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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

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

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

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

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

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

Maria nodded and left.

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

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

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

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

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

An apology was the last thing I expected.

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stood.  “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

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

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

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

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

No kiss, no touch, no looking back. 

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2025

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If I only had one day to stop over in – Stockholm – what would I do?

One Day in Stockholm: The One Place You Must Visit for an Unforgettable Day

Stockholm is a city of islands, innovation, and timeless beauty—but what if you only have one day? Whether you’re en route to another destination or squeezing in a whirlwind visit, a short stopover in Sweden’s capital can still be magical. With limited time, the key is to focus on one standout experience rather than rushing between sights.

So, if you have just one day in Stockholm, make it memorable by visiting:

Gamla Stan – The Beating Heart of Stockholm

Gamla Stan, Stockholm’s Old Town, isn’t just a historic district—it’s a living storybook. Founded in the 13th century, this island neighbourhood weaves together medieval charm, royal history, and vibrant culture in a way that captures the essence of Sweden.

Why Gamla Stan?

  • Timeless Atmosphere: Wander through narrow cobblestone lanes, past buildings in shades of gold and rust, under lantern-lit passages that feel frozen in time.
  • Compact & Walkable: Perfect for a day visit, you can explore key highlights on foot without feeling rushed.
  • History at Every Turn: From the Royal Palace to Stortorget square (home to the iconic colorful merchant houses), history isn’t behind glass here—it’s all around you.

Must-Do in Gamla Stan

  1. Stortorget Square – Snap a photo by the iconic row of old merchant houses, and soak in the atmosphere of the oldest square in Stockholm.
  2. The Royal Palace – Even if you don’t go inside, witnessing the daily Changing of the Guard (at 12:15 PM on weekdays, 1:15 PM on Sundays) is a spectacle of tradition.
  3. Mårten Trotzigs Gränd – Walk down Stockholm’s narrowest street (just 90 cm wide) and feel the medieval pulse of the city.
  4. Fika like a Local – Pop into a classic café like Chokladkoppen on the square for coffee and a cinnamon bun—fika is a ritual here.

Make It Memorable

  • Get Lost on Purpose: Put away the map for an hour. Discover hidden courtyards, antique shops, and artisan boutiques.
  • Listen to Stories: Join a short walking tour—many are free or tip-based—and hear tales of kings, legends, and Stockholm’s rise from the water.
  • Sunset Views: End your day by walking to the water’s edge for views of the surrounding islands. In summer, the golden light over Gamla Stan is pure magic.

Practical Tips for Your Stopover

  • Transport: From Arlanda Airport, take the Arlanda Express (20 minutes) to Central Station, then it’s just a short walk or metro ride to Gamla Stan.
  • Luggage: Use left-luggage services at the airport or Central Station to travel light.
  • Timing: Arrive early to beat crowds, especially in summer. Even with just 5–6 hours, you can experience Gamla Stan fully.

One day in Stockholm doesn’t have to be a checklist. By choosing Gamla Stan, you immerse yourself in the soul of the city—where every corner whispers a story, and a single afternoon can feel like a journey through centuries.

So, on your next stopover, step into the charm of the Old Town. Sometimes the most memorable travels aren’t about seeing everything—but about fully experiencing one perfect place.
Hej då and happy travels!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 258

Day 258 – Writing exercise

…

I could hear the thumping sound of the helicopter long before it arrived, a sound I was very familiar with, one that haunted my dreams.  Years fighting a senseless war with an almost invisible enemy had taken its toll. 

So many of those I served with had died, during and since the war ended, ignominiously, and part of me had died with them.

As it got closer, it struck fear into my heart, just as it had them.  We had treated every trip out a one-way ticket to hell, and on return, the fervent wish that the politicians and diplomats would make it so we didn’t have to go again.

If wishes were water…

It hovered, blowing everything around, until it hit the ground.

A woman in a navy jumpsuit hopped out, ran bent over towards me, then out from under the rotors, and waved it back into the sky.

Eleanor Brickneal.

Three days into the search for Rodney Brickneal, nearly two hundred deputies, national guardsmen, town folk, and family hadn’t found a sign of him.

I was not surprised.  His father, a retired Admiral, said he knew the mountain like the back of his hand, and if he wanted to disappear, he would.  I was sure he was actively trying to help his son disappear; after all, there was no direct evidence linking him to the murder of his wife, and even if there was, he would dismiss it as manufactured.

But it would have been useful if Richard had hung around long enough to give us his side of the story.  Instead, my boss put out an APB labelling him armed and dangerous, and the chances of us getting him off that mountain alive dropped to zero.

“Billy.”

“Eleanor.”  Rodney’s sister.  My nemesis.

We knew each other; that is to say, I had briefly dated her in high school, and sort of stayed together until she joined the Navy, and I followed my father into law enforcement.  We just wanted different things, and Richard had spent a lifetime keeping us apart.

“You should have asked for me earlier,” she shouted in my ear as the helicopter lifted off.  Seconds later, it was gone, leaving the thudding sounds ringing in my ears.

“Your father vetoed it.  I don’t know what he’s thinking, but it isn’t helping us find him.”

“Your boss doesn’t like him.  Old running mates for Mayor.  My Dad doesn’t take losing well.”

“No one does, apparently.  You need a few minutes to prepare?  I prepared a backpack.”

“Still hike the hill?”

“Still looking for the gold.”

She smiled.  “Both of us were kidding, you know.”  It was a long-standing joke between Eleanor, Richard, and I.  He spun a very good tale, but I always believed he was telling the truth, especially when she backed it up.

I looked at her, putting on my serious expression.  “You never kid.”

“Elly.”  The Admiral caught sight of her and barked her name, enough to make her almost flinch.  They were not on the best of terms, not after she brought back my son’s body from the war zone.

“Dad.”

He glared at her.  Dad was a title she was only allowed to use in private.  Or at least that was his idea of family respect.  It was not hers.

“You didn’t need to come.  We’ve got this under control.”

“He should be here, telling the sheriff he’s innocent and why, instead of running away.  Only guilty people do that.”

“Look at what he’s up against, a corrupt Mayor and a sheriff with a personal vendetta.  Would you?”

“You’ve got no evidence, no proof.  If you convinced him to run away, then his blood will be on your hands.  Unless we can get him back.  Just remember, every day we wait while he plays this game, it gets worse for him.  His enemies are already talking about a reward.  That’ll bring out the gun-happy fortune hunters.  We need to end this now.  Why aren’t you out there looking for him?”

“Someone has to run this circus.”

I thought I was supposed to be doing that.  I shrugged.  “Then I’ll leave it in your capable hands, sir.  Eleanor and I are going to find him and bring him back alive.”

…

The sounds of the camp disappeared, and the natural sound of the forest took over.  The wind rustling through the leaves of the canopy, the aroma of the undergrowth, the trees, the rotting floor, still damp from the overnight storm that had washed away any chance of the dogs picking up a trail.

There was a special kind of silence once you were inside the forest, except for the occasional rustling, birds above, animals on the floor searching for food, the sound of your breathing as you picked up a path that had been recently used by something larger than a rabbit. 

There were bears, but this was not the time of the year they were out.  There were rumours of cats, big cats, but one hadn’t been sighted for decades.  Hunters had killed them all.  Hunters killed everything, including the deer, though recently I had been up here and seen a mother with her foal.

Eleanor was in front, where she always preferred to be.  In charge.  Even back when we were children, she had that manner and ability to manage, to assign, to be a leader and make decisions.  She had always been more mature than her age suggested.

She stopped and waited until I caught up.

“I hear you’re retiring?”

“Had enough.”

She gave me that meaningful look of hers, the one where you felt like it was a full-length body scan, searching for faults.

“What happened to that never say die attitude?”

“Goodness and light are out of vogue.  That last sheriff election, it was little more than a smear campaign.”

“Why didn’t you quit then?”

“People asked me not to.  Not everyone believed Samson would be the best choice.”

“Yet he still won?”

“You know how it works.  I couldn’t find any proof that they cheated, but finding that box of 532 votes that put him over the line, that didn’t seem right.  Same ballot box that got the mayor over the line too.”

“Dad has been muttering about that too.  Times have changed.  Staying or leaving when you’re done?”

“Leaving.  Nothing for me here now.”

Nothing but painful memories.  A son killed in another senseless war, a death Emma, my companion for more years than I could remember, succumbing to the grief she could never recover from.  The cancer the doctors said they had removed came back, and a year later she was gone.

Eleanor had come back for the funeral, the first time in a few years, and she had changed too.  I could see it, even though from the outside she seemed the same.  War did that to a soul, slowly bleeding the goodness out of you.

She took a drink from the bottle, then put it back.

