365 Days of writing, 2026 – 139

Day 139 – Writing Exercise

The hall was the quietest it had been while the king was still alive.

There had been a hush all over the kingdom after the old king had died.  He had lived for exactly 100 years, and right up until the last day, he had been wise and imposing.

Not once in his sixty-five-year reign had there been any talk of sedition or treason.  He was fair and forceful to everyone, whatever station in life they came from.

It was more than could be said for his forebears, some of whom had been ‘terrible’.  Ivan had been a particular example.  Some had been ‘benevolent’ like George, his grandfather.  He promised his Queen he would never be like his father before him, and he wasn’t.

When it came time for the eldest child, either male or female, to take over the role of Monarch of West Lexis, you were allowed to use your own name or pick one from a set.

Those sets included Ivan, George, Richard, John and Charles.  For the girls, the names were Elizabeth, Jane, Anne, Margaret and Susannah.

In the most recent line of succession, there had been three boys, George, Walter and John, and three girls, Elizabeth, Susan and Frances.  George was the eldest boy, and Elizabeth was the second eldest.

In an unusual accident whilst conducting the annual hunt, in which men went out into the woods to kill deer to stock up on meat for winter, it was the right of the eldest son to run the hunt.

He had been, it was said when the news of the fatality had been broadcast across the land, in the wrong place at the wrong time.  And it had been the first time ever.

It had caused great sadness, and a hundred days of mourning had to pass before the new monarch was crowned.  That had happened from the day after the old king was buried in the sacred graveyard of the monarchs, a place where only the Chancellor and his personal guard knew.

Once there, and buried, only then could his mortal soul continue on its journey to the final resting place of all monarchs, Valhalla.

Ludrig, Superintendent of the castle guard, was about to do the morning rounds, the day after it had been proclaimed that the hundred days of mourning were over.

The sun had come up through the mountains, a bright yellow, signifying not only a brilliant start to the next day, but a good omen, that the weight of the next monarchs would begin with the blessings of the Gods.

Life was beginning to return to the castle’s main corridors and rooms, with the castle workers moving on to clean and prepare for the coronation activities before the big day.

Ludrig’s job was to oversee those activities in conjunction with the Chancellor.  He was on top of the East tower, the first to see the sun every morning, when the skies were clear.

It was this morning, and along with the second in command of the castle guard, Walther, they had stood together, swords facing the first rays until the light glinted on the metal, then swore their allegiance to the new monarch.

Elizabeth.

The king had reached Valhalla, the hundred days of mourning were complete, the people no longer had to wear black out of respect, and life could begin again.

The two men sheathed their swords.  They were as much ceremonial as they were for battle, though no one could remember the last battle West Lexis had fought with anyone.

From the top of the castle, on a good day, one could see the main castle of East Lexia, quite a distance away.  On a good day, like today.

“Wonder what they’re thinking?”

“That it’s time for celebrations.  We have the three other Lexias dignitaries coming to the festivities, and the games are promising to be the best ever.

Ludrig was the current Joust champion and had just fallen short of winning the Knight, Grand Master title, a title he had held for the last five tournaments.

It was bound to happen eventually.  He was getting old, despite being remarkably fit for his age.

“All of them are, Walther.  And I have been working on the fault that caused the loss of the title last.  Sir Samson will not get away with it again.”

“I heard he has a new bag of tricks available.”

“What new tricks?  He talks big but doesn’t show us anything.  He is, as he had always been, a windbag.
He won’t know what hit him.”

Or so Ludrig thought. It was Ludrig’s only failing, his ego that refused to believe he could never be bested.

Walther shrugged.  That was in the future.

In the meantime, it was going to be non-stop preparations.  Tournaments to be set up, names of the competitors to be collected, sport fields set up, banquets for both nobles and the commoners to be set you and food arranged.

The young queen was out of mourning and could now tour the country, and the sister countries for many discussions and political policy reviews, the way the country would be run and how it would interact with her sister countries.

He was in charge of the Queen’s escort and had to prepare for that too.  It was going to be a very busy schedule.

“Time passes far too quickly for my liking.”

“Better get to it then.”

The last rays of the sun that lowered up onto the sky before it came out from behind the hills had dissipated, and the yellow orb glowed in a clear blue sky.  The omen was predicting peace, happiness, and prosperity for all.

The separated in the guard house below, Ludwig to report to the Queen, Walther to the barracks to begin drilling the men.  The lazy days were over.

It was a 500-year-old story, how the four kingdoms of Lexia came into existence.  Far, far back in the almost forgotten mists of time, there used to be one single kingdom.  Lexia.

And had not a miracle occurred, there would still be one kingdom.

Or, as some would say, very quietly, it was exactly the opposite.

But whether a miracle or a judgement from the Gods, the Queen of Lexia gave birth to four children on the same day, and under Lexia’s Royal charter, the eldest child was the rightful heir.

That meant the firstborn.

That edict remained in place until the King was on his deathbed, and the Queen, along with the then Chancellor, got the King to sign a decree that all children would become Monarchs in their own right, and that Lexia would be divided into four equal kingdoms, North, South, East, and West.  All the same size, each with a central castle, and an equal share of the country’s wealth.

And so it was done.

It had worked for 200 or more years before a dispute broke out between two of the kingdoms, a battle ensued, and then was quelled by the other two, with the surrender terms negotiated, life returned to normal.

Only for one kingdom, or more importantly, the Monarch, it didn’t.

David Montgomery, King of East Lexia, was discontent with how his kingdom was made to pay for the battle he didn’t start, 300 years ago, and it had festered since through the generations.

But he did know that it was the King of West Lexia, back then, who had something to do with the settlement terms, and had managed to get away with stealing a very valuable set of jewels that belonged to West Lexia.

It was one of the original four that Lexia, when united, used for coronations.  Each of the four had been granted a set each.

There was a story somewhere in the mists of time that was the true and correct account of the Jewels of the Moonbeam, said to be part of the astrological connection to the Gods.  And as far as Mongonery was concerned, West Lexia had them, and he wanted them back.

And with the coronation of the new Queen of West Lexia, it was time for the truth to come out.

It was early, the first day of the pre-coronation festivities, starting with the grand tour of West Lexia.

