Day 217 – What constitutes a strong first line

…

Hook, Line, and Sinker: What Makes a Masterpiece First Line (And Why Readers Can’t Look Away)

You have about three seconds.

In the age of endless scrolling, infinite browser tabs, and shrinking attention spans, a reader’s finger hovers constantly over the back button or the swipe-up gesture. Whether you’re writing a sprawling epic fantasy, a punchy B2B blog post, or a gripping journalistic exposé, your opening line is your one and only bouncer. It either opens the velvet rope or tells the reader to move along.

So, what constitutes a strong first line—one that makes it utterly impossible for the reader not to know more?

Let’s break down the psychology of the irresistible hook, analyse some of the greatest opening lines in literature and non-fiction, and look at how you can weaponise your own introductions.

---

The Anatomy of an Irresistible First Line

A great first line doesn’t just sound pretty (though rhythm and cadence certainly help). It performs specific psychological heavy-lifting. It usually achieves at least one—if not all—of the following:

1. It creates an “Information Gap”: Coined by economist George Loewenstein, the “information gap theory” states that curiosity happens when we feel a gap between what we know and what we want to know. A great opening line introduces a puzzle, a paradox, or an abrupt shift in reality that demands resolution.
2. It establishes an unmistakable voice: Tone is the personality of your writing. A strong first line immediately signals who is speaking and how they see the world, whether that voice is cynical, lyrical, urgent, or darkly comedic.
3. It drops the reader in media res: Great openers rarely start with throat-clearing, weather reports, or background exposition. They throw the reader into the deep end of the pool and let them figure out how to swim.

---

5 Types of Powerful First Lines (With Examples)

To understand how to craft your own magnetic openers, let’s look at five distinct archetypes of killer first lines and dissect why they work.

1. The Audacious Declaration

This type of opening makes a bold, sometimes shocking claim that forces the reader to sit up straight. It challenges conventional wisdom or immediately stakes out a controversial stance.

• The Example: “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” — Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
• Why it works: Tolstoy doesn’t ease you into 19th-century Russian aristocracy; he drops a sweeping, absolute philosophical maxim. It immediately prompts the reader’s brain to object: Are all happy families really alike? Let me read on to see what he means. It frames the entire novel as an exploration of human misery and complexity.

2. The Unsettling Fact or Paradox

Nothing halts a scroll faster than a statement that defies logic or makes you slightly uncomfortable. It creates an instant cognitive itch that only reading the next sentence can scratch.

• The Example: “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” — George Orwell, 1984
• Why it works: Notice the sleight of hand. Orwell lulls you into a sense of normalcy with “a bright cold day in April”—and then shatters reality with “the clocks were striking thirteen.” Without a single word of exposition, you instantly understand that something is deeply, chillingly wrong with this world. You must read on to find out what kind of society operates on a thirteen-hour clock.

3. The Confession or Secret

We are hardwired to lean in when someone whispers a secret. Starting a piece with a deeply personal confession—or an implication of guilt—creates instant intimacy and urgency.

• The Example: “Caller ID does not adequately protect us from the people we already know.” — Lionel Shriver, We Need to Talk About Kevin
• Why it works: This line is brilliant because it takes a mundane, modern technology (Caller ID) and twists it into a source of dread. It implies violence, domestic tension, and inescapable trauma right out of the gate. We know immediately that the narrator is hiding from someone, and the suspense is instantly palpable.

4. The Action-Packed Drop (In Media Res)

Instead of starting at the beginning, start in the middle of the chaos. This forces the reader to play catch-up, assembling the puzzle pieces in real-time.

• The Example: “The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.” — Stephen King, The Dark Tower: The Gunslinger
• Why it works: With just twelve words, King establishes pursuit, high stakes, stark geography, and two opposing forces. Who is the man in black? Why is he fleeing? Who is the gunslinger? You don’t know yet, but the kinetic energy of the sentence drags you across the desert sand behind them.

5. The Deadpan Absurdity

Humor and shock value are close cousins. When a narrator states something wildly bizarre with complete, deadpan seriousness, the reader is hooked by sheer curiosity and dark delight.

• The Example: “You better not never tell nobody but God.” — Alice Walker, The Colour Purple
• Why it works: This line is devastatingly intimate. Written in vernacular, it instantly establishes the protagonist’s youth, vulnerability, and the immense weight of the secret she is about to share. It feels illicit to read it, which makes looking away impossible.

---

How to Write Your Own Killer First Line

Knowing what a great first line looks like is one thing; reverse-engineering one for your own piece is another. When you are editing your introduction, run your opening sentence through this checklist:

• Cut the throat-clearing: Delete any introductory phrases like “In today’s fast-paced world…” or “It has often been said that…” Start with the noun or the action.
• Check the rhythm: Read your first line aloud. Does it have a musicality to it? Does it land with a punch, or does it trail off?
• Ask: “So what?”: If your first line is “Content marketing is important for businesses,” your reader will yawn. If it is “Your content strategy is actively repelling your best customers,” your reader will panic—and keep reading.
• Save it for last: Often, you won’t find your killer first line until you’ve finished writing the entire piece. Once you know what your story or article is actually about, go back to the top and write an opening that serves as the ultimate gateway.

The Bottom Line

A great first line is a promise. It’s a pact between you and the reader that says: If you give me your time, I will reward you with something extraordinary.

Master the art of the hook, and you’ll never have to worry about losing your audience before the journey has even begun.

…

Day 217 – What constitutes a strong first line

…

Hook, Line, and Sinker: What Makes a Masterpiece First Line (And Why Readers Can’t Look Away)

You have about three seconds.

In the age of endless scrolling, infinite browser tabs, and shrinking attention spans, a reader’s finger hovers constantly over the back button or the swipe-up gesture. Whether you’re writing a sprawling epic fantasy, a punchy B2B blog post, or a gripping journalistic exposé, your opening line is your one and only bouncer. It either opens the velvet rope or tells the reader to move along.

So, what constitutes a strong first line—one that makes it utterly impossible for the reader not to know more?

Let’s break down the psychology of the irresistible hook, analyse some of the greatest opening lines in literature and non-fiction, and look at how you can weaponise your own introductions.

---

The Anatomy of an Irresistible First Line

A great first line doesn’t just sound pretty (though rhythm and cadence certainly help). It performs specific psychological heavy-lifting. It usually achieves at least one—if not all—of the following:

1. It creates an “Information Gap”: Coined by economist George Loewenstein, the “information gap theory” states that curiosity happens when we feel a gap between what we know and what we want to know. A great opening line introduces a puzzle, a paradox, or an abrupt shift in reality that demands resolution.
2. It establishes an unmistakable voice: Tone is the personality of your writing. A strong first line immediately signals who is speaking and how they see the world, whether that voice is cynical, lyrical, urgent, or darkly comedic.
3. It drops the reader in media res: Great openers rarely start with throat-clearing, weather reports, or background exposition. They throw the reader into the deep end of the pool and let them figure out how to swim.

---

5 Types of Powerful First Lines (With Examples)

To understand how to craft your own magnetic openers, let’s look at five distinct archetypes of killer first lines and dissect why they work.

1. The Audacious Declaration

This type of opening makes a bold, sometimes shocking claim that forces the reader to sit up straight. It challenges conventional wisdom or immediately stakes out a controversial stance.

• The Example: “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” — Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
• Why it works: Tolstoy doesn’t ease you into 19th-century Russian aristocracy; he drops a sweeping, absolute philosophical maxim. It immediately prompts the reader’s brain to object: Are all happy families really alike? Let me read on to see what he means. It frames the entire novel as an exploration of human misery and complexity.

2. The Unsettling Fact or Paradox

Nothing halts a scroll faster than a statement that defies logic or makes you slightly uncomfortable. It creates an instant cognitive itch that only reading the next sentence can scratch.

• The Example: “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” — George Orwell, 1984
• Why it works: Notice the sleight of hand. Orwell lulls you into a sense of normalcy with “a bright cold day in April”—and then shatters reality with “the clocks were striking thirteen.” Without a single word of exposition, you instantly understand that something is deeply, chillingly wrong with this world. You must read on to find out what kind of society operates on a thirteen-hour clock.

3. The Confession or Secret

We are hardwired to lean in when someone whispers a secret. Starting a piece with a deeply personal confession—or an implication of guilt—creates instant intimacy and urgency.

• The Example: “Caller ID does not adequately protect us from the people we already know.” — Lionel Shriver, We Need to Talk About Kevin
• Why it works: This line is brilliant because it takes a mundane, modern technology (Caller ID) and twists it into a source of dread. It implies violence, domestic tension, and inescapable trauma right out of the gate. We know immediately that the narrator is hiding from someone, and the suspense is instantly palpable.