“Onwards and upwards”

It was her favourite line, and often she would strike out and leave us laggers behind.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Her expression sometimes gave away what she was thinking.  Rarely, but it was there if you knew what to look for.  We both knew Richard better than anyone else.  He had a special place, up on the mountain, one he told us about but never showed us.  We both tried to follow him, but his skill in the forest was legendary.  But we had an idea where it might be, even though we had looked for it.

The thing is, we may have seen it and walked right past it.

“We’re starting at the last time either of us saw him.”  Then her expression changed.  Surprise, or something else.  “You were waiting.”

“For what?”

“Me.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t want to find him without me.  You know he’s innocent.”

“I know he couldn’t have done it.  It doesn’t mean he’s entirely innocent, but it’s a tick in a box.  He hasn’t exactly been a good boy, you know.  And Zelda, she was always courting trouble, snuggling up to the mayor.”

A look of disgust crossed her face.

“Not like that, but someone else.  I suspect she was recruited.  Information is the equivalent of gold these days.  And reneging, well, that can be bad for your health.  Maybe she accidentally found something that she was not supposed to.  I don’t know all the facts.”

“I thought you were not allowed to investigate?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Does Conway know what you’ve been up to?”

“He knows I have a rapport with this town, and my reputation, and he’s not stupid.”

“Then that adds a level of complexity.”  She looked around carefully, a complete 360-degree scan.  Sounds in the forest were going to take on a different meaning.

“Eyes and ears peeled, Billy.”

…

Trudging through the forest was not easy, especially where you had to forge your own trail.  Both our cell phones had GPS and kept us going in the right direction, though if we were being observed, it was not exactly straight.

I realised after half an hour that she was not continuously walking directly to a particular point, so if anyone was tracking us, they would hardly make sense of it.  Aside from the fact that once we left the bottom of the hill area, just off the camp side and car park, we started climbing, and the path was littered with rocks, fallen branches, and trees blocking the way.

It was slow progress.  We crossed trails, one rather fresh, that looked like dirt bikers made them, even though dirt bikes were banned.

After an hour, we reached a clearing which showed signs of recent activity: in the centre a fire pit, and around the edges, flattened grass indicating tents.  What was particularly annoying was that whoever was there just left their rubbish lying around.

“A month, two at the most,” she said.  “A long way to come just to make camp.”

“Maybe not.”

There had been rumours the mayor was courting a mining company to come up and do a survey for rare minerals that he believed were in the vicinity.  He had discovered some old prospecting notes in the city archives going back a hundred years, at a time when the rare minerals were not useful for anything.  Not like these days with mobile phones and computers needing resources that other countries were buying in order to monopolise the global market.

“The mayor is trying to sell off the wilderness as a mining bonanza.  For him and his cronies, of course, not for the betterment of the town.  Rare earth minerals, I’m told.”

“They’d be still here if they found any.”

I shrugged.  “We’ll never know until it’s too late.”

There were trails leading off the clearing, and we ventured along several, but they didn’t lead to anything other than what looked like scrapings for samples and holes dug to varying depths.

“Perhaps,” I said, after finding a rather deep hole at the edge of a ravine, “they actually found that gold Richard kept referring to.”

She simply shook her head, and we set off again, once again disappearing into the undergrowth.

Time passed slowly, or it seemed like it did.  We were this way, then that, then found a break in the undergrowth making progress easier.  Then, through the sounds of the wind in the trees, there was another sound, like rushing water. 

I knew there were several waterfalls and small lakes, and a river that snaked through the valley between two mountains, but I thought it was further away.  Perhaps it was not.

We headed towards the sound, and all of a sudden came out onto a small lake and on one side, a waterfall.  We were close to it, so close we could feel the drops of water being blown towards us.  It was a magnificent sight; one few would get to see.

“I don’t remember seeing this before,” she said.

“True.  I haven’t either, but then this was never part of the trail I took.  We always took a more roundabout way, which I always thought was Richard’s way of disorientating us.”

I took several photographs.  She noted the coordinates on her GPS.

We both saw what looked like a rough path leading towards the waterfall itself.

“Is that a path?”

“Only one way to find out.”

It was hazardous going because the rocks we wet and some mossy.  The noise got louder, and the spray denser, and water was running down the inside of my jacket.  It was cold, very cold.

“I can see a cave,” she said, then moved towards a gap between the rockface and the water.

Seconds later she disappeared.

I followed.

All of a sudden we were behind the wall of water, the sound of it thunderous, so loud I couldn’t hear what she said.  She motioned to follow, and we went along a few yards, when she turned right and headed into the rockface.

It was a cave.

We pulled out the torches and switched them on.  Behind the waterfall was a large cavern, and as we moved into it, the sound of the waterfall lessened.  Once inside, it was like a foyer, with tunnels leading off in several directions.

I looked down at the floor and notice footprints.  Several sets of tracks made by similar boots.

“This might be the secret hideaway,” I said, aiming the torchlight at the ground.

“They head into that cave.” she pointed her torch, and the beam only went so far.

I shrugged.  “Curious?”

She started walking, stopped, then switched off her torch.  “Kill it,” she whispered.

I did.  It was not total darkness; we still had light coming from behind the waterfall, but dark enough to blend into the shadows.

“What?”

“Voices.”

…

We waited.  I wanted to continue, with lights out, to see who or what was at the end, but she thought it was best to wait.

In the end, we did.  For half an hour.  Nothing.

“Now?”

“They might be waiting for us.  They had to see the light from the torches.”

“Who do you think ‘they’ might be.  Richard?”

“There were at least two voices.”

Richard and a friend, or accomplice?  “If it is him, I don’t think he’s going to kill his favourite sister.”

“Not so much a favourite these days.”

There wasn’t a scenario where I thought that could be possible.  “Then I’ll go, and you can wait here.  I’m sure he’ll hesitate long enough before shooting me.  Even he should realise I’m not his enemy.”

“He might not be in a rational state of mind.”

He might not, but then, if it was the Richard I knew, he was never irrational, just downright irritating.  There was a difference.

“Give me a few minutes, then follow.  Slowly.”

She put a hand on my shoulder.  “You don’t have to do this to impress me.”

“I tried that once, Eleanor, and it didn’t work then.  It’s my job.”

With that, and the fact my eyes had adjusted to the low-level light, it made it easier to see a lot further.  It was just one foot in front of the other, one hand on the wall, which was wet, and in places the water was trickling down to the floor. 

And the surface water was moving slowly in the direction I was heading which meant I was heading downwards.  Ten steps, then another ten.  The floor was uneven, but it seemed like someone had hewn the sides and the floor to make them flatter.  A hundred steps, give or take, I reached a wall, and the tunnel reached a T-intersection.

A choice of going left or right.

I carefully peered to the left and could see light at the end, perhaps another entrance.  There was the slight noise of the waterfall coming from that direction.  I could see nothing to the right, which meant it went further into the mountain.

Looking behind me, I could not see whether Eleanor was behind me, or even if she had followed me.

I turned the corner and started walking towards the light.  Ten steps, another five; I found myself counting them, I heard a noise behind me.  I thought it was Eleanor.

“Hello, Billy.”

It was Richard.  He switched on his torch but kept it facing down so it didn’t blind me.  It was a sign.

“Richard.  I guess you aren’t going to tell me this is your special place.”

“It was.  Seems every one knows about it.  Why are you here?”

“I thought that would be obvious.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Running away says otherwise.  The mayor and sheriff have half the town looking for you.”

“I know.”

“Who were you talking to, just before?”

He sighed.  “You don’t need to know.  Just like you didn’t see me.  Things would have been different if you had remained sheriff.”

“Times have changed.  Out with the old, in with the new.  That was his catchcry and won with it.”

“He cheated.  They both cheated.”

“Can you prove it?”

“My assistant told them how to.  I went to Samson with the evidence, and he told me if I didn’t keep my mouth closed there would be repercussions.  I told the mayor he had a corrupt sheriff, and next thing I knew, Zelda was dead, and Samson was looking for me.  I just learned he has three men out in the woods.  The moment I show my face I’m dead.”

“How did you assistant know how to fix the result?”  Eleanor had come silently up behind us.

“Elly.  What are you doing here?”

“Billy thought you would need someone around to tell you how to save yourself.  I suspect now we know what you know; none of us are.  Fixing elections, Rich.  Is there no limit to your perfidy?”

“It was a theoretical scenario.  Samson asked us to formulate ways the election might be fixed, and it was just one of a half dozen.  I refused the commission; my assistant saw a way of making some quick money.  He left the day after the election.  Now I know why.”

“Is there another way out of this place?”  Other than the one in front of us, or going back the way we came.  If anyone was following us…

“Back into the mountain for about a hundred yards.  There’s about a half dozen tunnels, mostly man-made, old workings.  There was gold in these hills, but not enough to make money.  Nowadays with the price of gold, who knows.”

