Day 48 – Writing exercise

…

I knew the moment I opened my eyes that this day was going to be different.

My life had begun to sink into a rut where everyone and everything were the same.  In fact, it was so predictable that I could recite every word spoken to me and in response for the first half hour.

So monotonous, I didn’t want to go to work today, any day, any more, ever.  Except I had to pay the rent, the bills, and eat.

How would life have been so much easier if I were a robot?

Except…

When I turned over, ready to close my eyes and forget the alarm had gone off, I saw the one thing that changed my mind in an instant.

Beth, short for Elizabeth, not Liz or Lizzy or Bethany.

The girl I had seen at work, asked about, told she was unavailable or looking for friends like me, and gave up any hope of even saying hello.

Until last night, when I was holding open the door as the masses exited, and she was last in the queue.  She thanked me, the only one, and I blushed.  Yes, the introvert got tongue-tied.

She asked me if I was going her way, which I was, and we walked.

And talked, and talked, then went for a drink, had dinner, and no, I had no idea how she finished up next to me.

It appeared she was in the same group I was in, the assistant to the assistant, the gopher, doing odd jobs and worse for people who didn’t appreciate us, a stepping stone to something better, the bottom rung of the ladder to a career.

We had a lot in common.

We both had ambitions, and these were slowly being eroded by unhelpful, demeaning, and unappreciative superiors.

Now, in the cold, hard light of day, all those plans, everything we said we would do, all those strategies to put our superiors in their place, seemed a million miles away.

Except she was still there.

And I will be honest, I had no idea how or why she was.  We did have a little too much to drink, something I never did on a workday, and something she said she didn’t do ever.

And I hoped nothing happened, anything that would ruin a fledgling relationship that had possibilities.

When I tried to edge myself out of the bed, she woke, surprised, but with a smile. 

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Anything I might have said or done that I can’t remember.”

“Good thing then that I do. Did I forget to tell you that alcohol doesn’t really affect me, other than in the moment, but it doesn’t affect my judgment.  You were silly, not stupid, and I thought it wise to tuck you in and make sure you were OK.  Now, come back and rest for a few more minutes.  I gave you my mother’s hangover cure last night, so you will be fine.”

I slid back under the covers.

“Thank you.  Normally, after that much wine, I would be a mess.”  I had to admit I felt almost normal except for a slight ache behind my eyes, perhaps from not enough sleep.

“You’re welcome.  It was interesting to discover you hate the management group as much as I do.”

“Not so much hate as to wonder how they actually made the group.  They certainly have no people skills, but at least they treat everyone the same.”

“Which is wrong?”

“Well, at the orientation, they did tell us what to expect.”  Not quite, we were told that we needed to learn quickly during the internship, and that sometimes, in high-pressure situations, we might find ourselves in trouble, especially if we had the training and forgot the lessons.

That was the sticking point.  Most of those in management failed to complete our training, usually because of time constraints or simply their lack of interest in ‘molly coddling’ as one called it.

“But there are ways of doing it, and ways of not doing it.  Perhaps we need to remind them.  Subtly.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“You said that there was last night.  You have so many ideas, and equally no idea how to make them happen.  I’ve been thinking about it, and I have a plan.”

That morning transcended any I’d had in a lifetime and taught me one very valuable lesson.  I needed to be sober and aware at all times if I wanted to impress any woman. 

I knew she was just being kind to me, even though I felt like she might like me as more than just a colleague, but I would have to impress her if I wanted any sort of chance.

It was odd that I hadn’t thought about her or any of the others in that way; such was the necessity to keep your mind on the job and keep ahead of the game.  There were a dozen of us, and we were all competing for three positions, and it was coming to the end of the trial period.

No one had an edge.  Trying to grovel didn’t work, trying to be better than the others didn’t work, and they let you make mistakes without telling you, which, in front of the group, wasn’t exactly the best way of getting any of us to stay.

Perhaps they didn’t.  Perhaps those they didn’t harass out of the job were the sort of lackeys they wanted.

And apparently, I had told her that I’d been spending a lot of my spare time studying the whole financial structure of the organisation and found that our managers had been taking the wrong path

Both of us had been working on the background papers that were to be presented to the board members, and because of that, we would be allowed to sit in. 

She had a plan, and when she stepped through it, I agreed with her that it might work.  It just depended on one particular board member, the lone woman, Sylvia.  Beth had worked with her for a week when she requested an intern from HR, one of the girls. 

And unlike management, Sylvia was interested in helping the interns and taught them some valuable lessons, and this, along with the corporate knowledge we had, was either going to win us some points or get us fired.  Either way, we both agreed it was better than keeping the status quo and would be worth it, one way or the other.

As usual, the two managers we worked for, each in a different department, were charged with conducting the presentation.

But this morning, my manager hadn’t arrived in time for the meeting, and it was handed to Beth.  He was annoyed, and those last few minutes before it was due, Beth arrived with the morning coffee run, scribbled on a piece of paper, while I distributed the papers, including those I had written that showed the true start of the business and the recommendations to put the company on a more profitable trajectory. 

My speciality at uni was rescuing poor-performing companies using alternative strategies, and I had tried to get this across to the current management group, but they had consistently ignored it.  It was no secret that the current strategy was not working, and the meeting with the board was to tell them how to overcome this.

What did an intern know?

Before it started, Beth handed out the morning coffee and cakes; what the presenters hoped would put the board members in a better frame of mind.

It did not.

He had got the orders wrong, yet another example of not listening properly, and the unthinkable happened.  He told Beth to go and sort the mess out.

Sylvia put her hand up and asked who was responsible for writing down the orders, stating plainly that what she had was not what she ordered, and that the order had been taken by the manager.

Therefore, she said the manager should sort it out.

And since he had a perfectly adequate team of interns whom the presenters no doubt had gone through the presentation with, as was required as part of the training standards of the organisation, the two interns could make the presentation in his place.

She then told him to leave.

The door closed, Beth made a précis of the manager’s presentation and then said that there was an alternative strategy available, one that was hot off the press and would be delivered by the person she described as a top of the class strategist in reviving poorly performing companies.

