Day 202 – Writing Exercise

…

Myra was a law unto herself.

She was the sort of girl that everyone had an opinion of, and not one of them was right.

The thing is, she never corrected them.

And something else: she didn’t care what anyone else thought of her.  She simply didn’t speak to her detractors; she ignored the taunts and derogatory remarks from people who should have known better.

Even her female contemporaries had little nice to say about her, and I don’t think any of them willingly associated with her.

Not that she cared.

It became a pastime to sit nearby and watch people who should have more sense give her a hard time.  Some said that it was part of the rites of passage in high school. 

Others said it was character building.

I thought differently, but to my dishonour, I did nothing about it.

That is, not for a long time.

And then, when I did, I was not sure why.

…

Reggie was a class A deadhead.

Good at football, so-called God’s gift to the girls, and had parents who were, by their own admission, movers and shakers.

By that I guess it meant they were large donors to the school football team, which ensured Reggie had a place to focus his talents

I’d seen him play football, and it was not talent I saw.

Eleanor was equally as dense as Reggie, which in turn made them ideally suited.  She was the head cheerleader, and the resident graduating class queen bee.

Girls would literally kill to get her approval.

I didn’t see the sense in it.  Cheerleaders were regarded by the football team, and others, as something quite different to what the girls thought of themselves.

Needless to say, Myra could never make the cheer squad.  Which seemed wrong to me because she looked just as attractive as all the rest, if you took away the exterior cladding, put her in a school uniform and also got rid of the excessive make-up and the different coloured hair each week

This week it was hot pink.

Nor did she wear the school uniform and had racked up an inestimable number of demerit points that got her into almost permanent detention.

That’s where I first met her.

I’d seen her around, and watched from afar the effects of her attitude towards her fellow students.  Her friends, if they could be called that, were the misfits, and by the middle of graduation year that’s where I finished up.

In detention with the other misfits.

I doubt she noticed me.  No one did, which in a way suited me because I was studying hard so I could go to college.  I know my parents would be glad to see me go, because I didn’t quite fit their idea of a proper child.

Whatever that meant. 

They could hardly put up my older brother as a shining example I should follow.  I was not interested in sport.

So, there we were.  In detention.

…

Mr Forsythe, probably about a hundred years old and on the cusp of retirement, was the teacher in charge of detention.

No one else wanted to do it, and the few extra dollars he got in overtime went towards his retirement, wandering the ruins of ancient Rome.

His subject was history, and Ancient Rome, a subject he could go on about, and did.  Most students treated his class as a joke, but he just ignored them and kept on going, and probably would through a prison riot.

I thought he was a good teacher and his class was one of the few I liked.  There were six students in detention.  Myra and I sat on opposite sides of the room down the back.  The other four sat up the front and were badly behaved. 

Not dramatically so, or they would never get out of going to detention.  Neither Myra nor I joined them.  Detention was just another hiding place.

Until it wasn’t.

For a month, the others left us alone.  No point stirring up someone who wouldn’t rise to the occasion.

Eleanor was different, because of her parents’ influence, the fact she was Prom Queen this year, and on the student council.  She ended up on the detention list for giving another cheer wannabe the treatment, otherwise known as the initiation rite.

I’d heard she had been cited, but I never thought that the head would enforce it.  It remained to be seen whether she would stay.

She made a dramatic entrance.

She didn’t bother to knock on the door, marched straight up to Mr Forsythe’s desk and slammed the sheet of paper on his desk so loudly we all jumped.

Up till then we were in our own world, shutting out the rest of the room.

Forsythe didn’t look up.  Didn’t look interested either.

“Hey, old man.  This is rubbish.  I don’t do detention.”

He took a few seconds, then looked up at her.  “My name is Mr Forsythe, young lady, not ‘hey, you ‘.”
He took the piece of paper and read it, then looked at her again.  “I presume you can read?”

“Of course, you old fool.”

He chose to ignore the insults, but I knew somewhere in this conversation he was going to put her in her place.  “Read it.”

“It’s rubbish.  I won’t do detention.”

“So, now it’s going from don’t do to won’t do, which is something else entirely.  What you will do is sit down and be quiet.  Detainees do not make noise.”

With that, he went back to his book.

“This is stupid.  I’m leaving.”

He sighed, then looked at her.  “Then you will fail history and therefore will not be able to graduate with the rest of your class.  And no graduation, no prom.  Now sit down and contemplate why you are here, and why you are not going to darken my door for much longer.  Am I understood?”

He metaphorically kicked her where it hurt.  Graduation and the prom.  Being the Prom Queen, being the Queen Bee.

I thought Forsythe was brave taking on her family.  He would not be the first teacher her family had tried to ruin.

“This is wrong.”

“No.  What is wrong is that you thought you could do whatever you pleased without consequences.  That might happen at home but not in here.  Sit and be silent.”

She glared at him, but it had no effect.

She was not going to be able to leave, so she scanned the room and saw us, Myra and me.  I could guess what was going to happen next

She came down the back of the room and sat at the desk in the middle of the back row.  She smiled at me and scowled at Myra.

Eleanor was never able to get under Myra’s skin, not in the way Myra could do to her.  It was easy.  She had nothing Eleanor could use against her, unlike every other girl.

She smiled at me because I was once foolish enough to be tricked by her, but once bitten was enough.  I made a point of avoiding her.  Not so easy in detention. But I had nothing to lose.  I didn’t care if I never got out of detention.

She made a great effort to make sure Mr Foresyth knew where she landed.  He wouldn’t care; in fact, he was glad Myra and I sat down in the back.  We had earned the titles of troublemakers not because we started it; it was because trouble came to us.

“So, Blinky, what are you in for?”

Blinky was the name her boyfriend gave me because one day he saw me squinting because my eyes were watering.  It stuck because they thought it was insultingly funny.

It was better than some of the names they handed out

“Rest and recreation.”  Which in a sense was true. Trying to avoid the football team’s idea of being boisterous was a tiring exercise.

“You must have done something bad to get put in here with the circus ringmaster.”

She was going to push Mr Foresyth as far as she could, perhaps thinking if she insulted him enough he would kick her out.

“No.  But as a columnist for the high school magazine, this is where I get to work on the juicy stories.”

“No one reads it.”

“You don’t read it, Eleanor, which is to your detriment.  But the Staff and the crazy students do.  Where else can they read about what’s going on?.  I’ve been waiting to do a story on you, and here you are, my prayers answered.”

I remembered the last student reporter the magazine editor sent to interview the head cheerleader, and what had happened. 

His problem was he had a crush on her, and she played him like a finely tuned fiddle.  Her expression changed when I said my prayers were answered.  She had heard what she wanted to hear.  No surprises there.

Myra, in the meantime, tried hard to not look like she was listening in.  Eleanor would tire of me soon, and turn on her.

I asked, “Have they made Reggie the prom king yet.  I’m betting you wouldn’t want anyone else as your king, and I reckon he’d be very dark if someone else got the gig.”