“We stumbled on a clearing not far from here.”

“Prospectors.  Rare earth minerals, all the rage.  Conway believes it’s here.  They found traces of gold instead.  He’s trying to get the land rezoned for mining.  I’m fighting to prevent that.”

“We’d better go.”  Eleanor was not one to stand still.

He turned, stepped up to her.  “It’s good to see you.  I’m surprised the Navy could let you go.”

“Family.  Or what’s left of it.”

He the lead, she followed and I brought up the rear.

We got twenty yards before a strong blinding light flared in front of us, and we had to stop. 

“You are not going anywhere.”

It was a voice I didn’t recognise.  The owner stepped out from behind and armed his rifle as he stepped towards us.  I suspect he could shoot all three of us before we could get close enough to disarm him.  The extra sounds from behind him told me there was more than one.

I took a step closer to stand beside Eleanor.  “You do know I’m the Deputy Sheriff, and beside me is a Captain in the US Navy.”

“You could be the king and queen of England for all I care.  No one will ever find you, so I hardly think I have anything to worry about.  Now, the boss would like to have words, so let’s take things real slow and easy and no one will get hurt.”

Two more men came from behind the light, and each one came over to check whether we were armed.  Or at least that was the plan.

“Brace,” Eleanor screamed

A second later the tunnel we had come from the waterfall exploded with a huge fire flash and rocks going everywhere.  The sound of the explosion in the confined space was deafening, but prepared, it gave us the seconds we needed to overcome the three men.

They were on the ground and unconscious before the dust and rocks from the blast had settled.

“You found the explosive?” I said.

“You and your toys.”

“Just in case.  All part of being a Boy Scout in another lifetime.”

“Let’s go,” Richard said.  “We should shoot them, but there’s no point adding to the problems.  Follow me.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

If I only had one day to stop over in – Copenhagen – what would I do?

The One Place to Make Your Copenhagen Stopover Unforgettable

Have you ever found yourself with just one day in a city you’ve always dreamed of exploring? That’s exactly the magic of a Copenhagen stopover. Whether you’re en route to another destination or squeezing in a quick European getaway, this Danish capital offers a taste of hygge, history, and vibrant culture—all in a compact, walkable city.

But with limited time, how do you choose just one spot to capture the essence of Copenhagen? You could wander through colourful Nyhavn, explore the historic Tivoli Gardens, or marvel at the futuristic architecture of the Opera House. Yet if you’re looking for a truly memorable experience—one that blends history, culture, and breathtaking views—there’s one place that stands above the rest: The Rundetårn (The Round Tower).

Why The Rundetårn?

Built in the 17th century as an astronomical observatory, The Round Tower is more than just a historic landmark—it’s a journey through time. Unlike most towers with steep staircases, Rundetårn features a unique, gently sloping spiral ramp that winds its way to the top. As you ascend, you’ll pass historical exhibitions, an atmospheric library hall, and even a glass floor looking down into the core of the tower.

But the real reward awaits at the summit.

The View That Steals Your Heart

When you step out onto the rooftop platform, you’re greeted with a 360-degree panoramic view of Copenhagen’s rooftops, spires, and bustling streets. From this vantage point, you can spot iconic landmarks like the Christiansborg Palace, the Church of Our Saviour, and the distant silhouette of the Øresund Bridge. It’s the perfect place to orient yourself, snap unforgettable photos, and simply soak in the city’s charm.

A Stopover Moment to Remember

What makes Rundetårn especially perfect for a one-day visit is its central location. Just a short walk from Strøget, Copenhagen’s famous pedestrian street, you can easily pair your visit with a stroll through the city’s vibrant heart, a bite of smørrebrød (Danish open-faced sandwiches), or a quick coffee in a cozy café.

Whether you visit in the morning light, under the blue afternoon sky, or during the golden hour before sunset, The Round Tower offers a moment of reflection and wonder—a chance to pause and appreciate the beauty of Copenhagen from above.

So, if you find yourself with just one day in this Nordic gem, make your way to Rundetårn. Let its spiral ramp lead you upward, and let Copenhagen unfold beneath you. It’s not just a sightseeing stop—it’s a memory in the making.

Pro Tip: Arrive early to avoid crowds, and don’t forget to look up at night if you’re in town after dark—the tower’s observatory still opens for stellar views of the cosmos.

Happy exploring, and may your Copenhagen stopover be filled with wonder!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 258

Day 258 – Writing exercise

…

I could hear the thumping sound of the helicopter long before it arrived, a sound I was very familiar with, one that haunted my dreams.  Years fighting a senseless war with an almost invisible enemy had taken its toll. 

So many of those I served with had died, during and since the war ended, ignominiously, and part of me had died with them.

As it got closer, it struck fear into my heart, just as it had them.  We had treated every trip out a one-way ticket to hell, and on return, the fervent wish that the politicians and diplomats would make it so we didn’t have to go again.

If wishes were water…

It hovered, blowing everything around, until it hit the ground.

A woman in a navy jumpsuit hopped out, ran bent over towards me, then out from under the rotors, and waved it back into the sky.

Eleanor Brickneal.

Three days into the search for Rodney Brickneal, nearly two hundred deputies, national guardsmen, town folk, and family hadn’t found a sign of him.

I was not surprised.  His father, a retired Admiral, said he knew the mountain like the back of his hand, and if he wanted to disappear, he would.  I was sure he was actively trying to help his son disappear; after all, there was no direct evidence linking him to the murder of his wife, and even if there was, he would dismiss it as manufactured.

But it would have been useful if Richard had hung around long enough to give us his side of the story.  Instead, my boss put out an APB labelling him armed and dangerous, and the chances of us getting him off that mountain alive dropped to zero.

“Billy.”

“Eleanor.”  Rodney’s sister.  My nemesis.

We knew each other; that is to say, I had briefly dated her in high school, and sort of stayed together until she joined the Navy, and I followed my father into law enforcement.  We just wanted different things, and Richard had spent a lifetime keeping us apart.

“You should have asked for me earlier,” she shouted in my ear as the helicopter lifted off.  Seconds later, it was gone, leaving the thudding sounds ringing in my ears.

“Your father vetoed it.  I don’t know what he’s thinking, but it isn’t helping us find him.”

“Your boss doesn’t like him.  Old running mates for Mayor.  My Dad doesn’t take losing well.”

“No one does, apparently.  You need a few minutes to prepare?  I prepared a backpack.”

“Still hike the hill?”

“Still looking for the gold.”

She smiled.  “Both of us were kidding, you know.”  It was a long-standing joke between Eleanor, Richard, and I.  He spun a very good tale, but I always believed he was telling the truth, especially when she backed it up.

I looked at her, putting on my serious expression.  “You never kid.”

“Elly.”  The Admiral caught sight of her and barked her name, enough to make her almost flinch.  They were not on the best of terms, not after she brought back my son’s body from the war zone.

“Dad.”

He glared at her.  Dad was a title she was only allowed to use in private.  Or at least that was his idea of family respect.  It was not hers.

“You didn’t need to come.  We’ve got this under control.”

“He should be here, telling the sheriff he’s innocent and why, instead of running away.  Only guilty people do that.”

“Look at what he’s up against, a corrupt Mayor and a sheriff with a personal vendetta.  Would you?”

“You’ve got no evidence, no proof.  If you convinced him to run away, then his blood will be on your hands.  Unless we can get him back.  Just remember, every day we wait while he plays this game, it gets worse for him.  His enemies are already talking about a reward.  That’ll bring out the gun-happy fortune hunters.  We need to end this now.  Why aren’t you out there looking for him?”

“Someone has to run this circus.”

I thought I was supposed to be doing that.  I shrugged.  “Then I’ll leave it in your capable hands, sir.  Eleanor and I are going to find him and bring him back alive.”

…

The sounds of the camp disappeared, and the natural sound of the forest took over.  The wind rustling through the leaves of the canopy, the aroma of the undergrowth, the trees, the rotting floor, still damp from the overnight storm that had washed away any chance of the dogs picking up a trail.

There was a special kind of silence once you were inside the forest, except for the occasional rustling, birds above, animals on the floor searching for food, the sound of your breathing as you picked up a path that had been recently used by something larger than a rabbit. 

There were bears, but this was not the time of the year they were out.  There were rumours of cats, big cats, but one hadn’t been sighted for decades.  Hunters had killed them all.  Hunters killed everything, including the deer, though recently I had been up here and seen a mother with her foal.

Eleanor was in front, where she always preferred to be.  In charge.  Even back when we were children, she had that manner and ability to manage, to assign, to be a leader and make decisions.  She had always been more mature than her age suggested.

She stopped and waited until I caught up.

“I hear you’re retiring?”