4. The Action-Packed Drop (In Media Res)

Instead of starting at the beginning, start in the middle of the chaos. This forces the reader to play catch-up, assembling the puzzle pieces in real-time.

• The Example: “The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.” — Stephen King, The Dark Tower: The Gunslinger
• Why it works: With just twelve words, King establishes pursuit, high stakes, stark geography, and two opposing forces. Who is the man in black? Why is he fleeing? Who is the gunslinger? You don’t know yet, but the kinetic energy of the sentence drags you across the desert sand behind them.

5. The Deadpan Absurdity

Humor and shock value are close cousins. When a narrator states something wildly bizarre with complete, deadpan seriousness, the reader is hooked by sheer curiosity and dark delight.

• The Example: “You better not never tell nobody but God.” — Alice Walker, The Colour Purple
• Why it works: This line is devastatingly intimate. Written in vernacular, it instantly establishes the protagonist’s youth, vulnerability, and the immense weight of the secret she is about to share. It feels illicit to read it, which makes looking away impossible.

---

How to Write Your Own Killer First Line

Knowing what a great first line looks like is one thing; reverse-engineering one for your own piece is another. When you are editing your introduction, run your opening sentence through this checklist:

• Cut the throat-clearing: Delete any introductory phrases like “In today’s fast-paced world…” or “It has often been said that…” Start with the noun or the action.
• Check the rhythm: Read your first line aloud. Does it have a musicality to it? Does it land with a punch, or does it trail off?
• Ask: “So what?”: If your first line is “Content marketing is important for businesses,” your reader will yawn. If it is “Your content strategy is actively repelling your best customers,” your reader will panic—and keep reading.
• Save it for last: Often, you won’t find your killer first line until you’ve finished writing the entire piece. Once you know what your story or article is actually about, go back to the top and write an opening that serves as the ultimate gateway.

The Bottom Line

A great first line is a promise. It’s a pact between you and the reader that says: If you give me your time, I will reward you with something extraordinary.

Master the art of the hook, and you’ll never have to worry about losing your audience before the journey has even begun.

…

Day 216 – Writing Exercise

…

I remember the days when our town was like a sleepy hollow surrounded by prairies and mountains. 

We had everything we needed, and the town grew at the pace that matched the natural population growth.  It was quite literally that sort of town where everyone knew everyone else.

The Murphys ran the sheriff’s department, the Watersons were mayors or civic officers, the Ravellers ran the bank, and Blacks started as the blacksmith and now took care of the farm machinery and engineering.  We were, for all intents and purposes, self-sufficient.

Then, little by little, that autonomy started to disappear.  The fast food outlets came; a shopping mall was built, and then realtors came and built estates, claiming our town was just the place to live, away from the city rat race.

Then times changed, and the economy failed, and people found themselves struggling.  It was not just us; it was everywhere.

That’s when the Montgomerys came.

…

My father was conservative, not exactly against change, just change that radically affected his way of life.  He and a few others opposed the mall, the resort being built on the old Anderson ranch, and the radical redesigns of the main street.

He had watched the fast food places turn the children away from the people food, the new hotels turn the people into gamblers and drinkers, and the out-of-towners who were moving into the new estates increase the crime rate.
.
And the new people brought the drug scourge.

In five years the sheriff’s office had gone from a shop front with the sheriff and two deputies to ten deputies and three detectives, and a modern two-story building with a compound and jail space for twenty.

In those same five years, the original families that built our town started leaving.

My father deplored what was happening, even more so when there was nothing he could do about it.  Our Sunday family gathering had turned into a gathering of the so-called founding fathers, dwindling rapidly.

Most had either died out or sold out.  And in the case of my generation, with the advent of the internet and the ease of getting information, most have left to seek their fortune in the big cities, tempted by the fortunes that could be made.

He also resisted the buyout offers of his land, now very prime real estate, and held up a multi-million-dollar new resort being developed by the Montomery Corporation run by Archibald Montgomery.

A self-made man, he was quite literally larger than life.  No one knew why he left New York, only that he landed in our town by mistake and took a shine to it.

His foothold started with building a castle on the old Herbertson ranch, the first of the old guard to sell out.  From there he regaled the old founders with parties and then offers, buying up properties for cents on the dollar, legally and sometimes not.

He went from hero to monster in the blink of an eye.  About the same time, it was realised he had bought half the town and surrounding farms.  And with that sort of influence, he all but owned the mayor and the sheriff.

Then there was Archie Montgomery junior.

I finished high school with him, the eldest son, and the heir apparent.  He believed he owned the town, and everything else, and everyone was his slave to do his bidding.

Those who didn’t found themselves on the wrong end of the stick.

That’s how the Thompsons, my family, became the thorn in the side that neither the father nor the prodigal son wanted or needed.

And both were the subject of conversation at lunch.

…

I looked around the tables at the twenty-two members left from the founding fathers group.  The latest casualty: the town sheriff for the last 20 years, just getting voted out and replaced by one of Montgomery’s acolytes.

He was glad to retire, just not about who replaced him.  The mayor, or ex-mayor, was sitting next to him, having been deposed on the same election day.  Politically, the wind had shifted, and the representatives in Congress that had protected us for so long had been swept away, replaced by, well, my father had an expression that wasn’t repeatable.

Montgomery had finally won, as he said he would.

Jacob Waterson, sixth-generation resident, the last of a long line of town mayors, was sad.  He had seen what was happening, and like the rest of us, could do nothing about it.

“It’s time we all just left and left them to it.  We can only hold out so long.  I mean, if torching the Franz property was a message, then who will be next?”

Old man Franz had refused to sell.  Then suddenly his place burned down with him in it, and the investigation came back that old man Franz had basically caused the fire himself.  Old wiring and out-of-date appliances.  He had been warned.

The thing is, he had the wiring replaced.  He just didn’t tell those who needed to know except us.  It was like he knew what was going to happen.

“That fire was not caused by an electrical fault.”

The ex-sheriff was adamant and was checking the crime scene himself.  No one in the county was interested, a measure of how far Montgomery’s influence had reached.

“That would be me, I’m guessing,” my father said.  “Those hundred head of missing cattle turned up on the other side of the country, sold to a meat processor, with our brand overstamped.  It was very cleverly done, almost unnoticeable.”

I’d seen the photos sent by the meat works when they noticed an irregularity.  Too late to stop the slaughter.  Too late to do anything about it.

“It’s time.  We’re retiring in Florida.  We got just enough to buy a condo and spend a few years cruising.  Take the offer and get out, Jake.”

The sheriff was still recovering from an ambush attack that left his deputy dead and him a hospital case.  He would have gone back to work if he was fit, but then he lost the election.

The campaign to depose him was very dirty.  Politics was threaded through even the minor elections, and that was driving the politicised landscape, a problem we never had before the developers and new arrivals.

Pity.

I guess it was time for all of us to retire.

The conversation focussed on who was next, not what we could do about it, and I think that was the measure of our impotence.  There was just not enough of us to make a change.

That’s when a lone voice at the table spoke, my sister Marianne. “They haven’t won; they were never going to win.” 

An odd ethereal silence fell over the room.

“In a sense they have,” our father said.

“Not where it matters, as they will soon discover.”

“What do you mean?” Her mother looked worried.  Marianne had suffered a bad few months recently with the Montgomery juniors’ bullying.

The daughter was as bad as the son.

“I put a curse on the whole family “

That was something else about Marianne that had worried me.  A week or two ago I had accidentally walked in on her and four of her friends sitting inside a pentagram chanting what sounded like Latin.

Several books around them had what were supposedly spells, one she said would bring down hellfire and damnation on the Montgomeries.

Wishful thinking, I’d said, but if it made her feel better…

“Yes, dear,” her mother said.  She was going to, as she had in the face of increasing agitation, just ignore it as a phase.

Then added her two cents’ worth to the conversation, “Perhaps it’s time we moved on.  Nothing lasts forever, as much as we hoped it would.”

I was sure a few of those sitting around the table hoped the curse would work.

The silence lasted about another minute and a half before Harvey, one of the ranch hands, came bursting into the room and went over to our father.  I heard him mutter in his ear, “There’s a fire in the town, it’s bad.”

Several of the men around the table were volunteer firefighters, surprised they hadn’t got the callout.

In a matter of seconds, Marianne and I were the only two left in the room. I would have joined the exodus, but I suspected there was more to this curse thing.

She had a curious, if not demonic, expression.

“What did you do?”  A very bad feeling came over me.

“We ensured that Montgomery will never forget that despite his blind faith in his invincibility, he is as vulnerable as anyone else.  Wealth and power cannot prevent the inevitability of moral justice.”

Now she was scaring me.  Her conversations were scathing at best, every sentence starting or ending with a like or but.