She then handed the floor to me, and I went through the basics and then the specifics, closing just as the manager returned.

Over coffee, four board members grilled him over the merits of the two strategies, one of course he knew about and had discounted and now had to admit was the more successful path.

If looks could kill, there would have been two dead interns.

Meeting over, we were dismissed.  The manager was kept in the room while the more senior members of management were summoned to explain how interns could possibly come up with a better strategy and why the current management team was still pursuing outdated and frankly incomprehensible methodologies.

Or at least that’s what we were told later.  Both Beth and I had decided that we would pack up and leave.  Even if we were right about our strategy, it was still the wrong way to go about it.  Board members come and go, so currying favour with them was not a successful way to get a position in the company because they couldn’t trust you to do what you were asked to do.

We both knew that. Getting a job was on merit, but when the company’s hiring staff were not apprised, well, perhaps the company was not worth working for.

That inevitable call came from HR.  It was from the same man who had conducted our interviews, the same man who basically told us we were worthless until we were forty.

It was a novel way of engendering loyalty and selling the company as a place worth working.  But that year was a difficult one, and jobs were hard to find, especially in one as prestigious to make a splash on our resumes.

We were both in the breakout area because we didn’t have a permanent office.  That would have come if we were selected to stay.

I put my phone on speaker.

“You two do realise that what you did, how you did it, was not the right way.  There are procedures and a hierarchy, and they should be followed.”

Beth was more blunt than I was, especially in dealing with her manager and purported mentor.  She said, “A hierarchy may work in a proper environment, but this isn’t where there is one.  The ideas we presented were communicated several times to the appropriate people, and they were ignored.”

“That is regrettable, but our procedures are there for a reason.”

“So the current muddle management can steal the interns’ ideas and pass them off as their own.  How are you supposed to get a position here if they deliberately stifle you?”

Good point.  I think most of us just accepted that was the way it is in the corporate jungle.

“I will agree that presenting something of a delicate.  But there is always a better way, and the two of you failed.  Regrettably, your internships are cancelled, and you will be escorted from the building by security.”

Conversation over.

Beth shrugged.  “No surprises there.  No surprise either when we read about the company seeking a Chapter 17 bailout in a few weeks.”

That comment coincided with the arrival of two security guards.  One would have been sufficient.
Of the two, one was the genial old man who took the time each morning to greet each of the employees by name, a remarkable feature given how many worked there.

What was more remarkable was the disdain and plain rudeness with which most of the staff treated him.  He shook his head.

“If I were to make a bet on you two, it would be that you would be the first to show initiative and then the first to be shown the door.”

He was not wrong in our case.  “You could have cleaned up.”

“I did, but not in the manner you would expect.”  He didn’t tell us why, but there was a wry grin and an interesting expression on Beth’s face.  Perhaps she knew.  I’d ask later.”

On the ground floor, we gave back our pass keys.  We had to sign an NDA, which was normal.  Then, after the formalities were done, I could see Sylvia come out of the elevator lobby and head over towards us.

Beth put her hand on my arm, a sign we should wait.

She saw the old man take off his cap and smiled, “It’s been a while, Miss Sylvia.”

“Too long, Archie.  Everyone fine?”

“Fine enough.  Yours?”

“Spread all over the country.  Can’t tie them down anymore.”

“No.  Kids always seem to have a sense of adventure these days.  You take care, Archie.”

She turned her attention to us.  “You two should know better, but then if you did, you wouldn’t have been here.  But, on the other hand, I’m glad you were.  As you may or may not know, I am an investor, mostly silent, and sometimes the holdings in shares get me a seat on the board.  Until this morning, I was going to sell those shares.  That presentation changed my mind.  And I heard what happened to both of you.  It’s not surprising this company is completely off the rails. Are you two looking for a job?  Of course you are.  Come and work for me.  Both of you.  I know a team when I see one.  Your first job, clean out the baggage and get this place back on track.  When I see my shares for ten times what they’re worth now, you two will get a very handsome bonus.  Do you need time to think about it?”

Beth looked at me, and I nodded.

“No.  Were in.  When do we start?”

“Now.”  Sylvia handed her a card.  “That’s the office I keep. Annabel knows you’re coming.  The paperwork will be there for your employment and your first assignment.  Welcome aboard.”

A handshake each, and she was gone.

I was shocked at how quickly your life could change.  My mother always said in troubled times that when one door closes, another one opens.

How true.

Then I saw Beth’s look of anguish.  “You do want to work with me, don’t you?”

I smiled.  “Of course, never been more certain of anything.”  I held out my hand, and she took it in hers.  “That, and whatever may follow.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 47 – Newspapers as inspiration

…

The Hobby‑Horse Moment: Why a Newspaper Is a Treasure Chest of Story Ideas

“If you spend enough time reading a newspaper, there is more than enough inspiration for a thousand stories.”

That line has been my creative mantra for years. Whenever I find myself staring at the endless columns of headlines, sports scores, and classifieds, I hear a familiar whisper: there’s a story waiting to be untangled, a character begging to step into the spotlight, a twist that could turn a mundane Tuesday into a page‑turner.

In today’s post, I’m pulling back the curtain on my “hobby‑horse” — the practice of mining everyday news for fiction gold. I’ll walk you through the mental shortcuts that turn a bungled bank robbery by the world’s worst criminal into a narrative engine you can rev up for any genre.

---

1. The Newspaper as a Creative Radar

What You See	What It Becomes in Fiction
Headline – “Local Bank Heist Ends in Chaos”	Hook – An unlikely thief, a mis‑fired getaway plan, a crowd of bewildered witnesses.
Quote – “I thought it was a joke,” the teller said.	Voice – Real‑time dialogue that grounds the absurdity in human reaction.
Photo – A police cruiser stuck in a fountain.	Visual Cue – A comedic set‑piece that can become the story’s turning point.
Obituary – “John Doe, lifelong prankster, dies at 79.”	Backstory – A retired mischief‑maker pulled back into the game for one last laugh.

