Day 69 – Writing exercise

We don’t have a lot of time

…

This was the thing about end-of-world stuff.

You honestly believe that people could not be that stupid, and how simple it was to create the conditions where the only answer is nuclear Armageddon.

We go to the movies, we watch television shows that portray what it’s like before the war, during the war and then after the war, what we are calling World War 3.

If there’s a war, because some shows are about people building bunkers in anticipation of a war, and then when there wasn’t, they blew everything up anyway.

And sadly, that just about sums up what is happening to us now.

…

Let’s go back.  It wasn’t all that long ago.  We had a particular country in the Middle East deciding that it was sick of missiles randomly raining down on it.

Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but the intent was the same.  Certain Arab states didn’t like Israel, that certain country, so Israel started bombing the Palestinians. 

Meanwhile, elements in Yemen sent missiles, elements in Lebanon sent missiles, and a larger oil-rich country, Iran, financed all these splinter Arab groups.

Then there’s the Russians and the Ukrainians.  There’s the Chinese posturing over Taiwan.  The United States posturing over oil and terrorism, and the rest of the world, basically horrified, are nervously watching on.

We are in Australia, as far away from all this stuff as you could get, but we do have a problem.  Oil.  We import it all, so if the Middle East explodes, we will be in trouble.

We could live with posturing.  We could live with the superpowers flexing their muscles.  What we don’t want or need is a full-scale war that would become a black hole and suck everyone in.

We even said so, multiple times. Preceful negotiations, not bombs.

Did anyone listen….

…

I was reading a book, a work of fiction, written a few years ago now.

The premise ..

If someone blows up the oil pipelines in the Middle East, and a country on the borders of the Hormuz Strait decided to sink a few ships and block it, how long would it take for society to break down?

This book should be mandatory reading for every politician in the world because what happens when the scenario plays out is Armageddon.

No oil, no petrol, no cars or trucks, no deliveries.  No oil for the power station generators, no industry, no food moving.  People don’t store food.  They buy it daily.  When the food runs out…

Rationing?  Tell that to the guy with the gun, pointing it at you.  He’s desperate and will pull the trigger.  All semblance of sanity is finished.

You get the picture. Two weeks, anarchy, four goodbye to sanity and everything else.

I’m reading this book, and a newsflash comes on the screen.
.
Israel and America have bombed Iran.

Why?  They think the Iranians are about to launch a nuclear warhead. 

Where?  Israel, America?

Do they not know that if the Iranians exploded a nuclear bomb anywhere, there’s going to be retaliation?

I’m sitting staring at the TV screen in utter disbelief.

Of course, Iran is going to fire back, and because America is involved, they will retaliate against all the US bases in the other Arab States.

What was the reason for this seemingly unprovoked attack, other than the alleged nuclear weapon?

Pick one out of 157 random reasons, none quite a making up a coherent sentence.  We are told it will last two days, the war will be won, Iran will lose everything, the country will be taken back by the people, and everything will be fine.

That’s right, after the alleged nuclear bomb, the next reason was to kill the radical leadership and have the people revolt.

Two days at the most.  Bomb their nuclear facilities and some infrastructure, one of which was apparently next to a girl’s school, and it was hit instead with horrifying results.   But they did kill the leader.

I guess what happens next would be the same if the Iranians killed the President of the USA, and I hpe they weren’t thinking there would be no retaliation.

Admittedly, we all think that Iran is run a little too religiously, and that the regime is harsh in meting out punishment to dissenters and women, but it is a sovereign country, and no other country has the right to bomb them simply because we don’t like their religion or customs.

Of course, we in Australia denounced the attack as illegal, along with just about every sane country in the world.  But again, we are reminded that this is allegedly about killing the leadership and hoping for an uprising.

Yep.  Good luck with that.  Day two, the expert commentators, yes, like sport, we have commentators for wars, the experts are saying that in killing heads of state, they will be replaced, quite possibly with more radical heads of state, with the warning they will never forget what the enemy did.  And yes, there might be protesters in the streets, hoping for a change in government, but we’ll shoot them.

Day four, no to the regime change and no to surrender.  This war is just getting started. Reading between the lines, the Iranians saw this coming, have seen it coming for years, and have made appropriate arrangements.

And a little daunting on the side, the message sent to Israel and America, bring it on.

Day five, we are told Iran is a spent force, with no munitions, destroyed launching sites, and no leadership. 

Until a barrage of missiles lands in places where no missiles were expected, leaving a few dead soldiers for someone to explain how this had happened when their infrastructure had been, so-called, blasted to bits.

And no, just because it’s war and there are always casualties, it just doesn’t cut it when you tell a mother who has lost her son that they have to expect casualties in war, when they had been told no more wars, ending existing wars, and their President is the President of Peace.

This isn’t going to win anyone a Nobel Peace Prize any time soon.

The two-day, worst-case-scenario war is now a week along, and there is no end in sight.  Iran seems to have an inexhaustible supply of missiles.

That one week suddenly turns into two weeks, and the world is now panicking over the loss of oil getting through. Oil prices per barrel are rocketing, ships are not moving, insurance is withdrawn, and stock markets are tanking.

Here’s a thought. Let’s let Russia sell oil to ease the shortages. They won’t use the funds to fuel the war with Ukraine. Will they? Or supply intelligence to the Iranians. Or is China selling arms and missile defence systems?

And not forgetting their own little skirmish, it seems the initial efforts are not working, so let’s start bombing infrastructure.  Not outhouses and portable toilets, let’s start taking out gas and oil fields and make it hard for them to produce anything. Like their major gas field.

Haven’t they heard of retaliation?  You know when the other side goes for your stuff?

Obviously not.  But who didn’t expect Iran to target the other Arab countries’ infrastructure, and now it’s getting serious.

You can see a pattern forming here. Drop bombs on us, we sent missiles and drones back, you target our gas and oil fields, we will target yours. They even stand up and tell us in plain language what they’re going to do.

Week three, we don’t want to know.  Israel has bombarded and damaged a large Iranian facility.  And no, I didn’t hear them surrendering, I hear them going for American and Arab states’ gas and oil fields with the same intensity.

This is a war.  There are no good guys when it comes to running wars.  It’s about destroying the enemy, plain and simple.

OMG.

By this time, we are beginning to realise they’re using missiles which we apparently didn’t or can’t find or destroy because they’re, well, hidden, 500 meters below ground level, and therefore can launch barrages with impunity on friendly Arab states, and it seems longer range targets.

And if they can hit long-range targets, nothing is safe, no one is safe, and you have to think that this war is becoming the mother of all disasters.

So, here we are, each side bombing and destroying part of the other’s oil and gas-producing facilities, and now the world is suffering because of it. Where will it end?

Two world wars, and we apparently haven’t learned anything.

Three weeks, and we’re on a knife-edge. It’s that time when, turning on the TV to get the latest news, we are barraged with destruction and posturing.

And, this morning, an ultimatum. We are telling them they have 48 hours to surrender or they will be totally destroyed.

What?

An ultimatum that says, basically, you’re in a no-win situation. I can literally see the Iranian leadership behind closed doors, discussing the latest threat.

Imagining that they do not have nuclear weapons at their disposal would be a mistake. We want to believe they don;t but I suspect, as so a lot of others, they do.

The question is whether they would use them.

Is anyone, on either side, asking the question?

If you shoot, they shoot, and there will be nothing left.  There will be no world left for either side to claim any sort of victory. And all those who didn’t want to be involved will suffer the same fate.

Nuclear annihilation.

…

So, here’s the thing.

In many different TV shows where someone is backed into a corner, and there’s no way out, the only way outcome is the worst possible eventuality.

You see the people who finally realise that it’s a no-win situation, and try to calm things down, but it’s usually one person or a group in an isolated situation.  The damage, as catastrophic as it is, is confined.

When you corner someone into believing the only way out is annihilation, well, hold onto your hats because this is one in, all in.

And as is the nature of our society and its thirst for instant news, we’re going to see the end of the world in real time.

