His partner, sent over by the boss as a surprise, arrives at his door, and he is shocked. He works alone, this was not discussed and leads to a call back.
Threats are delivered; she stays. In her own room of course.
As I’m writing these information pieces I note over the days the story repeats or changes a little. This is because as I’m writing it, the story changes the characters, the situations, the places as I fill in the gaps, and flesh out the story, little pieces that change from my original thoughts.
I will think of something new as a question is asked, and one will be that our journalist is a feature writer and has been published in reputable newspapers. This, of course, sets his bona fides as cover, but I added another detail: he can actually write. If not mentioned before, he has a history with the keynote speaker. They are inevitably going to meet, though in his role as protector, which is not supposed to happen.
What plan ever goes by the book?
In the early stages of the story, he will meet with the girl in white, the policeman, maybe he’ll run into the head of the secret police, and maybe the keynote speaker.
Then there is the leader of the rebels.
In between all of this, he had to get used to the fact he now has a shadow, and she cannot be cut out. It’s no coincidence that she will do very nicely as a distraction, but who is it she will be distracting if not our protagonist?
You have to love the way things can go from bad to worse to utterly impossible.
I’m not one of those people who can write the typical fairy tale “I found a prince to marry, the dream of every young girl.”
No, there has to be a conspiracy theory involving a whole bunch of conspirators that might not be conspirators but an over-active imagination and reading too many thriller books in his spare time.
Why can’t it just be an avalanche and a few missing people?
Perhaps the problems are who the missing people are. No, not the ordinary people who are not really missing but just thought briefly to be; it’s those other people.
The ones that make the story more compelling, not just an hour and a half of Hallmark movie fun.
So the inevitable happens: the king dies earlier than expected, actually while the prince is on his way home in the “corporate” jet, and a few other problems present themselves and things get intense.
His partner, sent over by the boss as a surprise, arrives at his door, and he is shocked. He works alone, this was not discussed and leads to a call back.
Threats are delivered; she stays. In her own room of course.
As I’m writing these information pieces I note over the days the story repeats or changes a little. This is because as I’m writing it, the story changes the characters, the situations, the places as I fill in the gaps, and flesh out the story, little pieces that change from my original thoughts.
I will think of something new as a question is asked, and one will be that our journalist is a feature writer and has been published in reputable newspapers. This, of course, sets his bona fides as cover, but I added another detail: he can actually write. If not mentioned before, he has a history with the keynote speaker. They are inevitably going to meet, though in his role as protector, which is not supposed to happen.
What plan ever goes by the book?
In the early stages of the story, he will meet with the girl in white, the policeman, maybe he’ll run into the head of the secret police, and maybe the keynote speaker.
Then there is the leader of the rebels.
In between all of this, he had to get used to the fact he now has a shadow, and she cannot be cut out. It’s no coincidence that she will do very nicely as a distraction, but who is it she will be distracting if not our protagonist?
Examples: ‘I loved her like a rabbit loves a rattlesnake’, ‘stealing a man’s wife, that’s nothing, but stealing his car, that’s larceny’, and ‘Not every man’s death is a crime’.
Come up with one of your own…
…
What’s not to say about the notion of a good contradiction? That’s the mainstay of most people I know; you think you know them, and you suddenly realise that you don’t.
And I think this works really well with the love interest in a thriller or mystery.
How do you know whether you are falling for an axe murderer or an innocent bystander?
You don’t.
So, there she is, standing on the corner of the street, under a flickering street lamp, smoking a cigarette. You’re watching the tendrils of smoke drift upwards until a burst of air blasts it away, and then the whole process starts over again.
The burning question in your mind: Will I go up to her and ask if she’s free for a drink?
She might be waiting for someone, or she might be waiting for someone like me to go up and ask her. What have you got to lose?
That voice of the devil sitting on your shoulder chimes in, perhaps she waiting for a chump like you so she can fulfill an order for a kidney, or liver.
And that face, all the innocence of Mata Hari rolled into the epitome of the girl next door.
The thing is, I’d never seen the typical girl next door to know what one looked like.
What am I looking for, a whirlwind romance, a walk in the park, or a quick and painless death?
I took two steps in her direction, determined to make the move, and stopped as a car pulled up beside her. A flick of the butt, a smile, she gets in the car and it drives off.
Oh, well, I guess I’ll be drinking on my own. Again.
Let’s get a Lear jet and fly out. That should make an impression.
It does.
The morning our and the evening back
While in the air on the return journey, after a successful day of trying to explain where his country is and what relevance it had, other than that oracle of oracles, the internet said, a problem erupts back home.
It makes the relevance of his return all the more imperative. That’s just while he’s in the air. When he lands, the problem becomes a disaster, and by the time he goes to a press conference, the first and only one without much training, he is shoved into the spotlight as a result of an impossible situation.
It is the first of many for the young prince, a principal spokesman for his country alongside the ambassador.
What happened to stargazing on the roof and relaxing with a cold bottle of beer with the most difficult problem; whether hw would be able to see the stars.
It was time to find the witch who had cast a hundred years of bad luck on him.