“Why should it matter to me?  I have nothing to do with it.”

“You have everything to do with it.  I heard you screaming at the head master that if Reggie didn’t get it, there’d be no more handouts.  What did you mean by that?”

“Nothing.  I was just making noise.”  She tried to pretend none of it mattered to her, but it did.  It was going to be her way or the highway.

I shrugged.  “I heard you were trying to take over the grad dance.  Please do.  At the moment it’s going to be very boring.  Oh. And what was that strongly opinionated discussion with Mr Masters?  You might want to be slightly more tactful with everyone, or it will come back and bite you.”

Masters was the teacher in charge of the school paper, and one of the teachers organising the Prom.  He didn’t like half of the class he taught because none of them had any respect for the press.  It was, he said, an alarming trend that started at the top.  Added to the fact that most of his students couldn’t string two words together.

“I thought articles were meant to be flattering.  He said any article written about me would be faithfully portray me as the model for the new students as we move towards the next century.”

I was there.  He was being expansive and trying to get her on-side.  He needed coverage on the big issues leading up to the Prom and graduation.  That meant getting Eleanor and Reggie to cooperate.

That was going to be my job, in the end.

Along with commentary for the yearbook.

“Try being your naturally charming self, Eleanor, and the story will write itself.” 

There was not much point telling her the story was done, and it was not too flattering.  That could change.

“Then let me know when you’re free.”

She turned away, and interaction was done.  Hopefully I wouldn’t have to talk to her until detention was over.

Or I could just move.

…

Myra kept a wary eye on her main detractor.  It wasn’t as if she had to; it was just that small problem of Eleanor sneaking up on you when you least expected her.  She did it to everyone, her secret weapon.  I know the other girls in her squad were fed up and couldn’t wait for the football season to end, and for her to graduate.

I kept a wary eye on Eleanor.  For her it was too good an opportunity to land a few insults.  Not that Myra would want me to interfere.  She could handle Eleanor, but some days she could be particularly trying.

“There’s a spot about to become vacant in the squad.  I think you would make an excellent member.”

Myra simply ignored her.  It might work for a while, but it was not a long-term strategy.  The idea that Myra would be remotely interested in being a cheerleader was almost funny.

Myra took her time to swing around and give her a long, hard stare.  “That was a joke, wasn’t it?”

It was.  Eleanor was up to something.  And the fact she had approached her, not the other way around, told me there was a storm front on the horizon.

“No.  I’m serious.  The coach said I needed to relax my stamp on the team and allow for some new talent to facilitate and breathe life into a quintessential and least recognised support group.  He recommended I take a hint from the Dallas Cowboys cheer squad.”

The coach had been joking, but something had ignited in her after watching one episode of a TV series, which one of the football team had mentioned, for reasons other than cheerleading pointers. 

Then came the rumour she was thinking of trying out for the team, next time they were recruiting.  It was not the first time she got one of these ideas.

Myra had no interest in honing her dance skills into a weird sexualised mating performance, which she maintained was just another part of the male culture of putting women in their place engendered by the school and society in general.

She was part of a very small group of girls who firmly believed that men and boys had no right to dictate what they could do, or limit their aspirations.  Eleanor believed a girl’s aspirations were to work until married, then become a wife and mother.  She led by example, working at the diner, and on track to marry Reggie.

Myra had said more than once she couldn’t think of anything worse.  College and career beckoned.  She had no interest in boys, weddings, or wanting to be ‘looked after’ by any man.

“I doubt whether my ballet classes when I was six would be classes as the necessary dancing skills required for the job, Eleanor.  Thank you for the opportunity, but I respectfully decline.”

Being polite was one thing, but refusing an offer from Eleanor, Queen Bee, leader of the pack, daughter of self confessed movers and shakers was something else entirely.

Eleanor’s expression changed.  The last time I’d seen something like it was when the weather changed, and not for the good.

“So, Eleanor,” I said, thinking now would be a good time to run distraction, “if the cheer team is recruiting, does that mean you are dissatisfied with the current team members?  I mean, notwithstanding the minor errors in the routine at the last game, does that mean you’re admitting there are problems?  Coach Wiley says…”

She swung around and glared at me.  Everyone knew the mistake was hers, simply because she had been mysteriously injured the week before.  There were rumours for that too; Reggie had a violent streak, but no one was talking about it.

“Coach Wylie has too many opinions about stuff that’s above his pay grade.  Perhaps if he tried to elevate the football team’s performance and not comment on the intakes of our routine, we might reach the finals.”

There was no mistaking the venom in her tone or the words from her mother’s mouth.  She was the cheerleader and prom queen of her day, and much rested on the shoulders of her daughter. 

“That’s your mother’s disappointment, isn’t it?” I said.

“You have no idea.”

I didn’t.  My parents had no expectation of me.  That all got poured into Jeremy, one of the Reggie acolytes, and through him I heard the true feelings Reggie had for Eleanor, or any of the cheerleaders.

“What happened to you a few weeks back?  You haven’t been yourself?”

The expression softened, which for Eleanor was a marked change from the tough facade she tried hard to maintain.  It may have surprised her that anyone could sound concerned.  I know her mother pushed her way beyond her limits and ability simply because her mother was living her aspirations through her daughter.

It was, I’d finally realised, an impossible dream.  When would Eleanor?

Then the facade snapped back.  “Nothing.  And if anything had it would be none of your business.”  She was turning back to Myra.

“Actually, it is.  News is news, good or bad, and the public have a right to know.” I was quoting Walters.

She was going to regret sitting down in the back.

She turned back, and the look she gave me was unfathomable.  Despair, hatred, misery- it was like she had just discovered everything she had thought her life was about just got turned on its head.

“I did nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong according to the values your mother puts on your actions, which I’m guessing were handed down.  It may have served 20 years ago but not now.  The same as you can create your own style.  Just saying.”

Perhaps I’d overstepped the mark, but I got the impression she was in a no-win situation on all fronts.  The school, the cheer squad, Reggie, her mother, and her contemporaries.

She didn’t say anything; perhaps there was no searing retort she could throw at me right then.

But Myra decided to add her two cents’ worth, “I’m guessing that cheer squad vacancy just evaporated.”

Eleanor turned to her, “Why can’t you just be an ordinary girl, wear a school uniform like the rest of us, and what’s with the hair?  I mean seriously?”

It wasn’t said in a mean way, but it could have had less of an edge.

“You never heard of individualism?  I hate the idea of conformity and living out someone’s expectations.  I am my own person.”

“And your mother lets you?”

“She doesn’t like it, but within reason I have a reasonable amount of freedom.”

“You’re lucky then.”

I added my two cents’ worth too, “My parents don’t care.  Maybe if I was on the football team, or in the track and field team, but I’m not.  To them I don’t exist.  To the other boys in teams, I’m just a punching bag.  It’s why I’m here.”