We may not die instantly like the lucky ones, no, we’ll get to die a lingering death, a day, or two, or a week.  Maybe a month, but the thought of that is too horrific to contemplate.

You just have to wonder who the madman is who will authorise the first strike.

The Iranians, the Israelis or the Americans?

In the end, it doesn’t matter.  They will condemn this planet to extinction. 

Somewhere out there, the aliens who put us here as an experiment will be saying, yep. What a bunch of nihilistic dumbasses.  Money will change hands as the bets are paid, and the universe will go about its business, happy that Elon Musk isn’t going to live on Mars, and the Chinese aren’t going to take over the moon.

And the self-immolation tendencies of the human race will not spread its disease through the universe.

Except…

Flip-flop has just flipped the 48-hour deadline to five days, and then it will be the infamous two weeks that never end.

The stock market was cratering. It needed to hear positive news, that peace is within reach.

Even if it isn’t. Maybe money with trump annihilation.

We all collectively hold our breath, knowing that inevitably the end of this world is coming, and we can blame the person who invented the atomic bomb.  I was going to say that it’s the aliens’ fault because they could have come and stopped all this nonsense before it started. 

I guess they tried when they landed at Area 51, but our ‘shoot first and ask questions later; basically basically sealed our fate.

So?

We have a four-day breather before everything starts over again.

Is it any wonder I do not like roller coasters?

  .

Day 68 – Is talent really necessary

…

Talent Is Insignificant – It’s Discipline, Love, Luck …and Most of All Endurance That Wins

“Talent hits a target, but only discipline hits the bull’s‑eye every single time.”

If you’ve ever cheered a prodigy at the piano, a gymnast who seemed to glide, or a coder who writes flawless algorithms in a flash, you’ve felt the magnetic pull of talent. It dazzles, it excites, and it often convinces us that “natural ability” is the holy grail of success.

But the more closely we watch the stories that truly endure—athletes who out‑last their rivals, entrepreneurs who bounce back after failure, artists whose work still moves people decades later—the clearer a different truth emerges: talent alone is a weak foundation. What builds a lasting legacy are the quieter, less glamorous forces that sit just beyond the spotlight: discipline, love, luck, and, above all, endurance.

In this post we’ll unpack each of those ingredients, explore how they interact, and give you practical ways to turn the “insignificant” talent you may have into a resilient engine for achievement.

---

1. Talent: The Spark, Not the Engine

Why Talent Feels Overrated

• One‑time brilliance vs. sustained performance. A single moment of brilliance (a perfect shot, a viral video, a breakthrough idea) can jump‑start attention, but without a system behind it the spark fizzles.
• The “gifted” trap. Research in psychology shows that people who are labelled “gifted” often develop a fixed‑mindset: they attribute success to innate ability and avoid challenges that might expose weakness.
• Statistical reality. A 2016 meta‑analysis of 75 studies on expertise (Ericsson et al.) concluded that deliberate practice accounts for roughly 10 % of performance variance; talent accounts for less than 2 %.

Talent as a Starting Line, Not a Finish Line

Think of talent as the starting line in a marathon. It decides who can line up first, but it says nothing about who will cross the finish line. The race is run on the road, not the lane.

---

2. Discipline: The Daily Blueprint

What Discipline Looks Like

Discipline Element	Real‑World Example
Consistent practice	A violinist who rehearses 2 hours daily, 365 days a year
Structured feedback loops	A software engineer who writes unit tests after every feature
Goal‑oriented routines	A writer who writes 500 words before checking email
Self‑monitoring	A runner who logs mileage, heart‑rate, and recovery data

The Science of Habit Formation

James Clear, author of Atomic Habits, points out that identity‑based habits (e.g., “I am a disciplined athlete”) outperform outcome‑based habits (“I will run 5 km”). When discipline becomes part of who you are, it no longer feels like a chore; it feels inevitable.

Actionable tip: Choose one micro‑habit that aligns with your larger goal and repeat it for 30 consecutive days. The habit loop (cue → routine → reward) will start wiring the neural pathways that make discipline feel natural.

---

3. Love: The Emotional Fuel

Why Passion Isn’t Enough

Passion is often touted as the driver of success, yet passion without purpose can become burnout. Love, in the context of achievement, is a deeper, more sustainable affection for the process—the learning, the challenge, the incremental improvement.

The Role of Love in Resilience

• Intrinsic Motivation. When you love the work itself, you’re less dependent on external validation.
• Stress Buffer. Studies in positive psychology show that people who report “loving” their work have lower cortisol levels during high‑pressure periods.
• Community Magnet. Love attracts like-minded people, creating a support network that can catch you when you stumble.

Actionable tip: Write a “Why I love this?” statement for your main pursuit. Keep it on your desk and read it each morning. When the grind feels heavy, that line reminds you why you’re in the arena.

---

4. Luck: The Uncontrollable Variable

Luck Is Not Pure Chance

Luck is the intersection of opportunity and preparedness. As the old adage goes, “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.”

• Exposure. The more you put yourself out there (networking events, conferences, open‑source contributions), the higher the probability that a serendipitous chance will arise.
• Timing. Being ready to pivot when a market shift occurs—think of Netflix transitioning from DVD rentals to streaming—turns “luck” into strategic advantage.

How to Engineer Luck

1. Expand your horizons. Learn a new skill unrelated to your core field.
2. Cultivate diverse relationships. Cross‑industry friendships often surface unexpected collaborations.
3. Stay alert. Keep a journal of ideas and revisit it weekly; the seed of a lucky breakthrough may be hidden there.

---

5. Endurance: The Long‑Term Engine

Endurance vs. Stamina

• Stamina is the ability to sustain effort in the short term (a 10‑km race).
• Endurance is the capacity to keep moving over years, decades, or even a lifetime.

Endurance is the only factor that consistently predicts long‑term success. A 2021 longitudinal study of 2,500 professionals across 12 industries found that endurance (measured by years of continuous effort despite setbacks) explained 45 % of career advancement variance, dwarfing talent (2 %) and even discipline (15 %).

What Builds Endurance?

Component	Practical Habit
Physical health	30 minutes of moderate exercise, 5 days a week
Mental recovery	10‑minute mindfulness meditation after each work block
Strategic rest	Schedule “no‑work” days once per month to reboot creativity
Adaptive mindset	Reframe failures as data points, not verdicts

Real‑World Illustrations

• Serena Williams (tennis) – Not just a natural athlete; she trained relentlessly, loved the grind, leveraged every lucky draw for sponsorship, and persisted through injuries for over 25 years.
• Elon Musk (entrepreneurship) – While his vision seems “gifted,” his schedule of 100‑hour weeks, love for solving engineering puzzles, strategic bets (SpaceX, Tesla), and willingness to endure public ridicule illustrate endurance at scale.

How to Cultivate Endurance in Your Life

1. Set “anchor goals.” Choose a lifelong purpose (“becoming a master storyteller”) rather than a fleeting target (“finish a novel this year”).
2. Build a “failure portfolio.” Keep a list of setbacks, what you learned, and the next step. Seeing failure as a collection of data points removes the fear of the next stumble.
3. Create rituals of renewal. Whether it’s a yearly retreat, a quarterly “skill‑audit,” or a weekly “wins‑and‑losses” meeting with a mentor, rituals remind you that the marathon has checkpoints, not just a distant finish line.

---

6. The Synergy: How the Four Elements Feed Endurance

Element	How It Reinforces Endurance
Discipline	Turns daily effort into muscle memory, reducing decision fatigue over the long haul.
Love	Provides emotional fuel that keeps you returning to the grind when motivation dips.
Luck	Supplies the occasional boost that keeps the journey exciting and opens new pathways, preventing stagnation.
Endurance	The overarching framework that integrates the other three into a sustainable, lifelong practice.

Think of the relationship as a four‑legged stool: remove any leg and the whole structure wobbles. Talent may be the decorative cushion, but the stool can’t stand without its sturdy legs.

