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

Day – 39a

Once again, I can go back to planning for my story.

Where?

The description he’s given is a small country that used to be a French colony, but in this day and age, colonialism is frowned upon.

It’s run by an installed president, you know, the sort the CIA prop up, one who takes all the money and keeps it himself, or shares with his puppet government, a country where it’s chief of police is a Frenchman, where the head of the military is the one who really runs the country, along with his secret police.

An interesting set of characters.

So, nothing like having a human rights conference in the middle of a country that abuses human rights.

It’s in the Middle East, tucked away near all those interesting countries like Iraq, Iran, and Egypt, one that is strategic for the superpowers to nurture.

And somewhere in the country, the previous opposition leader, and human rights campaigner, an old man who was arrested by the regime and no one knows where they’re holding him.

The British, the Americans, and the Russians all want to ingratiate themselves so there will be a little currying favour going on during the conference.

Yes, diplomats, and others, use the cover of the conference to make overtures.

Our protagonist…

He’s there to watch over the conference headliner, a woman he used to date way back before he became a spy.  His mission though, is to do it so she doesn’t know he’s there.

And let’s throw in a wildcard, the woman’s daughter who is as angelic as she is feisty, a girl he meets before he knows who she is.

So, one more thing before we get to set the scene, he needs an occupation, one that can take him anywhere and everywhere, a profession that rarely brings attention, or someone more than is bargained for.

Yes, he’s a reporter. This is a credible profession in which he is known and has verifiable articles that can be found and read. Yes, he can write.

I like to think that at the end of his useful life, there will be a book or two to supplement the pension.

…

© Charles Heath  2025

Day – 39a

Once again, I can go back to planning for my story.

Where?

The description he’s given is a small country that used to be a French colony, but in this day and age, colonialism is frowned upon.

It’s run by an installed president, you know, the sort the CIA prop up, one who takes all the money and keeps it himself, or shares with his puppet government, a country where it’s chief of police is a Frenchman, where the head of the military is the one who really runs the country, along with his secret police.

An interesting set of characters.

So, nothing like having a human rights conference in the middle of a country that abuses human rights.

It’s in the Middle East, tucked away near all those interesting countries like Iraq, Iran, and Egypt, one that is strategic for the superpowers to nurture.

And somewhere in the country, the previous opposition leader, and human rights campaigner, an old man who was arrested by the regime and no one knows where they’re holding him.

The British, the Americans, and the Russians all want to ingratiate themselves so there will be a little currying favour going on during the conference.

Yes, diplomats, and others, use the cover of the conference to make overtures.

Our protagonist…

He’s there to watch over the conference headliner, a woman he used to date way back before he became a spy.  His mission though, is to do it so she doesn’t know he’s there.

And let’s throw in a wildcard, the woman’s daughter who is as angelic as she is feisty, a girl he meets before he knows who she is.

So, one more thing before we get to set the scene, he needs an occupation, one that can take him anywhere and everywhere, a profession that rarely brings attention, or someone more than is bargained for.

Yes, he’s a reporter. This is a credible profession in which he is known and has verifiable articles that can be found and read. Yes, he can write.

I like to think that at the end of his useful life, there will be a book or two to supplement the pension.

…

© Charles Heath  2025

Day 38

Today’s trick of the trade dovetails very neatly with the previous day’s exploration of keeping the reader’s attention.

This time it is about not writing flowery prose. Perhaps you might know it by another name, writing about the background, the location, characters, anything but advance the story.

Here’s the thing.

Most readers get bored with flowery prose.

Of course, it is always a matter of opinion what is flowery prose and what isn’t, but I find that sometimes a detailed description of the place and time will match the mood and temperament of the characters.

Thus, a day could be very hot, then training, and then steaming, and a character could be sweating profusely, getting soaking wet, and then getting all steamed up, and not necessarily because it’s wet and hot.