“So you’re telling me I’m not the only one with problems “

“I get told often I am the problem,” Myra said.

“That’s what Reggie tells me.  Once I learn my place, he says, things will be better.”

An admission perhaps she might not have told us in different circumstances, but it explained a great deal.  Reggie was not a very nice person, and even as she was right now, she was still a better person than he ever would be.

“It doesn’t have to be like that, Eleanor.  You could do a lot better than him.”  Myra, I could see, was now concerned for her.

But she wasn’t going to let her guard down.  Eleanor might be sounding reasonable, but she had been like this before, just before the explosion

“I don’t know.  Until I walked into this room, everything was in a state that I could control, or at least I thought I could.  Talking to you two can be depressing, all the negative stuff going on.  To be honest, I wish I hadn’t talked to you two.  Now my head is filled with even more nonsense.  I can’t explain how I ended up in detention to anyone.  And you two can’t talk about this to anyone.  I need to think.  God, even thinking about thinking it is giving me a headache.”

With that, she pulled out a book that looked to me like a romance novel, similar to ones my mother read, and noth Myra and I went back to our solitude. But things were different now, in a way I couldn’t explain.

…

When detention was over, she left without saying goodbye.  Myra speculated that she would leave before the end of the year and simply run away.

Myra normally just packed her bag and left.  Today she lingered as I got my stuff together.  She wanted to say something, and I could see her thinking about how she was going to handle things now.

We left together, not saying anything.  There was a coffee shop I’d seen her in nearby, and we headed there.

Coffee and cake delivered, and about a dozen words later, she had decided what she was going to say.  I’d never seen her deliberate before.

“You didn’t have to run interference.”

“I know.  It was just a protective instinct I have for people I care about.”

“You don’t have to.  I can handle Eleanor.”

“Most people can’t.  And she’s like a shark smelling blood in the water, especially from those who didn’t know they’re bleeding.”

“True.  She is a piece of work.”

“Actually, her mother is, and she tries hard to live up to her expectations.”

“Do you care about her too?”

It was asked in a manner I construed would be the same as asking if I was harbouring a secret bunch of feelings towards her.  I wasn’t; she was not in my league, and I was fine with it.

“In a brotherly way maybe.  My brother hangs out with Reggie, and I hear stuff.  She needs to dump him sooner rather than later.”

“He’s hurting her?”

“I’m not sure, but he had a temper, and I hear he’s a mean drunk.”

Her expression and watery eyes told me that she knew something about domestic bullies.  If that was the case, it explained away a few assumptions.

“She won’t listen, even if you told her.”

“Not while her mother has her claws in her.”  I shrugged.  “I just hope it’s an accident not waiting to happen.”

That topic ended, and perhaps her desire to converse any more.  She drained the cup and finished the pie.  I thought she would just get up and walk off.

She hesitated.

“You going to college next year?”

“I’d like to.”

“It’s the only way I’m going to get out of the house and from under the oppressors.  I’m looking for someone to share an apartment.”

“You’d trust me?”

“You care about me.  That’s good enough for me.”

“Well, it solves a problem.  Why not?”

“Why not indeed.”  She slipped out of the seat and threw her bag over her shoulder.  The pink hair stood out under the harsh lights. “Until tomorrow.  You might try sitting closer.  I promise I won’t bite.”

Famous last words.

I watched her leave, stopping just outside the windows to give me a small wave, and I had to wonder where this might lead.

Or that I should not think too much about it and see what might happen in what was always going to be an uncertain future.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 202 – Writing Exercise

…

Myra was a law unto herself.

She was the sort of girl that everyone had an opinion of, and not one of them was right.

The thing is, she never corrected them.

And something else: she didn’t care what anyone else thought of her.  She simply didn’t speak to her detractors; she ignored the taunts and derogatory remarks from people who should have known better.

Even her female contemporaries had little nice to say about her, and I don’t think any of them willingly associated with her.

Not that she cared.

It became a pastime to sit nearby and watch people who should have more sense give her a hard time.  Some said that it was part of the rites of passage in high school. 

Others said it was character building.

I thought differently, but to my dishonour, I did nothing about it.

That is, not for a long time.

And then, when I did, I was not sure why.

…

Reggie was a class A deadhead.

Good at football, so-called God’s gift to the girls, and had parents who were, by their own admission, movers and shakers.

By that I guess it meant they were large donors to the school football team, which ensured Reggie had a place to focus his talents

I’d seen him play football, and it was not talent I saw.

Eleanor was equally as dense as Reggie, which in turn made them ideally suited.  She was the head cheerleader, and the resident graduating class queen bee.

Girls would literally kill to get her approval.

I didn’t see the sense in it.  Cheerleaders were regarded by the football team, and others, as something quite different to what the girls thought of themselves.

Needless to say, Myra could never make the cheer squad.  Which seemed wrong to me because she looked just as attractive as all the rest, if you took away the exterior cladding, put her in a school uniform and also got rid of the excessive make-up and the different coloured hair each week

This week it was hot pink.

Nor did she wear the school uniform and had racked up an inestimable number of demerit points that got her into almost permanent detention.

That’s where I first met her.

I’d seen her around, and watched from afar the effects of her attitude towards her fellow students.  Her friends, if they could be called that, were the misfits, and by the middle of graduation year that’s where I finished up.

In detention with the other misfits.

I doubt she noticed me.  No one did, which in a way suited me because I was studying hard so I could go to college.  I know my parents would be glad to see me go, because I didn’t quite fit their idea of a proper child.

Whatever that meant. 

They could hardly put up my older brother as a shining example I should follow.  I was not interested in sport.

So, there we were.  In detention.

…

Mr Forsythe, probably about a hundred years old and on the cusp of retirement, was the teacher in charge of detention.

No one else wanted to do it, and the few extra dollars he got in overtime went towards his retirement, wandering the ruins of ancient Rome.

His subject was history, and Ancient Rome, a subject he could go on about, and did.  Most students treated his class as a joke, but he just ignored them and kept on going, and probably would through a prison riot.

I thought he was a good teacher and his class was one of the few I liked.  There were six students in detention.  Myra and I sat on opposite sides of the room down the back.  The other four sat up the front and were badly behaved. 

Not dramatically so, or they would never get out of going to detention.  Neither Myra nor I joined them.  Detention was just another hiding place.

Until it wasn’t.

For a month, the others left us alone.  No point stirring up someone who wouldn’t rise to the occasion.

Eleanor was different, because of her parents’ influence, the fact she was Prom Queen this year, and on the student council.  She ended up on the detention list for giving another cheer wannabe the treatment, otherwise known as the initiation rite.

I’d heard she had been cited, but I never thought that the head would enforce it.  It remained to be seen whether she would stay.

She made a dramatic entrance.

She didn’t bother to knock on the door, marched straight up to Mr Forsythe’s desk and slammed the sheet of paper on his desk so loudly we all jumped.

Up till then we were in our own world, shutting out the rest of the room.