She stood.  “Come.”  She held out her hand towards me.  “Let us go and witness the very essence of retribution.”

I found it impossible to resist the invitation. 

Perhaps she was a witch.

…

A crowd had gathered.  Deputies had put up a tape line to keep them back.

As we got close, we could see the smoke billowing into the air, and on the breeze, that acrid aroma of the smoke.

The fire was in the library, attached to City Hall, old sandstone buildings built at the turn of the last century, but they were a fire hazard, so much wood and paper.

Flames were coming out of the windows and the roof.  Three fire engines were fighting a losing battle, fire hoses snaking in all directions and men running, dressed in fireproof suits and breathing apparatus.

As we took up a position between two of the new families, their kids more interested in the fire trucks than the fire, we were joined by several of her friends, the girls who had been with her in the pentagram.

None spoke, but I got the feeling they knew something about what was happening.

Then we all heard a shout, coming from outside the front entrance to the library, where a firefighter in full protective gear stumbled out the doorway. “There are people inside. I heard the screams; there’s nothing we could do.  It’s horrible.”

He collapsed, and two other firefighters came over and helped him over to the ambulance.

I knew then that it had to be a member or members of the Montgomery family.  How they got in there, why they were in there, if they were in there, was a question more than just me would be asking.

Especially if they died in that fire.

And whether it was proven that the fire was not from natural causes and was started by someone.

I looked at my sister.  Her expression was unreadable, the sort of expressionless face one would expect from a poker player.  Her friends were not so good at hiding their feelings.

“You called this retribution,” I said quietly beside her.

I watched two suited firemen go into the building, and the come back out just as flames leapt through the door after them.

It was followed by a heavy cracking sound, and I think that was the roof crashing down.

No one was going to be saved, whoever was in there.

“God answered our prayers.  The Montgomerys are a scourge on the landscape.  If it was them, then it’s good riddance.  I’ve seen enough.”  She looked at the other girls.  “Let’s go to the church and pray for their souls “

…

It was two days before the fire died out and the investigators went in.  It took a week after that for a partial report to be leaked to the townsfolk.

Apparently my sister’s only fault was that she had cursed the family, and everyone knew she was not a witch, so she was taking credit for something she hadn’t done.

The problem was, there wasn’t anyone who could be found in the residue, as it had been expected they’d find bones or partial bones.

The firefighters had sworn he heard cries for help behind the wall of flames.

The thing is, they couldn’t find anyone, missing or otherwise, in the wreckage.  But missing people there were: the whole Montgomery family.

Their cars were missing, and key possessions were missing, and their bank accounts were emptied.  There was just no reason why they should leave now.

The thing is, people who had been aligned with the Montgonerys took a step back and then decided they were no longer aligned with them, and came to the former mayor and asked him to reinvent the town, back to the way it was.

No, we didn’t exactly get our town back; we had gone down a path there was no coming back from.  We just had to live with it, and keep going.

And for a while it was good.

Then rumours circulated that the Montgomerys had died in the fire, all of them.  Despite reports that the Montgomeries had been seen in the next County the day after the fire was extinguished.

Nothing made sense, and it became town folklore.

Until…

…

I was sitting in the lawyers’ office; the one overlooking the park outside city hall.  The one they had renovated after that eventful fire sixty years ago, almost to the day.

Robert Penthaven, son of the son of the man who tended my father’s affairs, had called me and said there were details about my sister’s passing that needed clearing up.

The last time I had to sit in the chair was after my father died and my sister and I inherited the ranch.  She wasn’t interested, having long moved away, but retained her interest in it. 

I thought it was to formalise the passing of her interest to me.  I was passing mine to my son, who thankfully wanted to be a rancher and not relocate to the city.

I’d waited almost a half hour and thought I’d nodded off because, as softly as he tried to close the door it woke me with a start.

“Sorry,” he said, dropping into the more comfortable chair behind the desk.  “Simple things take much longer these days.”

He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a file, a quite thick file.  An envelope was clipped to the cover.  He unclipped it and slid it across the table.  “For you, after she died.”

“Words from the grave.”

“Or grave words, maybe.  She was a curious one, your sister.  I never quite knew when she was joking or when she wasn’t.”

“Did she tell you she was a witch?”

“Among other things.  She once said she was the keeper of secrets, and one in particular, one that she said she would take to the grave.  We are all a bit like that; things happen, and we wish to forget.  Perhaps that letter might shed some light.”

“Or tell me it’s time to stand on my own two feet.  Older siblings are like that.”

I picked up the envelope and held it in my hand.  One sheet, three at the most.  The question was whether I wanted to read it.

I shrugged and opened it.  Robert stood.  “I’ll be outside if you need me.”  He went out and closed the door behind him.

I unfolded the sheets.  Two.  Written in her spidery writing, almost illegible.  She had wanted to be a doctor and settled for nurse practitioner. 

She would have made a great doctor.

Kyle,

There are beginnings, there are endings, and all the rest is the consequences of life.

Sometimes it is not the life you wanted, but simply the life you get according to your choices.

I never knew what I really wanted, but it wasn’t to be raped by Archie Montgomery.  Nor did any of my friends.  We became The Five, who could have become victims.

We did not.

We decided to rid the world of a problem.

This is not a confession.  We did not sin against natural justice.  A thoroughly bad person was tried in God’s eyes and received the punishment he was due.

He burned in hell.

The shame of it was that his family tried to save him, and died in vain.  It was not what we wanted; we had nothing to do with their deaths, and had they left well alone, they would have lived.

I can’t say they’re in a better place.

I can’t say we ended up in a better place, but as far as I’m concerned, I have atoned for my sins.

He never hurt another girl.

That family never hurt another soul.

Our town did not miss them, as they did not miss The Five.  It was no longer our town. 

If they ever pull down the library and dig new foundations, they will find them, all seven.  Let’s hope that it’s not in your lifetime.  It won’t be in mine, or the rest of The Five. 

We have all moved on, hopefully to a better place.

Keep the secret or not, it’s up to you, but I suspect that age-old statement ‘let sleeping dogs lie’ might be appropriate here.

May your life be happy and content.  The ranch is yours to leave to Kyle Junior, as it should be.

Meg.

I think I sat there staring at the pages without seeing them, feeling the tears running down my cheeks, now understanding the enigma my sister had become.

If she had told me that fateful night we were standing outside the burning library, I would not have believed her, and I don’t think I did now.  There was a long list of those who wanted all of the dead.  It would be easy to claim responsibility now when I couldn’t cross-examine her.

But what’s done is done. 

The sleeping dogs would lie.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 216 – Writing Exercise

…

I remember the days when our town was like a sleepy hollow surrounded by prairies and mountains. 

We had everything we needed, and the town grew at the pace that matched the natural population growth.  It was quite literally that sort of town where everyone knew everyone else.

The Murphys ran the sheriff’s department, the Watersons were mayors or civic officers, the Ravellers ran the bank, and Blacks started as the blacksmith and now took care of the farm machinery and engineering.  We were, for all intents and purposes, self-sufficient.

Then, little by little, that autonomy started to disappear.  The fast food outlets came; a shopping mall was built, and then realtors came and built estates, claiming our town was just the place to live, away from the city rat race.

Then times changed, and the economy failed, and people found themselves struggling.  It was not just us; it was everywhere.

That’s when the Montgomerys came.

…

My father was conservative, not exactly against change, just change that radically affected his way of life.  He and a few others opposed the mall, the resort being built on the old Anderson ranch, and the radical redesigns of the main street.

He had watched the fast food places turn the children away from the people food, the new hotels turn the people into gamblers and drinkers, and the out-of-towners who were moving into the new estates increase the crime rate.
.
And the new people brought the drug scourge.

In five years the sheriff’s office had gone from a shop front with the sheriff and two deputies to ten deputies and three detectives, and a modern two-story building with a compound and jail space for twenty.

In those same five years, the original families that built our town started leaving.

My father deplored what was happening, even more so when there was nothing he could do about it.  Our Sunday family gathering had turned into a gathering of the so-called founding fathers, dwindling rapidly.

Most had either died out or sold out.  And in the case of my generation, with the advent of the internet and the ease of getting information, most have left to seek their fortune in the big cities, tempted by the fortunes that could be made.

He also resisted the buyout offers of his land, now very prime real estate, and held up a multi-million-dollar new resort being developed by the Montomery Corporation run by Archibald Montgomery.

A self-made man, he was quite literally larger than life.  No one knew why he left New York, only that he landed in our town by mistake and took a shine to it.

His foothold started with building a castle on the old Herbertson ranch, the first of the old guard to sell out.  From there he regaled the old founders with parties and then offers, buying up properties for cents on the dollar, legally and sometimes not.