Readers, as writers, need their senses stimulated in time to the cadence of the novel. We’ve been there. and sometimes it’s nice to read about someone who is, after all, like us. We don’t want all our characters to be beyond our reach or comprehension.

Just the same as a description of our characters, who has;t had the typical school mistress, tracking nun who is a monster, teacher who was a disciplinarian, or a friend who stabbed us in the back, or who we thought was a friend.

Descriptions yes, flowery maybe, but necessary, yes.

Day 38

Today’s trick of the trade dovetails very neatly with the previous day’s exploration of keeping the reader’s attention.

This time it is about not writing flowery prose. Perhaps you might know it by another name, writing about the background, the location, characters, anything but advance the story.

Here’s the thing.

Most readers get bored with flowery prose.

Of course, it is always a matter of opinion what is flowery prose and what isn’t, but I find that sometimes a detailed description of the place and time will match the mood and temperament of the characters.

Thus, a day could be very hot, then training, and then steaming, and a character could be sweating profusely, getting soaking wet, and then getting all steamed up, and not necessarily because it’s wet and hot.

Readers, as writers, need their senses stimulated in time to the cadence of the novel. We’ve been there. and sometimes it’s nice to read about someone who is, after all, like us. We don’t want all our characters to be beyond our reach or comprehension.

Just the same as a description of our characters, who has;t had the typical school mistress, tracking nun who is a monster, teacher who was a disciplinarian, or a friend who stabbed us in the back, or who we thought was a friend.

Descriptions yes, flowery maybe, but necessary, yes.

Day 37

We’re back to words of wisdom, in which the true writer has nothing to say, what counts is the way he says it.

Does this mean everything we write must be compelling? Certainly, that remark I once read on the front of a thriller novel I once bought simply because of it, holds true. The remark, “Grabs the reader by the scruff of the neck and drags them through to the last crowded page”.

And oddly enough it was true, I read the book in a single sitting.

It also lit the fire under me to write spy novels, too.

I’m guessing that the whole reason behind the simple few words is to make us writers sit up and think about how we’re going to engage the reader.

I read a lot, and it’s generally the first few pages that will draw me in or turn me off. I had written quite a few stories, and it took me a while to realise that boring introductory stuff can be spread sparingly through the pages, whilst all the edge-of-the-seat stuff is going on around it.

I call it writing the James Bond start, that from the first sentence you’ve been dropped into an erupting volcano, and you’ve got about fifteen seconds to work out how to get out of it. Of course, there is that circling helicopter gunship firing machine guns at you at the same time, shredding the parachute that just caught fire.

It’s why, going way back in cinema land in the previous century, the serials that ran before the main picture always had a cliffhanger ending.

The same should apply, in a sense, to the story, always leaving it in such a way that the reader has to read on.

I try.

Day 37

We’re back to words of wisdom, in which the true writer has nothing to say, what counts is the way he says it.

Does this mean everything we write must be compelling? Certainly, that remark I once read on the front of a thriller novel I once bought simply because of it, holds true. The remark, “Grabs the reader by the scruff of the neck and drags them through to the last crowded page”.

And oddly enough it was true, I read the book in a single sitting.

It also lit the fire under me to write spy novels, too.

I’m guessing that the whole reason behind the simple few words is to make us writers sit up and think about how we’re going to engage the reader.

I read a lot, and it’s generally the first few pages that will draw me in or turn me off. I had written quite a few stories, and it took me a while to realise that boring introductory stuff can be spread sparingly through the pages, whilst all the edge-of-the-seat stuff is going on around it.

I call it writing the James Bond start, that from the first sentence you’ve been dropped into an erupting volcano, and you’ve got about fifteen seconds to work out how to get out of it. Of course, there is that circling helicopter gunship firing machine guns at you at the same time, shredding the parachute that just caught fire.

It’s why, going way back in cinema land in the previous century, the serials that ran before the main picture always had a cliffhanger ending.

The same should apply, in a sense, to the story, always leaving it in such a way that the reader has to read on.

I try.