---

7. A Blueprint for Turning “Insignificant Talent” Into Lasting Impact

1. Audit Your Starting Point – List your natural abilities, then rate your current discipline, love, luck, and endurance on a 1‑10 scale.
2. Identify the Weakest Leg – If discipline scores a 4 while love is an 8, focus on building consistent habits first.
3. Create a 90‑Day “Endurance Sprint” –
   • Week 1–2: Establish one micro‑habit (e.g., 20‑minute focused work session each morning).
   • Week 3–4: Add a love‑reinforcement ritual (e.g., a weekly reflection on why the work matters).
   • Month 2: Seek one new “luck‑engine” (a networking event, a side‑project).
   • Month 3: Review progress, adjust, and lock in recovery practices (sleep, movement).
4. Iterate Forever – After each 90‑day cycle, increase the difficulty slightly. Over a year, you’ll have built a compound endurance system that eclipses any initial talent.

---

8. Closing Thoughts

Talent is the spark that may ignite curiosity, but it’s the quiet, persistent fire of discipline, the warm glow of love, the occasional gust of luck, and the unyielding heat of endurance that keeps the flame alive.

When you stop measuring success by how quickly you can light a match and start measuring it by how long you can keep the fire burning, you shift from a short‑term performer to a long‑term creator.

So, the next time you hear “You’re so talented,” thank the comment, smile, and then ask yourself: “What will I do today that my future self will thank me for?”

Because the answer, more often than not, will be found not in talent, but in the relentless, disciplined, loving, lucky, and enduring steps you take—one day at a time.

---

Ready to build endurance?
Start now: choose one tiny habit, write a love‑statement for your craft, reach out to a new contact, and schedule a recovery day next week. Your future self will already be cheering you on.

Stay disciplined. Stay loving. Stay open to luck. Stay enduring.

Day 68 – Is talent really necessary

…

Talent Is Insignificant – It’s Discipline, Love, Luck …and Most of All Endurance That Wins

“Talent hits a target, but only discipline hits the bull’s‑eye every single time.”

If you’ve ever cheered a prodigy at the piano, a gymnast who seemed to glide, or a coder who writes flawless algorithms in a flash, you’ve felt the magnetic pull of talent. It dazzles, it excites, and it often convinces us that “natural ability” is the holy grail of success.

But the more closely we watch the stories that truly endure—athletes who out‑last their rivals, entrepreneurs who bounce back after failure, artists whose work still moves people decades later—the clearer a different truth emerges: talent alone is a weak foundation. What builds a lasting legacy are the quieter, less glamorous forces that sit just beyond the spotlight: discipline, love, luck, and, above all, endurance.

In this post we’ll unpack each of those ingredients, explore how they interact, and give you practical ways to turn the “insignificant” talent you may have into a resilient engine for achievement.

---

1. Talent: The Spark, Not the Engine

Why Talent Feels Overrated

• One‑time brilliance vs. sustained performance. A single moment of brilliance (a perfect shot, a viral video, a breakthrough idea) can jump‑start attention, but without a system behind it the spark fizzles.
• The “gifted” trap. Research in psychology shows that people who are labelled “gifted” often develop a fixed‑mindset: they attribute success to innate ability and avoid challenges that might expose weakness.
• Statistical reality. A 2016 meta‑analysis of 75 studies on expertise (Ericsson et al.) concluded that deliberate practice accounts for roughly 10 % of performance variance; talent accounts for less than 2 %.

Talent as a Starting Line, Not a Finish Line

Think of talent as the starting line in a marathon. It decides who can line up first, but it says nothing about who will cross the finish line. The race is run on the road, not the lane.

---

2. Discipline: The Daily Blueprint

What Discipline Looks Like

Discipline Element	Real‑World Example
Consistent practice	A violinist who rehearses 2 hours daily, 365 days a year
Structured feedback loops	A software engineer who writes unit tests after every feature
Goal‑oriented routines	A writer who writes 500 words before checking email
Self‑monitoring	A runner who logs mileage, heart‑rate, and recovery data

The Science of Habit Formation

James Clear, author of Atomic Habits, points out that identity‑based habits (e.g., “I am a disciplined athlete”) outperform outcome‑based habits (“I will run 5 km”). When discipline becomes part of who you are, it no longer feels like a chore; it feels inevitable.

Actionable tip: Choose one micro‑habit that aligns with your larger goal and repeat it for 30 consecutive days. The habit loop (cue → routine → reward) will start wiring the neural pathways that make discipline feel natural.

---

3. Love: The Emotional Fuel

Why Passion Isn’t Enough

Passion is often touted as the driver of success, yet passion without purpose can become burnout. Love, in the context of achievement, is a deeper, more sustainable affection for the process—the learning, the challenge, the incremental improvement.

The Role of Love in Resilience

• Intrinsic Motivation. When you love the work itself, you’re less dependent on external validation.
• Stress Buffer. Studies in positive psychology show that people who report “loving” their work have lower cortisol levels during high‑pressure periods.
• Community Magnet. Love attracts like-minded people, creating a support network that can catch you when you stumble.

Actionable tip: Write a “Why I love this?” statement for your main pursuit. Keep it on your desk and read it each morning. When the grind feels heavy, that line reminds you why you’re in the arena.

---

4. Luck: The Uncontrollable Variable

Luck Is Not Pure Chance

Luck is the intersection of opportunity and preparedness. As the old adage goes, “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.”

• Exposure. The more you put yourself out there (networking events, conferences, open‑source contributions), the higher the probability that a serendipitous chance will arise.
• Timing. Being ready to pivot when a market shift occurs—think of Netflix transitioning from DVD rentals to streaming—turns “luck” into strategic advantage.

How to Engineer Luck

1. Expand your horizons. Learn a new skill unrelated to your core field.
2. Cultivate diverse relationships. Cross‑industry friendships often surface unexpected collaborations.
3. Stay alert. Keep a journal of ideas and revisit it weekly; the seed of a lucky breakthrough may be hidden there.

---

5. Endurance: The Long‑Term Engine

Endurance vs. Stamina

• Stamina is the ability to sustain effort in the short term (a 10‑km race).
• Endurance is the capacity to keep moving over years, decades, or even a lifetime.

Endurance is the only factor that consistently predicts long‑term success. A 2021 longitudinal study of 2,500 professionals across 12 industries found that endurance (measured by years of continuous effort despite setbacks) explained 45 % of career advancement variance, dwarfing talent (2 %) and even discipline (15 %).

What Builds Endurance?

Component	Practical Habit
Physical health	30 minutes of moderate exercise, 5 days a week
Mental recovery	10‑minute mindfulness meditation after each work block
Strategic rest	Schedule “no‑work” days once per month to reboot creativity
Adaptive mindset	Reframe failures as data points, not verdicts

Real‑World Illustrations

• Serena Williams (tennis) – Not just a natural athlete; she trained relentlessly, loved the grind, leveraged every lucky draw for sponsorship, and persisted through injuries for over 25 years.
• Elon Musk (entrepreneurship) – While his vision seems “gifted,” his schedule of 100‑hour weeks, love for solving engineering puzzles, strategic bets (SpaceX, Tesla), and willingness to endure public ridicule illustrate endurance at scale.

How to Cultivate Endurance in Your Life

1. Set “anchor goals.” Choose a lifelong purpose (“becoming a master storyteller”) rather than a fleeting target (“finish a novel this year”).
2. Build a “failure portfolio.” Keep a list of setbacks, what you learned, and the next step. Seeing failure as a collection of data points removes the fear of the next stumble.
3. Create rituals of renewal. Whether it’s a yearly retreat, a quarterly “skill‑audit,” or a weekly “wins‑and‑losses” meeting with a mentor, rituals remind you that the marathon has checkpoints, not just a distant finish line.

---

6. The Synergy: How the Four Elements Feed Endurance

Element	How It Reinforces Endurance
Discipline	Turns daily effort into muscle memory, reducing decision fatigue over the long haul.
Love	Provides emotional fuel that keeps you returning to the grind when motivation dips.
Luck	Supplies the occasional boost that keeps the journey exciting and opens new pathways, preventing stagnation.
Endurance	The overarching framework that integrates the other three into a sustainable, lifelong practice.