He went from hero to monster in the blink of an eye.  About the same time, it was realised he had bought half the town and surrounding farms.  And with that sort of influence, he all but owned the mayor and the sheriff.

Then there was Archie Montgomery junior.

I finished high school with him, the eldest son, and the heir apparent.  He believed he owned the town, and everything else, and everyone was his slave to do his bidding.

Those who didn’t found themselves on the wrong end of the stick.

That’s how the Thompsons, my family, became the thorn in the side that neither the father nor the prodigal son wanted or needed.

And both were the subject of conversation at lunch.

…

I looked around the tables at the twenty-two members left from the founding fathers group.  The latest casualty: the town sheriff for the last 20 years, just getting voted out and replaced by one of Montgomery’s acolytes.

He was glad to retire, just not about who replaced him.  The mayor, or ex-mayor, was sitting next to him, having been deposed on the same election day.  Politically, the wind had shifted, and the representatives in Congress that had protected us for so long had been swept away, replaced by, well, my father had an expression that wasn’t repeatable.

Montgomery had finally won, as he said he would.

Jacob Waterson, sixth-generation resident, the last of a long line of town mayors, was sad.  He had seen what was happening, and like the rest of us, could do nothing about it.

“It’s time we all just left and left them to it.  We can only hold out so long.  I mean, if torching the Franz property was a message, then who will be next?”

Old man Franz had refused to sell.  Then suddenly his place burned down with him in it, and the investigation came back that old man Franz had basically caused the fire himself.  Old wiring and out-of-date appliances.  He had been warned.

The thing is, he had the wiring replaced.  He just didn’t tell those who needed to know except us.  It was like he knew what was going to happen.

“That fire was not caused by an electrical fault.”

The ex-sheriff was adamant and was checking the crime scene himself.  No one in the county was interested, a measure of how far Montgomery’s influence had reached.

“That would be me, I’m guessing,” my father said.  “Those hundred head of missing cattle turned up on the other side of the country, sold to a meat processor, with our brand overstamped.  It was very cleverly done, almost unnoticeable.”

I’d seen the photos sent by the meat works when they noticed an irregularity.  Too late to stop the slaughter.  Too late to do anything about it.

“It’s time.  We’re retiring in Florida.  We got just enough to buy a condo and spend a few years cruising.  Take the offer and get out, Jake.”

The sheriff was still recovering from an ambush attack that left his deputy dead and him a hospital case.  He would have gone back to work if he was fit, but then he lost the election.

The campaign to depose him was very dirty.  Politics was threaded through even the minor elections, and that was driving the politicised landscape, a problem we never had before the developers and new arrivals.

Pity.

I guess it was time for all of us to retire.

The conversation focussed on who was next, not what we could do about it, and I think that was the measure of our impotence.  There was just not enough of us to make a change.

That’s when a lone voice at the table spoke, my sister Marianne. “They haven’t won; they were never going to win.” 

An odd ethereal silence fell over the room.

“In a sense they have,” our father said.

“Not where it matters, as they will soon discover.”

“What do you mean?” Her mother looked worried.  Marianne had suffered a bad few months recently with the Montgomery juniors’ bullying.

The daughter was as bad as the son.

“I put a curse on the whole family “

That was something else about Marianne that had worried me.  A week or two ago I had accidentally walked in on her and four of her friends sitting inside a pentagram chanting what sounded like Latin.

Several books around them had what were supposedly spells, one she said would bring down hellfire and damnation on the Montgomeries.

Wishful thinking, I’d said, but if it made her feel better…

“Yes, dear,” her mother said.  She was going to, as she had in the face of increasing agitation, just ignore it as a phase.

Then added her two cents’ worth to the conversation, “Perhaps it’s time we moved on.  Nothing lasts forever, as much as we hoped it would.”

I was sure a few of those sitting around the table hoped the curse would work.

The silence lasted about another minute and a half before Harvey, one of the ranch hands, came bursting into the room and went over to our father.  I heard him mutter in his ear, “There’s a fire in the town, it’s bad.”

Several of the men around the table were volunteer firefighters, surprised they hadn’t got the callout.

In a matter of seconds, Marianne and I were the only two left in the room. I would have joined the exodus, but I suspected there was more to this curse thing.

She had a curious, if not demonic, expression.

“What did you do?”  A very bad feeling came over me.

“We ensured that Montgomery will never forget that despite his blind faith in his invincibility, he is as vulnerable as anyone else.  Wealth and power cannot prevent the inevitability of moral justice.”

Now she was scaring me.  Her conversations were scathing at best, every sentence starting or ending with a like or but.

She stood.  “Come.”  She held out her hand towards me.  “Let us go and witness the very essence of retribution.”

I found it impossible to resist the invitation. 

Perhaps she was a witch.

…

A crowd had gathered.  Deputies had put up a tape line to keep them back.

As we got close, we could see the smoke billowing into the air, and on the breeze, that acrid aroma of the smoke.

The fire was in the library, attached to City Hall, old sandstone buildings built at the turn of the last century, but they were a fire hazard, so much wood and paper.

Flames were coming out of the windows and the roof.  Three fire engines were fighting a losing battle, fire hoses snaking in all directions and men running, dressed in fireproof suits and breathing apparatus.

As we took up a position between two of the new families, their kids more interested in the fire trucks than the fire, we were joined by several of her friends, the girls who had been with her in the pentagram.

None spoke, but I got the feeling they knew something about what was happening.

Then we all heard a shout, coming from outside the front entrance to the library, where a firefighter in full protective gear stumbled out the doorway. “There are people inside. I heard the screams; there’s nothing we could do.  It’s horrible.”

He collapsed, and two other firefighters came over and helped him over to the ambulance.

I knew then that it had to be a member or members of the Montgomery family.  How they got in there, why they were in there, if they were in there, was a question more than just me would be asking.

Especially if they died in that fire.

And whether it was proven that the fire was not from natural causes and was started by someone.

I looked at my sister.  Her expression was unreadable, the sort of expressionless face one would expect from a poker player.  Her friends were not so good at hiding their feelings.

“You called this retribution,” I said quietly beside her.

I watched two suited firemen go into the building, and the come back out just as flames leapt through the door after them.

It was followed by a heavy cracking sound, and I think that was the roof crashing down.

No one was going to be saved, whoever was in there.

“God answered our prayers.  The Montgomerys are a scourge on the landscape.  If it was them, then it’s good riddance.  I’ve seen enough.”  She looked at the other girls.  “Let’s go to the church and pray for their souls “

…

It was two days before the fire died out and the investigators went in.  It took a week after that for a partial report to be leaked to the townsfolk.

Apparently my sister’s only fault was that she had cursed the family, and everyone knew she was not a witch, so she was taking credit for something she hadn’t done.

The problem was, there wasn’t anyone who could be found in the residue, as it had been expected they’d find bones or partial bones.

The firefighters had sworn he heard cries for help behind the wall of flames.

The thing is, they couldn’t find anyone, missing or otherwise, in the wreckage.  But missing people there were: the whole Montgomery family.

Their cars were missing, and key possessions were missing, and their bank accounts were emptied.  There was just no reason why they should leave now.

The thing is, people who had been aligned with the Montgonerys took a step back and then decided they were no longer aligned with them, and came to the former mayor and asked him to reinvent the town, back to the way it was.

No, we didn’t exactly get our town back; we had gone down a path there was no coming back from.  We just had to live with it, and keep going.

And for a while it was good.

Then rumours circulated that the Montgomerys had died in the fire, all of them.  Despite reports that the Montgomeries had been seen in the next County the day after the fire was extinguished.

Nothing made sense, and it became town folklore.

Until…

…

I was sitting in the lawyers’ office; the one overlooking the park outside city hall.  The one they had renovated after that eventful fire sixty years ago, almost to the day.

Robert Penthaven, son of the son of the man who tended my father’s affairs, had called me and said there were details about my sister’s passing that needed clearing up.

The last time I had to sit in the chair was after my father died and my sister and I inherited the ranch.  She wasn’t interested, having long moved away, but retained her interest in it. 

I thought it was to formalise the passing of her interest to me.  I was passing mine to my son, who thankfully wanted to be a rancher and not relocate to the city.

I’d waited almost a half hour and thought I’d nodded off because, as softly as he tried to close the door it woke me with a start.

“Sorry,” he said, dropping into the more comfortable chair behind the desk.  “Simple things take much longer these days.”

He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a file, a quite thick file.  An envelope was clipped to the cover.  He unclipped it and slid it across the table.  “For you, after she died.”

“Words from the grave.”

“Or grave words, maybe.  She was a curious one, your sister.  I never quite knew when she was joking or when she wasn’t.”