Examples: ‘I loved her like a rabbit loves a rattlesnake’, ‘stealing a man’s wife, that’s nothing, but stealing his car, that’s larceny’, and ‘Not every man’s death is a crime’.
Come up with one of your own…
…
What’s not to say about the notion of a good contradiction? That’s the mainstay of most people I know; you think you know them, and you suddenly realise that you don’t.
And I think this works really well with the love interest in a thriller or mystery.
How do you know whether you are falling for an axe murderer or an innocent bystander?
You don’t.
So, there she is, standing on the corner of the street, under a flickering street lamp, smoking a cigarette. You’re watching the tendrils of smoke drift upwards until a burst of air blasts it away, and then the whole process starts over again.
The burning question in your mind: Will I go up to her and ask if she’s free for a drink?
She might be waiting for someone, or she might be waiting for someone like me to go up and ask her. What have you got to lose?
That voice of the devil sitting on your shoulder chimes in, perhaps she waiting for a chump like you so she can fulfill an order for a kidney, or liver.
And that face, all the innocence of Mata Hari rolled into the epitome of the girl next door.
The thing is, I’d never seen the typical girl next door to know what one looked like.
What am I looking for, a whirlwind romance, a walk in the park, or a quick and painless death?
I took two steps in her direction, determined to make the move, and stopped as a car pulled up beside her. A flick of the butt, a smile, she gets in the car and it drives off.
Oh, well, I guess I’ll be drinking on my own. Again.
E is for “Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining” – Just a romantic story ala Hallmark
…
I was once told that there are five ways of doing something,
The right way
The wrong way
My way
Your way, and,
The way it should have been done!
For the better part of my life, I always believed my way was the right way, and that was fine while I was responsible only for myself.
Once you add someone else to the equation, then suddenly, everything you do becomes far more complicated.
So, how did that happen?
The first tendrils of light were flickering through the window, between the cracks on the curtain.
I couldn’t sleep, not so much because the bed was uncomfortable, but because of the decisions I had made.
I looked at the calm, serene expression on the face of the woman I tried ever so hard not to fall in love with. In my line of work, there was no room for such sentimentality.
Being a lone wolf was a necessity.
Those words rolled around in my head, over and over I heard Rawlings speech the day we began, that first day of the rest of our lives.
Do not get attached to anyone, anywhere, anything. Do not live in one place, do not have a regular pattern of movement, do not stay in one particular hotel more than once, do not drive the same car.
If you believe you’ve been compromised, go off-grid.
Where we were was as off-grid as you could get.
It wasn’t so much that I had dragged Penelope into this mess. It was more that she had invited herself along for the ride.
Two nights before, I sent a message to say I needed to see her. She suggested dinner and picked a restaurant, small and easy to blend in and at the same time keep an eye out for trouble.
She had recognised my preferences. That should have been a red flag, but I let feelings into that equation.
I arrived first, doing the mandatory check outside for anything unusual, then going inside, assessing the threat level and exits, and then sitting at a table near the rear.
It was the first time I wondered if there would be a time in my life when I could stop looking over my shoulder.
Penelope arrived ten minutes later, knowing I didn’t like arriving late, dressed plainly so that few people registered her arrival. Those that did, I noted.
She saw me, smiled, and came over after a brief word with the waitress who had ushered me to the table.
The waitress followed with a bottle of champagne and two glasses, poured, and left us alone. A quick glance around the room didn’t identify any problems, but with Penelope sitting next to me, my judgement was compromised.
She took a sip and did that little shiver thing every time she first sipped her champagne, and then said, “What is so urgent I had to drop everything?”
She had one of those mesmerising voices that could take you down a rabbit hole and never want to come back.
I shook my head, trying to clear it. It didn’t work.
The speech I had rehearsed in my head sounded appropriate … in my head. Now, in front of her, it sounded ridiculous.
“I have to go away.”
“So. You’ve done that before.”
“Permanently.”
Expression change, not happy. When she frowned, it was like the darkness setting in. “Where?”
“England.”
“Why?”
“It was always a possibility, but I didn’t think it would be this soon.”
“When?”
“Tonight. It was just sprung on me.”
“So …”
“I can’t do long distance, and I couldn’t ask you to come with me. You have your aspirations, and that promotion is just around the corner …”
“We should break up?”
It’s definitely not a happy face now.
“I don’t want to, but there’s practicality in play. I don’t want you to lose what you have worked so hard for “
“Then don’t go.”
It wasn’t an option, and I couldn’t explain why. And if I did, she would be out the door so fast her feet wouldn’t touch the ground.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
And whilst that might be true, I was not going to get the time to argue the point. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement by the door.
Two men, scanning the room, stopped on me.
I sighed. If I was on my own, it would simply be a matter of sliding down and getting out the rear entrance, not six feet from where we were sitting.
An extra body, not sitting closer to the door, and now a target, just proved Rawlings statement. The thing is, she was not going to become collateral damage.
Not today.