Think of the relationship as a four‑legged stool: remove any leg and the whole structure wobbles. Talent may be the decorative cushion, but the stool can’t stand without its sturdy legs.

---

7. A Blueprint for Turning “Insignificant Talent” Into Lasting Impact

1. Audit Your Starting Point – List your natural abilities, then rate your current discipline, love, luck, and endurance on a 1‑10 scale.
2. Identify the Weakest Leg – If discipline scores a 4 while love is an 8, focus on building consistent habits first.
3. Create a 90‑Day “Endurance Sprint” –
   • Week 1–2: Establish one micro‑habit (e.g., 20‑minute focused work session each morning).
   • Week 3–4: Add a love‑reinforcement ritual (e.g., a weekly reflection on why the work matters).
   • Month 2: Seek one new “luck‑engine” (a networking event, a side‑project).
   • Month 3: Review progress, adjust, and lock in recovery practices (sleep, movement).
4. Iterate Forever – After each 90‑day cycle, increase the difficulty slightly. Over a year, you’ll have built a compound endurance system that eclipses any initial talent.

---

8. Closing Thoughts

Talent is the spark that may ignite curiosity, but it’s the quiet, persistent fire of discipline, the warm glow of love, the occasional gust of luck, and the unyielding heat of endurance that keeps the flame alive.

When you stop measuring success by how quickly you can light a match and start measuring it by how long you can keep the fire burning, you shift from a short‑term performer to a long‑term creator.

So, the next time you hear “You’re so talented,” thank the comment, smile, and then ask yourself: “What will I do today that my future self will thank me for?”

Because the answer, more often than not, will be found not in talent, but in the relentless, disciplined, loving, lucky, and enduring steps you take—one day at a time.

---

Ready to build endurance?
Start now: choose one tiny habit, write a love‑statement for your craft, reach out to a new contact, and schedule a recovery day next week. Your future self will already be cheering you on.

Stay disciplined. Stay loving. Stay open to luck. Stay enduring.

Days 66 and 67 – Writing exercise

Take a moment in your past, and turn yourself into a character and express your feelings about it

…

Some things happen that happen for a reason, even though at the time we do not understand the why, only that the result was not what we expected.

Sometimes that is a negative, and causes pause for thought the next time it happens.  Or it is a positive and sends us in a direction that is borne out of experience.

I am by nature an introvert, the sort of person who keeps to himself.  I learned the hard way to mind my own business and not interfere.  The physical scars had healed, but the mental scars are much harder to recover from.

School taught me that trust is not given freely and that it has to be earned.  Of course, the hurdles to get there are often almost insurmountable, but in the end, you learn one of life’s very valuable lessons.

When I graduated from school, not exactly at the top of the class, not the bottom, but it was enough for me to realise I was not suitable material for college or university.  That being the csse my choices were limited.

Stay on the farm and work alongside my father and some of my brothers and sisters, find a job in town, like a storeman at the hardware; or a general hand in one of the fast food outlets. 

Then there was the factory, where eventually all of us, without any schooling, ended up. It was tedious and back-breaking work, but no one questioned your past, your education, or your work ethic.

It was like the army.  You just slotted in and did your bit and didn’t let anyone down.  It suited me, I didn’t have to mix, and I was left alone, even by those who were from school and definitely not my friends.

That took care of the days.

Then there was Friday night at the bar, a rowdy place with everyone having what might be called a good time for some, and for others, a little sport. 

It could get rough; some of those who drank too much became violent, but mostly you were happy, had dinner, a few drinks, shot pool, talked about everything and nothing and then went home.

At first, I avoided it.  I had been drunk before, but that was at home, the typical I’m going to try everything once, and it wasn’t a good experience.  Seeing others so, without inhibitions or quick to temper, your night could very easily end up in the emergency ward at the hospital.

I’d been there a few times when my brothers got on the wrong end of the argument.  That and a night in the sheriff’s cells for drunk and disorderly.  Once was enough, if you learned the lesson.  Quite a few didn’t.

So, having avoided it long enough, I agreed to go with a couple of other chaps with a similar reluctance.  We had been the guys the football jocks beat up on because they could.

Of course, in the year after leaving school and working at home until I couldn’t take my father or eldest brother riding me, I learned how to defend myself.  It was something I should have done at school, but couldn’t.  I needed money, and no one at home would pay. 

Going to work elsewhere, I quickly discovered, gave me independence and the ability to begin living my own life, mistakes and all.

…

Joe’s Bar and Grill was in a huge barn at the edge of town on the main road out.  It had been there as long as anyone could remember, as far back as the days when the railway arrived, and the ranchers could send their cattle on.

One of those places where the country met the rail head, cattle going out and people coming in.  For a while, it drove the town into a city.

The cowboys would stay until the money ran out, and then everything went back to normal.  In between times, the townsfolk, what was left of them, spent Friday night, the traditional end of the working week, letting their hair down, and Saturdays, where families celebrated together in a more convivial atmosphere.

Friday night was where it all happened.  The night wore on, and the drinks were flowing, which started off noisy and sometimes turned ugly.  It’s why the deputies were on hand to make sure it didn’t get out of hand. That was the theory.

Alex, Will and I, with a name like Ken, the three musketeers, had all landed jobs at the factory.  We didn’t work together, but we all met up at breaks.  We kept out of everyone’s line of sight and did our jobs.

It was Alex’s idea that we go.  Have a few drinks, see who was there and who wasn’t, and if truth be known, Alex was looking for Lola.

That last year of school, he had a thing for her, but she was more interested in the athletic types, and I could have told him he was wasting his time.  But the lovelorn will not accept advice readily, and he came to grief.  When he asked her to be his date at the prom, she just laughed at him.

Will and I knew better than to waste our time.  Of course, we were not immune to those first pangs of romance.  I dabbled, asking oblique questions of what I thought was an exile from the mean girls, Lizzie, but discovered quickly she was unavailable.

Fair enough.  I had the sense to walk away.

I’d since learned that her aspirations for college had run aground her parents’ end of downsizing, and left with the same opportunities as most who found themselves on the unemployment line.

There seemed to be more and more of these days, along with the shuttering of stores on the main street. 

And despite everything that had happened, and the likelihood of what might happen, we arrived, parked the truck, got out and surveyed the scene before us.  Crowded, noisy, and a powder keg waiting to explode.

I counted half a dozen cruisers and ten deputies I could see, hanging back, waiting.

Four pick-ups in a convoy arrived and parked out front.  Spaces reserved for the management and VIPs.

“No show without punch, eh?” Alex muttered.

One might have regarded Sam Blackstone as a VIP, but his father was some big shot back east, and Sam somehow believed her was the prodigal son.

He made the big league, got drunk after his first big game, tripped and fell down the stairs, and now had a permanent limp and nothing to brag about

Other than the big shot father who never came home.

But that didn’t stop him from being the leader of a bunch of entitled guys who basically did what they pleased.

We avoided them.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Will said.  “Remember the last time?”

I think we would.  We got our asses handed to us.

“It’s different this time.”  Alex wasn’t going to forgive or forget.  He attended the same self-defence classes that the three of us did.

Will and I were there for self-defence, Alex was there for vengeance.

“I think Will’s right,” I said, hoping to save him from himself, but judging by his posture and expression, reasoning was out.

“You go.  I can do this.”

Will and I looked at each other and shrugged. Alex, on his own, would only get so far.  As the three musketeers, we might just get out alive.

Joe’s Bar and Grill was Sam’s home turf.

Four trucks, one boss and seven mates.  I’d heard about their antics, second-hand from my sister, Will
Eileen, whose best friend was Lizzie, yes, that Lizzie, whose older brother was a deputy.

Well, it is now back to being a small town where everyone knew everyone else.

Last advice, Sam had finally worn out the new Sheriff’s patience. Times had changed, the old sheriff got voted out after a corruption charge was brought against him, not proven, but the local folks figured it was time for a change.

The memo hadn’t reached Sam.  Yet.

Alex started walking towards the front entrance.  I shrugged.  “In for a penny…”

Will just sighed.  “This is going to be fun.”  The way he said it, I knew what he meant.  This was going yo be anything but fun.