The trick is to pause, underline, and ask “what if?” The moment you spot a quirky detail, you have a seed. Plant it in a notebook, a digital note, or a voice memo, and let it germinate.

---

2. My Hobby‑Horse: The “World’s Worst Criminal”

Every writer needs a go‑to archetype that sparks imagination. Mine is the lovably incompetent crook — the sort of character who thinks he’s Michael Caine in The Italian Job but ends up looking more like a clumsy cartoon character slipping on a banana peel.

Why does this work?

1. Built‑in Conflict – He wants success but repeatedly fails, creating tension without needing a villain.
2. Humour on Tap – Failure is funny, especially when the audience knows the heist was doomed from the start.
3. Redemptive Potential – Even the worst criminal can discover a spark of humanity (or at least a better exit strategy).

When I read a story about a bungled bank robbery, I instantly overlay this template: a petty thief named Marty “Mismash” Malone who tried to rob the First National Bank because his mother’s birthday cake needed frosting, not because he wanted the loot.

---

3. Turning a Real Incident into a Plot Blueprint

Let’s deconstruct a typical newspaper blurb and re‑engineer it into a fleshed‑out outline.

Original Article (fictionalised for illustration)

“A 28‑year‑old man attempted to rob the downtown branch of City Bank at 2:17 p.m. on Tuesday. He fled the scene after tripping over a decorative potted plant, causing a panic among customers. Police recovered a broken plastic gun and a half‑eaten sandwich. The suspect, identified as Carl “The Cat” Benson, is currently in custody.”

Step‑by‑Step Adaptation

Newspaper Detail	Story‑Building Question	Narrative Transformation
Age 28	What does his age say about his life stage?	A recent college graduate drowning in student debt.
Time 2:17 p.m.	Why this hour?	The bank’s lunch crowd, perfect for a chaotic distraction.
Tripping over a plant	How can a simple stumble be symbolic?	The plant—named “Lucky Fern”—represents his misguided belief in luck.
Half‑eaten sandwich	What does the sandwich reveal?	He’s too hungry to think, showing desperation.
Plastic gun	What does the prop say about his competence?	He bought it from a novelty shop, convinced “any gun looks the same.”
Nickname “The Cat”	Is the nickname ironic?	Yes—he’s terrified of actual cats, which later become a comedic obstacle.

From this table a five‑beat structure emerges:

1. Inciting Incident – Carl decides to rob the bank after a failed gig as a pizza delivery driver.
2. The Setup – He rehearses with a toy gun, practices “stealth” by sneaking past his neighbour’s cat, Mr. Whiskers.
3. The Disaster – He trips over the Lucky Fern, the sandwich falls, and the plastic gun squeaks.
4. The Chase – The cat, startled, darts through the lobby, forcing Carl to flee in a comedic, cat‑chasing ballet.
5. Resolution – Carl is caught, but the bank manager offers him a job in the community outreach program—because who else could handle a crowd in a crisis?

---

4. Practical Tips to Capture the Moment

1. Carry a Capture Tool – A small pocket notebook, a notes app, or even a voice recorder. The first idea is always the loudest; you don’t want it to slip away.
2. Set a “News‑Only” Block – Give yourself 15‑minutes each morning to skim headlines. No laptops, no social feeds—just the paper (or its digital equivalent).
3. Ask the “Three‑What” Test – For any odd detail, ask: What if this happened? What if a character is involved? What if the outcome changes?
4. Create a “Story‑Idea Index” – Tag each note with genres (comedy, thriller, noir) so you can retrieve a bank‑heist gag when you need a laugh, or a political scandal when you’re writing a drama.
5. Re‑Read with a Lens – After a week, revisit your notes. The distance often reveals hidden connections (e.g., the same police chief appears in two different articles, perfect for a crossover).

---

5. From Hobby‑Horse to Habit

The phrase “hobby‑horse” conjures an image of a favourite, perhaps slightly over‑used, subject that a writer returns to again and again. That’s not a flaw—it’s a strategic anchor. By repeatedly mining the same type of source (newspapers), you develop a mental shortcut: see a headline, think “story.” Over time, the brain begins to auto‑generate plot twists the moment you see a byline.

Pro tip: Rotate your hobby‑horse every few months. If you’ve been obsessed with bank heists, shift to “mysterious disappearances in small towns” or “quirky local elections.” The underlying method stays the same; the flavor changes, keeping your output fresh.

---

6. Take the Leap – Write That Bungled Heist

Here’s a quick writing exercise to get your creative muscles moving:

1. Find a Recent Article – Anything that involves a mishap (traffic jam, botched charity event, failed product launch).
2. Extract Five Odd Details – Highlight them in bright colours.
3. Assign Each Detail a Character Role – Who does it belong to? A hero? An antagonist? A sidekick?
4. Sketch a One‑Paragraph Synopsis – Use the “problem → complication → twist → resolution” framework.
5. Write 500 Words – Don’t worry about perfection; just let the story flow.

You’ll be amazed at how quickly a real‑world snippet becomes a fully formed narrative.

---

Closing Thought: The Paper Trail to Imagination

The next time you thumb through the front page, imagine the headlines as breadcrumbs leading to hidden treasure. Each misquoted mayor, each odd traffic report, each quirky human‑interest piece is a potential protagonist or conflict waiting for a writer’s touch.

Your hobby‑horse isn’t a limitation; it’s a launchpad. Embrace the bungled bank robbery, the misfiring fireworks display, the inexplicable municipal ordinance—turn them into stories that make readers laugh, gasp, or reflect.

So, grab that newspaper, spot the absurd, and let the tales unfold.

Happy hunting!

---

If you enjoyed this post, subscribe for more tips on turning everyday life into literary gold, and feel free to share your own newspaper‑inspired story ideas in the comments below.

Day 47 – Newspapers as inspiration

…

The Hobby‑Horse Moment: Why a Newspaper Is a Treasure Chest of Story Ideas

“If you spend enough time reading a newspaper, there is more than enough inspiration for a thousand stories.”