Forsythe didn’t look up.  Didn’t look interested either.

“Hey, old man.  This is rubbish.  I don’t do detention.”

He took a few seconds, then looked up at her.  “My name is Mr Forsythe, young lady, not ‘hey, you ‘.”
He took the piece of paper and read it, then looked at her again.  “I presume you can read?”

“Of course, you old fool.”

He chose to ignore the insults, but I knew somewhere in this conversation he was going to put her in her place.  “Read it.”

“It’s rubbish.  I won’t do detention.”

“So, now it’s going from don’t do to won’t do, which is something else entirely.  What you will do is sit down and be quiet.  Detainees do not make noise.”

With that, he went back to his book.

“This is stupid.  I’m leaving.”

He sighed, then looked at her.  “Then you will fail history and therefore will not be able to graduate with the rest of your class.  And no graduation, no prom.  Now sit down and contemplate why you are here, and why you are not going to darken my door for much longer.  Am I understood?”

He metaphorically kicked her where it hurt.  Graduation and the prom.  Being the Prom Queen, being the Queen Bee.

I thought Forsythe was brave taking on her family.  He would not be the first teacher her family had tried to ruin.

“This is wrong.”

“No.  What is wrong is that you thought you could do whatever you pleased without consequences.  That might happen at home but not in here.  Sit and be silent.”

She glared at him, but it had no effect.

She was not going to be able to leave, so she scanned the room and saw us, Myra and me.  I could guess what was going to happen next

She came down the back of the room and sat at the desk in the middle of the back row.  She smiled at me and scowled at Myra.

Eleanor was never able to get under Myra’s skin, not in the way Myra could do to her.  It was easy.  She had nothing Eleanor could use against her, unlike every other girl.

She smiled at me because I was once foolish enough to be tricked by her, but once bitten was enough.  I made a point of avoiding her.  Not so easy in detention. But I had nothing to lose.  I didn’t care if I never got out of detention.

She made a great effort to make sure Mr Foresyth knew where she landed.  He wouldn’t care; in fact, he was glad Myra and I sat down in the back.  We had earned the titles of troublemakers not because we started it; it was because trouble came to us.

“So, Blinky, what are you in for?”

Blinky was the name her boyfriend gave me because one day he saw me squinting because my eyes were watering.  It stuck because they thought it was insultingly funny.

It was better than some of the names they handed out

“Rest and recreation.”  Which in a sense was true. Trying to avoid the football team’s idea of being boisterous was a tiring exercise.

“You must have done something bad to get put in here with the circus ringmaster.”

She was going to push Mr Foresyth as far as she could, perhaps thinking if she insulted him enough he would kick her out.

“No.  But as a columnist for the high school magazine, this is where I get to work on the juicy stories.”

“No one reads it.”

“You don’t read it, Eleanor, which is to your detriment.  But the Staff and the crazy students do.  Where else can they read about what’s going on?.  I’ve been waiting to do a story on you, and here you are, my prayers answered.”

I remembered the last student reporter the magazine editor sent to interview the head cheerleader, and what had happened. 

His problem was he had a crush on her, and she played him like a finely tuned fiddle.  Her expression changed when I said my prayers were answered.  She had heard what she wanted to hear.  No surprises there.

Myra, in the meantime, tried hard to not look like she was listening in.  Eleanor would tire of me soon, and turn on her.

I asked, “Have they made Reggie the prom king yet.  I’m betting you wouldn’t want anyone else as your king, and I reckon he’d be very dark if someone else got the gig.”

“Why should it matter to me?  I have nothing to do with it.”

“You have everything to do with it.  I heard you screaming at the head master that if Reggie didn’t get it, there’d be no more handouts.  What did you mean by that?”

“Nothing.  I was just making noise.”  She tried to pretend none of it mattered to her, but it did.  It was going to be her way or the highway.

I shrugged.  “I heard you were trying to take over the grad dance.  Please do.  At the moment it’s going to be very boring.  Oh. And what was that strongly opinionated discussion with Mr Masters?  You might want to be slightly more tactful with everyone, or it will come back and bite you.”

Masters was the teacher in charge of the school paper, and one of the teachers organising the Prom.  He didn’t like half of the class he taught because none of them had any respect for the press.  It was, he said, an alarming trend that started at the top.  Added to the fact that most of his students couldn’t string two words together.

“I thought articles were meant to be flattering.  He said any article written about me would be faithfully portray me as the model for the new students as we move towards the next century.”

I was there.  He was being expansive and trying to get her on-side.  He needed coverage on the big issues leading up to the Prom and graduation.  That meant getting Eleanor and Reggie to cooperate.

That was going to be my job, in the end.

Along with commentary for the yearbook.

“Try being your naturally charming self, Eleanor, and the story will write itself.” 

There was not much point telling her the story was done, and it was not too flattering.  That could change.

“Then let me know when you’re free.”

She turned away, and interaction was done.  Hopefully I wouldn’t have to talk to her until detention was over.

Or I could just move.

…

Myra kept a wary eye on her main detractor.  It wasn’t as if she had to; it was just that small problem of Eleanor sneaking up on you when you least expected her.  She did it to everyone, her secret weapon.  I know the other girls in her squad were fed up and couldn’t wait for the football season to end, and for her to graduate.

I kept a wary eye on Eleanor.  For her it was too good an opportunity to land a few insults.  Not that Myra would want me to interfere.  She could handle Eleanor, but some days she could be particularly trying.

“There’s a spot about to become vacant in the squad.  I think you would make an excellent member.”

Myra simply ignored her.  It might work for a while, but it was not a long-term strategy.  The idea that Myra would be remotely interested in being a cheerleader was almost funny.

Myra took her time to swing around and give her a long, hard stare.  “That was a joke, wasn’t it?”

It was.  Eleanor was up to something.  And the fact she had approached her, not the other way around, told me there was a storm front on the horizon.

“No.  I’m serious.  The coach said I needed to relax my stamp on the team and allow for some new talent to facilitate and breathe life into a quintessential and least recognised support group.  He recommended I take a hint from the Dallas Cowboys cheer squad.”

The coach had been joking, but something had ignited in her after watching one episode of a TV series, which one of the football team had mentioned, for reasons other than cheerleading pointers. 

Then came the rumour she was thinking of trying out for the team, next time they were recruiting.  It was not the first time she got one of these ideas.

Myra had no interest in honing her dance skills into a weird sexualised mating performance, which she maintained was just another part of the male culture of putting women in their place engendered by the school and society in general.

She was part of a very small group of girls who firmly believed that men and boys had no right to dictate what they could do, or limit their aspirations.  Eleanor believed a girl’s aspirations were to work until married, then become a wife and mother.  She led by example, working at the diner, and on track to marry Reggie.

Myra had said more than once she couldn’t think of anything worse.  College and career beckoned.  She had no interest in boys, weddings, or wanting to be ‘looked after’ by any man.