Dodger, the nickname we gave to the guy on the door, was from the fact that when the fighting started, he disappeared.

“You guys ain’t been here for a while.”

“Nope,” I said.  “And judging by the noise, nothing’s changed much.”

“We’ve got a bucking bull.”

He was taking us literally.  On Dodger could do that.  The other door guys would have just ignored us.

“I’ll be sure to check it out,” I said.

Past the threshold, it was wall-to-wall people.  Such was Joe’s fame that people came from far and wide.

In front of us, the bar, which stretched from the front to the back, was double-sided.  One side served the pool tables and the bucking bulls, the other tables, and further back, the dance floor.

A gun could go off, and no one would hear it.

“I’ll get a table, you two get drinks and try to stay out of trouble.”  He disappeared into the fog

We went to the bar.  Men served the drinks, the girls delivered them to the tables, and there was also a mix of ‘get your own’, or ‘have it served at your table’, giving the girls a tip.

I heard a rumour that Lizzie and her friends worked as waitresses on Friday and Saturday, the tips adding nicely to their bank accounts, despite the unruly and sometimes bad behaviour of certain customers.

I got the first round, and we went into the fog, and minutes later stumbled into the table where Will was sitting.  A waitress, not Lizzie, came past and slopped a wet rag over the table top and kept going.

We sat.

“Where did Sam go?  I didn’t see him when I was at the bar.”  Will might have seen him on his way to the table.  A shake of the head said no.

“What do you want to know for?”

“So trouble does sneak up on us.”

I was not sure why I was so worried.  We were too small for him to be bothered with.

And by the time an hour had passed, we were approaching the bewitching hour, so named because it was about the time those who had too much and were supposed to be elected by management started to arc up.

The crowd had thinned, but there were still a lot of people there.  The line dancing was getting a little erratic as the booze started to take effect, and already one skirmish had broken out.

The deputies appeared and escorted the guilty to the van and taken to the drunk tank.  It was a sombre warning to others

We had shifted to the bar, and that’s when I saw Lizzie.  She came back and was not far from us.  She looked tired and oddly dishevelled.

And angry.

I slid off my chair and went over.

When she turned, I said, “How are you, Liz?”

I remembered just in time that she hated being called Lizzie.

“How do you think I am?”  It exploded out of her.  Something had happened.

“I know you don’t like me, but that’s a bit strong when a ‘I’m fine, piss off’ spoken politely would have sufficed.”

I turned to go back.

“Sorry.”

I stopped and turned. 

“I’m having a bad night,” she said, sadly, like it was a permanent fact.

“Wouldn’t that be every Friday?”

“No, only those when Sam and his thugs come.  Thinks he owns the place, and that we are at his beck and call.”

“Be worth the tips.”

She snorted.  “Insults, maybe.  Not money.  Not anything.”

“You’re his gopher?”

“And Sally, and Brigitte.  I don’t think there’s a girl under 25 he hasn’t had his way with.  But it’s our own fault for believing the scumbag.”

The barkeep put a tray of drinks on the bar.

“Gotta go.  Ken, isn’t it?  You dodged a bullet, Ken.  I’m not worthy of anything or anyone any more.”

A last look, this one carrying so much despair it nearly brought me to tears.

I had hoped I would miss Sam, but if he was the one who had broken Lizzie, then I was going to make it my mission to break him.

A little more than he already was.

He was down the back, in a booth, flanked by thugs and sitting with three fresh faces, girls who had not experienced the Sam charm offensive.

I watched Lizzie drop the tray on the table, knocking over a bottle, and everyone watching it roll onto his lap.

Silence.  In this corner.

She apologised.  He picked up the bottle and looked like he was going to throw it at her. She flinched in a way I knew this was not the first time, and that was when I said, “You do that, Sam, and it’ll be the last thing you do tonight.”

Three things happened.

First, the two thugs and the two girls got out from behind the table faster than I’d ever seen anyone move, the girls moving away, the thugs positioning themselves so I couldn’t run.

My intention wasn’t to run, but always have an exit just in case.  I picked one.

I motioned for Lizzie to step behind me, and after a moment’s hesitation, she did.  I thought Sam might stop her, but he didn’t.  He had a bigger fish to try.

Second, four of his other thugs came running, but in the crowd, which seemed to close up, it was hard to make headway.  Then Will and Alex appeared, and with two quick and subtle moments, the four were on the floor writhing in agony.

They had simply used their momentum and excess weight, and the degree of intoxication against them.  They took up positions near the two thugs who had been sitting at the table.

Third, the crowd closed in, making it impossible for the deputies to get through.  There was something in the air, and it wasn’t support for Sam.

Not that he would have seen it that way.

Slowly, and very deliberately, he slid out from behind the table and stood.  There was no doubt he was an impressive size, six inches taller and fifty pounds or more.

Enough to scare anyone into submission.

Except he had one weakness.

He came around to the front of the table and leaned against it, shaking his head.

“Little Kenny.  My, my, you’re a bit out of your depth now, aren’t you?  This thing you had for Lizzie now gets you the mother of all lessons in when to mind your own business.”

Let the man talk.  Talk is cheap.  Talk gives confidence, because he’s trying to build a wall, one that he thinks will protect him and make him stronger.

A hush came over the whole building.  The deputies were coming.  This confrontation wasn’t going to last more than a few minutes.

“I see you’ve got your girlfriends with you.”

He was taunting Alex and Will.  They were not going to be taunted, not after putting down four of his thugs. He’d missed that sideshow.

Sam still had the bottle in his hand.  I knew what he was going to do with it.  He had a hunting knife on him, but that would be too clean.  A jagged-edged bottle that could do some damage.

“Let’s take this outside.”

Better that way.  He wouldn’t get banned, and he could shift the blame to me for starting it.

“You can leave any time you like, Sam.  I have a Bud to finish before I go.”

Another shake of the head, then he smashed the top of the empty bottle in his hand, exposing a jagged edge that would leave a nasty cut.

Eyes darting left and right, he launched himself at me with the bottle, heading straight for my neck.  Three seconds, a swift dodge to the left, and a foot perfectly placed where they glued his leg back together.

Everyone heard it crack, everyone heard the scream, and then everyone heard the bull elephant hit the floor and go very still.

Then the sheriff and two deputies burst through the crowd.  No one had said a word.  Nothing.  His friends didn’t move.  Alex had one, Will had the other, and they let them go just as the deputies entered the bull ring.

The two deputies went over to Sam.  The sheriff looked around the crowd, a sea of stunned faces.

“What happened here?”

Thirty seconds before you’ve called out, “Sam was about to throw a bottle at the waitress.”

Another, “He does it all the time.  Hurts them, they all laugh like it’s nothing.”

Another, ” His friends are just as bad.”   Suddenly, the crowd thrust them forward as they tried to blend in.  Alex and Will had disappeared.

“Again, what happened?”  He was sensing a shift in mood.

“That fella told him not to throw the bottle.”

Fingers pointed at me.  I was standing back from but alongside Sam, who still hadn’t moved.  The two deputies were struggling to turn him over.  One was calling for an ambulance.

The sheriff and I knew each other.  I had to bail my brothers out of jail a few times.  I told him ai was the quiet one.  Perhaps that might change very soon.

Behind me, I felt a hand slip into mine and a gentle squeeze.  Then, as quickly as it had happened, it was gone.

“Ken, isn’t it?”

“Sheriff.”

“You told Sam not to throw the bottle?”

“At the waitress, yeah.  Apparently, he’s done it before.  Also physically assaults them, sir.”

“You seem to have done it?”

“I saw the end result of his ministrations, sir.  I know his reputation, sir.  I’ve seen him doing it at school.  Under-age girls.  His parents but them off.”

“Hearsay, Ken.”

A girl’s voice yelled out.  It’s the truth, Sheriff.  It’s you gutless bastards that enabled him.”

The sheriff tried to see who it was, but the crowd closed ranks.

Another deputy came, a bigger man, and together the three rolled him over.  The jagged bottle was sticking out of his upper leg, a bloody mess.