Not that Elizabeth hadn’t been out and about during the mourning period, after all, she was still the Queen, and had only to be officially recognised by government and the church.

At long last, and thankfully, she would not have to wear black. Only those who chose to would. 

Her personal maid, Nathalie, had set out a purple dress, relatively plain in design, but spoke of elegance and majesty.  With her Princess tiara and the sapphire necklace that was inherited from her mother on the day of succession, it would let everyone know that Elizabeth was their Queen.

Nathalie had worked hard to progress to be the Queen’s personal handmaid.  It had been her goal from the moment she started as a maid in the castle. She knew one day her mistress would become Queen, and had persevered through all the tantrums and youthful exuberance and their relationship that once started very rocky, had matured into one of mutual respect.

As one of her talents, the ability to converse, listen, and understand what she was either hearing or discussing, Nathalie always had her ears open, taking in everything around her. 

Her mistress never once asked to be a spy, but was genuinely surprised that Nathalie was always well across Castle affairs, and had stories she could tell, but she had learned early that discretion was a wise master.  Sometimes, just part of a story was not the whole story.

There was always a scandal, however, and Elizabeth loved scandal, especially if it involved her brothers and sisters and nobility, simply because of their hypocrisy.  Elizabeth herself had secrets, but she made sure that she was very discreet.

Elizabeth summoned Nathalie when it was time to get ready for the Chancellor’s morning visit, starting the conversation with the same question, “What is the gossip this morning?”

Nathalie had already laid out all her mistress’s clothing ready for the mistress to approve or disapprove, which didn’t happen very often, ready to put on, piece by piece.  Sometimes it could be a laborious job.

“Your Royal Highness.”  She curtsied.  “Outside the castle, there are rumours of incursions by bandits from the south.”

“We have those all the time.  Since the famine, it has been difficult for all of us, and some people think it is easier to steal than to try to mitigate the effects by doing something about it.  We built a dam, and now have the water to grow crops during famine.  As for the incursions, we will put a stop to them.”

She had spoken to the Chancellor, and he was drawing up a proclamation.  All thieves who were caught and found guilty were not going to enjoy the same accommodations her father extended to them.

There were other interesting snippets of conversation between the two, always in hushed tones because there was no telling who was listening, as the layers went on.

“Was there anything else?”  They were up to the top layer, a sash, the tiara, jewellery, and shoes.  This morning it was taking a long time.

“Have you heard of the Jewels of the Moonbeam?”

She stopped suddenly and gripped the arm of the girl. “Where did you hear that?”

Nathalie immediately went on the defensive, thinking she had gone too far, that it was a top secret subject, and should have inferred that from the fact she hadn’t heard very much and initially wasn’t going to say anything.

Now she had stepped over that line and couldn’t worm her way out.

“Two … two soldiers walking down the street,” Nathalie stammered breathlessly, now almost terrified.

Elizabeth immediately realised she had scared her maid, obviously fearing the worst.  The Royal Children had a reputation for quick tempers and appalling behaviour, and whilst her earlier years were difficult, she had matured.

She immediately softened her look and let her go, and gently caressed the red welt forming above her wrist.  “I am sorry, Nathalie, I don’t know what came over me.  It’s a touchy subject for all of the Royal families.”

“Then I shall not mention it again.”

“No. No.  We keep no secrets between us, Nathalie.  I would like to know anything you hear.  But please don’t tell anyone else.  But this, you overheard two soldiers?  Would you recognise them again?”

Nathalie looked surprised.  “No.  They all look the same to me.”

Elizabeth had to admit she was right.  Except for a small flag on the sleeves, one kingdom could not really be identified by another.  But she knew, instinctively, that they were not soldiers from her kingdom.

“Can you remember if they said anything else?”

“That was all I heard.  They were too far away, and I wasn’t going to follow them.  You know what soldiers do to servant girls.”

She did, and that was something else she had to address with the Chancellor.

As for the Jewels, she had only just heard from the Chancellor that they would have to visit the castle strongroom where family valuables were kept, along with the Kingdom’s fortune, to try on the Coronation jewellery, also known as West Lexia’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

It was the first time she had ever heard of them.

“You must not repeat anything you heard about those Jewels.  They are a secret within a very small circle of this Kingdom.  You will never mention them again.  Am I clear?”

“I shall not, your Majesty.  You have my word of honour.”

“Excellent.  I know I can rely on you.”

They went back to finishing dressing.  Nathalie had to get home.  She had told one other person, her mother, and she was not one to hold her tongue at the best of times.

Walther had been summoned to the castle and the Queen’s chambers.  She needed escorting.  He brought three men, the leaders of each of the three groups that made up the guard.

It had been, he believed, the luck of the draw, his name with three others tossed into the box and to be drawn for who would be second in command.

Each of the four men was equally qualified, but Ludrig had been particularly pleased that he had drawn Walther’s name.

Walther had been his protege; he had taught him well, and unlike some of the others, was willing to learn and not improvise.

He was also intelligent and could improvise when it mattered, like in the middle of mock battles.  It made him an excellent choice for the Queen’s private guard.  It helped that she liked him, unlike his two predecessors, both of whom treated her like an errant child.

Both ended up languishing at a border guard post.

Walther believed in punctuality and respect for the uniform.  Each of his men was in ceremonial dress, but also armed, ready for anything.

A formidable force to be reckoned with.

And as they made their way from the guard’s mess to the Queen’s chambers, it was a reminder to the people that the guard were visible, available, and ready to protect the Queen and her people.

The cry, “Make way for the Queen’s guard,” was treated with the respect and reverence it deserved.

Outside the main chamber, the three guardsmen formed a line.  No one would pass unless bidden.

Walther entered when requested.

She was ready, taking two of her personal maids with her.  Walther would walk with her, half a step behind, the maids, one guard on either side of the maids and one at the rear.

Destination: the Treasury.

Ludrig had set up checkpoints and had men on guard.  It was the first real exercise since her accession.  Practice was over.

The path from the chamber required leaving the main castle and taking a path to one of the structures at the rear of the main castle, one of the granary, the middle, the church, or the other, the treasury. 