That line has been my creative mantra for years. Whenever I find myself staring at the endless columns of headlines, sports scores, and classifieds, I hear a familiar whisper: there’s a story waiting to be untangled, a character begging to step into the spotlight, a twist that could turn a mundane Tuesday into a page‑turner.

In today’s post, I’m pulling back the curtain on my “hobby‑horse” — the practice of mining everyday news for fiction gold. I’ll walk you through the mental shortcuts that turn a bungled bank robbery by the world’s worst criminal into a narrative engine you can rev up for any genre.

---

1. The Newspaper as a Creative Radar

What You See	What It Becomes in Fiction
Headline – “Local Bank Heist Ends in Chaos”	Hook – An unlikely thief, a mis‑fired getaway plan, a crowd of bewildered witnesses.
Quote – “I thought it was a joke,” the teller said.	Voice – Real‑time dialogue that grounds the absurdity in human reaction.
Photo – A police cruiser stuck in a fountain.	Visual Cue – A comedic set‑piece that can become the story’s turning point.
Obituary – “John Doe, lifelong prankster, dies at 79.”	Backstory – A retired mischief‑maker pulled back into the game for one last laugh.

The trick is to pause, underline, and ask “what if?” The moment you spot a quirky detail, you have a seed. Plant it in a notebook, a digital note, or a voice memo, and let it germinate.

---

2. My Hobby‑Horse: The “World’s Worst Criminal”

Every writer needs a go‑to archetype that sparks imagination. Mine is the lovably incompetent crook — the sort of character who thinks he’s Michael Caine in The Italian Job but ends up looking more like a clumsy cartoon character slipping on a banana peel.

Why does this work?

1. Built‑in Conflict – He wants success but repeatedly fails, creating tension without needing a villain.
2. Humour on Tap – Failure is funny, especially when the audience knows the heist was doomed from the start.
3. Redemptive Potential – Even the worst criminal can discover a spark of humanity (or at least a better exit strategy).

When I read a story about a bungled bank robbery, I instantly overlay this template: a petty thief named Marty “Mismash” Malone who tried to rob the First National Bank because his mother’s birthday cake needed frosting, not because he wanted the loot.

---

3. Turning a Real Incident into a Plot Blueprint

Let’s deconstruct a typical newspaper blurb and re‑engineer it into a fleshed‑out outline.

Original Article (fictionalised for illustration)

“A 28‑year‑old man attempted to rob the downtown branch of City Bank at 2:17 p.m. on Tuesday. He fled the scene after tripping over a decorative potted plant, causing a panic among customers. Police recovered a broken plastic gun and a half‑eaten sandwich. The suspect, identified as Carl “The Cat” Benson, is currently in custody.”

Step‑by‑Step Adaptation

Newspaper Detail	Story‑Building Question	Narrative Transformation
Age 28	What does his age say about his life stage?	A recent college graduate drowning in student debt.
Time 2:17 p.m.	Why this hour?	The bank’s lunch crowd, perfect for a chaotic distraction.
Tripping over a plant	How can a simple stumble be symbolic?	The plant—named “Lucky Fern”—represents his misguided belief in luck.
Half‑eaten sandwich	What does the sandwich reveal?	He’s too hungry to think, showing desperation.
Plastic gun	What does the prop say about his competence?	He bought it from a novelty shop, convinced “any gun looks the same.”
Nickname “The Cat”	Is the nickname ironic?	Yes—he’s terrified of actual cats, which later become a comedic obstacle.

From this table a five‑beat structure emerges:

1. Inciting Incident – Carl decides to rob the bank after a failed gig as a pizza delivery driver.
2. The Setup – He rehearses with a toy gun, practices “stealth” by sneaking past his neighbour’s cat, Mr. Whiskers.
3. The Disaster – He trips over the Lucky Fern, the sandwich falls, and the plastic gun squeaks.
4. The Chase – The cat, startled, darts through the lobby, forcing Carl to flee in a comedic, cat‑chasing ballet.
5. Resolution – Carl is caught, but the bank manager offers him a job in the community outreach program—because who else could handle a crowd in a crisis?

---

4. Practical Tips to Capture the Moment

1. Carry a Capture Tool – A small pocket notebook, a notes app, or even a voice recorder. The first idea is always the loudest; you don’t want it to slip away.
2. Set a “News‑Only” Block – Give yourself 15‑minutes each morning to skim headlines. No laptops, no social feeds—just the paper (or its digital equivalent).
3. Ask the “Three‑What” Test – For any odd detail, ask: What if this happened? What if a character is involved? What if the outcome changes?
4. Create a “Story‑Idea Index” – Tag each note with genres (comedy, thriller, noir) so you can retrieve a bank‑heist gag when you need a laugh, or a political scandal when you’re writing a drama.
5. Re‑Read with a Lens – After a week, revisit your notes. The distance often reveals hidden connections (e.g., the same police chief appears in two different articles, perfect for a crossover).

---

5. From Hobby‑Horse to Habit

The phrase “hobby‑horse” conjures an image of a favourite, perhaps slightly over‑used, subject that a writer returns to again and again. That’s not a flaw—it’s a strategic anchor. By repeatedly mining the same type of source (newspapers), you develop a mental shortcut: see a headline, think “story.” Over time, the brain begins to auto‑generate plot twists the moment you see a byline.

Pro tip: Rotate your hobby‑horse every few months. If you’ve been obsessed with bank heists, shift to “mysterious disappearances in small towns” or “quirky local elections.” The underlying method stays the same; the flavor changes, keeping your output fresh.

---

6. Take the Leap – Write That Bungled Heist

Here’s a quick writing exercise to get your creative muscles moving:

1. Find a Recent Article – Anything that involves a mishap (traffic jam, botched charity event, failed product launch).
2. Extract Five Odd Details – Highlight them in bright colours.
3. Assign Each Detail a Character Role – Who does it belong to? A hero? An antagonist? A sidekick?
4. Sketch a One‑Paragraph Synopsis – Use the “problem → complication → twist → resolution” framework.
5. Write 500 Words – Don’t worry about perfection; just let the story flow.