“Had enough.”

She gave me that meaningful look of hers, the one where you felt like it was a full-length body scan, searching for faults.

“What happened to that never say die attitude?”

“Goodness and light are out of vogue.  That last sheriff election, it was little more than a smear campaign.”

“Why didn’t you quit then?”

“People asked me not to.  Not everyone believed Samson would be the best choice.”

“Yet he still won?”

“You know how it works.  I couldn’t find any proof that they cheated, but finding that box of 532 votes that put him over the line, that didn’t seem right.  Same ballot box that got the mayor over the line too.”

“Dad has been muttering about that too.  Times have changed.  Staying or leaving when you’re done?”

“Leaving.  Nothing for me here now.”

Nothing but painful memories.  A son killed in another senseless war, a death Emma, my companion for more years than I could remember, succumbing to the grief she could never recover from.  The cancer the doctors said they had removed came back, and a year later she was gone.

Eleanor had come back for the funeral, the first time in a few years, and she had changed too.  I could see it, even though from the outside she seemed the same.  War did that to a soul, slowly bleeding the goodness out of you.

She took a drink from the bottle, then put it back.

“Onwards and upwards”

It was her favourite line, and often she would strike out and leave us laggers behind.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Her expression sometimes gave away what she was thinking.  Rarely, but it was there if you knew what to look for.  We both knew Richard better than anyone else.  He had a special place, up on the mountain, one he told us about but never showed us.  We both tried to follow him, but his skill in the forest was legendary.  But we had an idea where it might be, even though we had looked for it.

The thing is, we may have seen it and walked right past it.

“We’re starting at the last time either of us saw him.”  Then her expression changed.  Surprise, or something else.  “You were waiting.”

“For what?”

“Me.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t want to find him without me.  You know he’s innocent.”

“I know he couldn’t have done it.  It doesn’t mean he’s entirely innocent, but it’s a tick in a box.  He hasn’t exactly been a good boy, you know.  And Zelda, she was always courting trouble, snuggling up to the mayor.”

A look of disgust crossed her face.

“Not like that, but someone else.  I suspect she was recruited.  Information is the equivalent of gold these days.  And reneging, well, that can be bad for your health.  Maybe she accidentally found something that she was not supposed to.  I don’t know all the facts.”

“I thought you were not allowed to investigate?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Does Conway know what you’ve been up to?”

“He knows I have a rapport with this town, and my reputation, and he’s not stupid.”

“Then that adds a level of complexity.”  She looked around carefully, a complete 360-degree scan.  Sounds in the forest were going to take on a different meaning.

“Eyes and ears peeled, Billy.”

…

Trudging through the forest was not easy, especially where you had to forge your own trail.  Both our cell phones had GPS and kept us going in the right direction, though if we were being observed, it was not exactly straight.

I realised after half an hour that she was not continuously walking directly to a particular point, so if anyone was tracking us, they would hardly make sense of it.  Aside from the fact that once we left the bottom of the hill area, just off the camp side and car park, we started climbing, and the path was littered with rocks, fallen branches, and trees blocking the way.

It was slow progress.  We crossed trails, one rather fresh, that looked like dirt bikers made them, even though dirt bikes were banned.

After an hour, we reached a clearing which showed signs of recent activity: in the centre a fire pit, and around the edges, flattened grass indicating tents.  What was particularly annoying was that whoever was there just left their rubbish lying around.

“A month, two at the most,” she said.  “A long way to come just to make camp.”

“Maybe not.”

There had been rumours the mayor was courting a mining company to come up and do a survey for rare minerals that he believed were in the vicinity.  He had discovered some old prospecting notes in the city archives going back a hundred years, at a time when the rare minerals were not useful for anything.  Not like these days with mobile phones and computers needing resources that other countries were buying in order to monopolise the global market.

“The mayor is trying to sell off the wilderness as a mining bonanza.  For him and his cronies, of course, not for the betterment of the town.  Rare earth minerals, I’m told.”

“They’d be still here if they found any.”

I shrugged.  “We’ll never know until it’s too late.”

There were trails leading off the clearing, and we ventured along several, but they didn’t lead to anything other than what looked like scrapings for samples and holes dug to varying depths.

“Perhaps,” I said, after finding a rather deep hole at the edge of a ravine, “they actually found that gold Richard kept referring to.”

She simply shook her head, and we set off again, once again disappearing into the undergrowth.

Time passed slowly, or it seemed like it did.  We were this way, then that, then found a break in the undergrowth making progress easier.  Then, through the sounds of the wind in the trees, there was another sound, like rushing water. 

I knew there were several waterfalls and small lakes, and a river that snaked through the valley between two mountains, but I thought it was further away.  Perhaps it was not.

We headed towards the sound, and all of a sudden came out onto a small lake and on one side, a waterfall.  We were close to it, so close we could feel the drops of water being blown towards us.  It was a magnificent sight; one few would get to see.

“I don’t remember seeing this before,” she said.

“True.  I haven’t either, but then this was never part of the trail I took.  We always took a more roundabout way, which I always thought was Richard’s way of disorientating us.”

I took several photographs.  She noted the coordinates on her GPS.

We both saw what looked like a rough path leading towards the waterfall itself.

“Is that a path?”

“Only one way to find out.”

It was hazardous going because the rocks we wet and some mossy.  The noise got louder, and the spray denser, and water was running down the inside of my jacket.  It was cold, very cold.

“I can see a cave,” she said, then moved towards a gap between the rockface and the water.

Seconds later she disappeared.

I followed.

All of a sudden we were behind the wall of water, the sound of it thunderous, so loud I couldn’t hear what she said.  She motioned to follow, and we went along a few yards, when she turned right and headed into the rockface.

It was a cave.

We pulled out the torches and switched them on.  Behind the waterfall was a large cavern, and as we moved into it, the sound of the waterfall lessened.  Once inside, it was like a foyer, with tunnels leading off in several directions.

I looked down at the floor and notice footprints.  Several sets of tracks made by similar boots.

“This might be the secret hideaway,” I said, aiming the torchlight at the ground.

“They head into that cave.” she pointed her torch, and the beam only went so far.

I shrugged.  “Curious?”

She started walking, stopped, then switched off her torch.  “Kill it,” she whispered.

I did.  It was not total darkness; we still had light coming from behind the waterfall, but dark enough to blend into the shadows.

“What?”

“Voices.”

…

We waited.  I wanted to continue, with lights out, to see who or what was at the end, but she thought it was best to wait.

In the end, we did.  For half an hour.  Nothing.

“Now?”

“They might be waiting for us.  They had to see the light from the torches.”

“Who do you think ‘they’ might be.  Richard?”

“There were at least two voices.”

Richard and a friend, or accomplice?  “If it is him, I don’t think he’s going to kill his favourite sister.”

“Not so much a favourite these days.”

There wasn’t a scenario where I thought that could be possible.  “Then I’ll go, and you can wait here.  I’m sure he’ll hesitate long enough before shooting me.  Even he should realise I’m not his enemy.”

“He might not be in a rational state of mind.”

He might not, but then, if it was the Richard I knew, he was never irrational, just downright irritating.  There was a difference.

“Give me a few minutes, then follow.  Slowly.”

She put a hand on my shoulder.  “You don’t have to do this to impress me.”

“I tried that once, Eleanor, and it didn’t work then.  It’s my job.”

With that, and the fact my eyes had adjusted to the low-level light, it made it easier to see a lot further.  It was just one foot in front of the other, one hand on the wall, which was wet, and in places the water was trickling down to the floor. 

And the surface water was moving slowly in the direction I was heading which meant I was heading downwards.  Ten steps, then another ten.  The floor was uneven, but it seemed like someone had hewn the sides and the floor to make them flatter.  A hundred steps, give or take, I reached a wall, and the tunnel reached a T-intersection.

A choice of going left or right.

I carefully peered to the left and could see light at the end, perhaps another entrance.  There was the slight noise of the waterfall coming from that direction.  I could see nothing to the right, which meant it went further into the mountain.

Looking behind me, I could not see whether Eleanor was behind me, or even if she had followed me.

I turned the corner and started walking towards the light.  Ten steps, another five; I found myself counting them, I heard a noise behind me.  I thought it was Eleanor.

“Hello, Billy.”

It was Richard.  He switched on his torch but kept it facing down so it didn’t blind me.  It was a sign.

“Richard.  I guess you aren’t going to tell me this is your special place.”

“It was.  Seems every one knows about it.  Why are you here?”

“I thought that would be obvious.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Running away says otherwise.  The mayor and sheriff have half the town looking for you.”

“I know.”

“Who were you talking to, just before?”

He sighed.  “You don’t need to know.  Just like you didn’t see me.  Things would have been different if you had remained sheriff.”