One deputy vomited.  Another pulled off his belt and made a tourniquet.  The other was screaming at dispatch to get an ambulance.

The sheriff looked at me.  “You do this?”

A voice yelled out, “But he did not.”

A ripple of agreement went through the crowd.

He picked one.  “What happened?”

“Sam was leaning against the table.  They were talking.  Then, suddenly, he launched himself at Ken.  Then that same instant, his leg gave out, the gummy one he wrecked being drunk and stupid.  Like tonight.  Went down like the sack shit he is and stabbed himself.  Had he not, Ken would be dead.”

“Anyone else?”

“Smashed the bottle himself, same one he was going to chuck at the girl.  Poetic justice, it’s called.”

The sheriff couldn’t quite put the pieces together to make a believable story.

His eyes stopped on one of the thugs.  “What’s your version?”

“It’s the only version.  His leg gave out, and he stabbed himself.  Fucking fool.”

“You sign a statement to that effect?”

“Everyone will.  He’s terrorised this place, this town, for long enough.”

The sheriff sighed.  “Everyone, go sit down. This is going to be a long night.”

Just then, the ambulance arrived, and the crowd opened up to let the paramedics through.  “Don’t you five go anywhere.”  He pointed at me, the two thugs, Lizzie and the first witness.  He assigned a deputy to watch us after we were taken to a corner with several lounges.

Liz sat next to me.

“Thank you.  You didn’t have to.”

“You should be able to work here and not be afraid. I did what any decent person would.”

“That’s your first mistake.  There ain’t no decent people.  Except maybe you?”

“We’re all tarred with the same brush.  You told mr that.”

“I said a lot of shit back then, cause I didn’t know any better.  You’re not like them.”

“Not if you take in what happened here.”

“That’s different.”

“More violence doesn’t stop violence.  It just makes matters worse.”

“Or better.  You’ll see.”

…

Sam dies in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. 

The sheriff received 345 witness statements that all said the same thing.  Sam was attacking me, unprovoked, his leg gave out, and he killed himself.  The medical examiner called it death by misadventure. 

No one was to blame.

Except his father and brothers turned up at the family ranch, accusing me of killing Sam, at which my father and brothers fell over laughing so hard.

When they refused to leave, my father got his shotgun, called them trespassers and shot at them. A rather expensive car was severely damaged during the process.

The sheriff was told that when Sam’s father came to him with sworn statements that I was the murderer, he tore them up and said if he wanted to press charges, Sam would be posthumously charged with 15 counts of rape and over a thousand charges of sexual assault, grievous bodily harm, attempted murder, kidnapping, and bribery.

He brought out three boxes of sworn statements and said he was ready to start proceedings today.  All he had to do was give the word, and the press packages would be sent out.

It was no surprise that the father left and never came back.  The two brothers, who thought they would take matters into their own hands, disappeared.

They simply disappeared.

As for Elizabeth, who liked to be called Eliza, let the storm blow through like a prairie wind and one morning turned up at my cabin, at the foot of the hills, in one of the most peaceful places in the county.

She looked radiant.

It had taken a lot to get over the trauma involving Sam.  She was one of those he raped.  It had led to a pregnancy, and after nine months, the baby was stillborn.  It almost killed her, but my mother and her First Nation instincts took her to a healing place and brought her back from what could only be called a very dark place.

She held out her hand, and I took it. Then she said the four words I had been waiting for, “I have come home.”

It was something else I never knew or understood, not until the night I stepped between Sam and Elizabeth.

Our heritage, the ways of my mother’s people, going back into the depths of time, and our affinity with the land and the animals and the spirits.

Things could have turned out very badly that night.

They did not, and for that I would be forever thankful, living in, and surrounded by a world I never knew existed.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Days 66 and 67 – Writing exercise

Take a moment in your past, and turn yourself into a character and express your feelings about it

…

Some things happen that happen for a reason, even though at the time we do not understand the why, only that the result was not what we expected.

Sometimes that is a negative, and causes pause for thought the next time it happens.  Or it is a positive and sends us in a direction that is borne out of experience.

I am by nature an introvert, the sort of person who keeps to himself.  I learned the hard way to mind my own business and not interfere.  The physical scars had healed, but the mental scars are much harder to recover from.

School taught me that trust is not given freely and that it has to be earned.  Of course, the hurdles to get there are often almost insurmountable, but in the end, you learn one of life’s very valuable lessons.

When I graduated from school, not exactly at the top of the class, not the bottom, but it was enough for me to realise I was not suitable material for college or university.  That being the csse my choices were limited.

Stay on the farm and work alongside my father and some of my brothers and sisters, find a job in town, like a storeman at the hardware; or a general hand in one of the fast food outlets. 

Then there was the factory, where eventually all of us, without any schooling, ended up. It was tedious and back-breaking work, but no one questioned your past, your education, or your work ethic.

It was like the army.  You just slotted in and did your bit and didn’t let anyone down.  It suited me, I didn’t have to mix, and I was left alone, even by those who were from school and definitely not my friends.

That took care of the days.

Then there was Friday night at the bar, a rowdy place with everyone having what might be called a good time for some, and for others, a little sport. 

It could get rough; some of those who drank too much became violent, but mostly you were happy, had dinner, a few drinks, shot pool, talked about everything and nothing and then went home.

At first, I avoided it.  I had been drunk before, but that was at home, the typical I’m going to try everything once, and it wasn’t a good experience.  Seeing others so, without inhibitions or quick to temper, your night could very easily end up in the emergency ward at the hospital.

I’d been there a few times when my brothers got on the wrong end of the argument.  That and a night in the sheriff’s cells for drunk and disorderly.  Once was enough, if you learned the lesson.  Quite a few didn’t.

So, having avoided it long enough, I agreed to go with a couple of other chaps with a similar reluctance.  We had been the guys the football jocks beat up on because they could.

Of course, in the year after leaving school and working at home until I couldn’t take my father or eldest brother riding me, I learned how to defend myself.  It was something I should have done at school, but couldn’t.  I needed money, and no one at home would pay. 

Going to work elsewhere, I quickly discovered, gave me independence and the ability to begin living my own life, mistakes and all.

…

Joe’s Bar and Grill was in a huge barn at the edge of town on the main road out.  It had been there as long as anyone could remember, as far back as the days when the railway arrived, and the ranchers could send their cattle on.

One of those places where the country met the rail head, cattle going out and people coming in.  For a while, it drove the town into a city.

The cowboys would stay until the money ran out, and then everything went back to normal.  In between times, the townsfolk, what was left of them, spent Friday night, the traditional end of the working week, letting their hair down, and Saturdays, where families celebrated together in a more convivial atmosphere.

Friday night was where it all happened.  The night wore on, and the drinks were flowing, which started off noisy and sometimes turned ugly.  It’s why the deputies were on hand to make sure it didn’t get out of hand. That was the theory.

Alex, Will and I, with a name like Ken, the three musketeers, had all landed jobs at the factory.  We didn’t work together, but we all met up at breaks.  We kept out of everyone’s line of sight and did our jobs.

It was Alex’s idea that we go.  Have a few drinks, see who was there and who wasn’t, and if truth be known, Alex was looking for Lola.

That last year of school, he had a thing for her, but she was more interested in the athletic types, and I could have told him he was wasting his time.  But the lovelorn will not accept advice readily, and he came to grief.  When he asked her to be his date at the prom, she just laughed at him.

Will and I knew better than to waste our time.  Of course, we were not immune to those first pangs of romance.  I dabbled, asking oblique questions of what I thought was an exile from the mean girls, Lizzie, but discovered quickly she was unavailable.

Fair enough.  I had the sense to walk away.

I’d since learned that her aspirations for college had run aground her parents’ end of downsizing, and left with the same opportunities as most who found themselves on the unemployment line.

There seemed to be more and more of these days, along with the shuttering of stores on the main street. 

And despite everything that had happened, and the likelihood of what might happen, we arrived, parked the truck, got out and surveyed the scene before us.  Crowded, noisy, and a powder keg waiting to explode.