You’ll be amazed at how quickly a real‑world snippet becomes a fully formed narrative.

---

Closing Thought: The Paper Trail to Imagination

The next time you thumb through the front page, imagine the headlines as breadcrumbs leading to hidden treasure. Each misquoted mayor, each odd traffic report, each quirky human‑interest piece is a potential protagonist or conflict waiting for a writer’s touch.

Your hobby‑horse isn’t a limitation; it’s a launchpad. Embrace the bungled bank robbery, the misfiring fireworks display, the inexplicable municipal ordinance—turn them into stories that make readers laugh, gasp, or reflect.

So, grab that newspaper, spot the absurd, and let the tales unfold.

Happy hunting!

---

If you enjoyed this post, subscribe for more tips on turning everyday life into literary gold, and feel free to share your own newspaper‑inspired story ideas in the comments below.

Days 45 and 46 – Writing exercise

Take one of your stories that’s stalled and re work it.

…

They say trouble comes when you least expect it.

It does.

I can attest to that.

I was at the end of my shift.  Another shift, another night, another ten hours of my life gone, doing a job that, had you asked me twenty years ago would I be here, I would have said no.

Circumstances and stupidity put me here, and it’s not as if I didn’t deserve it.   I was told I had choices, and I did, but I didn’t make the right one.  There were reasons, but they were nothing but excuses.

And it wasn’t as if I was the only one.

Like Jim, slightly younger but no wiser, like Joe, older and regretting his mistakes, and like Mike, who simply didn’t care until he had to.  My name was Sam.  No one questioned whether they were our real names, no one wanted to know our last names, and the names were, by coincidence, easy to remember.

Along with rule number one: we had each other’s backs.

The breakout area was scratched Laminex, discoloured plastic and scuffed and cracked linoleum tiles.  It was old and tired like we were.

“Usual weekend?” Jim asked.

I was heading towards the kitchen to get my small fridge bag, then out the back door and off home.

“The boat and the lake await.”

“You still expecting to find fish in that swamp?”  Mike had been with me one weekend, and nothing took the bait.

After six or so months, I was beginning to think the locals were right.  There were no fish.

“Miracles can still happen.”

“Yeah, right.  You should come hunting with us.”

“Don’t like guns.”

Not anymore, anyway.  There was a time I was happy to use one, when I had a purpose, and there was a reason to use it.

“Then why pick a job that needs one?”

“Chances of having to use it, Mike, zero per cent.  If I have to, I will, but until then…”  I left it there.  We’d had this conversation, and it always ended the same way.

I collected the bag, told them I’d see them next Monday, the start of the next shift, and stepped out the back door into the early morning dawn, that period just as the light came.

Silent, fresh, the promise of either a good day or a bad.  I wasn’t sure.  I glanced over towards the car, and it had a slight sprinkling of snow.  The weather was clear now, but I could feel that more snow was coming. 

A white Christmas?  Those were memories in another lifetime.

Across the parking area where there should have been four pickups, there was one too many, something out of the usual, and I slowed.  The fifth vehicle, a car, looked empty, but it might not be.

I felt for the sidearm, for reassurance.  I wasn’t expecting trouble, but was ready for it.  No one could possibly know where I was now; that person had disappeared long ago.

Thirty-three steps, measured, slow, eyes on that fifth car, watching and waiting.  Less than ten yards I stopped when I saw movement inside it, and effortlessly, the gun was in my hand, by my side, but ready.

I sopped when the light went on as the door opened.

I could see the driver was a woman, stepping out and standing.   The interior light cast an eerie glow over her for a few seconds before letting the dark envelop her again.

“Graham?”

A second’s hesitation before my eyes readjusted to the overhead lamps, long enough to recognise the voice and its owner, one I hadn’t heard for a long time, one from that past I had tried to forget.

“Penny?”

She took several steps towards me, then stopped, leaning against the front of my truck.

“Thank God.  You’re a hard person to find.”

Which was exactly what she asked me to do, twenty-three years ago, when any hint of scandal would have ruined her chances at become a District Attorney.  I was a mess back then.

“You asked, I did as I was told.”

“It wasn’t meant to be forever.”

“Not according to your husband.”  He said if he saw me again. It wouldn’t end well.  I believed him.

I saw her grimace, and I don’t think it was the memories of that last encounter.  “How did you find me?”

“I know people.”

Of course.  She knew people who knew people, and so on.  “OK.  You found me.  What do you want?”  I could have been more conciliatory, but there was too much water under that bridge.

I could see the surprise and then hurt in her expression.

“You are the only person I can turn to.”

“For what?  I have nothing you could possibly want.”

The black sheep, the perennial loser, the sibling no one wanted to know or see.  Why would they?  Run with the wrong crowd, join the Army, get deployed to hell on earth, walk away with bad dreams and PTSD.

Not exactly the sort for a District Attorney to be rubbing shoulders with or have as a contact/reference on a resume.

“I need help.”

I laughed, or was it a harsh guttural sound that was almost a snort of derision?  Help from a person who couldn’t help himself?  But curiosity got the better of me.  “Why?”

“Someone wants me dead.”

“Isn’t that part of the job?”

She sighed and slumped back against the car, and I could see a dark stain on the left side just above her waist.

“I can’t go to a hospital, and no one must know…”

I reached her just before she hit the ground.

“No hospital, or doctor.  Do not tell Fred.  No one can know where…”

That was all she could manage before she passed out.

Damn.

Why me?

Trouble always finds trouble.  It had been like that almost all my life.  I had only managed to break the cycle with this job, being anonymous among anonymous people.  I knew nothing about them; they knew nothing about me.  Only that I was running.

When I saw Mike sauntering across the car park, all of that anonymity went out the window.

“What the hell?  Sam?”

“My sister.  Shot.  In trouble, though she didn’t say how deep.  A wound, a knife or a shot doesn’t matter.  It’s bad enough.”  I looked up at him.  “I didn’t do it.  I swear.”