“I doubt whether my ballet classes when I was six would be classes as the necessary dancing skills required for the job, Eleanor.  Thank you for the opportunity, but I respectfully decline.”

Being polite was one thing, but refusing an offer from Eleanor, Queen Bee, leader of the pack, daughter of self confessed movers and shakers was something else entirely.

Eleanor’s expression changed.  The last time I’d seen something like it was when the weather changed, and not for the good.

“So, Eleanor,” I said, thinking now would be a good time to run distraction, “if the cheer team is recruiting, does that mean you are dissatisfied with the current team members?  I mean, notwithstanding the minor errors in the routine at the last game, does that mean you’re admitting there are problems?  Coach Wiley says…”

She swung around and glared at me.  Everyone knew the mistake was hers, simply because she had been mysteriously injured the week before.  There were rumours for that too; Reggie had a violent streak, but no one was talking about it.

“Coach Wylie has too many opinions about stuff that’s above his pay grade.  Perhaps if he tried to elevate the football team’s performance and not comment on the intakes of our routine, we might reach the finals.”

There was no mistaking the venom in her tone or the words from her mother’s mouth.  She was the cheerleader and prom queen of her day, and much rested on the shoulders of her daughter. 

“That’s your mother’s disappointment, isn’t it?” I said.

“You have no idea.”

I didn’t.  My parents had no expectation of me.  That all got poured into Jeremy, one of the Reggie acolytes, and through him I heard the true feelings Reggie had for Eleanor, or any of the cheerleaders.

“What happened to you a few weeks back?  You haven’t been yourself?”

The expression softened, which for Eleanor was a marked change from the tough facade she tried hard to maintain.  It may have surprised her that anyone could sound concerned.  I know her mother pushed her way beyond her limits and ability simply because her mother was living her aspirations through her daughter.

It was, I’d finally realised, an impossible dream.  When would Eleanor?

Then the facade snapped back.  “Nothing.  And if anything had it would be none of your business.”  She was turning back to Myra.

“Actually, it is.  News is news, good or bad, and the public have a right to know.” I was quoting Walters.

She was going to regret sitting down in the back.

She turned back, and the look she gave me was unfathomable.  Despair, hatred, misery- it was like she had just discovered everything she had thought her life was about just got turned on its head.

“I did nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong according to the values your mother puts on your actions, which I’m guessing were handed down.  It may have served 20 years ago but not now.  The same as you can create your own style.  Just saying.”

Perhaps I’d overstepped the mark, but I got the impression she was in a no-win situation on all fronts.  The school, the cheer squad, Reggie, her mother, and her contemporaries.

She didn’t say anything; perhaps there was no searing retort she could throw at me right then.

But Myra decided to add her two cents’ worth, “I’m guessing that cheer squad vacancy just evaporated.”

Eleanor turned to her, “Why can’t you just be an ordinary girl, wear a school uniform like the rest of us, and what’s with the hair?  I mean seriously?”

It wasn’t said in a mean way, but it could have had less of an edge.

“You never heard of individualism?  I hate the idea of conformity and living out someone’s expectations.  I am my own person.”

“And your mother lets you?”

“She doesn’t like it, but within reason I have a reasonable amount of freedom.”

“You’re lucky then.”

I added my two cents’ worth too, “My parents don’t care.  Maybe if I was on the football team, or in the track and field team, but I’m not.  To them I don’t exist.  To the other boys in teams, I’m just a punching bag.  It’s why I’m here.”

“So you’re telling me I’m not the only one with problems “

“I get told often I am the problem,” Myra said.

“That’s what Reggie tells me.  Once I learn my place, he says, things will be better.”

An admission perhaps she might not have told us in different circumstances, but it explained a great deal.  Reggie was not a very nice person, and even as she was right now, she was still a better person than he ever would be.

“It doesn’t have to be like that, Eleanor.  You could do a lot better than him.”  Myra, I could see, was now concerned for her.

But she wasn’t going to let her guard down.  Eleanor might be sounding reasonable, but she had been like this before, just before the explosion

“I don’t know.  Until I walked into this room, everything was in a state that I could control, or at least I thought I could.  Talking to you two can be depressing, all the negative stuff going on.  To be honest, I wish I hadn’t talked to you two.  Now my head is filled with even more nonsense.  I can’t explain how I ended up in detention to anyone.  And you two can’t talk about this to anyone.  I need to think.  God, even thinking about thinking it is giving me a headache.”

With that, she pulled out a book that looked to me like a romance novel, similar to ones my mother read, and noth Myra and I went back to our solitude. But things were different now, in a way I couldn’t explain.

…

When detention was over, she left without saying goodbye.  Myra speculated that she would leave before the end of the year and simply run away.

Myra normally just packed her bag and left.  Today she lingered as I got my stuff together.  She wanted to say something, and I could see her thinking about how she was going to handle things now.

We left together, not saying anything.  There was a coffee shop I’d seen her in nearby, and we headed there.

Coffee and cake delivered, and about a dozen words later, she had decided what she was going to say.  I’d never seen her deliberate before.

“You didn’t have to run interference.”

“I know.  It was just a protective instinct I have for people I care about.”

“You don’t have to.  I can handle Eleanor.”

“Most people can’t.  And she’s like a shark smelling blood in the water, especially from those who didn’t know they’re bleeding.”

“True.  She is a piece of work.”

“Actually, her mother is, and she tries hard to live up to her expectations.”

“Do you care about her too?”

It was asked in a manner I construed would be the same as asking if I was harbouring a secret bunch of feelings towards her.  I wasn’t; she was not in my league, and I was fine with it.

“In a brotherly way maybe.  My brother hangs out with Reggie, and I hear stuff.  She needs to dump him sooner rather than later.”

“He’s hurting her?”

“I’m not sure, but he had a temper, and I hear he’s a mean drunk.”

Her expression and watery eyes told me that she knew something about domestic bullies.  If that was the case, it explained away a few assumptions.

“She won’t listen, even if you told her.”

“Not while her mother has her claws in her.”  I shrugged.  “I just hope it’s an accident not waiting to happen.”

That topic ended, and perhaps her desire to converse any more.  She drained the cup and finished the pie.  I thought she would just get up and walk off.

She hesitated.

“You going to college next year?”

“I’d like to.”

“It’s the only way I’m going to get out of the house and from under the oppressors.  I’m looking for someone to share an apartment.”

“You’d trust me?”

“You care about me.  That’s good enough for me.”

“Well, it solves a problem.  Why not?”

“Why not indeed.”  She slipped out of the seat and threw her bag over her shoulder.  The pink hair stood out under the harsh lights. “Until tomorrow.  You might try sitting closer.  I promise I won’t bite.”

Famous last words.

I watched her leave, stopping just outside the windows to give me a small wave, and I had to wonder where this might lead.

Or that I should not think too much about it and see what might happen in what was always going to be an uncertain future.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 201 – Where do the words come from?