I counted half a dozen cruisers and ten deputies I could see, hanging back, waiting.

Four pick-ups in a convoy arrived and parked out front.  Spaces reserved for the management and VIPs.

“No show without punch, eh?” Alex muttered.

One might have regarded Sam Blackstone as a VIP, but his father was some big shot back east, and Sam somehow believed her was the prodigal son.

He made the big league, got drunk after his first big game, tripped and fell down the stairs, and now had a permanent limp and nothing to brag about

Other than the big shot father who never came home.

But that didn’t stop him from being the leader of a bunch of entitled guys who basically did what they pleased.

We avoided them.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Will said.  “Remember the last time?”

I think we would.  We got our asses handed to us.

“It’s different this time.”  Alex wasn’t going to forgive or forget.  He attended the same self-defence classes that the three of us did.

Will and I were there for self-defence, Alex was there for vengeance.

“I think Will’s right,” I said, hoping to save him from himself, but judging by his posture and expression, reasoning was out.

“You go.  I can do this.”

Will and I looked at each other and shrugged. Alex, on his own, would only get so far.  As the three musketeers, we might just get out alive.

Joe’s Bar and Grill was Sam’s home turf.

Four trucks, one boss and seven mates.  I’d heard about their antics, second-hand from my sister, Will
Eileen, whose best friend was Lizzie, yes, that Lizzie, whose older brother was a deputy.

Well, it is now back to being a small town where everyone knew everyone else.

Last advice, Sam had finally worn out the new Sheriff’s patience. Times had changed, the old sheriff got voted out after a corruption charge was brought against him, not proven, but the local folks figured it was time for a change.

The memo hadn’t reached Sam.  Yet.

Alex started walking towards the front entrance.  I shrugged.  “In for a penny…”

Will just sighed.  “This is going to be fun.”  The way he said it, I knew what he meant.  This was going yo be anything but fun.

Dodger, the nickname we gave to the guy on the door, was from the fact that when the fighting started, he disappeared.

“You guys ain’t been here for a while.”

“Nope,” I said.  “And judging by the noise, nothing’s changed much.”

“We’ve got a bucking bull.”

He was taking us literally.  On Dodger could do that.  The other door guys would have just ignored us.

“I’ll be sure to check it out,” I said.

Past the threshold, it was wall-to-wall people.  Such was Joe’s fame that people came from far and wide.

In front of us, the bar, which stretched from the front to the back, was double-sided.  One side served the pool tables and the bucking bulls, the other tables, and further back, the dance floor.

A gun could go off, and no one would hear it.

“I’ll get a table, you two get drinks and try to stay out of trouble.”  He disappeared into the fog

We went to the bar.  Men served the drinks, the girls delivered them to the tables, and there was also a mix of ‘get your own’, or ‘have it served at your table’, giving the girls a tip.

I heard a rumour that Lizzie and her friends worked as waitresses on Friday and Saturday, the tips adding nicely to their bank accounts, despite the unruly and sometimes bad behaviour of certain customers.

I got the first round, and we went into the fog, and minutes later stumbled into the table where Will was sitting.  A waitress, not Lizzie, came past and slopped a wet rag over the table top and kept going.

We sat.

“Where did Sam go?  I didn’t see him when I was at the bar.”  Will might have seen him on his way to the table.  A shake of the head said no.

“What do you want to know for?”

“So trouble does sneak up on us.”

I was not sure why I was so worried.  We were too small for him to be bothered with.

And by the time an hour had passed, we were approaching the bewitching hour, so named because it was about the time those who had too much and were supposed to be elected by management started to arc up.

The crowd had thinned, but there were still a lot of people there.  The line dancing was getting a little erratic as the booze started to take effect, and already one skirmish had broken out.

The deputies appeared and escorted the guilty to the van and taken to the drunk tank.  It was a sombre warning to others

We had shifted to the bar, and that’s when I saw Lizzie.  She came back and was not far from us.  She looked tired and oddly dishevelled.

And angry.

I slid off my chair and went over.

When she turned, I said, “How are you, Liz?”

I remembered just in time that she hated being called Lizzie.

“How do you think I am?”  It exploded out of her.  Something had happened.

“I know you don’t like me, but that’s a bit strong when a ‘I’m fine, piss off’ spoken politely would have sufficed.”

I turned to go back.

“Sorry.”

I stopped and turned. 

“I’m having a bad night,” she said, sadly, like it was a permanent fact.

“Wouldn’t that be every Friday?”

“No, only those when Sam and his thugs come.  Thinks he owns the place, and that we are at his beck and call.”

“Be worth the tips.”

She snorted.  “Insults, maybe.  Not money.  Not anything.”

“You’re his gopher?”

“And Sally, and Brigitte.  I don’t think there’s a girl under 25 he hasn’t had his way with.  But it’s our own fault for believing the scumbag.”

The barkeep put a tray of drinks on the bar.

“Gotta go.  Ken, isn’t it?  You dodged a bullet, Ken.  I’m not worthy of anything or anyone any more.”

A last look, this one carrying so much despair it nearly brought me to tears.

I had hoped I would miss Sam, but if he was the one who had broken Lizzie, then I was going to make it my mission to break him.

A little more than he already was.

He was down the back, in a booth, flanked by thugs and sitting with three fresh faces, girls who had not experienced the Sam charm offensive.

I watched Lizzie drop the tray on the table, knocking over a bottle, and everyone watching it roll onto his lap.

Silence.  In this corner.

She apologised.  He picked up the bottle and looked like he was going to throw it at her. She flinched in a way I knew this was not the first time, and that was when I said, “You do that, Sam, and it’ll be the last thing you do tonight.”

Three things happened.

First, the two thugs and the two girls got out from behind the table faster than I’d ever seen anyone move, the girls moving away, the thugs positioning themselves so I couldn’t run.

My intention wasn’t to run, but always have an exit just in case.  I picked one.

I motioned for Lizzie to step behind me, and after a moment’s hesitation, she did.  I thought Sam might stop her, but he didn’t.  He had a bigger fish to try.

Second, four of his other thugs came running, but in the crowd, which seemed to close up, it was hard to make headway.  Then Will and Alex appeared, and with two quick and subtle moments, the four were on the floor writhing in agony.

They had simply used their momentum and excess weight, and the degree of intoxication against them.  They took up positions near the two thugs who had been sitting at the table.

Third, the crowd closed in, making it impossible for the deputies to get through.  There was something in the air, and it wasn’t support for Sam.

Not that he would have seen it that way.

Slowly, and very deliberately, he slid out from behind the table and stood.  There was no doubt he was an impressive size, six inches taller and fifty pounds or more.

Enough to scare anyone into submission.

Except he had one weakness.

He came around to the front of the table and leaned against it, shaking his head.

“Little Kenny.  My, my, you’re a bit out of your depth now, aren’t you?  This thing you had for Lizzie now gets you the mother of all lessons in when to mind your own business.”

Let the man talk.  Talk is cheap.  Talk gives confidence, because he’s trying to build a wall, one that he thinks will protect him and make him stronger.

A hush came over the whole building.  The deputies were coming.  This confrontation wasn’t going to last more than a few minutes.

“I see you’ve got your girlfriends with you.”

He was taunting Alex and Will.  They were not going to be taunted, not after putting down four of his thugs. He’d missed that sideshow.

Sam still had the bottle in his hand.  I knew what he was going to do with it.  He had a hunting knife on him, but that would be too clean.  A jagged-edged bottle that could do some damage.

“Let’s take this outside.”

Better that way.  He wouldn’t get banned, and he could shift the blame to me for starting it.

“You can leave any time you like, Sam.  I have a Bud to finish before I go.”

Another shake of the head, then he smashed the top of the empty bottle in his hand, exposing a jagged edge that would leave a nasty cut.

Eyes darting left and right, he launched himself at me with the bottle, heading straight for my neck.  Three seconds, a swift dodge to the left, and a foot perfectly placed where they glued his leg back together.

Everyone heard it crack, everyone heard the scream, and then everyone heard the bull elephant hit the floor and go very still.