In the treasury was a vault, and in the vault were the Kingdom’s most valuable treasures.  The treasury was also where the Kingdom’s coins were struck, and they were currently creating a set of coins commemorating the coronation of the new Queen.

As far as Walther was concerned, his Queen was there to inspect the new coinage.

As expected, people turned out to see their Queen along the short path in the open.  Walther saw no hostility, but it wasn’t exactly as joyous as he thought it might be.

In fact, if someone had asked him what the general mood of the people was, it would be subdued, maybe even a little disappointed.  But alongside that, he noticed something else: men loitering.

They did not look like labourers or artisans; they were men who looked like they had military training, dressed in labourers’ clothes to hide behind.

That was far more worrisome and a matter to take up with Ludrig after this detail.

At the Treasury, they left the three-man guard at the entrance to the Treasury, and he joined the Queen, her two maids and the Chancellor who had just appeared from inside the main building.

From the entrance, they went to the vault.  The treasury guard was the only person who had a key, and by the time they reached the vault, the head of the guard, Smithton, arrived breathless.

And late.

Elizabeth was unimpressed.

The Chancellor apologised and said he would take care of the matter.  The atmosphere was quite tense. 

If it were up to Walther, he would have taken the guard and locked him up.

The vault was opened, and only the Queen and the Chancellor went in.

The vault was quite large and had various rooms within it for the treasures: one for gold, one for silver, one for spare utensils used throughout the castle, and another for gemstones.

And in the corner, a pedestal with a special box which held the Kingdom’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

They were the most significant treasure in the Kingdom, used only for the Coronation of the new monarch.  Elizabeth had requested to see them.

“The necklace was one of four created at the time of the great split, each given a different colour, red, blue, green and amber.  Ours is the blue set.”

The Chancellor took out a special key and unlocked the box, as Elizabeth moved closer. 

He lifted the lid.

Both gasped.  The box was empty.

The Jewels were gone.

“Where is it?” Elizabeth asked.

“It was here the last time I looked.  I check once a month.”

“Can we have the coronation without it?”

“No.  The charter forbids it.”

Elizabeth went back to Walther.  “Seal off the castle.  No one out but let people come in.  Turn out the guard.  I want this whole castle searched from top to bottom.”  She gave him a drawing of the necklace the Chancellor had given her.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And if anyone tries to leave or gives you any trouble, lock them up.”

He nodded, then left. 

Charles Heath  2026

What I learned about writing – Sometimes, the best books for writers bear little similarity to their medium

The Unconventional Muse: When Your Best Writing Lesson Comes From Anywhere But a ‘How-To’ Guide

We writers are always chasing that elusive spark, that deeper understanding of human nature and narrative that elevates our work from good to truly profound. We devour books on craft, attend workshops, and pore over articles dissecting plot points and character arcs. All valuable, of course.

But what if the most potent lessons for your writing don’t come from a book with “How To Write” in the title? What if your greatest storytelling mentor isn’t a famous novelist, but a philosopher, a historian, or even a scientist?

This isn’t just a quirky idea; it’s a fundamental truth for many successful writers. Sometimes, the best books for writers bear little similarity to their medium.

Why Look Beyond the Craft?

Writers are, at heart, observers and interpreters of the human condition. We craft worlds, yes, but those worlds gain their resonance from reflecting or distorting truths about our world. To truly understand the stories we tell, we need to understand the world itself – its history, its psychology, its moral dilemmas, its scientific wonders.

This is where seemingly unrelated disciplines become invaluable. They offer different lenses through which to view conflict, motivation, and the very fabric of reality.

The Playwright, the Philosopher, and the Clash of Two Rights

Let’s take a specific example that perfectly illustrates this premise: the playwright. Should a playwright read philosophy? An emphatic yes.

Consider the profound wisdom offered by thinkers like George Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel. His work, particularly his dialectical approach to history and conflict, provides an incredible framework for understanding the deepest dramatic tensions.

For Hegel, the true tragedy – and the most compelling drama – lies not in a clear-cut battle between good and evil, but in the irreconcilable clash of two rights.

Think about that for a moment. It’s not the simple Hollywood narrative where the hero is unequivocally good and the villain is purely evil. That kind of story, while sometimes entertaining, often lacks the true grit and complexity of human experience.

Instead, Hegel pointed to the underlying issues in Greek tragedy as a case in point. Take Sophocles’ Antigone. Here, the conflict isn’t between a righteous hero and an evil tyrant. It’s between Antigone’s undeniable moral right to bury her brother, honoring the divine laws and family duty, and Creon’s equally legitimate right to uphold the laws of the state, ensuring order and preventing further rebellion.

Both characters are, in their own frameworks, right. Both are acting out of deeply held convictions and duties. And it is precisely because both are “right” that their collision is so utterly devastating, leading to a profound, unavoidable tragedy. Neither can simply concede without betraying their core identity or belief system.

A Golden Key for Every Writer

This isn’t just an academic point for philosophers; it’s a golden key for anyone crafting a narrative, whether it’s a novel, a screenplay, a short story, or even a compelling blog post.

  • Complex Characters: When your antagonists aren’t just “bad” but are operating from their own deeply held, morally defensible (to them) positions, your characters instantly gain depth. Their motivations become understandable, even if you disagree with their actions.
  • Richer Conflict: The “two rights” dilemma elevates your plot beyond simplistic good vs. evil. It forces your characters, and your readers, to grapple with true moral ambiguity, making the stakes feel far higher and more authentic. Think of a nuanced political drama, a family saga fraught with misunderstanding, or even a personal internal struggle where the protagonist is torn between two equally valid, yet conflicting, desires.
  • Deeper Themes: This approach allows you to explore profound themes about ethics, justice, loyalty, and the inherent contradictions of human existence, without needing to preach. The conflict itself becomes the exploration.

When your characters operate from their own deeply held, morally defensible positions, the story becomes infinitely more resonant because it mirrors the complexities of real life.

Broaden Your Mind, Deepen Your Stories

So, what does this mean for your reading list?

Don’t limit yourself to books on plot structure or character arcs (though those are valuable!). Dive into history, neuroscience, poetry, economics, art criticism, and yes, philosophy. Seek out texts that grapple with ethics, existence, and the nature of reality. Read the great thinkers, not necessarily to agree with them, but to understand how they thought and what they wrestled with.