“Times have changed.  Out with the old, in with the new.  That was his catchcry and won with it.”

“He cheated.  They both cheated.”

“Can you prove it?”

“My assistant told them how to.  I went to Samson with the evidence, and he told me if I didn’t keep my mouth closed there would be repercussions.  I told the mayor he had a corrupt sheriff, and next thing I knew, Zelda was dead, and Samson was looking for me.  I just learned he has three men out in the woods.  The moment I show my face I’m dead.”

“How did you assistant know how to fix the result?”  Eleanor had come silently up behind us.

“Elly.  What are you doing here?”

“Billy thought you would need someone around to tell you how to save yourself.  I suspect now we know what you know; none of us are.  Fixing elections, Rich.  Is there no limit to your perfidy?”

“It was a theoretical scenario.  Samson asked us to formulate ways the election might be fixed, and it was just one of a half dozen.  I refused the commission; my assistant saw a way of making some quick money.  He left the day after the election.  Now I know why.”

“Is there another way out of this place?”  Other than the one in front of us, or going back the way we came.  If anyone was following us…

“Back into the mountain for about a hundred yards.  There’s about a half dozen tunnels, mostly man-made, old workings.  There was gold in these hills, but not enough to make money.  Nowadays with the price of gold, who knows.”

“We stumbled on a clearing not far from here.”

“Prospectors.  Rare earth minerals, all the rage.  Conway believes it’s here.  They found traces of gold instead.  He’s trying to get the land rezoned for mining.  I’m fighting to prevent that.”

“We’d better go.”  Eleanor was not one to stand still.

He turned, stepped up to her.  “It’s good to see you.  I’m surprised the Navy could let you go.”

“Family.  Or what’s left of it.”

He the lead, she followed and I brought up the rear.

We got twenty yards before a strong blinding light flared in front of us, and we had to stop. 

“You are not going anywhere.”

It was a voice I didn’t recognise.  The owner stepped out from behind and armed his rifle as he stepped towards us.  I suspect he could shoot all three of us before we could get close enough to disarm him.  The extra sounds from behind him told me there was more than one.

I took a step closer to stand beside Eleanor.  “You do know I’m the Deputy Sheriff, and beside me is a Captain in the US Navy.”

“You could be the king and queen of England for all I care.  No one will ever find you, so I hardly think I have anything to worry about.  Now, the boss would like to have words, so let’s take things real slow and easy and no one will get hurt.”

Two more men came from behind the light, and each one came over to check whether we were armed.  Or at least that was the plan.

“Brace,” Eleanor screamed

A second later the tunnel we had come from the waterfall exploded with a huge fire flash and rocks going everywhere.  The sound of the explosion in the confined space was deafening, but prepared, it gave us the seconds we needed to overcome the three men.

They were on the ground and unconscious before the dust and rocks from the blast had settled.

“You found the explosive?” I said.

“You and your toys.”

“Just in case.  All part of being a Boy Scout in another lifetime.”

“Let’s go,” Richard said.  “We should shoot them, but there’s no point adding to the problems.  Follow me.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 257

Day 257 – Good or bad – it’s a labour of love

…

The Agony of the Flawed Manuscript: Why Bad Books Deserve Our Empathy

“A bad book is as much a labour to write as a good one; it comes as sincerely from the author’s soul.” — Aldous Huxley

We live in a culture obsessed with greatness. From best-seller lists to Goodreads ratings, we are quick to elevate literary masterpieces and equally quick—sometimes brutally so—to tear down what doesn’t measure up. It is easy to mock a clunky metaphor, groan at a predictable plot twist, or mock a poorly paced narrative.

But take a step back and consider the reality behind that published failure.

When we read Aldous Huxley’s quote, it serves as a sobering reminder of a profound truth: the agony of creation does not discriminate based on quality. A terrible book requires just as many bleary-eyed 3:00 AM editing sessions, just as much emotional excavation, and just as many prayers whispered into the void as a timeless classic.

Here is a deeper look at Huxley’s insight, exploring the hidden empathy we should extend to “bad” books and the writers who bleed to make them.


The Myth of the Easy Flop

There is a common misconception among readers that bad books happen because the author simply didn’t care. We imagine cynical writers churning out garbage for a quick buck, laughing all the way to the bank.

And sure, that happens in commercialized corners of the industry. But true badness—the kind born of earnest effort—is usually tragic rather than cynical.

Writing a book is a marathon through a psychological swamp. It demands months, often years, of isolation, self-doubt, and relentless problem-solving. An author trying to write a brilliant fantasy epic experiences the exact same terror of the blank page as someone writing utter drivel. Both stare into the abyss. Both grapple with imposter syndrome.

When a book turns out bad, it is rarely because the author didn’t try. More often, it’s because they tried so hard that they lost perspective. They missed the plot holes because they were too close to the canvas. They forced a grandiose style because they desperately wanted to be profound.

Sincerity is No Guarantee of Success

Huxley’s most arresting point is this: it comes as sincerely from the author’s soul.

Sincerity is often touted as the ultimate virtue in art. “Just be authentic!” we tell aspiring creators. But sincerity is a wildly unreliable compass.

An author can pour their most authentic childhood trauma, their deepest philosophical musings, and their purest passions into a manuscript. They can bleed onto the pages. And yet, the result can still be unreadable. Why? Because writing is a craft as much as it is an art.

  • A carpenter can have a pure, sincere love for wood, but if they don’t understand joinery, the chair is going to collapse when someone sits in it.
  • A writer can have a soul bursting with profound human truths, but if they lack pacing, dialogue mechanics, and structural awareness, the book will collapse under its own weight.

The tragedy of the bad book is the gap between intention and execution. The author felt the magic while writing it. In their head, the scene was cinematic, the dialogue crackled, and the themes resonated like a cathedral bell. Waking up to find that readers experienced none of that—that the magic failed to translate—is a special kind of heartbreak.

Why We Should Read (and Judge) with Compassion

None of this is to say we should abandon literary criticism. Bad books exist, and pointing out why they fail helps elevate the conversation around art.

However, remembering Huxley’s words changes how we critique. It shifts our posture from sneering mockery to respectful critique.

  1. Acknowledge the Courage: Every published author has done something terrifying. They have taken the chaotic, vulnerable contents of their mind and packaged them for public judgment. Even if the execution is a disaster, the act of completion requires immense courage.
  2. Respect the Sweat: Behind every cringeworthy paragraph is a writer who deleted and rewrote that sentence five times, thinking, Yes, this is the one. Honor the labor, even when the product falls flat.
  3. Appreciate the Attempt: A failed ambitious book is almost always more interesting than a safe, mediocre one. Authors who swing for the fences and strike out are doing the necessary heavy lifting of art. They are exploring the boundaries of what works—and sometimes, you have to map the swamps to find the gold.

The Ultimate Takeaway

Writing is hard. It is a grueling, humbling, often unrewarding endeavor.

The next time you pick up a book that simply doesn’t work—whether it’s riddled with clichés, bogged down by purple prose, or narratively hollow—try not to scoff too quickly. Remember that somewhere out there, a writer sat at a desk in the quiet dark, pouring their heart into those very pages, hoping against hope that they were making something good.

They may have failed, but as Huxley reminds us, their soul was in it all the same. And that, at the very least, demands our respect.


What are your thoughts? Have you ever read a book where you could tell the author tried immensely hard, but the execution just missed the mark? Let’s discuss in the comments below!

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If I only had one day to stop over in – Copenhagen – what would I do?

The One Place to Make Your Copenhagen Stopover Unforgettable

Have you ever found yourself with just one day in a city you’ve always dreamed of exploring? That’s exactly the magic of a Copenhagen stopover. Whether you’re en route to another destination or squeezing in a quick European getaway, this Danish capital offers a taste of hygge, history, and vibrant culture—all in a compact, walkable city.

But with limited time, how do you choose just one spot to capture the essence of Copenhagen? You could wander through colourful Nyhavn, explore the historic Tivoli Gardens, or marvel at the futuristic architecture of the Opera House. Yet if you’re looking for a truly memorable experience—one that blends history, culture, and breathtaking views—there’s one place that stands above the rest: The Rundetårn (The Round Tower).

Why The Rundetårn?

Built in the 17th century as an astronomical observatory, The Round Tower is more than just a historic landmark—it’s a journey through time. Unlike most towers with steep staircases, Rundetårn features a unique, gently sloping spiral ramp that winds its way to the top. As you ascend, you’ll pass historical exhibitions, an atmospheric library hall, and even a glass floor looking down into the core of the tower.

But the real reward awaits at the summit.

