and be damned to the consequences stuff that came from the actual source. Reporting it didn’t make it true; it just furthered the agenda of those putting it out there. Besides that, any good journalist now works for the mainstream media, and they just peddle ‘fake news’.

What was the point when half the voting population would rather believe the lies and not bother to sort the fact from fiction?

“I’m done. Time to go up the mountain to that log cabin, far removed from civilisation and let the world explode. There’s a war coming, and I don’t want to be a part of it.”

I heard her sigh. We had vowed to publish the truth and be damned if it came to that. Unfortunately, if my sources were correct, we would not be publishing the truth for much longer.

“What are you going to do. I know you would go crazy in that log cabin.”

She was right. Not very large, but big on self-sufficiency. It was also a doomsday prepper’s paradise. My father had been paranoid, as had his father before him, and ever since the 1950s, our family had a nuclear fallout shelter and supplies for a thousand years, or so it felt.

“For a while, maybe. Then I considered applying for a PI licence. There isn’t much different research for stories, as it involves taking on other people’s problems.

“Then let me guess who your first target is?”

I didn’t answer, and it elicited a second sigh. “Just get another job, I’ll send you the list of vacancies.”

“Send it. Then we’ll have dinner, on me,” I said. “Perhaps we could join forces. I have an idea you might like.”

“Tonight?”

“When you’re ready, give me a call.”

It was done. Now all I had to do was sort out the details.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 242/243

Days 242 and 243

Writing exercise – Fired from your favourite job and chose a different career

…

The thing about being an investigative journalist, it was at times a very dangerous job.

Because when that word ‘investigative’ is properly interpreted by the recipient of the title, you will find yourself at one time or another dealing with very nasty and sometimes life-threatening situations.

Investigations are rarely run from the comfort of a desk. It was a coal face job; it required the nurturing of contacts over time, and it required knowledge of the law, the courts, in fact, practically the whole justice system.

I wanted to be a lawyer until I realised I would have to defend scumbags. Do that, or property law, divorces, wills and inheritance, or perhaps something equally less interesting. So I chose the next best profession, journalism.

It took a few years to get to the right desk.

Then, having finally made it to the top, so to speak, there was a management restructure. Not entirely unexpected because paper media was a dying breed, and everything was going digital. It meant I had to make a few subtle changes, like deadlines, which were now same-day news, no overnight, eschewing the piece before publication the next day.

With the management upheaval came a new editor. That new editor brought his son, a so-called wunderkind, and as I learned very quickly, the person who wanted my job. I discovered this very interesting piece of information when I was called into the editor’s office and told my piece was not good enough, and they were running the ‘wunderkinds’ piece.

I read it. Flasking, full of supposition and inaccuracies, but fitted the criteria for the ‘new’ punchier news we were writing for the ‘new’ audience, the under-25s who liked their news in short, sharp sentences with no interest in whether it was true or not.

The days of true journalism were gone. We might as well send it out in test message speak.

I told the editor it hadn’t been fact-checked, it had seventeen inaccuracies or downright wrong statements, and overall, it was rubbish.

In response, he gave my desk to the wunderkind.

My response, perhaps a little hasty but definitely made in anger. I quit.

…

Of course, like any decision made in anger, when you wake up the next morning and realise what you have done, there is that moment of regret. That disappeared when the face of the wunderkind reappeared, staring into the editor’s office, a supercilious ‘I’ve won’ look on it, and even more elated when he saw me pack my stuff into the box.

It just made me mad all over again.

My phone vibrated, left on vibrate, so I wasn’t woken up overnight. I knew when the news leaked out that I had left, a few people would ring and ask why.

Or not. The media these days is a fickle business.

I saw the name flash up on the screen, Jane, and I would have to ring her back. She and I went through University together, fierce rivals for the campus paper job, and in writing the best articles. She was always one step ahead of me, but that was because she was better.

I like to think I’d caught up in recent months, but now I was not so sure what was going to happen.

“I’m told you quit.” No hello, no how are you? It was probably in the middle of an interview while the interviewee was taking a break from one of her relentless interrogations.