“Did she tell you she was a witch?”

“Among other things.  She once said she was the keeper of secrets, and one in particular, one that she said she would take to the grave.  We are all a bit like that; things happen, and we wish to forget.  Perhaps that letter might shed some light.”

“Or tell me it’s time to stand on my own two feet.  Older siblings are like that.”

I picked up the envelope and held it in my hand.  One sheet, three at the most.  The question was whether I wanted to read it.

I shrugged and opened it.  Robert stood.  “I’ll be outside if you need me.”  He went out and closed the door behind him.

I unfolded the sheets.  Two.  Written in her spidery writing, almost illegible.  She had wanted to be a doctor and settled for nurse practitioner. 

She would have made a great doctor.

Kyle,

There are beginnings, there are endings, and all the rest is the consequences of life.

Sometimes it is not the life you wanted, but simply the life you get according to your choices.

I never knew what I really wanted, but it wasn’t to be raped by Archie Montgomery.  Nor did any of my friends.  We became The Five, who could have become victims.

We did not.

We decided to rid the world of a problem.

This is not a confession.  We did not sin against natural justice.  A thoroughly bad person was tried in God’s eyes and received the punishment he was due.

He burned in hell.

The shame of it was that his family tried to save him, and died in vain.  It was not what we wanted; we had nothing to do with their deaths, and had they left well alone, they would have lived.

I can’t say they’re in a better place.

I can’t say we ended up in a better place, but as far as I’m concerned, I have atoned for my sins.

He never hurt another girl.

That family never hurt another soul.

Our town did not miss them, as they did not miss The Five.  It was no longer our town. 

If they ever pull down the library and dig new foundations, they will find them, all seven.  Let’s hope that it’s not in your lifetime.  It won’t be in mine, or the rest of The Five. 

We have all moved on, hopefully to a better place.

Keep the secret or not, it’s up to you, but I suspect that age-old statement ‘let sleeping dogs lie’ might be appropriate here.

May your life be happy and content.  The ranch is yours to leave to Kyle Junior, as it should be.

Meg.

I think I sat there staring at the pages without seeing them, feeling the tears running down my cheeks, now understanding the enigma my sister had become.

If she had told me that fateful night we were standing outside the burning library, I would not have believed her, and I don’t think I did now.  There was a long list of those who wanted all of the dead.  It would be easy to claim responsibility now when I couldn’t cross-examine her.

But what’s done is done. 

The sleeping dogs would lie.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 215 – Too many adjectives?

…

Kill Your Darlings: Why Simple, Strong Words Beat Over-Adjectifying Every Time

We’ve all been there. You’re writing a blog post, a novel, or even a professional email, and you look at a sentence like this:

“The large, menacing, ferocious hound ran quickly across the damp, muddy, desolate field.”

It sounds descriptive, right? But to an experienced reader or an SEO expert looking at user engagement, it actually reads like linguistic clutter. It feels heavy, breathless, and—ironically—weak.

Many writers fall into the trap of believing that the more adjectives they use, the better their writing will become. Surely, adding more descriptors paints a clearer picture?

In reality, trying to use too many adjectives is often a symptom of weak writing. As the old saying goes: Simple, strong words are best—and you should avoid any words that leave people reaching for a dictionary.

Here is why less is almost always more when it comes to adjectives, and how you can transform your writing by embracing simplicity and strength.

---

The Adjective Trap: Why We Over-Decorate

Why do we do it? Why do we stack adjectives like cordwood?

1. The Fear of Being Boring: We worry that without modifiers, our writing will sound dry and academic.
2. The “Show, Don’t Tell” Shortcut: Instead of describing how a character feels through action, we slap an emotion word in front of them (e.g., “the deeply depressed, profoundly sad man”).
3. The Myth of Granularity: We think precision requires length. We assume that saying “a glistening, shimmering, multifaceted diamond” is more effective than just saying “a diamond.”

The truth? Adjectives are the makeup of writing. A little bit highlights the natural features, but caking it on makes everything look fake, muddy, and overdone.

---

3 Reasons Why Too Many Adjectives Kill Your Writing

1. They Slow Down the Reader’s Momentum

Good writing has rhythm. It flows like a river, pulling the reader effortlessly downstream. Piling on adjectives acts like dropping boulders into that river. Every extra modifier forces the reader’s brain to pause, process, and adjust the mental image.

Compare these two sentences:

• Over-adjectified: “The ancient, crumbling, dilapidated, forgotten wooden cabin stood alone.” (Exhausting.)
• Simple and strong: “The ruin stood alone.” or “The rotting cabin stood alone.” (Punchy and immediate.)

2. They Weaken the Noun

Your nouns and verbs should be doing the heavy lifting. When you rely on adjectives to create impact, you rob your primary words of their power.

Instead of writing “a very large, towering hill,” use “a mountain.” Instead of writing “walked very quietly and stealthily,” use “prowled.”

By choosing a stronger noun or verb in the first place, you eliminate the need for adjectives entirely.

3. Obscure Words Alienate Your Audience

Another common pitfall when trying to “elevate” writing is using overly complex, high-register adjectives that most people don’t use in everyday conversation. Words like pusillanimous, lugubrious, or perspicacious.

Unless you are writing for an academic journal, using obscure words doesn’t make you look smart—it makes you hard to read. If a reader has to stop and look up the definition of a word, you’ve broken their immersion. Clear communication always trumps vocabulary flexing. If people have trouble understanding the meaning of your words, they will simply click away.

---

How to Write with Simplicity and Strength

If you want to clean up your prose, boost your readability, and keep your readers hooked, adopt these three copywriting rules today:

Rule 1: One Adjective is a Maximum, Zero is Often Better

Before you publish a sentence, look at every noun. Does it have two or three adjectives attached to it? Delete at least half of them. Challenge yourself to find the exact right noun instead of modifying a weak one.

Rule 2: Audit Your Adverbs and Adjectives

Run your drafts through a readability checker or read them out loud. If you find yourself using filler modifiers like very, really, truly, quite, or extremely, hit the backspace key. These words are crutches. They signal that the adjective (or verb) that follows isn’t strong enough on its own.

Rule 3: Write for the 8th-Grade Level (Even for Professionals)

Simplicity is not the same as dumbing down. The greatest writers in history—Ernest Hemingway, Stephen King, Maya Angelou—used remarkably simple language. Hemingway’s prose is famous for its punchy, unadorned strength. Write so that a general audience can grasp your meaning instantly, effortlessly, and with maximum emotional resonance.

---

The Bottom Line

Great writing isn’t about how many impressive words you can cram into a paragraph; it’s about how clearly you can transmit an idea from your brain to the reader’s.

The next time you’re tempted to write “a profoundly complex, deeply fascinating, intricately detailed problem,” stop. Take a breath.

Delete the makeup. Trust your nouns. Use simple, strong words—and let your ideas speak for themselves.

…

Day 215 – Too many adjectives?

…

Kill Your Darlings: Why Simple, Strong Words Beat Over-Adjectifying Every Time

We’ve all been there. You’re writing a blog post, a novel, or even a professional email, and you look at a sentence like this:

“The large, menacing, ferocious hound ran quickly across the damp, muddy, desolate field.”

It sounds descriptive, right? But to an experienced reader or an SEO expert looking at user engagement, it actually reads like linguistic clutter. It feels heavy, breathless, and—ironically—weak.

Many writers fall into the trap of believing that the more adjectives they use, the better their writing will become. Surely, adding more descriptors paints a clearer picture?

In reality, trying to use too many adjectives is often a symptom of weak writing. As the old saying goes: Simple, strong words are best—and you should avoid any words that leave people reaching for a dictionary.

Here is why less is almost always more when it comes to adjectives, and how you can transform your writing by embracing simplicity and strength.

---

The Adjective Trap: Why We Over-Decorate

Why do we do it? Why do we stack adjectives like cordwood?

1. The Fear of Being Boring: We worry that without modifiers, our writing will sound dry and academic.
2. The “Show, Don’t Tell” Shortcut: Instead of describing how a character feels through action, we slap an emotion word in front of them (e.g., “the deeply depressed, profoundly sad man”).
3. The Myth of Granularity: We think precision requires length. We assume that saying “a glistening, shimmering, multifaceted diamond” is more effective than just saying “a diamond.”

The truth? Adjectives are the makeup of writing. A little bit highlights the natural features, but caking it on makes everything look fake, muddy, and overdone.

---

3 Reasons Why Too Many Adjectives Kill Your Writing

1. They Slow Down the Reader’s Momentum

Good writing has rhythm. It flows like a river, pulling the reader effortlessly downstream. Piling on adjectives acts like dropping boulders into that river. Every extra modifier forces the reader’s brain to pause, process, and adjust the mental image.