Then the sheriff and two deputies burst through the crowd.  No one had said a word.  Nothing.  His friends didn’t move.  Alex had one, Will had the other, and they let them go just as the deputies entered the bull ring.

The two deputies went over to Sam.  The sheriff looked around the crowd, a sea of stunned faces.

“What happened here?”

Thirty seconds before you’ve called out, “Sam was about to throw a bottle at the waitress.”

Another, “He does it all the time.  Hurts them, they all laugh like it’s nothing.”

Another, ” His friends are just as bad.”   Suddenly, the crowd thrust them forward as they tried to blend in.  Alex and Will had disappeared.

“Again, what happened?”  He was sensing a shift in mood.

“That fella told him not to throw the bottle.”

Fingers pointed at me.  I was standing back from but alongside Sam, who still hadn’t moved.  The two deputies were struggling to turn him over.  One was calling for an ambulance.

The sheriff and I knew each other.  I had to bail my brothers out of jail a few times.  I told him ai was the quiet one.  Perhaps that might change very soon.

Behind me, I felt a hand slip into mine and a gentle squeeze.  Then, as quickly as it had happened, it was gone.

“Ken, isn’t it?”

“Sheriff.”

“You told Sam not to throw the bottle?”

“At the waitress, yeah.  Apparently, he’s done it before.  Also physically assaults them, sir.”

“You seem to have done it?”

“I saw the end result of his ministrations, sir.  I know his reputation, sir.  I’ve seen him doing it at school.  Under-age girls.  His parents but them off.”

“Hearsay, Ken.”

A girl’s voice yelled out.  It’s the truth, Sheriff.  It’s you gutless bastards that enabled him.”

The sheriff tried to see who it was, but the crowd closed ranks.

Another deputy came, a bigger man, and together the three rolled him over.  The jagged bottle was sticking out of his upper leg, a bloody mess.

One deputy vomited.  Another pulled off his belt and made a tourniquet.  The other was screaming at dispatch to get an ambulance.

The sheriff looked at me.  “You do this?”

A voice yelled out, “But he did not.”

A ripple of agreement went through the crowd.

He picked one.  “What happened?”

“Sam was leaning against the table.  They were talking.  Then, suddenly, he launched himself at Ken.  Then that same instant, his leg gave out, the gummy one he wrecked being drunk and stupid.  Like tonight.  Went down like the sack shit he is and stabbed himself.  Had he not, Ken would be dead.”

“Anyone else?”

“Smashed the bottle himself, same one he was going to chuck at the girl.  Poetic justice, it’s called.”

The sheriff couldn’t quite put the pieces together to make a believable story.

His eyes stopped on one of the thugs.  “What’s your version?”

“It’s the only version.  His leg gave out, and he stabbed himself.  Fucking fool.”

“You sign a statement to that effect?”

“Everyone will.  He’s terrorised this place, this town, for long enough.”

The sheriff sighed.  “Everyone, go sit down. This is going to be a long night.”

Just then, the ambulance arrived, and the crowd opened up to let the paramedics through.  “Don’t you five go anywhere.”  He pointed at me, the two thugs, Lizzie and the first witness.  He assigned a deputy to watch us after we were taken to a corner with several lounges.

Liz sat next to me.

“Thank you.  You didn’t have to.”

“You should be able to work here and not be afraid. I did what any decent person would.”

“That’s your first mistake.  There ain’t no decent people.  Except maybe you?”

“We’re all tarred with the same brush.  You told mr that.”

“I said a lot of shit back then, cause I didn’t know any better.  You’re not like them.”

“Not if you take in what happened here.”

“That’s different.”

“More violence doesn’t stop violence.  It just makes matters worse.”

“Or better.  You’ll see.”

…

Sam dies in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. 

The sheriff received 345 witness statements that all said the same thing.  Sam was attacking me, unprovoked, his leg gave out, and he killed himself.  The medical examiner called it death by misadventure. 

No one was to blame.

Except his father and brothers turned up at the family ranch, accusing me of killing Sam, at which my father and brothers fell over laughing so hard.

When they refused to leave, my father got his shotgun, called them trespassers and shot at them. A rather expensive car was severely damaged during the process.

The sheriff was told that when Sam’s father came to him with sworn statements that I was the murderer, he tore them up and said if he wanted to press charges, Sam would be posthumously charged with 15 counts of rape and over a thousand charges of sexual assault, grievous bodily harm, attempted murder, kidnapping, and bribery.

He brought out three boxes of sworn statements and said he was ready to start proceedings today.  All he had to do was give the word, and the press packages would be sent out.

It was no surprise that the father left and never came back.  The two brothers, who thought they would take matters into their own hands, disappeared.

They simply disappeared.

As for Elizabeth, who liked to be called Eliza, let the storm blow through like a prairie wind and one morning turned up at my cabin, at the foot of the hills, in one of the most peaceful places in the county.

She looked radiant.

It had taken a lot to get over the trauma involving Sam.  She was one of those he raped.  It had led to a pregnancy, and after nine months, the baby was stillborn.  It almost killed her, but my mother and her First Nation instincts took her to a healing place and brought her back from what could only be called a very dark place.

She held out her hand, and I took it. Then she said the four words I had been waiting for, “I have come home.”

It was something else I never knew or understood, not until the night I stepped between Sam and Elizabeth.

Our heritage, the ways of my mother’s people, going back into the depths of time, and our affinity with the land and the animals and the spirits.

Things could have turned out very badly that night.

They did not, and for that I would be forever thankful, living in, and surrounded by a world I never knew existed.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

More about my second novel

…

John is in Vienna, Austria.

It’s been quite some years since we were in Vienna, and I remember it was a very pleasant experience. The copious notes and photographs I took have helped me write this chapter.

There is no doubting the zeal Worthington will put into the capture or assassination of Zoe, if and when she is discovered, and John would be horrified if he knew he was being used in such a manner.

At times, it will be a bit like reading an Eric Ambler thriller: going to the hotel, getting information from concierges, and then tracking her movements. Money, as always, speaks one language: pay enough and you will find out what you want to know.

We know Zoe is languishing in a basement somewhere in Bratislava.

John is about to find out where she went, but searching for someone in Bratislava will be completely different from searching for someone in Austria.

The same rules don’t apply in Hungary.

…

As for our visit, we stayed at the Hilton Vienna Park, though the park was then called something else. It was also when we had our first authentic Vienna Schnitzel and sampled Austrian cherries.

From there, we took the train to Schonbrunn Palace, with its extensive gardens and maze, impressive architecture, old rooms and paintings, and, at the end, so many sets of crockery.

There was also a nearby kitchen that made Apple Strudel, where we watched it being made and then had a slice afterwards.

We also went to a Wiener Palace, which offered a large and varied selection of sausages.

Unfortunately, there were no music recitals or orchestral events during our visit.

More about my second novel

…

John is in Vienna, Austria.

It’s been quite some years since we were in Vienna, and I remember it was a very pleasant experience. The copious notes and photographs I took have aided in writing this chapter.

There is no doubting the zeal Worthington will put into the capture or assassination of Zoe, if and when she is discovered, and John would be horrified if he knew he was being used in such a manner.

At times, it will be a bit like reading an Eric Ambler thriller: going to the hotel, getting information from concierges, and then tracking her movements. Money, as always, speaks one language: pay enough and you will find out what you want to know.

We know Zoe is languishing in a basement somewhere in Bratislava.

John is about to find out where she went, but searching for someone in Bratislava will be completely different from searching for someone in Austria.

The same rules don’t apply in Hungary.

…

As for our visit, we stayed at the Hilton Vienna Park, though the park was then called something else. It was also when we had our first authentic Vienna Schnitzel and sampled Austrian cherries.

From there, we took the train to Schonbrunn Palace, with its extensive gardens and maze, impressive architecture, old rooms and paintings, and, at the end, so many sets of crockery.

There was also a nearby kitchen that made Apple Strudel, where we watched it being made and then had a slice afterwards.

We also went to a Wiener Palace, which offered a large and varied selection of sausages.

Unfortunately, there were no music recitals or orchestral events during our visit.