His eyes took in the whole scene and made a decision.  “I know a guy.  No questions.”

He helped me get her into the truck, then took her car and told me to follow him.

What choice did I have?

We took her to my place, a cabin with a two-car shed and a spare room.  The guy met us at the house, he took one look at the wound and said it wasn’t serious, but she wasn’t going to go far for about a week.

She had been shot, single bullet, missed vital parts, but was messy.  He left bandages, antiseptic and pills and told me to keep an eye on her for the next twelve hours.  It looked like I was going on a different fishing expedition when she woke up.

And twelve hours to relive some memories that should not be allowed to come back, but then we never get a choice in what the mind wants to recall, or when.

Night bled into day, a dark, gloomy, murky morning where the sun had disappeared and left us with grey, and then white.  The snow had come, heavy at first, then into a sprinkle.  I was standing by the window, and the wind rattled the windows, just enough to keep me awake.

I shivered.

“Graham?”

A softer tone this time, the sort used when searching for a familiar person in the darkness and hoping you didn’t find a monster instead.

“I’m here.”

I heard rustling.  I had put the clean sheets on the spare bed and gave her one of my blankets.  Even so, it would still be cold.  There was a fire in the other room, but it barely heated the area nearest to the hearth.

“Come, sit.”

I weighed up the odds that sitting near her could be harmful to my health, particularly if the gunman had followed her here.  But then, with Penelope, her version of the truth was never the same as anyone else’s.

Almost instinctively, I pulled the chair back a few feet before sitting.  Close was too close.

“You still don’t trust me.”

“Two years in jail, Penelope.  Hard to forget or forgive.”

It still burned twenty-three years later, like it was yesterday.  She had a choice, but in an election year, it had been all about appearances.  Tough on crime, tougher on family.  It didn’t matter that I was proven innocent.

Mt cell phone rang.

“It’s slime ball number two.”  In other words, her husband.  He and I never got along, never would.  “How did he get my number?”

The look on her face told me more than she wanted to convey.  The usual granite expression was replaced by fear.  This was not the Penelope of old.

“Don’t…”

I pressed the answer button.  Giles was not a man to ignore.  He would find other ways to talk to me, which would lead to more trouble.

“What do you want?”  This time, I didn’t disguise the hatred.

“Where is she?”

No hello, no how are you, after twenty-three years of silence.

“The cat’s mother?  Damned if I know or care, Giles.”

“Don’t get smart, Graham.”

“I thought you said smart was a word not in my vocabulary, Giles.  If I had another brain, it would be lonely.  How did you get this number?”

“I have my methods.  Like I know where you are and can cause you infinite grief.  Now stop stooging around and tell me where she is?”

I counted to ten.  Not because I was angry, which I was, but because Giles was a man it took effort to annoy.

“I take it that was a threat, Giles.  If it were a declaration of war, let me tell you, I know how wars work, and if you want to go down that path, I’m your man.  I don’t know where she is, I don’t care where she is.  I’ve had twenty-three years to forget about you lot, and when I hang up, I don’t want to hear from or see you again.  Do I make myself clear?”

“You don’t get a choice.”

“No.  Neither do you.  Start something, Giles, it won’t end until I say it ends.  My advice, Giles.  Go crawl back under that rock, and don’t come out again.  Goodbye.”

I hung up.  Of course, I knew exactly what was going to happen.  He knew where I was, because she knew where I was.  And like anyone who had no one left they could trust, she chose family.

Conveniently ignoring twenty-three years of history.

“Why would you do this to me?” I asked.  “I just got my life back together.”

“I had no one else.”

“So you decided, let’s ruin Graham’s life again.  He’s expendable.  Nobody cares whether he lives or dies.  Giles isn’t going to let this go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.  If you were, you wouldn’t come here.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You did.  You simply chose what was best for you.  I’m sorry.  But it doesn’t work this time.  You’re on your own.”

“He will kill me.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t do that the day after you got married.  He certainly tried.”

Giles was not a man who could handle drinking, and it made me curious as to why he very rarely had a drink in his hand and always politely refused.  Except on his wedding day.  I called in on them after the reception to drop off some presents, and he was standing over her, and there was blood everywhere.  I dragged him off and gave him a taste of his own medicine.  It earned me his eternal hatred, and once an enemy of Giles, always an enemy.  I discovered that in jail.

“I didn’t know he was like that.”

“Everyone else did and tried to tell you.”

“He changed.”

“Until?”

“He didn’t shoot me.”

“No, he doesn’t do that sort of stuff.  He had people to do it for him.  You don’t need me.  You need a bodyguard.  Two or three.  I have to leave, now he knows where I am.”

“Take me with you.”

“No.  I was done with you and him, twenty-three years ago.”

“Then I’ll die.”

“Perhaps then you’ll know what it’s like when he sets his goons on you, like he did to me.”  I was supposed to die in jail, not get exonerated, and since then I’d only been one step ahead…

Damn.

I got it, and it was already too late.

He had deliberately set his goons on her, knowing she would lead them to me.  He’d known, with no one else to turn to, she would instinctively turn to me.  A desperate plan from a desperate man.

“Has he decided to jump from District Attorney to State Governor?”

The expression on her face was priceless.

I ran.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Days 45 and 46 – Writing exercise

Take one of your stories that’s stalled and re work it.

…

They say trouble comes when you least expect it.

It does.

I can attest to that.

I was at the end of my shift.  Another shift, another night, another ten hours of my life gone, doing a job that, had you asked me twenty years ago would I be here, I would have said no.

Circumstances and stupidity put me here, and it’s not as if I didn’t deserve it.   I was told I had choices, and I did, but I didn’t make the right one.  There were reasons, but they were nothing but excuses.

And it wasn’t as if I was the only one.

Like Jim, slightly younger but no wiser, like Joe, older and regretting his mistakes, and like Mike, who simply didn’t care until he had to.  My name was Sam.  No one questioned whether they were our real names, no one wanted to know our last names, and the names were, by coincidence, easy to remember.

Along with rule number one: we had each other’s backs.