…

“I Swallowed the World and It Came Out as Words”: The Immortal Legacy of Martha Gellhorn

There are writers who sit in quiet rooms, crafting worlds from the safety of imagination. And then there are writers like Martha Gellhorn.

To read Gellhorn is to understand that writing, at its absolute best, is not merely an art form—it is an act of digestion and survival. Famously reflecting on her life as one of the twentieth century’s greatest war correspondents, she once wrote: “I swallowed the world and it came out as words.”

It is a staggering metaphor. It suggests a writer who didn’t just observe history from a distance; she consumed it, absorbed its toxic realities, felt its crushing weight, and then metabolised it onto the page.

In this post, we’re going to explore the profound meaning behind Gellhorn’s iconic quote, look at her extraordinary life on the front lines, and discover what modern writers and seekers can learn from her voracious appetite for truth.

---

The Appetite of a Witness: What It Means to “Swallow the World”

Most people spend their lives trying to filter out the harshness of the world. We look away from conflict, sanitise our news feeds, and build comfortable cocoons.

Martha Gellhorn did the exact opposite. With a fierce, unblinking gaze, she threw herself directly into the maw of global catastrophe.

When Gellhorn said she swallowed the world, she was describing radical empathy paired with relentless curiosity. She didn’t parachute into a war zone to file a quick story and catch the next flight out. She lived with the refugees, shivered in the trenches, smelled the cordite, and witnessed the devastation wrought on ordinary human beings.

• Spain (1937): She covered the Spanish Civil War alongside Ernest Hemingway (her future husband), focusing not on the grand strategy of generals, but on the terror of civilians cowering under fascist bombing raids.
• Normandy (1944): Denied press accreditation as a woman, she smuggled herself onto a hospital ship on D-Day, locking herself in a bathroom until she could step ashore as a stretcher-bearer to witness the carnage firsthand.
• Dachau (1945): She was among the first journalists to enter the Dachau concentration camp, producing dispatches that captured the silent, skeletal horror of the Holocaust with devastating clarity.

To swallow the world means to refuse numbness. It means taking in the suffering, the beauty, the politics, and the paradoxes of the human experience without spitting out the bitter parts.

---

The Alchemical Process: When It “Came Out as Words”

Swallowing the world is only the first half of the equation. The true alchemy lies in the second: “…and it came out as words.”

For Gellhorn, writing was not about ego or personal branding. It was a moral imperative. The things she ingested—the injustice, the bravery, the institutional failures—had to be transformed into language, or they would tear her apart from the inside.

Her prose style was the direct result of this digestion process:

• Relentlessly Direct: She had no patience for flowery adjectives or intellectual posturing. When you are writing from the ruins of Madrid or the liberated ashes of Europe, fluff is a luxury you cannot afford.
• Deeply Human-Centric: While male contemporaries often focused on hardware, tactics, and troop movements, Gellhorn focused on the cook, the mother, the child, and the soldier. Her words gave faces to statistics.
• Unapologetically Outspoken: Gellhorn believed that “objectivity” was often a coward’s excuse for neutrality in the face of evil. Her words always took a side—the side of the victim, the oppressed, and the truth.

Her writing wasn’t manufactured in a vacuum; it was forced out of her by the sheer gravity of what she had witnessed.

---

Why Gellhorn’s Legacy Matters Today

In our modern digital landscape, we are constantly “swallowing the world.” Through smartphones, social media algorithms, and 24-hour news cycles, we ingest a firehose of global trauma, outrage, and information every single day.

Yet, much of this digital consumption leaves us feeling hollow, paralysed, and cynical. Why? Because we consume without metabolising. We scroll, but we do not create; we react, but we rarely reflect.

Martha Gellhorn’s legacy offers a powerful antidote to modern burnout and information fatigue:

1. Be Present: You cannot write about—or understand—the world if you view it only through a screen. Engage with reality directly, deeply, and without filters.
2. Find Your Purpose: Gellhorn didn’t write to be famous; she wrote because bearing witness was her duty. Anchor your creative output in something larger than yourself.
3. Honor the Truth: In an era of misinformation and spin, Gellhorn’s uncompromising commitment to factual, boots-on-the-ground reality is a masterclass for journalists and content creators alike.

---

Final Thoughts: What Have You Swallowed Today?

Martha Gellhorn lived a life that was staggering in its scope, courage, and output. She didn’t just report on history; she ingested it, digested it, and left behind a body of work that continues to challenge and inspire.

Her famous quote leaves us with a lingering, provocative question as writers, creators, and human beings:

What kind of world are you swallowing—and what are your words doing with it?

If we dare to open our eyes and truly take in the reality around us, our words, too, might carry the weight, the passion, and the undeniable truth of a life fully lived.

---

Did this quote by Martha Gellhorn resonate with you? Who are your favourite literary war correspondents or truth-tellers? Let us know in the comments below!

…

Day 201 – Where do the words come from?

…

“I Swallowed the World and It Came Out as Words”: The Immortal Legacy of Martha Gellhorn

There are writers who sit in quiet rooms, crafting worlds from the safety of imagination. And then there are writers like Martha Gellhorn.

To read Gellhorn is to understand that writing, at its absolute best, is not merely an art form—it is an act of digestion and survival. Famously reflecting on her life as one of the twentieth century’s greatest war correspondents, she once wrote: “I swallowed the world and it came out as words.”

It is a staggering metaphor. It suggests a writer who didn’t just observe history from a distance; she consumed it, absorbed its toxic realities, felt its crushing weight, and then metabolised it onto the page.

In this post, we’re going to explore the profound meaning behind Gellhorn’s iconic quote, look at her extraordinary life on the front lines, and discover what modern writers and seekers can learn from her voracious appetite for truth.

---

The Appetite of a Witness: What It Means to “Swallow the World”

Most people spend their lives trying to filter out the harshness of the world. We look away from conflict, sanitise our news feeds, and build comfortable cocoons.

Martha Gellhorn did the exact opposite. With a fierce, unblinking gaze, she threw herself directly into the maw of global catastrophe.

When Gellhorn said she swallowed the world, she was describing radical empathy paired with relentless curiosity. She didn’t parachute into a war zone to file a quick story and catch the next flight out. She lived with the refugees, shivered in the trenches, smelled the cordite, and witnessed the devastation wrought on ordinary human beings.

• Spain (1937): She covered the Spanish Civil War alongside Ernest Hemingway (her future husband), focusing not on the grand strategy of generals, but on the terror of civilians cowering under fascist bombing raids.
• Normandy (1944): Denied press accreditation as a woman, she smuggled herself onto a hospital ship on D-Day, locking herself in a bathroom until she could step ashore as a stretcher-bearer to witness the carnage firsthand.
• Dachau (1945): She was among the first journalists to enter the Dachau concentration camp, producing dispatches that captured the silent, skeletal horror of the Holocaust with devastating clarity.

To swallow the world means to refuse numbness. It means taking in the suffering, the beauty, the politics, and the paradoxes of the human experience without spitting out the bitter parts.