“Painted myself into a corner.” It was more or less the truth.

“More likely, Jacques screwed you over.”

Wunderkind had a name. And, no, he was not part French. It was a pretentious interpretation of his usual boring name of Jack.

“He apparently writes what children want to read. We’re diversifying from paper to instant release on the media website. Paywall subscriptions and verified hits are all the rage. My stories are too ‘heavy’ and long-winded. Murton would be turning in his grave.

Murton was the previous editor, a proper editor, feared but fair, who took me on as one of them know-it-all university types, to what a good journalist was supposed to be. The Democrats’ losing the last election killed him, literally. The night Kamala Harris conceded, he had a fatal heart attack.

“That isn’t news, that’s just waffle.”

“Not my problem any more.”

She let that sink in, and then asked, “What are you going to do. I hear there are a few posts up for grabs, especially with someone with your connections and experience.”

I had thought that too. There were at least three rival media outlets that would take me on in a heartbeat, but the thing is, what happened at my own place would inevitably happen everywhere else, because the truth of the matter was that paper was a dinosaur.

The news was going to change to that immediate, cryptic, full of lies and supposition and be damned to the consequences stuff that came from the actual source. Reporting it didn’t make it true; it just furthered the agenda of those putting it out there. Besides that, any good journalist now works for the mainstream media, and they just peddle ‘fake news’.

What was the point when half the voting population would rather believe the lies and not bother to sort the fact from fiction?

“I’m done. Time to go up the mountain to that log cabin, far removed from civilisation and let the world explode. There’s a war coming, and I don’t want to be a part of it.”

I heard her sigh. We had vowed to publish the truth and be damned if it came to that. Unfortunately, if my sources were correct, we would not be publishing the truth for much longer.

“What are you going to do. I know you would go crazy in that log cabin.”

She was right. Not very large, but big on self-sufficiency. It was also a doomsday prepper’s paradise. My father had been paranoid, as had his father before him, and ever since the 1950s, our family had a nuclear fallout shelter and supplies for a thousand years, or so it felt.

“For a while, maybe. Then I considered applying for a PI licence. There isn’t much different research for stories, as it involves taking on other people’s problems.

“Then let me guess who your first target is?”

I didn’t answer, and it elicited a second sigh. “Just get another job, I’ll send you the list of vacancies.”

“Send it. Then we’ll have dinner, on me,” I said. “Perhaps we could join forces. I have an idea you might like.”

“Tonight?”

“When you’re ready, give me a call.”

It was done. Now all I had to do was sort out the details.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 36

More about my story

Visiting the catacombs of the world to get background for a location in my story

…

Beyond the Grave: A Guide to the World’s Fascinating Catacombs

Beneath the bustling streets of some of the world’s most vibrant cities lie silent cities of the dead – the catacombs. These ancient burial grounds, often labyrinthine and filled with the echoes of centuries past, offer a unique and often profound glimpse into history, culture, and humanity’s relationship with mortality.

Far from being merely macabre, touring a catacomb is an opportunity to connect with the lives (and deaths) of those who came before us, to marvel at ancient engineering, and to contemplate the passage of time. If you’re ready to step into the cool, quiet depths below, here are some of the world’s most incredible catacombs open to visitors, and what you can expect to find.

Catacombs You Can Tour Around the World:

  1. The Catacombs of Paris, France
    • What it is: Arguably the most famous catacomb, this massive underground ossuary holds the remains of an estimated six million Parisians. It was created in the late 18th century to alleviate overcrowded cemeteries.
    • What to expect: Prepare for long queues (booking in advance is essential!). Once inside, you’ll descend 130 steps into a cool, damp, and dimly lit world. The main attraction is the “Empire of Death,” where neatly stacked femurs and skulls line miles of passages, often arranged in decorative patterns. It’s incredibly atmospheric, overwhelming in scale, and offers a powerful reflection on human mortality.
  2. The Catacombs of Rome, Italy
    • What it is: Rome boasts multiple catacomb systems, primarily early Christian burial sites dating from the 2nd to 5th centuries AD. The most famous include the Catacombs of St. Callixtus, Catacombs of Priscilla, and Catacombs of Domitilla.
    • What to expect: These are less about decorative bone arrangements and more about exploring ancient, hand-dug underground cemeteries. You’ll navigate narrow, winding passages often stretching for miles. Expect to see:
      • Loculi: Simple niches carved into the walls where bodies were placed, then sealed with tiles or marble slabs.
      • Cubicula: Small chambers, often family tombs, sometimes decorated with frescoes depicting biblical scenes or everyday life.
      • Crypts: Larger, more significant burial areas for martyrs or early popes.
    • Note: Guided tours are mandatory and highly informative, covering the history of early Christianity and burial practices.
  3. The Capuchin Crypt (Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini), Rome, Italy
    • What it is: Not a catacomb in the traditional sense, but a series of small chapels beneath a church, decorated with the skeletal remains of over 3,700 Capuchin friars.
    • What to expect: An incredibly unique and artistic display. The bones (skulls, vertebrae, femurs, etc.) are meticulously arranged to form intricate patterns, chandeliers, and even full skeletal figures dressed in friar habits. It’s a “memento mori” – a reminder of the inevitability of death – designed to inspire reflection rather than fear. Photography is strictly prohibited.
  4. The Capuchin Catacombs of Palermo, Sicily, Italy
    • What it is: A truly astonishing and somewhat eerie catacomb containing the remarkably preserved bodies of thousands of Sicilians, dating from the 17th to 19th centuries.
    • What to expect: Unlike Rome’s catacombs or Paris’s ossuary, here you’ll find mummified, embalmed, and sometimes naturally desiccated bodies, often dressed in their finest clothes, standing or lying in open coffins. They are divided into sections for friars, men, women, virgins, professors, and children. The most famous resident is Rosalia Lombardo, a perfectly preserved two-year-old. It’s a poignant, sometimes unsettling, but always fascinating window into past lives and burial customs.
  5. The Catacombs of San Francisco Convent, Lima, Peru
    • What it is: Beneath one of Lima’s most beautiful and historic churches lies a vast catacomb housing the remains of an estimated 25,000 people.
    • What to expect: As part of a guided tour of the stunning convent and library above, you’ll descend into underground passages. The highlight is a series of large, circular ossuaries where bones (skulls, femurs) are meticulously organized and arranged in decorative patterns, creating a striking visual impact. It’s a blend of historical context, architectural beauty, and a powerful sense of the past.
  6. The Catacombs of San Gennaro, Naples, Italy
    • What it is: Naples’ most extensive and ancient Christian catacomb, spanning two levels and featuring grander spaces than some of Rome’s smaller catacombs.
    • What to expect: Wide tunnels, high ceilings, and an impressive sense of scale. You’ll see beautiful early Christian frescoes, mosaics, and intricate burial niches. It’s less crowded than Rome’s catacombs, offering a more intimate experience with ancient art and history. The unique two-level structure and the grandeur of some of the burial chambers are particularly striking.

What to Expect to Find & Feel When Visiting Catacombs:

  • Bones, Bones, and More Bones: This is the obvious. Skeletons, skulls, femurs, and other human remains are the primary “exhibit.” How they are presented varies wildly – from neatly stacked walls to artful arrangements, to individual mummified bodies.
  • Cool, Damp, and Dimly Lit Environments: Catacombs are underground, so expect cooler temperatures (even on a hot day) and a constant, slightly earthy dampness. Lighting is typically subdued for preservation and atmosphere, so your eyes will need time to adjust.
  • Narrow and Uneven Passages: Many catacombs feature tight, winding corridors. If you have claustrophobia, this is something to consider. Wear sturdy, comfortable shoes as the ground can be uneven.
  • A Tangible Sense of History: You are walking through spaces where people were laid to rest centuries ago. The air itself seems to carry the weight of memory. It’s a profoundly immersive historical experience.
  • Art and Architecture: Beyond the bones, look for ancient frescoes, carvings, mosaics, and ingenious engineering that allowed for the creation of these vast underground networks.
  • A Sense of Reverence and Reflection: These are sacred burial sites. Visitors are generally expected to be respectful, quiet, and reflective. Many people find catacombs to be powerful spaces for contemplating life, death, and human existence.
  • Guided Tours: For most major catacombs, especially in Rome and Naples, a guided tour is mandatory. These are invaluable for understanding the history, significance, and often intricate stories behind the bones and structures.
  • Limited Photography: Many catacombs restrict or prohibit photography to preserve the sites and maintain a respectful atmosphere. Always check the rules before you go.