You’re not just reading to learn facts; you’re reading to broaden your understanding of the human experience itself. And that, my fellow writers, is the wellspring from which truly compelling stories flow. Expand your mind, expand your world, and watch your own narratives deepen and soar.

What unconventional books or fields of study have unexpectedly impacted your writing? Share your discoveries in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 138

Day 138 – That last work

The Final Page: How Do You Choose Your Last Story?

If you knew that the words you were about to type would be your very last—that after this final period, your keyboard would go silent forever—what would you write?

It’s a haunting question, isn’t it? It strips away the pressure of career milestones, the need for SEO optimisation, or the desire to please a specific audience. It forces you to stand at the edge of your own creative legacy and ask: What is the one thing that truly matters?

For me, the answer is clear, yet paralysing: It would be a work of fiction.

But then, the paralysis sets in. If you have only one story left in the chamber, how do you choose which one to fire?

The Burden of Choice

The problem with choosing a “final” story is that fiction is a mirror. Depending on the day, the weather, or the ache in my heart, the reflection changes.

Some days, I want to write a sprawling epic—a tapestry of human resilience that spans generations, trying to capture the entirety of the human experience. Other days, I feel drawn to the quiet, domestic tragedy of a single conversation in a kitchen, where everything is said without a word being spoken.

How do you decide? Do you choose:

  • The Story You Haven’t Told Yet: The one that’s been living in the back of your mind for years, gathering dust, waiting for the “perfect” time?
  • The Story You’ve Already Tried to Write: The one that never came out quite right, a chance to finally fix the pacing, the ending, the soul of it?
  • The Story That Changes Nothing: A lighthearted romp, a piece of pure escapism, a final gift of joy rather than a heavy philosophical anchor?

The Search for the “Essence”

If I had to make the choice, I think I would stop trying to find the “perfect” plot and start looking for the “essence.”

A final work shouldn’t be about showing off technical skill or proving a point. It should be an act of translation. It should be the attempt to take that one, singular feeling—that strange, beautiful, and terrifying realisation of what it means to be alive—and pin it to the page like a butterfly.

I would choose a story that feels like a sunset: something that acknowledges the fading light but finds the most brilliant, saturated colours in the final moments. It wouldn’t necessarily be a “sad” story, but it would have to be an honest one.

How Would You Choose?

The beauty of this thought experiment—even if it’s purely hypothetical—is that it clarifies your values. It tells you what, deep down, you think a story is for.

Does your final piece aim to teach? To entertain? To confess? To build a world so immersive that others can hide in it when you’re gone?

If you were sitting at your desk, knowing this was your final act, would you agonise over the genre, the plot twists, or the clever turns of phrase? Or would you finally let go of the ego and write the one thing that makes you feel most human?

I’m curious to know how you would approach this. If you had one last story to tell, what would be the heartbeat behind it? Would you write the story you were meant to write, or the story you wanted to write?

Let’s talk about it in the comments. After all, we’re still here, and the pages are still blank. We might as well start writing.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 138

Day 138 – That last work

The Final Page: How Do You Choose Your Last Story?

If you knew that the words you were about to type would be your very last—that after this final period, your keyboard would go silent forever—what would you write?

It’s a haunting question, isn’t it? It strips away the pressure of career milestones, the need for SEO optimisation, or the desire to please a specific audience. It forces you to stand at the edge of your own creative legacy and ask: What is the one thing that truly matters?

For me, the answer is clear, yet paralysing: It would be a work of fiction.

But then, the paralysis sets in. If you have only one story left in the chamber, how do you choose which one to fire?

The Burden of Choice

The problem with choosing a “final” story is that fiction is a mirror. Depending on the day, the weather, or the ache in my heart, the reflection changes.

Some days, I want to write a sprawling epic—a tapestry of human resilience that spans generations, trying to capture the entirety of the human experience. Other days, I feel drawn to the quiet, domestic tragedy of a single conversation in a kitchen, where everything is said without a word being spoken.

How do you decide? Do you choose:

  • The Story You Haven’t Told Yet: The one that’s been living in the back of your mind for years, gathering dust, waiting for the “perfect” time?
  • The Story You’ve Already Tried to Write: The one that never came out quite right, a chance to finally fix the pacing, the ending, the soul of it?
  • The Story That Changes Nothing: A lighthearted romp, a piece of pure escapism, a final gift of joy rather than a heavy philosophical anchor?

The Search for the “Essence”

If I had to make the choice, I think I would stop trying to find the “perfect” plot and start looking for the “essence.”

A final work shouldn’t be about showing off technical skill or proving a point. It should be an act of translation. It should be the attempt to take that one, singular feeling—that strange, beautiful, and terrifying realisation of what it means to be alive—and pin it to the page like a butterfly.

I would choose a story that feels like a sunset: something that acknowledges the fading light but finds the most brilliant, saturated colours in the final moments. It wouldn’t necessarily be a “sad” story, but it would have to be an honest one.

How Would You Choose?

The beauty of this thought experiment—even if it’s purely hypothetical—is that it clarifies your values. It tells you what, deep down, you think a story is for.

Does your final piece aim to teach? To entertain? To confess? To build a world so immersive that others can hide in it when you’re gone?

If you were sitting at your desk, knowing this was your final act, would you agonise over the genre, the plot twists, or the clever turns of phrase? Or would you finally let go of the ego and write the one thing that makes you feel most human?

I’m curious to know how you would approach this. If you had one last story to tell, what would be the heartbeat behind it? Would you write the story you were meant to write, or the story you wanted to write?

Let’s talk about it in the comments. After all, we’re still here, and the pages are still blank. We might as well start writing.

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

What I learned about writing – Writing comedy

The Mirthful Art of Misunderstanding: Why Comedy Needs More Than Just Punchlines

What makes you laugh? Is it a clever turn of phrase? A perfectly timed pratfall? Or that specific, delicious moment when two realities collide in delightful chaos? For anyone who’s ever tried to craft a joke, a sketch, or an entire sitcom, you know that comedy is far more intricate than simply stringing together funny words. And at its heart, it requires one non-negotiable ingredient: a genuine sense of humour.