---

The Alchemical Process: When It “Came Out as Words”

Swallowing the world is only the first half of the equation. The true alchemy lies in the second: “…and it came out as words.”

For Gellhorn, writing was not about ego or personal branding. It was a moral imperative. The things she ingested—the injustice, the bravery, the institutional failures—had to be transformed into language, or they would tear her apart from the inside.

Her prose style was the direct result of this digestion process:

• Relentlessly Direct: She had no patience for flowery adjectives or intellectual posturing. When you are writing from the ruins of Madrid or the liberated ashes of Europe, fluff is a luxury you cannot afford.
• Deeply Human-Centric: While male contemporaries often focused on hardware, tactics, and troop movements, Gellhorn focused on the cook, the mother, the child, and the soldier. Her words gave faces to statistics.
• Unapologetically Outspoken: Gellhorn believed that “objectivity” was often a coward’s excuse for neutrality in the face of evil. Her words always took a side—the side of the victim, the oppressed, and the truth.

Her writing wasn’t manufactured in a vacuum; it was forced out of her by the sheer gravity of what she had witnessed.

---

Why Gellhorn’s Legacy Matters Today

In our modern digital landscape, we are constantly “swallowing the world.” Through smartphones, social media algorithms, and 24-hour news cycles, we ingest a firehose of global trauma, outrage, and information every single day.

Yet, much of this digital consumption leaves us feeling hollow, paralysed, and cynical. Why? Because we consume without metabolising. We scroll, but we do not create; we react, but we rarely reflect.

Martha Gellhorn’s legacy offers a powerful antidote to modern burnout and information fatigue:

1. Be Present: You cannot write about—or understand—the world if you view it only through a screen. Engage with reality directly, deeply, and without filters.
2. Find Your Purpose: Gellhorn didn’t write to be famous; she wrote because bearing witness was her duty. Anchor your creative output in something larger than yourself.
3. Honor the Truth: In an era of misinformation and spin, Gellhorn’s uncompromising commitment to factual, boots-on-the-ground reality is a masterclass for journalists and content creators alike.

---

Final Thoughts: What Have You Swallowed Today?

Martha Gellhorn lived a life that was staggering in its scope, courage, and output. She didn’t just report on history; she ingested it, digested it, and left behind a body of work that continues to challenge and inspire.

Her famous quote leaves us with a lingering, provocative question as writers, creators, and human beings:

What kind of world are you swallowing—and what are your words doing with it?

If we dare to open our eyes and truly take in the reality around us, our words, too, might carry the weight, the passion, and the undeniable truth of a life fully lived.

---

Did this quote by Martha Gellhorn resonate with you? Who are your favourite literary war correspondents or truth-tellers? Let us know in the comments below!

…

Days 199 and 200 – Writing Exercise

…

Trouble rarely knocks on the front door and announces itself.  It always comes disguised as something else.

I learned this first-hand early one morning when my older brother, Joey, knocked on the front door at 2:30 am, something he had never done before, and when I opened the door, he fell down and said four words: “it wasn’t my fault,” then bled to death on the doorstep before I could get an ambulance.

What wasn’t his fault?

That I learned about ten minutes after I called emergency services.  A police car and a black sedan arrived out the front of our house.

I’d seen enough police TV shows to realise the black car was most likely the FBI, and my brother had been into some serious crime.

Or my father had finally stepped over that invisible line, but what did that have to do with Joey?

In Joey’s case, he had always maintained no one was getting hurt; it was just the redistribution of wealth.  He was dumb enough to believe what he was told.

I thought it was too good to be true.

After calling 000, I went next door to Dr Rogers’ house and pounded on the door.  He was used to people in our neighbourhood doing that because he took only a minute to answer.

Now it would be to tend a dead brother lying lifeless half in and out of the doorway.  And that I was home alone.

We could hear the sirens on the cold night air.  All he said was, “Where is he?”

It was not the first time I had to call on him for my brother.

“I think he’s dead.”

He reached back to get his bag, and we walked quickly to our.  He shook his head when he saw the body and that it was not moving.

The harsh orange coloured light from the overhead porch light cast an ethereal glow over what could be described as a macabre scene out of a horror movie.

He checked the usual places for a pulse and then saw the bullet wounds in his back.  “He’s lucky he made it to here.  You didn’t hear any gunshots”?

It sounded matter-of-fact, but I knew it was hurting him.  He had delivered all of us children and had watched us grow up.

“I only heard the pounding in the door.”

The doctor stood and looked at the decking around the body, and then followed a trail of blood coming from the street.  I followed the doc.

He stopped by the pole that had a street light barely illuminating the ground below.  Pooled blood.  Someone had brought him home and helped him to the door.

Then left him to die.  Someone who Joey had called a friend, who he believed had his back.

The doc muttered to himself.  We could see the police car coming towards us, siren blaring and lights flashing.  We made it back to the porch just as the cars screeched to a halt.

Two officers and two men in suits.

Another police car arrived; officers jumped out and began securing the scene, pushing the growing group of onlookers back.

People had started to wake up and either come out the front and stand on their verandas or peer through the front windows.

For some it was an event to watch, others the culmination of a series of violent events that had taken over their street, and sadly our house was the epicentre. 

This was not going to help me.

Not any more.  My parents had resisted the courts dragging me off to child welfare after Joey’s last arrest, saying my house was not a suitable environment because of my brother’s criminal activities, and the fact my father wasn’t quite operating a legitimate business.

My mother was at her wits’ end, having finally issued an ultimatum to her husband and her two eldest sons.  My sister, Anna, had been sent to her grandmother’s two states away.

Perhaps I might share the same fate.

There was only one certainty in all of this: the fact that my mother was not a criminal, and to keep her reputation, if not her sanity, she would have to leave.  She had threatened it, and I knew it would happen.

If she was here now, she would have broken down and cried.

The second police car had the sergeant who had last visited, and had reluctantly left me in situ based on now broken promises. 

There was not going to be negotiations this time.

..

I think that Sergeant Donovan was glad to see that the doc was with me.  He wasn’t going to ask a question he knew I would have to lie about.

He knew my mother was at the hospital, on night shift because it paid more and kept us afloat.  My father gave money when she nagged enough, but it was never enough, and if it wasn’t for her mother, we would not be living in the house.

We lived rent- and utility bills free.  We had to find the rest.

Alex, my other brother, was out; where I didn’t know and didn’t ask.  He was slowly worming his way into Joey’s organisation, against all advice.  For all I knew, he could be lying dead in a back alley somewhere.

I had no inclination to join, or associate with them, as much as they tried intimidation.  The leader was a boy not much older than Joey’s, tougher, meaner and street-savvy.  But, after all said and done, just a boy, out of his depth.

The Sergeant knew who he was and with this development, hell was about to rain down on him and his neighbourhood gang cohorts. 

The two FBI guys had stood back until her arrived.  He looked at the body, then the doctor who shook his head, then looked at me.