Compare these two sentences:

• Over-adjectified: “The ancient, crumbling, dilapidated, forgotten wooden cabin stood alone.” (Exhausting.)
• Simple and strong: “The ruin stood alone.” or “The rotting cabin stood alone.” (Punchy and immediate.)

2. They Weaken the Noun

Your nouns and verbs should be doing the heavy lifting. When you rely on adjectives to create impact, you rob your primary words of their power.

Instead of writing “a very large, towering hill,” use “a mountain.” Instead of writing “walked very quietly and stealthily,” use “prowled.”

By choosing a stronger noun or verb in the first place, you eliminate the need for adjectives entirely.

3. Obscure Words Alienate Your Audience

Another common pitfall when trying to “elevate” writing is using overly complex, high-register adjectives that most people don’t use in everyday conversation. Words like pusillanimous, lugubrious, or perspicacious.

Unless you are writing for an academic journal, using obscure words doesn’t make you look smart—it makes you hard to read. If a reader has to stop and look up the definition of a word, you’ve broken their immersion. Clear communication always trumps vocabulary flexing. If people have trouble understanding the meaning of your words, they will simply click away.

---

How to Write with Simplicity and Strength

If you want to clean up your prose, boost your readability, and keep your readers hooked, adopt these three copywriting rules today:

Rule 1: One Adjective is a Maximum, Zero is Often Better

Before you publish a sentence, look at every noun. Does it have two or three adjectives attached to it? Delete at least half of them. Challenge yourself to find the exact right noun instead of modifying a weak one.

Rule 2: Audit Your Adverbs and Adjectives

Run your drafts through a readability checker or read them out loud. If you find yourself using filler modifiers like very, really, truly, quite, or extremely, hit the backspace key. These words are crutches. They signal that the adjective (or verb) that follows isn’t strong enough on its own.

Rule 3: Write for the 8th-Grade Level (Even for Professionals)

Simplicity is not the same as dumbing down. The greatest writers in history—Ernest Hemingway, Stephen King, Maya Angelou—used remarkably simple language. Hemingway’s prose is famous for its punchy, unadorned strength. Write so that a general audience can grasp your meaning instantly, effortlessly, and with maximum emotional resonance.

---

The Bottom Line

Great writing isn’t about how many impressive words you can cram into a paragraph; it’s about how clearly you can transmit an idea from your brain to the reader’s.

The next time you’re tempted to write “a profoundly complex, deeply fascinating, intricately detailed problem,” stop. Take a breath.

Delete the makeup. Trust your nouns. Use simple, strong words—and let your ideas speak for themselves.

…

Days 213 and 214 – Writing Exercise

…

I thought the end of my world came from the rejection and subsequent humiliation following my disastrous proposal to a girl I thought loved me as much as I loved her.

It was never going to be that simple.

It was nothing that time would heal.

And it was not my burden to carry on my own.  An event that completely wiped away the horror of that personal failure and replaced it with something far worse.

Created by the pressing of a single button.

June 14th 2029.

It wasn’t as if the world hadn’t already gone to hell in a handbasket.  The whole world had become a tinderbox.  Presidents argued, ultimatums given, elections lost.

It wasn’t just one man who decided the fate of the world.  It was more than that.  Men had decided they wanted power, and to get power they used leverage, and leverage came from withdrawing the one necessity we had come to take for granted.

Fuel.  In every form.  Oil, gas, uranium, water.

A single ultimatum was issued.  No one honestly believed it would be followed through because there had been similar threats before.

No one in their right mind would launch a single nuclear weapon of such destructive power; it would destroy a city and millions of people.

Let alone the secondary effects of radiation poisoning that would be almost an extinction-level event. 

We didn’t understand what all the talk was about, what would happen in the event of nuclear war, and prayed it would never happen.

But on June 14th 2029, it did.

The president, bunkered down, under siege, having refused to acknowledge that he had lost what he called a rigged election, and with nowhere to go, followed through with his threat.

The launching of the missile was televised.

Where it landed was not.  Its launch caused retaliatory strikes, and, in all, five nuclear missiles landed, wiping out in an instant five cities and everyone within the blast range.

Then, within a matter of hours, the smaller but equally destructive missiles started landing and destroying major cities all over the world.

Retaliatory strikes.

No one was safe; millions of people died.

What was remarkable for me was that I survived, because when we learned what was about to happen, the last message to be broadcast, I had wanted to die.

It seemed God had saved me for a reason.

…

Three months was a long time when trying to find the essentials was a battle in itself.

Yes, survivors banded together and helped each other.  To begin with. But as time passed, resources were harder to find, more people were coming, more mouths to feed and more space to house them, and getting people to agree on a plan of action saw divisions, splinter groups being formed, then the fighting began.

Instead of being grateful to be alive, suddenly we were fighting to stay alive.

I got out of the big city, or what was left of it and headed south.  I had no idea why, other than a belief things had to be better where, hopefully, it was warmer.

We were, someone said, going through what was called a nuclear winter.

I’d found a car abandoned on the side of the highway.  It was surprising someone else hadn’t stolen it.  Perhaps it was the dried blood stains inside and outside that acted as a deterrent.

I was not squeamish.  The owner or occupants were nowhere to be seen, and in fairness, I waited an hour to see if they returned.

They did not.

I drove until it ran out of fuel, parked it, got out, and said a silent prayer for the previous occupants.  It had taken me a hundred miles further south, what would have taken me a week or two on foot.

What was remarkable was the distinct lack of traffic and people.  Some places looked almost intact, except for the lack of people.  Not that I was looking for anyone; I learned the hard way no one could be trusted.

I slept in an abandoned shed that night.  How easy it had become not to expect a warm, comfortable bed, running water, and a meal from the fast food shop around the corner. 

I could not remember what my last hamburger or chicken sandwich tasted like.  

…

I opened my eyes just after making a wish, the same wish I had made since the day the world as we knew it ended.

I should be grateful I was one of the few who survived.

I should be grateful I had somewhere to sleep that was reasonably sheltered.

I should be grateful I had found a can of beans, and I ate well the night before.

I should be grateful, but I learned very quickly that gratitude got you nowhere.

Once people realised that everything they had known and relied on was gone, primitive instinct took over.  It was, quite literally, every man and woman, for themselves.

But if that wasnt worse enough, that expectation that life could get better was dashed by a second series of calamities, the explosions cause by the bombs had anl rolling effect under the earth’s crust, and not only agitated existing volcanoes, it restarted long since extinct volcanoes, and caused earthquakes particularly around the Pacific rim, and of course, along the very coast I was making my way down.

Today was no better than yesterday, or the day before. Dawn was almost as dark as the hour before, the sun unable to fully penetrate the dust and fallout in the upper atmosphere.

Intermittent lightning strikes lit up in the distance, along with a faint rumble of accompanying thunder.  When it reached land, the storms increased in intensity.

I peered into the gloom and should have been glad I couldn’t see too far into the distance.  It was better not to know what was ahead of me.

It was safe to say my wish had not been granted.

I sighed.

A man in a uniform, perhaps a member of the National Guard sent to keep law and order, came up and said, “If you want to survive this, go south to either Cape Canaveral or Pensacola.  There will be ships taking people to the southern continents.  Tell everybody you see.  We can’t stay here, not for much longer.  There’s a mini ice age coming to the northern hemisphere.”

Then he left, moving quickly.  An army truck went past, then slowed down as it approached him; then he climbed up, and it continued on its way.  Were there others nearby whom he had given the news?

Go south?

To a ship that would take us to safety?

Was anywhere safe?

I guess I would soon find out.  It was time to leave.

I looked around to see if anyone else was about.  There wasn’t.  Those like me who ventured away from their temporary home where it was warm and safe were regarded as troublemakers, and they didn’t stop us.

They were waiting for the government or whatever or whoever was in charge to come and tell them what to do.  From what I’d seen, the only people in charge were those who took control, and those waiting were going to be disappointed.

There may be food, there may be light, and there may be a degree of normality.  But it wasn’t going to last forever. 

…

I had always wanted to go on that road trip along the coast from Boston to Cape Canaveral.  Not only did NASA launch spaceships from there, but the Disney cruise ships sailed from there. 

Or used to.  It would be interesting to see what was there now.  Or not.  Everyone knew about it being a cruise ship port and would go there.  Instead, I would go to Pensacola.  I suspect there might be naval ships there, and fewer people vying for berths.

I checked the maps I had and saw it was about 1500 km to Pensacola versus about 2000 km for Cape Canaveral.  Less walking, and quicker.  Problem solved.  It was going to take months, but there were no alternatives.

It took a few minutes to put my few possessions into my backpack and set out, not walking on the road, which I learned very quickly was far too dangerous, but back from it, usually hidden.