Visiting catacombs is a journey into the past, a unique blend of history, archaeology, and human spirituality. While they might seem daunting, the experience is often described as awe-inspiring and deeply thought-provoking, leaving visitors with a truly unforgettable perspective on our shared human story.

Searching for Locations: The Eiffel Tower, Paris, France

Sorry, reminiscing again…

It was a cold but far from a miserable day.  We were taking our grandchildren on a tour of the most interesting sites in Paris, the first of which was the Eiffel Tower.

We took the overground train, which had double-decker carriages, a first for the girls, to get to the tower.

We took the underground, or Metro, back, and they were fascinated with the fact the train carriages ran on road tires.

Because it was so cold, and windy, the tower was only open to the second level. It was a disappointment to us, but the girls were content to stay on the second level.

There they had the French version of chips.

It was a dull day, but the views were magnificent.

20140107_132225

A view of the Seine

20140107_132859

20140107_132208

Sacre Coeur church at Montmartre in the distance.

Another view along the river Seine

Overlooking the tightly packed apartment buildings

Looking along the opposite end of the river Seine

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 36

More about my story

Visiting the catacombs of the world to get background for a location in my story

…

Beyond the Grave: A Guide to the World’s Fascinating Catacombs

Beneath the bustling streets of some of the world’s most vibrant cities lie silent cities of the dead – the catacombs. These ancient burial grounds, often labyrinthine and filled with the echoes of centuries past, offer a unique and often profound glimpse into history, culture, and humanity’s relationship with mortality.

Far from being merely macabre, touring a catacomb is an opportunity to connect with the lives (and deaths) of those who came before us, to marvel at ancient engineering, and to contemplate the passage of time. If you’re ready to step into the cool, quiet depths below, here are some of the world’s most incredible catacombs open to visitors, and what you can expect to find.

Catacombs You Can Tour Around the World:

  1. The Catacombs of Paris, France
    • What it is: Arguably the most famous catacomb, this massive underground ossuary holds the remains of an estimated six million Parisians. It was created in the late 18th century to alleviate overcrowded cemeteries.
    • What to expect: Prepare for long queues (booking in advance is essential!). Once inside, you’ll descend 130 steps into a cool, damp, and dimly lit world. The main attraction is the “Empire of Death,” where neatly stacked femurs and skulls line miles of passages, often arranged in decorative patterns. It’s incredibly atmospheric, overwhelming in scale, and offers a powerful reflection on human mortality.
  2. The Catacombs of Rome, Italy
    • What it is: Rome boasts multiple catacomb systems, primarily early Christian burial sites dating from the 2nd to 5th centuries AD. The most famous include the Catacombs of St. Callixtus, Catacombs of Priscilla, and Catacombs of Domitilla.
    • What to expect: These are less about decorative bone arrangements and more about exploring ancient, hand-dug underground cemeteries. You’ll navigate narrow, winding passages often stretching for miles. Expect to see:
      • Loculi: Simple niches carved into the walls where bodies were placed, then sealed with tiles or marble slabs.
      • Cubicula: Small chambers, often family tombs, sometimes decorated with frescoes depicting biblical scenes or everyday life.
      • Crypts: Larger, more significant burial areas for martyrs or early popes.
    • Note: Guided tours are mandatory and highly informative, covering the history of early Christianity and burial practices.
  3. The Capuchin Crypt (Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini), Rome, Italy
    • What it is: Not a catacomb in the traditional sense, but a series of small chapels beneath a church, decorated with the skeletal remains of over 3,700 Capuchin friars.
    • What to expect: An incredibly unique and artistic display. The bones (skulls, vertebrae, femurs, etc.) are meticulously arranged to form intricate patterns, chandeliers, and even full skeletal figures dressed in friar habits. It’s a “memento mori” – a reminder of the inevitability of death – designed to inspire reflection rather than fear. Photography is strictly prohibited.
  4. The Capuchin Catacombs of Palermo, Sicily, Italy
    • What it is: A truly astonishing and somewhat eerie catacomb containing the remarkably preserved bodies of thousands of Sicilians, dating from the 17th to 19th centuries.
    • What to expect: Unlike Rome’s catacombs or Paris’s ossuary, here you’ll find mummified, embalmed, and sometimes naturally desiccated bodies, often dressed in their finest clothes, standing or lying in open coffins. They are divided into sections for friars, men, women, virgins, professors, and children. The most famous resident is Rosalia Lombardo, a perfectly preserved two-year-old. It’s a poignant, sometimes unsettling, but always fascinating window into past lives and burial customs.
  5. The Catacombs of San Francisco Convent, Lima, Peru
    • What it is: Beneath one of Lima’s most beautiful and historic churches lies a vast catacomb housing the remains of an estimated 25,000 people.
    • What to expect: As part of a guided tour of the stunning convent and library above, you’ll descend into underground passages. The highlight is a series of large, circular ossuaries where bones (skulls, femurs) are meticulously organized and arranged in decorative patterns, creating a striking visual impact. It’s a blend of historical context, architectural beauty, and a powerful sense of the past.
  6. The Catacombs of San Gennaro, Naples, Italy
    • What it is: Naples’ most extensive and ancient Christian catacomb, spanning two levels and featuring grander spaces than some of Rome’s smaller catacombs.
    • What to expect: Wide tunnels, high ceilings, and an impressive sense of scale. You’ll see beautiful early Christian frescoes, mosaics, and intricate burial niches. It’s less crowded than Rome’s catacombs, offering a more intimate experience with ancient art and history. The unique two-level structure and the grandeur of some of the burial chambers are particularly striking.

What to Expect to Find & Feel When Visiting Catacombs:

  • Bones, Bones, and More Bones: This is the obvious. Skeletons, skulls, femurs, and other human remains are the primary “exhibit.” How they are presented varies wildly – from neatly stacked walls to artful arrangements, to individual mummified bodies.
  • Cool, Damp, and Dimly Lit Environments: Catacombs are underground, so expect cooler temperatures (even on a hot day) and a constant, slightly earthy dampness. Lighting is typically subdued for preservation and atmosphere, so your eyes will need time to adjust.
  • Narrow and Uneven Passages: Many catacombs feature tight, winding corridors. If you have claustrophobia, this is something to consider. Wear sturdy, comfortable shoes as the ground can be uneven.
  • A Tangible Sense of History: You are walking through spaces where people were laid to rest centuries ago. The air itself seems to carry the weight of memory. It’s a profoundly immersive historical experience.
  • Art and Architecture: Beyond the bones, look for ancient frescoes, carvings, mosaics, and ingenious engineering that allowed for the creation of these vast underground networks.
  • A Sense of Reverence and Reflection: These are sacred burial sites. Visitors are generally expected to be respectful, quiet, and reflective. Many people find catacombs to be powerful spaces for contemplating life, death, and human existence.
  • Guided Tours: For most major catacombs, especially in Rome and Naples, a guided tour is mandatory. These are invaluable for understanding the history, significance, and often intricate stories behind the bones and structures.
  • Limited Photography: Many catacombs restrict or prohibit photography to preserve the sites and maintain a respectful atmosphere. Always check the rules before you go.

Visiting catacombs is a journey into the past, a unique blend of history, archaeology, and human spirituality. While they might seem daunting, the experience is often described as awe-inspiring and deeply thought-provoking, leaving visitors with a truly unforgettable perspective on our shared human story.