The View That Steals Your Heart

When you step out onto the rooftop platform, you’re greeted with a 360-degree panoramic view of Copenhagen’s rooftops, spires, and bustling streets. From this vantage point, you can spot iconic landmarks like the Christiansborg Palace, the Church of Our Saviour, and the distant silhouette of the Øresund Bridge. It’s the perfect place to orient yourself, snap unforgettable photos, and simply soak in the city’s charm.

A Stopover Moment to Remember

What makes Rundetårn especially perfect for a one-day visit is its central location. Just a short walk from Strøget, Copenhagen’s famous pedestrian street, you can easily pair your visit with a stroll through the city’s vibrant heart, a bite of smørrebrød (Danish open-faced sandwiches), or a quick coffee in a cozy café.

Whether you visit in the morning light, under the blue afternoon sky, or during the golden hour before sunset, The Round Tower offers a moment of reflection and wonder—a chance to pause and appreciate the beauty of Copenhagen from above.

So, if you find yourself with just one day in this Nordic gem, make your way to Rundetårn. Let its spiral ramp lead you upward, and let Copenhagen unfold beneath you. It’s not just a sightseeing stop—it’s a memory in the making.

Pro Tip: Arrive early to avoid crowds, and don’t forget to look up at night if you’re in town after dark—the tower’s observatory still opens for stellar views of the cosmos.

Happy exploring, and may your Copenhagen stopover be filled with wonder!

If I only had one day to stop over in – Helsinki – what would I do?

One Day in Helsinki: The One Place You Must Visit for an Unforgettable Stopover

Picture this: You’ve just landed in Helsinki, Finland, with only one day to explore before catching your next flight. The city beckons with its sleek design, vibrant culture, and Nordic charm—but time is limited. So, where do you go to capture the true spirit of Helsinki in just a few hours?

While the city offers countless gems—from the striking Helsinki Cathedral to the bustling Market Square—there’s one spot that perfectly encapsulates Helsinki’s soul and ensures your short visit is nothing short of memorable.

That place is Suomenlinna Sea Fortress.

Why Suomenlinna?

A UNESCO World Heritage site since 1991, Suomenlinna is not just a fortress—it’s an island adventure, a historical journey, and a scenic retreat all rolled into one. Built in the 18th century, this maritime fortress sprawls across six interconnected islands and tells stories of Swedish, Russian, and Finnish history. But more than that, it offers an immersive experience you can savor even in a single day.

How to Make the Most of Your Visit

Getting There:
From the heart of Helsinki, it’s just a 15–20-minute ferry ride from Kauppatori (Market Square). Ferries run regularly year-round, and the journey itself offers stunning views of the Baltic Sea and Helsinki’s coastline.

What to Do on the Island:

  1. Step Back in Time:
    Wander through tunnels, cannons, and historic barracks. Visit the Suomenlinna Museum for a compact overview of the fortress’s 270-year history.
  2. Embrace Nature and Views:
    Walk along the rugged coastal paths for breathtaking panoramas of the sea and the city skyline. In summer, the islands are lush and green; in winter, they transform into a serene, snow-dusted wonderland.
  3. Taste Finnish Flavors:
    Stop by Café Vanille or the brewery restaurant, Suomenlinnan Panimo, for a warm drink, local pastry, or even a craft beer brewed on the island.
  4. Capture the Moment:
    From the iconic King’s Gate to the tranquil shoreline, every corner is photogenic. This is a place where memories are made—and Instagram-worthy shots are guaranteed.

Why It’s Perfect for a Stopover

  • Compact Yet Complete: You can explore the highlights in 3–4 hours, leaving you plenty of time to return to the city, enjoy a meal, or even visit another quick attraction.
  • Authentic Helsinki Vibe: Suomenlinna blends history, nature, and local life in a way that feels uniquely Finnish.
  • Escape the Hustle: Despite being so close to the city, the islands offer a peaceful retreat away from urban noise—a refreshing pause during a travel day.

Before You Go

  • Check Ferry Schedules: Plan your trip around ferry times to maximize your stay.
  • Dress for the Weather: Helsinki can be breezy, even in summer. Wear comfortable shoes for walking.
  • Pack Light Snacks: While there are cafes, having a water bottle and a snack ensures you can explore uninterrupted.

One Day, One Unforgettable Experience

Your stopover in Helsinki is a gift—a chance to taste a new culture, even briefly. And Suomenlinna is the perfect bite-sized piece of Finland to savor. It’s more than a tourist attraction; it’s an experience that stays with you: the sea breeze, the whisper of history, and the serene beauty of the archipelago.

So, when you find yourself with one day in Helsinki, skip the stress of trying to see it all. Take the ferry, step onto the island, and let Suomenlinna turn your stopover into a story worth telling.

Safe travels—and may your day in Helsinki be unforgettable!


Have you visited Suomenlinna or have another Helsinki favourite? Share your experiences in the comments below!

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 257

Day 257 – Good or bad – it’s a labour of love

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The Agony of the Flawed Manuscript: Why Bad Books Deserve Our Empathy

“A bad book is as much a labour to write as a good one; it comes as sincerely from the author’s soul.” — Aldous Huxley

We live in a culture obsessed with greatness. From best-seller lists to Goodreads ratings, we are quick to elevate literary masterpieces and equally quick—sometimes brutally so—to tear down what doesn’t measure up. It is easy to mock a clunky metaphor, groan at a predictable plot twist, or mock a poorly paced narrative.

But take a step back and consider the reality behind that published failure.

When we read Aldous Huxley’s quote, it serves as a sobering reminder of a profound truth: the agony of creation does not discriminate based on quality. A terrible book requires just as many bleary-eyed 3:00 AM editing sessions, just as much emotional excavation, and just as many prayers whispered into the void as a timeless classic.

Here is a deeper look at Huxley’s insight, exploring the hidden empathy we should extend to “bad” books and the writers who bleed to make them.


The Myth of the Easy Flop

There is a common misconception among readers that bad books happen because the author simply didn’t care. We imagine cynical writers churning out garbage for a quick buck, laughing all the way to the bank.

And sure, that happens in commercialized corners of the industry. But true badness—the kind born of earnest effort—is usually tragic rather than cynical.

Writing a book is a marathon through a psychological swamp. It demands months, often years, of isolation, self-doubt, and relentless problem-solving. An author trying to write a brilliant fantasy epic experiences the exact same terror of the blank page as someone writing utter drivel. Both stare into the abyss. Both grapple with imposter syndrome.

When a book turns out bad, it is rarely because the author didn’t try. More often, it’s because they tried so hard that they lost perspective. They missed the plot holes because they were too close to the canvas. They forced a grandiose style because they desperately wanted to be profound.

Sincerity is No Guarantee of Success

Huxley’s most arresting point is this: it comes as sincerely from the author’s soul.

Sincerity is often touted as the ultimate virtue in art. “Just be authentic!” we tell aspiring creators. But sincerity is a wildly unreliable compass.

An author can pour their most authentic childhood trauma, their deepest philosophical musings, and their purest passions into a manuscript. They can bleed onto the pages. And yet, the result can still be unreadable. Why? Because writing is a craft as much as it is an art.

  • A carpenter can have a pure, sincere love for wood, but if they don’t understand joinery, the chair is going to collapse when someone sits in it.
  • A writer can have a soul bursting with profound human truths, but if they lack pacing, dialogue mechanics, and structural awareness, the book will collapse under its own weight.

The tragedy of the bad book is the gap between intention and execution. The author felt the magic while writing it. In their head, the scene was cinematic, the dialogue crackled, and the themes resonated like a cathedral bell. Waking up to find that readers experienced none of that—that the magic failed to translate—is a special kind of heartbreak.

Why We Should Read (and Judge) with Compassion

None of this is to say we should abandon literary criticism. Bad books exist, and pointing out why they fail helps elevate the conversation around art.

However, remembering Huxley’s words changes how we critique. It shifts our posture from sneering mockery to respectful critique.

  1. Acknowledge the Courage: Every published author has done something terrifying. They have taken the chaotic, vulnerable contents of their mind and packaged them for public judgment. Even if the execution is a disaster, the act of completion requires immense courage.
  2. Respect the Sweat: Behind every cringeworthy paragraph is a writer who deleted and rewrote that sentence five times, thinking, Yes, this is the one. Honor the labor, even when the product falls flat.
  3. Appreciate the Attempt: A failed ambitious book is almost always more interesting than a safe, mediocre one. Authors who swing for the fences and strike out are doing the necessary heavy lifting of art. They are exploring the boundaries of what works—and sometimes, you have to map the swamps to find the gold.

The Ultimate Takeaway

Writing is hard. It is a grueling, humbling, often unrewarding endeavor.

The next time you pick up a book that simply doesn’t work—whether it’s riddled with clichés, bogged down by purple prose, or narratively hollow—try not to scoff too quickly. Remember that somewhere out there, a writer sat at a desk in the quiet dark, pouring their heart into those very pages, hoping against hope that they were making something good.