There were very few vehicles, and those that passed, in either direction, were mostly being driven carefully.  As far as I knew, and checking the gas stations when I had the car, there was no gas, or no electricity to pump the gas into the cars.

I had seen one group pumping fuel out of the ground tanks into a tanker.  Necessity made many people inventors.

A car went past, going quickly.  There were two people on it, a man and a woman.  Perhaps they’d heard to advice to go south.  I watched it head down the road.

A minute later two motorbikes screamed past, going very fast.  Were they chasing the car?  Had those in the car stolen something from the men chasing them?

I watched until the bikes disappeared, and the sound of their machines was muffled by the trees.  None of my business.

It took an hour to get to the bottom of the hill, and another to find a track alongside the road, twisting and turning quite sharply for a few miles.

Almost at the end I noticed an acrid smell, like burning rubber.  Around the corner I could see the reason for it: the car that had passed by was on its side, and closer inspection revealed the driver sprawled out on the roadside gravel.

The car had been torched, and the man was left to die.  Where was the girl?

A groan came from the bushes, and I found her behind a fallen tree.  She had crawled there after being shot and had also been left to die, except she hadn’t.

Died, that it.  But she didn’t look too healthy.  I turned her over and gasped.

What were the odds?  A million to one.

Esther.  It was the very same woman who had turned down my proposal and, as a parting shot, said she still wouldn’t marry me even if I was the last man on earth.

Well, right then I felt like I was the last man on earth, and the feeling was mutual.  She looked up at me in horror, and that was enough.

If I saw her again, it would be too soon.

I started walking.

“Please don’t leave me.”  Pleading, she had used that voice and tone before.  I’d been more naive then.

I stopped.  I don’t know why.  “Why are you here?”

Not, can I help you?  To an outsider, it might seem cruel.

“That man stole my father’s car.  We were heading south.  He tricked us into stopping.  He murdered my parents, and kidnapped me.  I dread to think of what he was going to do.”

A glance confirmed some of what she said.  Blood spattered her dress, bound hands, with raw skin from when she had tried to free herself.

“That dead guy?”

“The murderer and kidnapper.”

“The two men on the motorbikes?”

“Killed him and left me for dead.  Another mouth to feed, they said.  He stole food from them; they got it back and took ours as well.”

“Where were you going?”

“South.  Like we were told to do before that guy hijacked us.  To safety.”

“There is nowhere safe.”

“I’m beginning to think that might be true.  Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but north.”

“Take me with you.”

“I don’t do kidnapping, or waste my time on people who don’t care about me.”

“I made a mistake.”

“No.  You spoke your truth.  I could be one of the last men on earth.  That makes me ineligible to take you anywhere.”

That’s when the tears started.  I shook my head. 

“You cause me infinite embarrassment.  I had to quit my job.  None of my friends would talk to me.  You ruined my life.”

“And all of this, this didn’t have a greater effect on your life?”

“No.  I was already alone and ostracised.  This just made it easier for me to do what I had to.”

“Then just take me to the next settlement, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“You will be out of my hair if I just leave you here.  Someone else can find you.”

Of course, doing what I wanted because I was angry wasn’t the same as doing the right thing.  Or behaving like everyone else and leaving her.  It wasn’t the first time I’d had my ethical nature exploited, and I would have to harden up if I was to survive the trek south.

I shrugged.  I would cut her free and leave.  She would have to learn to fend for herself like everyone else.

I gave her my most severe expression while I cut the bindings and then waited until she managed to sit up.  The gunshot wound turned out to be her father’s blood after he was shot.

She had nothing but the clothes she wore.  Everything she had was in the car, and had been burned.  I gave her a small bottle of water, and she drank all of it. 

I stood and stepped over the log, ready to resume my trek.  “If you’re coming with me, we’re going.  Now.  I’m following a track alongside the road.  No need to alert anyone to our presence.  And we will not be staying in hotels or eating in restaurants.  There are none.”

She dragged herself to her feet and stretched out.  “You wouldn’t have any pills for a headache, would you?”

She wasn’t going to last five minutes.

…

An hour later we had travelled further than I thought we would.  Water wasn’t a problem because we intermittently found ourselves beside a running stream with clear water.

As for food, that was going to be a problem.  Animals of any sort were far and few between.  When the food ran out, people started killing animals.  It wasn’t pleasant.  I couldn’t do it.  Not at first.  Now I would kill a chicken or a rabbit, if I could find one.  Or a fish.  Each time I refilled the water bottles, I checked, just in case.

At least she had sturdy shoes, not high heels, and practical clothing.

Midway through the afternoon, a terrible storm hit, and we were lucky to find an old barn that had three walls and half a roof, enough shelter to keep dry, but not necessarily warm.  There was a little hay scattered over the floor, and we gathered it up to use as insulation from the cold.

I tried to remember when I first met her, and what my reasoning was for approaching her.  It was difficult given what I knew now about her, but there had to be a reason why she had come back into my life.

Or it was simply God’s joke on me.

“You scared me,” she said suddenly.  It was the first words she’d spoken since settling in the barn

“What?  When?”

“When you asked me to marry you?”

“Surely you knew that was the next step.”

“It was too soon.  I wanted to get to know you better.  I mean, it was only six months.  You could have asked me to move in with you, and I would have said yes.”

“How’s that different from getting married?”

“It would be like a test run.  You know, try it before you are stuck with it.  That didn’t come out right, but you know what I mean.”

“And you couldn’t have said that, instead of what you did say?”

“I’m sorry.  I was surprised, and then my mind went blank.  To be honest, I don’t even remember what I said, other than it was not my finest hour.”

Indeed not.

“I thought about it a lot.  Seriously, I’m very, very sorry if I hurt you.  It was not my intention.”

I thought about it.  Her manner that night seemed out of character, but I thought that was because it was her true nature.  Too late now.

“What is it like being on your own in this, whatever it is?  I can’t imagine why people have to be so mean to each other.  We left just after the riot.  A lot of people died.  It was terrible.”

“It still is, and it isn’t going to get better.  There’s not enough of anything to go around.  I think there are quite a few people who saw an opportunity once everything broke down.  No leadership, no facilities, so many homeless and dying. It’s hard to save yourself, let alone others.  Places I’ve been, there are a lot of people who can’t look after themselves.  They spent their whole lives letting someone else worry about them.  If we ever get out of this, it’s going to be a long road back.”

“Am I able to travel with you?  You’re not going to dump me at the next town.  I’d rather be with you than anyone else.”

“Why.  You hate me.”

“No.  That’s one thing I never did.  I didn’t want to marry you, but that was all.  I had, I still have feelings for you, as much as you don’t want to believe me.  You have no idea how happy I was to see it was you who rescued me, and not some other monster.”

“Don’t jump to any conclusions just yet.  I’ll see what it’s like in the next settlement.  And if you want to increase your chances, think of some way of getting food.  We’re going to need some by the end of the day. If only to ward off the cold.  If we get sick, it’s more than likely we’ll die.”

I’d seen more than I cared to admit.  People putting their heads down and not waking up.  Even in the safety and relative warmth of the underground carpark I’d found refuge in after the first bombs came.

It wouldn’t be long before I questioned my sanity, after leaving the one place I’d called home, and the relative safety it afforded.

Instinct had told me to leave, and I had.  I’d asked if anyone wanted to come with me.  None did.  Help was coming; we just had to wait.

I simply shrugged and left.

…

I’d been on the road for a week before running into Esther.  I had obviously left before the riots, but they had been inevitable. 

Soon after the group in the underground carpark, where everyone from several towers had gone seeking shelter, had set up camp, their building now in ruins from the bombs, others started turning up looking for shelter.

We had taken them in, but soon there were too many, and we had to turn them away.  That’s when the trouble started.  Self-elected leaders, people who started giving orders, making rules; it was inevitable.

Then guards were armed, and what was going to happen always would.  I left because it wasn’t right, and I didn’t want to be in a position where I had to kill someone. 

Those first few weeks were difficult.  We were in survival mode.  Our instincts were to help as many as we could.  Until after a month, it was overwhelming.  No one came to tell us everything would be fine.

Outside, the weather made it impossible to go anywhere, and it felt like it was perpetually in darkness.  The first few weeks we had what looked to be acid rain from the fallout.  And some of the people who came to our shelter had radiation sickness.  There was nothing we could do for them, and they couldn’t stay.

The building had a generator, so we had power, but there was only so much diesel to run it.  Rationing had begun when I left, both for the generator and the food.  People were going out in hunting parties, and came back with stories that were hard to believe. 

To me, it was not.  A week before the war started, the newspaper published a story that predicted what would happen if some idiot pressed the button.  So far, everything I’d dreaded had happened.