They, like me, had stopped to assess the damage, knowing that I was not going to go quietly, and that people were going to die. Their issue was that other diners had looked up at them and would now remember their faces. It added just enough of a hesitation factor.
Penelope and I not so much, but if the restaurant had CCTV, that was all moot. Camera over the front door, camera over the door to the kitchen.
“We have to go,” I said quietly.
She, too, had seen the two men and had instantly recognised trouble. Textbook thugs, the way Hollywood portrayed their bad guys.
“Who are they?”
“Trouble.” I had a gun, but using it in this confined space was a recipe for disaster. I could shoot them, but between me and them was a dozen unpredictable humans.
They hadn’t moved. A waitress was moving towards them.
I grabbed her hand and, in one fluid motion, slid out of the booth and pulled her to her feet, and then dragged her through the kitchen doorway.
Movement by the door, one shoved the waitress whilst the other drew his weapon, and three shots thwacked into the closing door.
Seconds later, we were through the back door, and the men were in pursuit until I turned, pulled out the gun, and shot the both of them as they came out the doorway.
Not to kill. It was never my first choice unless I had no choice.
I didn’t give her time to think. I just pulled her along, up another alley to the main street and plenty of foot traffic to blend in.
She had not pulled her hand away. Yet.
“What just happened?” She spoke quietly, but not with a hint of hysteria, just breathlessness.
“The reason why I wanted to break up. I have a past, and it’s about to catch up with me. Those men would shoot the both of us dead, without hesitation. Chances are you still have a degree of anonymity, but it won’t last long if you stay with me.”
“What did you do?”
“I tried to save a friend and failed. He was in trouble, and I thought I could fix it.”
“And made it worse?”
“Things tend to go sideways when I get involved. Wrong people, bad intelligence, or just plain bad luck.”
I wasn’t going to add it was one of our own people who was trying to find me. I unmasked him quite by accident. No one knew he was playing on both sides of the street, and he wanted to keep it that way.
“Then I guess you’re stuck with me. Tell me you have a plan.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I don’t like the life I have, and I was about to go back home. Believe me, you’ve saved me from a fate worse than death.”
I was not that sure she had traded up. I could see the bright look in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, and adrenaline flowing through her. When that subsided, everything would be different.
It was a case of damned if you do or damned if you don’t. I shrugged. “OK. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.”
This is not a thing that pushes you every day, but there are times when something or someone will prey on your mind, and it will not be settled until you have ‘vented’.
I have to say that from time to time, the concept of venting has come over me when writing a blog piece, particularly when the folly of politicians and/or corporations is just too much. There has been a moment when a particular person has enraged me, but these people generally find themselves in a caricature.
Then there is that long-term project of the history of my family, and my brother, being the fountain of all knowledge of them, sometimes has a sit down and relates all these stories about them and after which I sit down and write as much about them as I can remember.
This I feel, is distinct from those times when I am writing a novel, apart from the incentive provided by NaNoWriMo where the race is on to get it done in 30 days. Other times, like for instance at the moment I am working on a story that is very fresh and very accessible in my mind, and therefore available to write.
I started about four days ago for a new section and have written nine new chapters in 4 days, and there is still more. While this story wants to be written, I will get it down, albeit in raw form, because it has changed a few times plot-wise since I started.
But that is me, and it is not for everyone. I often find myself writing about five or six stories at once, and yes, sometimes it can be confusing.
If Ruth is going to join the prince, for whom it is decided that he must now go home, his time of freedom is over.
However, it’s not because of the media. It is because the King’s health is failing quicker than expected, and the new king is about to be crowned.
An abdication, a coronation, and a reshuffling of Royal responsibilities. Our prince had been hoping his escape could have been longer.
Now, there is just one small problem
Ruth’s family. They live out in the Midwest, and a telephone call to say she’s marrying a prince and moving halfway across the world is just not good enough.
Of course, the prince is an old school person. He would like to ask permission from the father to marry the daughter.
A visit he’d arranged.
Another small problem is that mother and daughter are at war.
Well, which mother and daughter are not regularly at loggerheads over everything?
This is not a thing that pushes you every day, but there are times when something or someone will prey on your mind, and it will not be settled until you have ‘vented’.
I have to say that from time to time, the concept of venting has come over me when writing a blog piece, particularly when the folly of politicians and/or corporations is just too much. There has been a moment when a particular person has enraged me, but these people generally find themselves in a caricature.
Then there is that long-term project of the history of my family, and my brother, being the fountain of all knowledge of them, sometimes has a sit down and relates all these stories about them and after which I sit down and write as much about them as I can remember.
This I feel, is distinct from those times when I am writing a novel, apart from the incentive provided by NaNoWriMo where the race is on to get it done in 30 days. Other times, like for instance at the moment I am working on a story that is very fresh and very accessible in my mind, and therefore available to write.
I started about four days ago for a new section and have written nine new chapters in 4 days, and there is still more. While this story wants to be written, I will get it down, albeit in raw form, because it has changed a few times plot-wise since I started.
But that is me, and it is not for everyone. I often find myself writing about five or six stories at once, and yes, sometimes it can be confusing.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 