They may have failed, but as Huxley reminds us, their soul was in it all the same. And that, at the very least, demands our respect.


What are your thoughts? Have you ever read a book where you could tell the author tried immensely hard, but the execution just missed the mark? Let’s discuss in the comments below!

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365 Days of writing, 2026 – 255/256

Days 255 and 256 – Writing Exercise

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A life could be summed up in a half dozen dreams.

Once upon a time, my dreams were of the good times in my life, the first being when a young child, going to the sea by train, once a year, for a holiday.

A tradition my father had pronounced one morning, that his parents had done for him and his brothers and sister.  There was no doubt who the favourite was.

We were not rich, but it was the one luxury we could afford.

I carried it on, with our three children, each special in their own way.  Elsie spoiled them, because her family did not the wherewithal to have a single extravagance.

The second was the hard times because with the good came the hard.  My father always said that nothing lasts forever, and he was right.

Soon after my mother died, my father changed.  So did our lives.  There just never seemed to be any fun anymore.  Certainly, there were no more holidays.  It seemed none of his or mothers’ family could or would help us.

The third was watching those around you become cynical and well, just plain horrid.

My mother taught me, taught all of us, to make the most of what we had, to look after each other, because in the end, that was all we had.

She was right.

But our problem was that for too many years we had taken our parents for granted, that they would always be there, and that we would not have to figure it out.

We were wrong.

Then our father died, we were suddenly left alone and those who could not adapt would be left behind.

No one should lose their parents when they just became a teenager.  I was the second eldest.  I always thought my brother was the rock.  It turned out that was my sister.  She had just turned twelve going on twenty-five

The fourth was the choices I made, and how I chose to live my life.  I did not want the pain that was inflicted on me to be carried forward, if or when I married and had children.

I wanted to find them a balance between being nurtured but also tough enough to handle any crises better than I had.

It, of course, did not consider the different external forces that impact our lives, the circumstances that are beyond our control.

Ours had been the early loss of our parents, the lack of sympathy and help from uncles and aunts, and a particular sort of harshness from the external world, a world that no longer rewarded loyalty, and a world that no long-had respect for our fellow human beings.

The world suddenly was filled with the haves and the have-nots, those with a job and those without, a world of shortages and greed, political upheaval, and racial hatred.

It was like we had gone full circle, discovering and basking in a whole series of changes that made our lives better, then watching it all slowly crumble under the machinations of mankind, the wealth of the few increased and the wealth of the many slowly disappeared.

Someone said it was the new world order, and it came so fast that no one saw it coming.

My life after I found the love of my life, Elsie, was a long dream, number five if I was counting, and I had always believed I had been the luckiest man on earth.

How else could anyone explain to me how I ended up with an angel?  Certainly, I didn’t deserve her, but I never ever took her for granted and treated her with the respect she deserved.

I tried instilling those values into my children but somewhere, somehow they missed the point or didn’t get the memo.

Or maybe the world had changed and we missed it, or more to the point, ignored it at our peril.  Whatever it was, it was not a fight we were going to win.

But then, we were not only people on that sinking ship.

The last, the sixth, was a shared dream with all mankind.  It’s the one that was most fresh in my mind.

We were all to blame in the end.  We let a monster run amok, turned our whole world into one of mistrust and hatred, let him start a war over a notion that in the end wasn’t true but still provoked the unthinkable.

It was always going to happen; it was only just a matter of time.  Each time I went to sleep I hoped against hope that sanity would prevail, but the truth was, all it would take was one man to destroy the world.

And in mind’s eye the dream always ended the same way.  A faceless man in a military uniform hiding in an underground bunker making a decision that he hadn’t thought through.

One that no one had ever thought would come to fruition, that the latent threat would be all that was needed to stop anyone in their right mind from destroying the world.

We were all wrong.  Everyone was wrong.

They didn’t believe that there would be one such man, but there was and it was he who gave the order.  But the biggest myth of all was that even if there was one such man, everyone else would believe that order would have been ignored, that down that chain of command common sense would prevail.  Even when they knew that man led a despotic regime by fear and murder, still they wanted to believe the order would not be obeyed.

And even at the eleventh hour, still no one could conceive that any one person could order the possible end of the world and the complete annihilation of his country and and expect it would be obeyed.

Without question.

Fear of him far outweighed the fear of annihilation.

Promises were made, lies were told, a deadline passed, and five minutes later, the unstoppable conflagration began.

What was always meant to be a deterrent, in the end, was no such thing at all.

…

What followed was a living nightmare.

We were the lucky people not living anywhere near where a low-yield nuclear bomb dropped, but we heard what happened.

About three weeks later, some semblance of order was returned.

All we knew was a warning a day before it happened: a message would be broadcast, with instructions.

Most people in the blast areas got the message but it was too late.  Everyone within a 10 kilometre radius was dead, or dying, and it wasn’t much better for 50 kilometres outside that range.

We didn’t hear what happened elsewhere.  The radio service disappeared, along with everything else, and it was down to local existing authorities until lawlessness set in.

It was inevitable.  We had resources, they wanted resources and they were happy to kill for it.  That’s when someone said we should take what we had and disappear until sanity returned.

I was in the right place at the right time.  I had a truck with fuel; they needed to transport supplies.  In the mountains where many decades ago, a madman thought the hills were filled with gold.

He spent a fortune looking for it, basically building a whole underground city, one very few people knew existed, and a descendant who did made it a new home for selected people.

He was a doomsdayer and had set up a remarkable facility in anticipation madness would eventually win out.

There was space, he estimated, for about a thousand.  We packed up, and silently and stealthily moved out under the cover of darkness.

Five years later, we were still there, watching and waiting, observing the nuclear winter, watching the shifting winds tainted by fallout, watching the earth die, then eventually come back to life.

Few people who survived passed by, and there was nothing we could do for them, some were allowed to stay, and those that didn’t could not be allowed to live and tell.  Most had radiation sickness and would not last a month, two at the most.  It was a harsh, unforgivable rule but the leaders decided that it was the only way we could survive, and they would not have a lingering and painful death.

I didn’t agree, but I didn’t argue.  I don’t know what that made me, and I didn’t want to know.  I guess self-preservation was stronger than moral outrage.

But I was one of about a hundred in the outside exploration and monitoring teams made up of a dozen specialists, a mission leader, a doctor and navigation and journal keeper, a mechanic, a biologist, a nuclear scientist and an escort of soldiers or ex-soldiers.

We were the people to decide who we helped, what was left of humanity, how long we could last before we finally came out of hibernation.

Over the years we monitored the habitat, observed the nuclear winter effects, watch everything die, and we were hoping this next foray, there would be signs of hope.  We sought out supplies, tried to locate other survivors with little o no success.

We had been doing this every three to six months for the last five years.

The last exploration told us that the earth was coming back to life.  That the cycle of radiation and contamination was easing, and possibly the worst was over.  We wanted to believe that other people had to survive, and soon we would venture much further afield and if possible join forces.

We had encountered small groups over the years, but they either died or moved on over successive years.  It wasn’t the radiation that killed them in the end; it was starvation.  And we couldn’t help them; we barely had enough for ourselves.

…

I woke to the sound of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, the music that I used to either put me to sleep or try to find inner peace after a nasty encounter on the outside.

My firm belief had been, after the event, that the world would take a step back and people would be united in a common goal.  The problem was, just before the bombs dropped our own government had turned us against each other, intensifying racism and the divide between the haves and have nots.

The bombs only intensified those hatreds and instead of banding together it became a war of attrition, and it had hard to find any reason why a trivial occurrence of taking a bottle of water would warrant being summarily executed.

It had become a shoot first and ask questions later type of society, where petty zealots seized power and harshly enforced it.  We had those in our camp, but the boss didn’t let hatred fester.  He simply weaned it out with a bullet to the head.

Out in the field it didn’t take long to realise humans had lost all sense of decency; they were not interested in joining with or helping their fellow citizens and would kill anyone who disagreed with them.

The bombs didn’t kill everybody else, stupidity did.

I was hoping that today would mark a change in the world we had been waiting for, with the dense clouds that had been filtering out the sun, were finally going, and that a lot of places would no longer be radioactive.

We gathered in the hall by the rear entrance, the one that gave us the most invisible exit from the cave system.

Everyone had a gun, bulletproof vest, overcoats and sturdy boots.  We were up for a five-mile hike before we got the main road, now little more than a track.  We hadn’t seen vehicles for years, except some parked in a nearby forest resort carpark.  It had been the saddest day of my life to see all the people there had wither been shot or eventually die of starvation.  A note said they had waited for someone to come and tell them what to do.