The Non-Negotiable: A Sense of Humour

It sounds obvious, doesn’t it? Writing comedy requires a sense of humour. Yet, you’d be surprised how often people try to reverse-engineer “funny” without that innate spark. You can learn comedic timing, structure, and even how to write a killer punchline, but if you don’t possess a fundamental understanding of what makes things absurd, ironic, or just plain ridiculous, your efforts will often fall flat.

A sense of humour isn’t just about telling jokes; it’s a way of seeing the world. It’s the ability to spot the unexpected juxtaposition, the human foibles, the inherent absurdity in everyday life. Without this lens, writing comedy becomes a technical exercise rather than an act of genuine creation. It’s like trying to be a chef without taste buds – you can follow the recipe, but you’ll never truly understand balance or flavour. So, if you’re venturing into comedy writing and find yourself consistently baffled by what causes laughter, that might be your first clue.

The Ingenious Engine: Creating the Misunderstanding

Once you have that internal funny bone, the next step is understanding comedy’s most powerful, enduring engine: the misunderstanding. This is the basic premise upon which so much successful comedy is built. It’s not about malice or cruelty, but about a delightful divergence of perception or information.

Think about it:

  • Mistaken Identity: Character A thinks Character B is someone else entirely.
  • Misinterpreted Intentions: Character C says something innocent, but Character D hears it in the worst possible way.
  • Conflicting Knowledge: The audience knows something the characters don’t, leading to dramatic (and comedic) irony.
  • Literal vs. Figurative: One character takes an idiom or figure of speech literally, while the other means it figuratively.

The brilliance of the misunderstanding lies in the tension it creates. We, the audience, are often in on the secret (or we quickly piece it together), and we squirm with anticipation as the characters dig themselves deeper into their respective holes. We see the train wreck coming, not with dread, but with a giddy excitement, knowing that the inevitable collision will be hilarious. The humour isn’t just in the individual lines; it’s in the gap between what is perceived and what is real.

The Satisfying Release: Clearing It Up

But the tension isn’t meant to last forever. The true comedic genius of the misunderstanding formula comes in the resolution. At the end, everything is cleared up. The mistaken identity is revealed, the intentions are clarified, and the truth comes out.

Why is this so satisfying?

  • Relief: After the build-up of tension and absurdity, the release of understanding is a physical and emotional relief, often expressed through laughter.
  • The “Aha!” Moment: We see how all the threads connect, how the initial false premise led to all the hilarious subsequent events. It’s a puzzle solved, and often, the simple truth is funnier than the elaborate mistaken reality.
  • Catharsis: The characters (often) learn a lesson, or at least come to terms with the absurdity of what just transpired. And crucially, everyone is happy – not necessarily every character in the story (some might be embarrassed!), but the audience is left feeling satisfied, amused, and with a sense of completion. The world, briefly thrown into comical disarray, has been righted.

The Dance of Art and Instinct

So, for aspiring comedy writers, remember this dual approach. Cultivate that innate sense of humour – watch people, observe irony, find the funny in the everyday. But then, layer it with the powerful, proven structure of the misunderstanding. Build that tension, escalate the ridiculousness, and then, with a flourish, clear it all up, letting your audience bask in the delightful “aha!” of laughter.

Because ultimately, comedy isn’t just about telling jokes. It’s about taking us on a journey from confusion to clarity, from tension to release, and leaving us with that wonderful, unifying feeling of joy. And that, my friends, is no laughing matter. (Except, of course, when it is.)

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 136/137

Days 136 and 137 – Writing Exercise

The first thing I could hear when consciousness returned was the swooshing sound.  It was an odd sound that lingered, causing puzzlement momentarily.

Until recognition kicked on.  A roof fan, turning slowly, regurgitates air that holds the aroma of mould.

The odd sensation, if it could be called that, was that silence wasn’t silent.  There were noises everywhere on the edge of my consciousness.

The fan was simply the loudest.

Noises that my mind, as it finally started working again, tried to identify because that will to survive had kicked in.

It needed to know where I was, why I was there, how long I had been there, and what had happened in the period just before.

Except my mind at that moment could only deal with one thing at a time.

The fact that I was alive.

It was dark, but when was darkness really darkness?  It wasn’t.  There was always some ambient light somewhere.  A crack, a hole, even a covered window could never stop even the tiniest of rays from getting through.

There was one, at the top, where the black paint had not been applied properly.  I focused on it, watched it get bigger, and then converted what was inky blackness into a lesser shade of black.

I was in a room.

I closed my eyes then opened them again.

There was something else.

Yes, on the periphery of my vision.  A blinking red dot.  I shifted my head slightly and saw it, perhaps the corner of the room, blink, blink, blink.

Steady.  Slow.  As if sending a message.  Of course, we are watching you.

Question: Who is the ‘we’?

Location established.

Not in imminent danger.

Breathe.

I was lying down on a reasonably soft surface, and carefully testing fingers, one arm then the other, one leg then the other.

No restraints.  No pain when moving any part.

Move head, no pain, so my incapacitation was not a result of being hit or shot.

Only possibility: drugged.

So…

Where was I before this happened?

It took a moment to process the memories, isolate the details.  I received an address, a house I had been to before several times, with a special code.

An urgent request for help.

At the last interview, I had been instructed to give the target a burner phone with one number, mine, and a code that would be routed to me with the location.

I went to the location, gained access to the building, and found the target sitting in a room bound to a chair.

Then nothing.

They, whoever they were, had been waiting for me.

That meant only one possibility:  the target was in on the ambush.

Here’s the thing.

If I were to do a threat assessment, based on one being low and ten being high, it was, at the moment, a three.

I was not bound, not gagged, not hurt.

Why?

Whoever was holding me in this room wanted me for something.

The lack of restraints told me they did not expect me to retaliate, which meant they had leverage, and they would speak to me before initiating anything.

Alternatively, running through possibilities, they could use this room as a means of conditioning, alternating hot and cold, intense lighting, flashing lights, loud and soft sounds, darkness, sleep deprivation, all so I would lose track of time.

Leading to interrogation, sometimes with violence.

Been there and done that.

They could know why I was there, they might not know the whole story, or they might want something else altogether.  I was a harbinger of secrets.  A prize target. 