The thing was, there was no plan for war.  No one expected war because it was never a possibility.  It was simply one man saying he was going to obliterate what he perceived to be his enemy.  Even then it was said nuclear weapons were only a deterrent; they would never be used.

Someone forgot to send our President the memo.

…

I woke to a murky morning, bitterly cold, and alone.

That was the first revelation.

The second: a storm was raging outside. It was the first thunder strike that woke me, followed by the flash of lightning.

I’d got used to the rolling thunder in the distance.

There would be rain soon enough.

I looked out in the early morning semi-darkness, which wouldn’t improve.  It would be worse when the rain came and would make progress almost impossible.

But, aside from that, where was Esther?

I didn’t hear her leave, and was, for a moment, surprised.  She had nothing, so the fact that there was no sign of her was no indication other than she was not in the barn.

Perhaps she had to go to a makeshift bathroom by the river.  There was one because of the line of trees in the distance.

Perhaps I should go there myself.  I needed to replenish the water bottles.  And it was time to go.

I stashed my bag and grabbed the bottles.  I had got about halfway when a man appeared out of a copse.  He had a gun.  It wasn’t pointed at me, but it could be.

I decided to be friendly.  “Hello there.  You heading south too?”

He had been watching me, most likely to see if I was armed.

“Maybe.”

“You’re a bit far from the road.  Nothing here but a paddock and a river.  And an old barn that’s about to collapse.”

“You got any food?”

Of course.  The gun should have told me this man was a taker, not a sharer.

“Unfortunately no.”

“I don’t believe you.”

And that was par for the course.  It would not matter what I said

I saw him look past me and turned.  Esther.  Coming back from the river.  She stopped when she saw him.

“Who’s your friend?”

“She’s not my friend.  We’re just going south together.”

He shook his head, and the rifle came up, pointing at me.

“Whatever food you’ve got, I want.  Now.”

Once again his attention was drawn towards the river slightly to the left of where Esther was standing.  Another man came running out of the bushes, heading towards the man with the gun.

“They’re lying, Wally.”  He held up two fish.  “They had these fish, and I stole them.  We’re eating well today.”

“Take them and leave,” Esther yelled out.

“And if we don’t?”

“We haven’t got anything else but what we’re wearing.  You’ve taken our food, just go.”

“You’ve got a lot to say for yourself.  Maybe you’d like to come with us, and leave this deadbeat liar.”

I could see she was about to say something that might get us shot, so I said,  “You passed the burning car and dead guy beside it?”

“So?”

“She did that.  With two hands tied behind her back.  How long do you think you’d last before you end up like him?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Want to find out, sunshine.”  She had a knife in her hand, and it looked ugly and menacing.  I hadn’t seen it on her, so she must have had it hidden.

Or found it.

His friend muttered in his ear.

“This is your lucky day.  Can’t waste the ammo, and we ain’t sharing the food.  If I see you again, I will kill both of you.”

They backed away towards the road, then disappeared.  They could come back, but I didn’t think they would.  We were two extra mouths to feed, and I doubted they had any ammo.  If they did, it could have turned out a lot worse.

I waited until Esther joined me.  She didn’t look too disappointed they took the fish

“I didn’t know you had a hunter-gatherer background.”  I was not so handy at fishing or hunting.

“Mt dad took me and my brothers camping as much as he could.  Taught us survival skills.  And how to catch fish with only your hands.”

“You were lucky; I haven’t seen any fish.”

“Not so much.  They are contaminated.  Strange colour.  I wouldn’t have eaten them.  I heard the two of them approach the barn talking.  They’d seen us come here.  They went off to hide and wait for light.  I went down to the river and hoped I’d find some fish and give them to them to get them to go away.  Seems it worked.”

“If they’re contaminated, they will get sick and die.”

“Fitting punishment for stealing.  I actually found something better.  A small box of cans of fruit.  I think someone stuck them near a camping site by the river.  A good Samaritan.  Come, we eat, you get water, we move on.  We can go around them.”

“There will be more.”

“I know.  Let’s go eat.”

…

We are two cans each and took one each and left the rest.  Someone else, if they decided to be adventurous, would find them and hopefully would do the same.

We couldn’t carry much more than that anyway.

I guess whatever I was thinking about her, I had to put aside.  She was not the helpless person I thought she was, and I was guessing she had to toughen up quickly with her parents.

A car with petrol in it was a prized possession.  All the electric cars, and that was most of those lying around, were dead with no means of recharging the battery.

After that I filled the bottles and then went back to get my bag.  The morning hadn’t improved, but the rain held off.  We both had waterproof coats, though hers wasn’t very thick, but it would do.

Then we took a wider circle route on another path through a different part of the forest.  Like me, she was hoping never to see those two men again.  Sadly, they would not be the last.

The morning slowly dragged into the afternoon, and the rain came.  I had considered staying in the relative safety of the barn, but the weather was never going to improve, and the quicker we went further south, the better.

There had been reports in those brief few days after the bombs when some power was restored, but it was rationed.  We had long been told to get battery radios before any conflict started, and one person had said that a thing called a crystal set would be better.  It did not need batteries, just a wire antenna.

My grandfather had mentioned he had one when he was a child, and I had gone to my father’s house and rummaged in the attic where he kept his father’s stuff and found it.

One problem: it didn’t catch FM, only AM, but amazingly after a month or so we were told all communications would be transmitted on the AM band.  I was one of the lucky people; after the power failed, then the TV and Radio stations, except for a network of AM stations run by the government in case of emergencies.

I hadn’t used it recently.  I was waiting until I got closer to the destination. 

Days turned into weeks.

We passed other people, most walking the road, because it was easier.  There were cars left where they ran out of petrol.  Some people had been sick and died.  There were dead animals.  Plant life was waning through the lack of sunshine, but as we got further south there was slight improvement.

We passed compounds where people had barricaded themselves, where cars were parked, and guards were on makeshift gates.  We did not alert them to our presence.  Those guards had guns, and they would use them.

I doubted they would accept people from the north because of radiation exposure.  We had passed the theoretical safe limit a few days before, and it was interesting to note the wind was coming from the south, after following us for weeks.

Being from the Midwest and nowhere near the nuclear explosion, we had been told the prevailing winds would basically leave us alone, but the devastation to Washington and New York was devastating, with so many killed, and so many who would not survive for very long.

It was as if the Hiroshima and Nagasaki experience had not taught us anything.  I had no idea and didn’t care who, or even if, someone was running the country, but given the fact that people had banded together in communities fending for themselves, I didn’t think there was anyone.

The army and national guard had been out and about soon after the bombs, but that slowly petered out when the petrol and diesel ran out, and the electric cars stopped.  So did everything else.

It took six weeks before anarchy broke out.  It was a surprise we lasted that long.  People thought having a gun gave them leverage. 

I guess Esther knew all about that.  Her father had stopped to help.  It was the last thing he did.  She was never going to make that mistake.  Her father had taught her self-sufficiency as my father had taught me.  Both parents perhaps would see the way the world was going.

My father had been called to Washington a few days before the bomb dropped.  He would not have survived.  Perhaps if he hadn’t answered the phone, he would be still alive.

…

Some nights we slept under a tree, or in a copse.  We were both light sleepers.  Sometimes there was an outhouse or shed.  There was food if you knew where to look, and water.

In one small town, abandoned, Esther was able to find a backpack and a change of clothes.  We found batteries, some with charge and a torch, candles, matches, little things. 

Some nights she cried, missing her parents and cursing the fools who got us into the mess.  I simply felt numb and helpless.  There was no guarantee that anything would be waiting for us at the end of the trek.

After two months, give or take a few days, I had lost track of the date and time. Like everything, all our devices were run by rechargeable batteries, and there was nowhere to recharge them. We reached the outskirts of a city.

It was odd to see electric cars parked at the recharge station, still plugged in, and no power to run them.  That promise of clean air when we bought one was fulfilled.  No one told us the pollution would come from another source

She tried a few, but none had any power.  One had enough to move about twenty yards.

We were on the top of a hill that overlooked the skyline in the distance.  It just looked like nothing had happened.  We had passed the power station on the side of the river, bereft of people, and not generating power.  It was gas-fired, but we had passed solar farms which were basically useless in the perpetual semi-darkness.

The trip from Chicago to Pensacola was going to take about four or five months, and now we were at the point where we were just about at Montgomery in Alabama, and according to my map we would be able to travel on the Alabama River.  It was a fair distance, but at least we would not have to walk.

But we would have to find a boat.

Of course, had we known what we were heading towards, we might have made a different plan, but with no communication available, we headed there anyway.

And what did we find?

A half million people had arrived before us, all hoping to get on a boat. 

And we were at the back of the line.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026