The breakout area was scratched Laminex, discoloured plastic and scuffed and cracked linoleum tiles.  It was old and tired like we were.

“Usual weekend?” Jim asked.

I was heading towards the kitchen to get my small fridge bag, then out the back door and off home.

“The boat and the lake await.”

“You still expecting to find fish in that swamp?”  Mike had been with me one weekend, and nothing took the bait.

After six or so months, I was beginning to think the locals were right.  There were no fish.

“Miracles can still happen.”

“Yeah, right.  You should come hunting with us.”

“Don’t like guns.”

Not anymore, anyway.  There was a time I was happy to use one, when I had a purpose, and there was a reason to use it.

“Then why pick a job that needs one?”

“Chances of having to use it, Mike, zero per cent.  If I have to, I will, but until then…”  I left it there.  We’d had this conversation, and it always ended the same way.

I collected the bag, told them I’d see them next Monday, the start of the next shift, and stepped out the back door into the early morning dawn, that period just as the light came.

Silent, fresh, the promise of either a good day or a bad.  I wasn’t sure.  I glanced over towards the car, and it had a slight sprinkling of snow.  The weather was clear now, but I could feel that more snow was coming. 

A white Christmas?  Those were memories in another lifetime.

Across the parking area where there should have been four pickups, there was one too many, something out of the usual, and I slowed.  The fifth vehicle, a car, looked empty, but it might not be.

I felt for the sidearm, for reassurance.  I wasn’t expecting trouble, but was ready for it.  No one could possibly know where I was now; that person had disappeared long ago.

Thirty-three steps, measured, slow, eyes on that fifth car, watching and waiting.  Less than ten yards I stopped when I saw movement inside it, and effortlessly, the gun was in my hand, by my side, but ready.

I sopped when the light went on as the door opened.

I could see the driver was a woman, stepping out and standing.   The interior light cast an eerie glow over her for a few seconds before letting the dark envelop her again.

“Graham?”

A second’s hesitation before my eyes readjusted to the overhead lamps, long enough to recognise the voice and its owner, one I hadn’t heard for a long time, one from that past I had tried to forget.

“Penny?”

She took several steps towards me, then stopped, leaning against the front of my truck.

“Thank God.  You’re a hard person to find.”

Which was exactly what she asked me to do, twenty-three years ago, when any hint of scandal would have ruined her chances at become a District Attorney.  I was a mess back then.

“You asked, I did as I was told.”

“It wasn’t meant to be forever.”

“Not according to your husband.”  He said if he saw me again. It wouldn’t end well.  I believed him.

I saw her grimace, and I don’t think it was the memories of that last encounter.  “How did you find me?”

“I know people.”

Of course.  She knew people who knew people, and so on.  “OK.  You found me.  What do you want?”  I could have been more conciliatory, but there was too much water under that bridge.

I could see the surprise and then hurt in her expression.

“You are the only person I can turn to.”

“For what?  I have nothing you could possibly want.”

The black sheep, the perennial loser, the sibling no one wanted to know or see.  Why would they?  Run with the wrong crowd, join the Army, get deployed to hell on earth, walk away with bad dreams and PTSD.

Not exactly the sort for a District Attorney to be rubbing shoulders with or have as a contact/reference on a resume.

“I need help.”

I laughed, or was it a harsh guttural sound that was almost a snort of derision?  Help from a person who couldn’t help himself?  But curiosity got the better of me.  “Why?”

“Someone wants me dead.”

“Isn’t that part of the job?”

She sighed and slumped back against the car, and I could see a dark stain on the left side just above her waist.

“I can’t go to a hospital, and no one must know…”

I reached her just before she hit the ground.

“No hospital, or doctor.  Do not tell Fred.  No one can know where…”

That was all she could manage before she passed out.

Damn.

Why me?

Trouble always finds trouble.  It had been like that almost all my life.  I had only managed to break the cycle with this job, being anonymous among anonymous people.  I knew nothing about them; they knew nothing about me.  Only that I was running.

When I saw Mike sauntering across the car park, all of that anonymity went out the window.

“What the hell?  Sam?”

“My sister.  Shot.  In trouble, though she didn’t say how deep.  A wound, a knife or a shot doesn’t matter.  It’s bad enough.”  I looked up at him.  “I didn’t do it.  I swear.”

His eyes took in the whole scene and made a decision.  “I know a guy.  No questions.”

He helped me get her into the truck, then took her car and told me to follow him.

What choice did I have?

We took her to my place, a cabin with a two-car shed and a spare room.  The guy met us at the house, he took one look at the wound and said it wasn’t serious, but she wasn’t going to go far for about a week.

She had been shot, single bullet, missed vital parts, but was messy.  He left bandages, antiseptic and pills and told me to keep an eye on her for the next twelve hours.  It looked like I was going on a different fishing expedition when she woke up.

And twelve hours to relive some memories that should not be allowed to come back, but then we never get a choice in what the mind wants to recall, or when.

Night bled into day, a dark, gloomy, murky morning where the sun had disappeared and left us with grey, and then white.  The snow had come, heavy at first, then into a sprinkle.  I was standing by the window, and the wind rattled the windows, just enough to keep me awake.

I shivered.

“Graham?”

A softer tone this time, the sort used when searching for a familiar person in the darkness and hoping you didn’t find a monster instead.

“I’m here.”

I heard rustling.  I had put the clean sheets on the spare bed and gave her one of my blankets.  Even so, it would still be cold.  There was a fire in the other room, but it barely heated the area nearest to the hearth.

“Come, sit.”

I weighed up the odds that sitting near her could be harmful to my health, particularly if the gunman had followed her here.  But then, with Penelope, her version of the truth was never the same as anyone else’s.

Almost instinctively, I pulled the chair back a few feet before sitting.  Close was too close.

“You still don’t trust me.”

“Two years in jail, Penelope.  Hard to forget or forgive.”

It still burned twenty-three years later, like it was yesterday.  She had a choice, but in an election year, it had been all about appearances.  Tough on crime, tougher on family.  It didn’t matter that I was proven innocent.