For someone who wanted revenge for past deeds…

Or maybe I was just being sidelined while certain people got away.  It would set us back, and I would miss the deadline.

The room was suddenly bathed in light.  Not bright but enough to make everything distinctly clear.  After my eyes adjusted.

It was just an ordinary room, pale green walls, carpet with water stains on one side, a window painted black. A bed and nothing else.

The bedspread had seen better days.

The sheets and pillowcase matched.

It was not a hotel room.

“Mr Ryker.”  The voice was female, youngish, not angry, but not gloating.

The sound came from the roof, near the flashing red light.  The speaker was watching me.

“I’m going to open the door.  There is no point trying to escape.  If you do try, you will be shot.  I just want to ask some questions.”

Routine or otherwise?  While attached to electric wires, I could be shocked if I didn’t give a suitable answer.

“Go ahead,” I said, whether they believed I would stay put or not.

I sat on the side of the bed after considering my options for escape.  It was possible, but it was also suicidal.  It was a better option to see who my captor was, then reassess.

After a minute, the lock clicked, and the door opened.  I could see a guard, armed, ten feet back from the other side of the door.  Just outside a woman, nothing special to define her, in dress, in features, in language.

She looked, for all intents and purposes, like a schoolteacher or librarian.  That might have been a defining feature.  A tigress dressed up to look like a kitten.

“Mr Ryker, at last we meet.  You are a very elusive man.”

“Not that elusive, apparently.”  I gave my best impression of a defeated protagonist.

She smiled.  “Don’t despair.  You only made one mistake.  You cared.”

I shrugged.  There was a difference between caring and following orders, but I wasn’t going to explain the difference. 

What I wanted to know was how they knew about the call, or worse still, the location of the target that was used to draw me into their web.

“Come.  Walk with me.”

“Isn’t that risky.  I’m sure you know what I’m capable of?”

“You’re not going to risk Deborah’s life, are you?”

Was there a simple answer to that question?  If we could not keep her safe, there was only one other option. It was one I was not very happy about.

“In normal circumstances, Mr Ryker, I would agree with you.  But you stepped over that invisible line, didn’t you?”

I closed my eyes and took a few seconds to think about how different this might be if I had not taken that one step.  It was just one kiss, but it had a profound effect on me.

Against everything I had been taught.

One moment undid years of training and work ethic, loyalty to the job, and ignoring the distractions.

A shrug, then I stood and faced her.

“My boss always said, in this line of work, everyone has a use-by date.”

“That’s a bit harsh.  You make it sound like he thinks you are all sacrificial lambs.”

“Aren’t we?”

“Doesn’t have to be so.”  She took several steps back, leaving space for me to pass, and the guard would not lose direct line of sight.

I joined her.

There was a hint of lavender in the air.

I’d never seen her before, and of all the players from the briefing, and there were about a dozen, she was not one of them.

So much for thorough research.

“You’re wondering who I am, aren’t you?”

“Not just another pretty face, I imagine.”

“You think I have a pretty face?  I assure you, back when I was a teenager, I was the proverbial ugly duckling.”

High school, peer groups, the in girls making life hell for the ugly ducklings.  Revenge could be a bitch, and I wondered how many of her contemporaries were wishing they’d never met her.

“Not any more.”

It was a long passage with doors with numbers on them.  A dormitory, perhaps.  An old school.

At the end of the passage a large ornate staircase, with two sets of stairs to the level below, one on the left-hand side, and one on the right.

The wall opposite the balcony had windows, some glass, smeared with years of detritus, the centre Staines glass with a depiction of Christ of the cross and angels swirling.

Below looked dusty and littered with furniture that had been, if I were to guess, tossed by disaffected students or inmates.

Odd, no one had tried to hurl a desk or chair through the window.

It was impossible to see outside.

“What is this place?”

“A monument to the rich and powerful who strived hard to keep most of the population in poverty.”

“And when the revolution came, you simply traded one set of greedy bastards for another.  The people basically traded poverty for death.”

There was a flash of anger in her eyes.  “You think you’re better than us?”

“I think if you were to go back to your village and see how the people are, they would be no better off than they were a hundred and fifty years ago.  If I were to go back home to my village, we would be no better off than we were a hundred years ago.  The world revolves around the one per cent who own everything and the five per cent that run everything.  I’m sure you want for nothing, which makes this a hollow argument about ideology.”

What looked like someone counting to ten before exploding, she sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“We will beg to differ.”

“Think what you like.  You’re totally wrong, and if your people taught you anything, it’s not to debate with the enemy.”

The smile returned, the first in her eyes remained.

Was I going to be the challenge she might be looking for? 

Several volleys of machine gun fire broke the tension, and her eyes betrayed her thoughts.

“What the…”

A single shot dropped the guard with the gun, and out of the shadows, one of Barrymore’s agents appeared.  Jocelyn or Josephine, I couldn’t remember her name.

Another two heavily armoured agents came up the stairs, guns pointed at my mysterious friend.

I saw Jocelyn put a hand to her ear and listen. The reply, “Clean up, move out.”

The two agents bound the girl and took her away.  She had not recovered from the shock.  I was still a little surprised myself.

“It works,” Jocelyn said.

She was referring to the device that had been implanted in me before the operation.  They needed a crash test dummy.  I volunteered.

If it hadn’t worked, it was quite literally a suicide mission.

“Is she anyone of consequence?”  I was referring to my captor.

“Just one of a dozen brainwashed agents he thinks can contribute to a better world.  It’s like a cult, with a maniacal leader and a bunch of acolytes.  Pity really.”  She slapped me on the shoulder. “Good work.  We got another assignment for you.  Not quite as easy as this one was.”

Crash test dummy or suicidal maniac? 

All in a day’s work.

©  Charles Heath  2026

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 136/137

Days 136 and 137 – Writing Exercise

The first thing I could hear when consciousness returned was the swooshing sound.  It was an odd sound that lingered, causing puzzlement momentarily.

Until recognition kicked on.  A roof fan, turning slowly, regurgitates air that holds the aroma of mould.

The odd sensation, if it could be called that, was that silence wasn’t silent.  There were noises everywhere on the edge of my consciousness.