I was surprised that people were not camping in the various open areas near the roads.  Or maybe they had and left.  The Midwest had very little other than miles and miles of scorched earth and either burned or contaminated land. 

I don’t think many knew there would be a nuclear winter.  I certainly didn’t when it was explained to me.  Normal people had a hard time just believing someone would bomb our country after our military told they would be obliterated if they did.  Perhaps that was the biggest joke, they had fired first, and no one did that to us. 

They were obliterated but so were we.

“Once more onto the breach…”  Howie was ex-military and wore his gun like it was part of him.  He led the team, with a kill or be killed attitude.

He handed out the weapons.  “Shoot only when necessary and keep your eyes and ears about you.”

The scientists didn’t like the idea of carrying guns, but most did.  We had been in skirmishes before.

That was the extent of the pep talk.  He took the lead and gave the order. “Open seasame.”

…

The internal blast doors made the same sound they had for the past five years, except there was a groan before the heavy metal began to open.

When the pneumatic seals finally hissed, surrendering to the greasy heave of manual overrides and backup generators, the sound was less like a door opening and more like a tomb drawing its first breath. A cold, dead draft spilled inward—not fresh, but alien. It tasted of nothing. No, that wasn’t right. It tasted of old stone, distant dampness, and something sharp and metallic that lingered on the back of the tongue. Ozone.

Or maybe just the ghost of rain.

Dr. Elena Vance, the botanist in front of me, adjusted the straps of her filtration pack, her fingers trembling slightly inside heavy rubberized gloves. Behind us, nine sets of boots shifted on the corrugated steel floor of the airlock—scientists, their faces pale and pinched from half a decade of fluorescent-lit hydroponics, and undispersed security personnel, their assault rifles held at low-ready, faces obscured by mirrored polymer visors.

“Remember your protocols,” Howie said, his voice amplified and flattened by his suit’s comm-unit.

Then one of the scientists said, “The soot layer is thinning, but low-yield fallout doesn’t care about sunlight.

That was followed by Howie again, “We stay within five hundred meters of the egress shaft to begin with. We use the dosimeters. And if you see anything moving that isn’t us, you paint it and drop.”

Sergeant Miller, a scarred veteran who had been in town the day the bombs dropped was brought to the subterranean facility when the world ended five years ago, sighed. “Nothing’s out there, Chief.  Just ash and ghosts.  We’re hundreds of miles from the strike zones, and even the rats died out three winters ago.”

“Hope you’re right, Sergeant,” Elena murmured.

She turned back to the threshold.

For five years, the only light they had known was the sickly, yellow-green hum of the algae vats and the harsh white glare of the emergency lamps. But now, cutting through the cavernous darkness of the mountain exit tunnel, was a thin, trembling dagger of gold.

Sunlight.

As they approached the outer entrance, we could see it strike the concrete floor. Elena stepped forward, her boots crunching on crusty layers of grey grime that had drifted down the mountainside over the years. As she cleared the mouth of the cave, she shielded her eyes—not from the dark, but from the sudden, merciless glare of a sky that had been hidden away.

It took a full minute for our eyes to adjust. When they did, the world revealed itself in agonizing, muted monochrome.

The valley below was becoming less of a cemetery of charcoal and pale stone. The pine forests that had once choked the lower slopes were now jagged, tooth-like skeletons jutting upwards towards the sky, stripped bare firstly by fire and then as the water dried up, an inevitable death. The ground was still blanketed in a thick, lifeless crust of soot, dirt, and dead vegetation that crackled under out feet.

It felt eerie walking though what could be described as a petrified forest, only able to see about a hundred years in any direction.

About a kilometre from the cave, we came to a track.  Howie called us to stop by displaying a raised fist, then a whiling motion as the soldier fanned out surrounding us.  “Someone has used this recently.  Tracks are fresh.  Check the surroundings, slowly.”

While the others looked through the trees, and back the way we came, I saw Elena bend over, looking at the ground.  I saw it too, a single, defiant thread of emerald. A blade of grass. Small, twisted, and struggling, but undeniably green.

“I’ll be damned,” whispered Dr. Hayes behind her, dropping to his knees to stare at it. “The physics models… they were right. The thermal inversion is collapsing. The soot is dropping out.”

“Don’t touch it,” Howie snapped, his rifle sweeping the ruined treeline. “Radiation doesn’t care if it’s green.”

She glared at him, then took a photo, and the GPS position.

He waited, then said, “There’ll be more.  Move out. Perimeter formation.”

The squad fanned out, crunching silently across the dead earth. For twenty minutes, the only sounds were the crunch of ash and the rhythmic click-beep of twelve dosimeters registering background radiation—elevated, certainly, but low enough to sustain short-term exposure without immediate biological collapse. There were no birds. No insects. No wind, save for a low, mournful draft sweeping down from the peaks.

We stopped in a clear elongated valley where the road was more defined, if not cracked and distorted, a road that encircle the base of the mountains.  If we were to encounter anyone it would be here.

Which after reaching the first turn, it was not a person we saw, it was the remains of a newly rusted transport truck that had clearly run out of fuel.

The radio squawked.  “Movement. Two o’clock, ridge line.”  The voice belonged to Private Vance—no relation to Elena—posted on the eastern flank.

Every rifle snapped up in unison. Elena froze, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“Vance, status,” Howie barked into his comms, dropping to one knee beside the charred chassis of the truck.

Silence. Then, static.

“Vance?”

A sharp crack echoed off the stone walls of the valley. It wasn’t thunder. It was a round—high-calibre, supersonic—that punched cleanly through the metal door of the truck a foot above Howie’s head, showering rusted flakes.

“Contact!” Howie roared. “Spread out! Return fire!”

Chaos erupted. The sterile quiet of the dead world shattered into the deafening concussions of gunfire. Flashes of muzzle fire stabbed out from the ridgeline two hundred yards up, partially obscured by the lingering wisps of high-altitude haze.

“Where are they coming from?” Hayes cried, scrambling backward and tripping over his own bulky suit.

“Scavs,” Howie snarled, firing a controlled three-round burst from his rifle toward the ridge. “Marauders. They followed the melt line up from the lowlands. They think we’re a fresh vault.”

Elena pressed her back against the truck, her breath coming in ragged gasps. It was not the first time for any of them, but still the five years underground had made them soft; the raiders up on that ridge had spent five years learning how to kill each other for canned peaches and clean filters.

Another round chewed up the dirt inches from her boot.

“We need to fall back to the tunnel!” Elena yelled over the din.

“Negative, Doc! If we run, they bottleneck us at the door,” Howie shouted back, tossing a smoke grenade into the open ground to mask their positions. Thick grey smoke billowed up, mixing with the ambient soot. “Two men on me—let’s climb the gully and flank them. The rest cover the scientists back to the cave!”

Through the smoke, Elena saw shapes moving down the ridge. Three—no, four figures, wrapped in mismatched tactical gear, heavy dust coats, and crude gas masks with yellowed lenses. They weren’t soldiers. They were starving, desperate things, clutching battered assault rifles with the manic intensity of the damned.

One of them broke cover, charging down the slope toward the smoking transport truck, firing wildly.

Private Diaz, one of the younger security guards, stepped out from behind a boulder, his weapon tracking the charging figure. His rifle barked twice. The raider dropped, tumbling dead into the ash.

But the others were already adjusting. A heavy machine gun opened up from the ridge, chewing the boulders into white-hot shrapnel. Diaz took a round to the shoulder, his cry cut short as he pitched backward into the dirt.

“Diaz!” Hayes made a move to run toward him, but Elena grabbed the collar of his suit, hauling him down.

“We can’t help him yet! See if you can see where that machine gun is.”

I took the distant crackling in the forest to be Howie, moving quickly, and then saw the ridge gunner just as he popped up to shoot, and aimed and fired.  The machine gun fire stopped abruptly.  A minute later a volley of shots rang out and after a minute, silence fell.

I could hear my own heart pounding.

A few minutes later, the others returned, holding extra guns and ammo.  “Six of them.  Starving.”  He shook his head.  “There will be others, so we’d better retreat, regroup, and go look for them.”  He kicked the ground.  “Senseless.”

We made our way back slowly and carefully, a different path, just in case they had closed in behind us.  They probably came with the truck, and after it broke down or run out of fuel, set out to find somewhere to camp.  It meant we had to be more careful the next time we left the cave.  It was nearly dark when we returned.

As Elena tumbled past the heavy steel threshold and back into the cool, recycled air of the tunnel, she looked back one last time. It was, for her, mission accomplished.  Life had returned, even if it was one blade of grass.

Outside, the golden sunlight cut relentlessly through the dying sky, illuminating a battlefield of ash, blood, and a single, stubborn blade of green. It was a brutal, beautiful world waiting to be reclaimed—if they could survive the humans who had inherited it first.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026