“What happened?”

I looked at the body, which was once my brother.  It was the precise moment tears came as the full weight of what happened hit me.

“He’s dead.”

An ambulance, lights flashing but no siren, arrived, and the paramedics came, walking quickly. 

“Who’s inside?”

I think he knew.  “Just me.  Mom’s at work, and Alex is- I don’t know where.”

He shook his head, refraining from saying what he thought.  Instead, “Have you told your mother?”

That’s when I realised I hadn’t, too wrapped up in the horror of it all.

Perhaps the Sarge realised that it was all too much for me because he put a hand on my shoulder and said, “None of this is your fault.  If you have your mother’s phone number, I’ll call her.”

I went inside and got the cell phone she had left for emergencies.  I guess this qualified.  It was the only number available.  I gave it to him.

The paramedics were checking Joey and talking to the doc.  There was nothing they could do for him.  One of the two remained with the body; the doc was taken aside for an interview.  The other paramedics took me to the ambulance and checked.

I watched the sergeant animatedly talking to my mother, though I suspect he would not be making any headway.  Being told your eldest son had been found shot dead and lying on your doorstep would have a profound effect on you.

A new truck had arrived with crime scene investigators who were getting dressed and propping before examining the crime scene, even if the crime had been perpetrated elsewhere.

…

An hour had passed, the doc had gone home, the paramedics had gone, and the coroner had replaced them.  Forensics had collected everything they considered relevant, and then the body was removed, and would be taken to the morgue for a post-mortem, and my mother would have to go there and verify it was her son.

That was going to be brutal, but at least he didn’t die in front of her.  That image was going to live with me for a long time.

The sergeant had come over after the call to my mother saying she would be coming home as soon as she could.

I had no phone number for my father, and had found it easier to deal with his absence from our house by pretending he didn’t exist

Alex still hadn’t come home, but if I knew him, seeing all the flashing lights and police, he would be, more likely than not, in hiding somewhere near.

The Sergeant had held off questioning me until my mother arrived.  In the meantime, Mrs Quick, who lived on the other side, had come over and identified herself as a family friend and stayed with me.

When we were alone, she asked, “What happened?”

“Joey is dead.”

She knew someone had died on the doorstep, but she didn’t know it was Joey.  She was visibly shocked and took a moment before asking the next question.  “How did he die?”

“The police say from multiple gunshot wounds.  I could see he had been shot in the back.”

“Was he dead when you found him?”

“No.  Doc thinks he was helped to the front door, they left, and he knocked on the door.  I opened it, and he collapsed, and died a few seconds later.”

“Did he say who killed him?”

I thought about it, but no one other than the police needed to know what he said, not that it was much and certainly not the name of his killer.

My best guess was that he and his fellow criminals were caught in the act of robbing someone or some place and the owner or night-watchman shot at them. 

Eight times was a little excessive, and once might indicate there was a group to shoot at. Eight bullets meant he was alone or there were two of them.  Alex…

My mother arrived in a police car.  She was in tears, and came over straight to Mrs Quick and me.

There was wariness because Mrs Quick, though kind-hearted and helpful, could be a little judgemental.  My mother thanked her, then hugged me.

The sergeant gave her some time, then came over.  The two men in suits were not FBI but Detectives, one of whom came with him.

It was question time, and I would have to think about the answers I gave them.  My father always said never to offer information, and to answer the questions with short, truthful answers, or as close to the truth as possible.

This was simply because he said liars needed to have good memories, and the police were prone to asking the same question seven different ways.  I figured he may have been referring to his own experience with police interrogations.

The detective covered the usual ground, but added more.  “How did your brother get to the door?”

“The doctor had worked out they arrived by car, he was helped to the door, and whoever helped him left.”

“Any idea who these others were?”

I got a very strange look from my mother.  Perhaps she knew something I didn’t.

“No.  I was inside, upstairs and was alerted by someone knocking on the door.  My room is at the back of the house, not the front, so I didn’t see who dropped him off.”

“Who was he out with tonight?”

“Couldn’t tell you.  He was not in the habit of telling me anything, perhaps to stop me from getting involved.  I know my brother ran with one of the local gangs.  He told me which one, but I didn’t listen because I preferred not to know.  They actively try to recruit me, but I wasn’t interested.  I know Alex was interested and went off with them more than once.  And no, I don’t know where he is.”

It was clear then to them I was not going to be of much use, except from the time of the door knock till he dropped dead.  I didn’t tell them what he said.

I think the detectives knew who my brother was, what he had been doing and who he ran with before they came.  Neither seemed either surprised or moved that he was dead.  One said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss ‘, but I don’t think he meant it.

They switched to my mother, and she seemed to know who he was involved with, and hoped they caught up with them.

Another hour after that, the Sargent left.  Nothing more could be done until the morning.  He had asked if we could stay somewhere else, but that was impossible at four or five in the morning.

So was sleep, though both of us tried. 

Alex, however, was still missing.

…

I never got that night out of my head for a long, long time.  I think in the end I finished up hating Joey for ruining everything.

Alex didn’t come home that night.

A week later, the Sergeant came back and filled us in on what had happened.

The next morning there was a police report of a robbery at a 24-hour mini mart not far from our place.  There were three masked robbers: a man and two boys.  The man had a gun, so it became armed robbery.

The mini mart owner had been robbed before, and after the last time got himself a gun.  He put a sign in the front windows that said robbers would be shot.

Shoot them he did.  He killed the man, in the process getting shot himself.  The two kids with the man turned and ran at the first shot.  The mini mart owner continued shooting indiscriminately at the two fleeing.

He thought he hit them but wasn’t sure.  By that time he was losing blood and called emergency services.  He just managed to see them jump in a vehicle and drive off.  No idea what sort of car, but it was driven by someone other than the two.

That was the extent of his statement.  Nothing was stolen.

Another report was of a car speeding and crashing into another car parked on the street not far from the minimart.  One passenger got out and ran.  The car kept going, presumably to drop Joey off.

It was seen leaving our house, and twenty minutes later was cleaned up by a garbage truck when the driver ran a red light.

The passenger who ran got three blocks away before he collapsed, and after discovery the next morning, seeming asleep on a stoop, was discovered to be dead.  One of the stray bullets hit him in the leg, and he bled to death.

It was Alex.

The man was one of the gang leaders, and the two who died in the getaway car were kids younger than Alex.

It was a tragedy.

I didn’t know how to process that information, so I just put it out of my mind until the funerals.  My mother and I went to her mother’s place, and we stayed there until the police finished with it.

We didn’t go back.  Grandma sold it, and we lived with her.  My mother tried to get on with her life, but after the funeral of her two sons she seemed to lose interest in everything.

To see half your family wiped out by senseless violent gad to leave a very large scar.  The lesson I learned from it: keep on the straight and narrow.

Or do what we did.  Sell up and go and live on the other side of the country where no one knew who we were. 

…

©  Charles Heath  2026