The fan was simply the loudest.

Noises that my mind, as it finally started working again, tried to identify because that will to survive had kicked in.

It needed to know where I was, why I was there, how long I had been there, and what had happened in the period just before.

Except my mind at that moment could only deal with one thing at a time.

The fact that I was alive.

It was dark, but when was darkness really darkness?  It wasn’t.  There was always some ambient light somewhere.  A crack, a hole, even a covered window could never stop even the tiniest of rays from getting through.

There was one, at the top, where the black paint had not been applied properly.  I focused on it, watched it get bigger, and then converted what was inky blackness into a lesser shade of black.

I was in a room.

I closed my eyes then opened them again.

There was something else.

Yes, on the periphery of my vision.  A blinking red dot.  I shifted my head slightly and saw it, perhaps the corner of the room, blink, blink, blink.

Steady.  Slow.  As if sending a message.  Of course, we are watching you.

Question: Who is the ‘we’?

Location established.

Not in imminent danger.

Breathe.

I was lying down on a reasonably soft surface, and carefully testing fingers, one arm then the other, one leg then the other.

No restraints.  No pain when moving any part.

Move head, no pain, so my incapacitation was not a result of being hit or shot.

Only possibility: drugged.

So…

Where was I before this happened?

It took a moment to process the memories, isolate the details.  I received an address, a house I had been to before several times, with a special code.

An urgent request for help.

At the last interview, I had been instructed to give the target a burner phone with one number, mine, and a code that would be routed to me with the location.

I went to the location, gained access to the building, and found the target sitting in a room bound to a chair.

Then nothing.

They, whoever they were, had been waiting for me.

That meant only one possibility:  the target was in on the ambush.

Here’s the thing.

If I were to do a threat assessment, based on one being low and ten being high, it was, at the moment, a three.

I was not bound, not gagged, not hurt.

Why?

Whoever was holding me in this room wanted me for something.

The lack of restraints told me they did not expect me to retaliate, which meant they had leverage, and they would speak to me before initiating anything.

Alternatively, running through possibilities, they could use this room as a means of conditioning, alternating hot and cold, intense lighting, flashing lights, loud and soft sounds, darkness, sleep deprivation, all so I would lose track of time.

Leading to interrogation, sometimes with violence.

Been there and done that.

They could know why I was there, they might not know the whole story, or they might want something else altogether.  I was a harbinger of secrets.  A prize target. 

For someone who wanted revenge for past deeds…

Or maybe I was just being sidelined while certain people got away.  It would set us back, and I would miss the deadline.

The room was suddenly bathed in light.  Not bright but enough to make everything distinctly clear.  After my eyes adjusted.

It was just an ordinary room, pale green walls, carpet with water stains on one side, a window painted black. A bed and nothing else.

The bedspread had seen better days.

The sheets and pillowcase matched.

It was not a hotel room.

“Mr Ryker.”  The voice was female, youngish, not angry, but not gloating.

The sound came from the roof, near the flashing red light.  The speaker was watching me.

“I’m going to open the door.  There is no point trying to escape.  If you do try, you will be shot.  I just want to ask some questions.”

Routine or otherwise?  While attached to electric wires, I could be shocked if I didn’t give a suitable answer.

“Go ahead,” I said, whether they believed I would stay put or not.

I sat on the side of the bed after considering my options for escape.  It was possible, but it was also suicidal.  It was a better option to see who my captor was, then reassess.

After a minute, the lock clicked, and the door opened.  I could see a guard, armed, ten feet back from the other side of the door.  Just outside a woman, nothing special to define her, in dress, in features, in language.

She looked, for all intents and purposes, like a schoolteacher or librarian.  That might have been a defining feature.  A tigress dressed up to look like a kitten.

“Mr Ryker, at last we meet.  You are a very elusive man.”

“Not that elusive, apparently.”  I gave my best impression of a defeated protagonist.

She smiled.  “Don’t despair.  You only made one mistake.  You cared.”

I shrugged.  There was a difference between caring and following orders, but I wasn’t going to explain the difference. 

What I wanted to know was how they knew about the call, or worse still, the location of the target that was used to draw me into their web.

“Come.  Walk with me.”

“Isn’t that risky.  I’m sure you know what I’m capable of?”

“You’re not going to risk Deborah’s life, are you?”

Was there a simple answer to that question?  If we could not keep her safe, there was only one other option. It was one I was not very happy about.

“In normal circumstances, Mr Ryker, I would agree with you.  But you stepped over that invisible line, didn’t you?”

I closed my eyes and took a few seconds to think about how different this might be if I had not taken that one step.  It was just one kiss, but it had a profound effect on me.

Against everything I had been taught.

One moment undid years of training and work ethic, loyalty to the job, and ignoring the distractions.

A shrug, then I stood and faced her.

“My boss always said, in this line of work, everyone has a use-by date.”

“That’s a bit harsh.  You make it sound like he thinks you are all sacrificial lambs.”

“Aren’t we?”

“Doesn’t have to be so.”  She took several steps back, leaving space for me to pass, and the guard would not lose direct line of sight.

I joined her.

There was a hint of lavender in the air.

I’d never seen her before, and of all the players from the briefing, and there were about a dozen, she was not one of them.

So much for thorough research.

“You’re wondering who I am, aren’t you?”

“Not just another pretty face, I imagine.”

“You think I have a pretty face?  I assure you, back when I was a teenager, I was the proverbial ugly duckling.”

High school, peer groups, the in girls making life hell for the ugly ducklings.  Revenge could be a bitch, and I wondered how many of her contemporaries were wishing they’d never met her.

“Not any more.”

It was a long passage with doors with numbers on them.  A dormitory, perhaps.  An old school.

At the end of the passage a large ornate staircase, with two sets of stairs to the level below, one on the left-hand side, and one on the right.

The wall opposite the balcony had windows, some glass, smeared with years of detritus, the centre Staines glass with a depiction of Christ of the cross and angels swirling.

Below looked dusty and littered with furniture that had been, if I were to guess, tossed by disaffected students or inmates.

Odd, no one had tried to hurl a desk or chair through the window.

It was impossible to see outside.

“What is this place?”