Mt cell phone rang.

“It’s slime ball number two.”  In other words, her husband.  He and I never got along, never would.  “How did he get my number?”

The look on her face told me more than she wanted to convey.  The usual granite expression was replaced by fear.  This was not the Penelope of old.

“Don’t…”

I pressed the answer button.  Giles was not a man to ignore.  He would find other ways to talk to me, which would lead to more trouble.

“What do you want?”  This time, I didn’t disguise the hatred.

“Where is she?”

No hello, no how are you, after twenty-three years of silence.

“The cat’s mother?  Damned if I know or care, Giles.”

“Don’t get smart, Graham.”

“I thought you said smart was a word not in my vocabulary, Giles.  If I had another brain, it would be lonely.  How did you get this number?”

“I have my methods.  Like I know where you are and can cause you infinite grief.  Now stop stooging around and tell me where she is?”

I counted to ten.  Not because I was angry, which I was, but because Giles was a man it took effort to annoy.

“I take it that was a threat, Giles.  If it were a declaration of war, let me tell you, I know how wars work, and if you want to go down that path, I’m your man.  I don’t know where she is, I don’t care where she is.  I’ve had twenty-three years to forget about you lot, and when I hang up, I don’t want to hear from or see you again.  Do I make myself clear?”

“You don’t get a choice.”

“No.  Neither do you.  Start something, Giles, it won’t end until I say it ends.  My advice, Giles.  Go crawl back under that rock, and don’t come out again.  Goodbye.”

I hung up.  Of course, I knew exactly what was going to happen.  He knew where I was, because she knew where I was.  And like anyone who had no one left they could trust, she chose family.

Conveniently ignoring twenty-three years of history.

“Why would you do this to me?” I asked.  “I just got my life back together.”

“I had no one else.”

“So you decided, let’s ruin Graham’s life again.  He’s expendable.  Nobody cares whether he lives or dies.  Giles isn’t going to let this go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.  If you were, you wouldn’t come here.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You did.  You simply chose what was best for you.  I’m sorry.  But it doesn’t work this time.  You’re on your own.”

“He will kill me.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t do that the day after you got married.  He certainly tried.”

Giles was not a man who could handle drinking, and it made me curious as to why he very rarely had a drink in his hand and always politely refused.  Except on his wedding day.  I called in on them after the reception to drop off some presents, and he was standing over her, and there was blood everywhere.  I dragged him off and gave him a taste of his own medicine.  It earned me his eternal hatred, and once an enemy of Giles, always an enemy.  I discovered that in jail.

“I didn’t know he was like that.”

“Everyone else did and tried to tell you.”

“He changed.”

“Until?”

“He didn’t shoot me.”

“No, he doesn’t do that sort of stuff.  He had people to do it for him.  You don’t need me.  You need a bodyguard.  Two or three.  I have to leave, now he knows where I am.”

“Take me with you.”

“No.  I was done with you and him, twenty-three years ago.”

“Then I’ll die.”

“Perhaps then you’ll know what it’s like when he sets his goons on you, like he did to me.”  I was supposed to die in jail, not get exonerated, and since then I’d only been one step ahead…

Damn.

I got it, and it was already too late.

He had deliberately set his goons on her, knowing she would lead them to me.  He’d known, with no one else to turn to, she would instinctively turn to me.  A desperate plan from a desperate man.

“Has he decided to jump from District Attorney to State Governor?”

The expression on her face was priceless.

I ran.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

More about my second novel

…

John’s search for Zoe was at an impasse because it was her job to disappear and reappear at will, and he knew he was no match for her in that regard.

So, having gone to her residence in Paris, not finding her there, which was predictable, the place looked like it had not been visited in months, he concluded a short stay might help to clear his head.

Until he gets a phone call.

Kidnappers, other than the Russians, have captured Zoe, and they’re ringing him for a ransom.

Odd, because he was not the one who placed the kidnap order on her, so why would they be ringing him?

This was initiated by Zoe, no doubt playing the kidnapper by sending him to a bigger payday.

If that’s the case, then John has to deduce she has faith in him to come and get her.

Which he’s going to do, but not on his own.

It’s time to call Sebastian, someone John knew would know what to do.

Or at least hope he does!

Talk about rescue missions gone wrong.

John is not very good at this, though; who’s to say Sebastian isn’t as good as he thinks he is?

So, tossed in a basement awaiting his fate, who should he discover: Zoe

Mission accomplished.

Of course, no good deed goes unpunished as she tears strips off him for being a fool, firstly, to come after her, and secondly, for trusting Sebastian.

But they’ve been in tighter scrapes before, and the fun is just about to begin.

After a few minutes of catching up!

And, no doubt, Sebastian is somewhere near plotting his own operation to fix up the first operation.

More about my second novel

…

John’s search for Zoe was at an impasse because it was her job to disappear and reappear at will, and he knew he was no match for her in that regard.

So, having gone to her residence in Paris, not finding her there, which was predictable, the place looked like it had not been visited in months, he concluded a short stay might help to clear his head.

Until he gets a phone call.

Kidnappers, other than the Russians, have captured Zoe, and they’re ringing him for a ransom.

Odd, because he was not the one who placed the kidnap order on her, so why would they be ringing him?

This was initiated by Zoe, no doubt playing the kidnapper by sending him to a bigger payday.

If that’s the case, then John has to deduce she has faith in him to come and get her.

Which he’s going to do, but not on his own.

It’s time to call Sebastian, someone John knew would know what to do.

Or at least hope he does!

Talk about rescue missions gone wrong.

John is not very good at this, though; who’s to say Sebastian isn’t as good as he thinks he is?

So, tossed in a basement awaiting his fate, who should he discover: Zoe

Mission accomplished.

Of course, no good deed goes unpunished as she tears strips off him for being a fool, firstly, to come after her, and secondly, for trusting Sebastian.

But they’ve been in tighter scrapes before, and the fun is just about to begin.

After a few minutes of catching up!

And, no doubt, Sebastian is somewhere near plotting his own operation to fix up the first operation.