“A monument to the rich and powerful who strived hard to keep most of the population in poverty.”

“And when the revolution came, you simply traded one set of greedy bastards for another.  The people basically traded poverty for death.”

There was a flash of anger in her eyes.  “You think you’re better than us?”

“I think if you were to go back to your village and see how the people are, they would be no better off than they were a hundred and fifty years ago.  If I were to go back home to my village, we would be no better off than we were a hundred years ago.  The world revolves around the one per cent who own everything and the five per cent that run everything.  I’m sure you want for nothing, which makes this a hollow argument about ideology.”

What looked like someone counting to ten before exploding, she sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“We will beg to differ.”

“Think what you like.  You’re totally wrong, and if your people taught you anything, it’s not to debate with the enemy.”

The smile returned, the first in her eyes remained.

Was I going to be the challenge she might be looking for? 

Several volleys of machine gun fire broke the tension, and her eyes betrayed her thoughts.

“What the…”

A single shot dropped the guard with the gun, and out of the shadows, one of Barrymore’s agents appeared.  Jocelyn or Josephine, I couldn’t remember her name.

Another two heavily armoured agents came up the stairs, guns pointed at my mysterious friend.

I saw Jocelyn put a hand to her ear and listen. The reply, “Clean up, move out.”

The two agents bound the girl and took her away.  She had not recovered from the shock.  I was still a little surprised myself.

“It works,” Jocelyn said.

She was referring to the device that had been implanted in me before the operation.  They needed a crash test dummy.  I volunteered.

If it hadn’t worked, it was quite literally a suicide mission.

“Is she anyone of consequence?”  I was referring to my captor.

“Just one of a dozen brainwashed agents he thinks can contribute to a better world.  It’s like a cult, with a maniacal leader and a bunch of acolytes.  Pity really.”  She slapped me on the shoulder. “Good work.  We got another assignment for you.  Not quite as easy as this one was.”

Crash test dummy or suicidal maniac? 

All in a day’s work.

©  Charles Heath  2026

The Cinema of My Dreams – It ended in Sorrento – Episode 50

Arrival in Sorrento

We didn’t have to wait that long to see what our tail did, he simply sped up and drove off, perhaps satisfied he had been made, and knew we were going to ditch him before we got to our eventual destination.

It would be hard for him to guess where we were going, so that meant that he would arrange for someone to pick us up as we came into the city, or after.

After all, he knew what car I was travelling in, and he knew what we looked like.  Which is why we stopped briefly in Naples and changed cars and clothes.

Then, by a quirk of fate, we saw him again, parked on the side of the road, near Pompei, waiting.  He had been hidden behind several trucks, but at the last minute on of the trucks moved, and I saw the car.

And there he sat, not assuming we would be smart enough to change cars.  What was it Rodby said from time to time?  Good help is hard to find.

I had no doubt the moment he reported in, that other arrangements were not already underway.  If they were smart, they’d know what my destination was, the home of the Burkehardt’s up in the hills that overlooked the Mediterranean, with billion-dollar views, nestled in among the exclusive and very expensive resorts.

Cecelia had booked on and it was where she had been relaxing in what time she had away from surveillance.  She was at the hotel when I called, and we arrived there a half hour later.

I’d already forewarned her about my new shadow.

She met us down in the foyer, gave Francesca her ‘don’t mess with me, or else’ scowl, and then took us up to the room.  It was amazing, and I would probably never be able to afford to stay in a room, or place, like it if I had to pay for it myself.

Francesca was suitably impressed.  “How much had you got on your expense account.  I can barely buy a sandwich with mine.”

“Normally we don’t either, but this is a ‘by all means available’ mission.”

She gave me a blank look, and I didn’t have the time or inclination to explain it to her.  We would not be seeing her again after this.

“I trust your charges are behaving themselves selves and remaining anonymous,” I asked her, after sitting down with a bottle of wine and three glasses, and we’d all taken a separate chair each.

“No.  You didn’t expect them to stay in the room, despite the fact someone is trying to kill them.  I’m not their nursemaid.  They want to get killed they can.”

I frowned at her.  We were supposed to be keeping them alive.  I suppose learning they were fakes didn’t help.  Vittoria and Juliet weren’t, or at least I hope they weren’t, but the jury was still out on that.

I was going back to see them after I spoke to the Burkehardt matriarch.  Or maybe I would talk to Juliet again.  I couldn’t believe that everything I did seemed to involve her, and I was hoping the universe wasn’t trying to tell me something.

“Who are these people again,” Francesca asked.

“Didn’t you tell her?”  Cecelia looked at me.

“No.  Relevance?”

“None,” she looked at Francesca.  “A woman called Vittoria who was a maid at the house I’ve been watching for that last day or so and her daughter Juliet are supposed to be keeping a low profile.  It appears Juliet might be another direct descendant of the Count’s.  I’m surprised your employers didn’t tell you of her?”

“They mentioned the possibility of another heir.  They just didn’t know who or where she was.  She’s here, you say?”

“Yes.  I hope they’re safe, and, no, we’re not telling you where they are.  Not until we know your employers, whom I’m assuming are the Burkehardt’s, are not trying to kill her.”

“I assure you that neither am I, and I work for the investigations company, not the Burkehardt’s.  I can only take orders from my boss.  He was very clear about that.”

“Good.  I’d hate to have to shoot you because you lied.”

I could see she meant what she said.  I hoped Francesca did too.  She seemed to brush that threat aside.

“What about the countess?”

“That’s the bigger question, where is she?  We’d like to know so if you have any ideas, please share.  For this dynamic to work, you must be willing to share information.  It’s not going to be a one-way street.”

“So, you don’t know where the countess is?”

Cecelia looked at me. 

“Inquisitive little bugger, isn’t she?  Don’t make it so obvious you want to know.  Didn’t your boss tell you; that you must be subtle when approaching people like us, people with more experience, and less of a conscience.

Francesca looked at me.

“Don’t think I won’t stop you if you get in the way.  You can stay while it is useful to us, but don’t ask questions you know we’re not going to give you answers for.”

“Then I’ll assume you don’t know where she is, other than most likely in Sorrento, waiting for the meeting.”

“Good assessment.”

© Charles Heath 2023