Tag: Fiction

What I learned about writing – Sometimes, the best books for writers bear little similarity to their medium

The Unconventional Muse: When Your Best Writing Lesson Comes From Anywhere But a ‘How-To’ Guide

We writers are always chasing that elusive spark, that deeper understanding of human nature and narrative that elevates our work from good to truly profound. We devour books on craft, attend workshops, and pore over articles dissecting plot points and character arcs. All valuable, of course.

But what if the most potent lessons for your writing don’t come from a book with “How To Write” in the title? What if your greatest storytelling mentor isn’t a famous novelist, but a philosopher, a historian, or even a scientist?

This isn’t just a quirky idea; it’s a fundamental truth for many successful writers. Sometimes, the best books for writers bear little similarity to their medium.

Why Look Beyond the Craft?

Writers are, at heart, observers and interpreters of the human condition. We craft worlds, yes, but those worlds gain their resonance from reflecting or distorting truths about our world. To truly understand the stories we tell, we need to understand the world itself – its history, its psychology, its moral dilemmas, its scientific wonders.

This is where seemingly unrelated disciplines become invaluable. They offer different lenses through which to view conflict, motivation, and the very fabric of reality.

The Playwright, the Philosopher, and the Clash of Two Rights

Let’s take a specific example that perfectly illustrates this premise: the playwright. Should a playwright read philosophy? An emphatic yes.

Consider the profound wisdom offered by thinkers like George Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel. His work, particularly his dialectical approach to history and conflict, provides an incredible framework for understanding the deepest dramatic tensions.

For Hegel, the true tragedy – and the most compelling drama – lies not in a clear-cut battle between good and evil, but in the irreconcilable clash of two rights.

Think about that for a moment. It’s not the simple Hollywood narrative where the hero is unequivocally good and the villain is purely evil. That kind of story, while sometimes entertaining, often lacks the true grit and complexity of human experience.

Instead, Hegel pointed to the underlying issues in Greek tragedy as a case in point. Take Sophocles’ Antigone. Here, the conflict isn’t between a righteous hero and an evil tyrant. It’s between Antigone’s undeniable moral right to bury her brother, honoring the divine laws and family duty, and Creon’s equally legitimate right to uphold the laws of the state, ensuring order and preventing further rebellion.

Both characters are, in their own frameworks, right. Both are acting out of deeply held convictions and duties. And it is precisely because both are “right” that their collision is so utterly devastating, leading to a profound, unavoidable tragedy. Neither can simply concede without betraying their core identity or belief system.

A Golden Key for Every Writer

This isn’t just an academic point for philosophers; it’s a golden key for anyone crafting a narrative, whether it’s a novel, a screenplay, a short story, or even a compelling blog post.

  • Complex Characters: When your antagonists aren’t just “bad” but are operating from their own deeply held, morally defensible (to them) positions, your characters instantly gain depth. Their motivations become understandable, even if you disagree with their actions.
  • Richer Conflict: The “two rights” dilemma elevates your plot beyond simplistic good vs. evil. It forces your characters, and your readers, to grapple with true moral ambiguity, making the stakes feel far higher and more authentic. Think of a nuanced political drama, a family saga fraught with misunderstanding, or even a personal internal struggle where the protagonist is torn between two equally valid, yet conflicting, desires.
  • Deeper Themes: This approach allows you to explore profound themes about ethics, justice, loyalty, and the inherent contradictions of human existence, without needing to preach. The conflict itself becomes the exploration.

When your characters operate from their own deeply held, morally defensible positions, the story becomes infinitely more resonant because it mirrors the complexities of real life.

Broaden Your Mind, Deepen Your Stories

So, what does this mean for your reading list?

Don’t limit yourself to books on plot structure or character arcs (though those are valuable!). Dive into history, neuroscience, poetry, economics, art criticism, and yes, philosophy. Seek out texts that grapple with ethics, existence, and the nature of reality. Read the great thinkers, not necessarily to agree with them, but to understand how they thought and what they wrestled with.

You’re not just reading to learn facts; you’re reading to broaden your understanding of the human experience itself. And that, my fellow writers, is the wellspring from which truly compelling stories flow. Expand your mind, expand your world, and watch your own narratives deepen and soar.

What unconventional books or fields of study have unexpectedly impacted your writing? Share your discoveries in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 138

Day 138 – That last work

…

The Final Page: How Do You Choose Your Last Story?

If you knew that the words you were about to type would be your very last—that after this final period, your keyboard would go silent forever—what would you write?

It’s a haunting question, isn’t it? It strips away the pressure of career milestones, the need for SEO optimisation, or the desire to please a specific audience. It forces you to stand at the edge of your own creative legacy and ask: What is the one thing that truly matters?

For me, the answer is clear, yet paralysing: It would be a work of fiction.

But then, the paralysis sets in. If you have only one story left in the chamber, how do you choose which one to fire?

The Burden of Choice

The problem with choosing a “final” story is that fiction is a mirror. Depending on the day, the weather, or the ache in my heart, the reflection changes.

Some days, I want to write a sprawling epic—a tapestry of human resilience that spans generations, trying to capture the entirety of the human experience. Other days, I feel drawn to the quiet, domestic tragedy of a single conversation in a kitchen, where everything is said without a word being spoken.

How do you decide? Do you choose:

  • The Story You Haven’t Told Yet: The one that’s been living in the back of your mind for years, gathering dust, waiting for the “perfect” time?
  • The Story You’ve Already Tried to Write: The one that never came out quite right, a chance to finally fix the pacing, the ending, the soul of it?
  • The Story That Changes Nothing: A lighthearted romp, a piece of pure escapism, a final gift of joy rather than a heavy philosophical anchor?

The Search for the “Essence”

If I had to make the choice, I think I would stop trying to find the “perfect” plot and start looking for the “essence.”

A final work shouldn’t be about showing off technical skill or proving a point. It should be an act of translation. It should be the attempt to take that one, singular feeling—that strange, beautiful, and terrifying realisation of what it means to be alive—and pin it to the page like a butterfly.

I would choose a story that feels like a sunset: something that acknowledges the fading light but finds the most brilliant, saturated colours in the final moments. It wouldn’t necessarily be a “sad” story, but it would have to be an honest one.

How Would You Choose?

The beauty of this thought experiment—even if it’s purely hypothetical—is that it clarifies your values. It tells you what, deep down, you think a story is for.

Does your final piece aim to teach? To entertain? To confess? To build a world so immersive that others can hide in it when you’re gone?

If you were sitting at your desk, knowing this was your final act, would you agonise over the genre, the plot twists, or the clever turns of phrase? Or would you finally let go of the ego and write the one thing that makes you feel most human?

I’m curious to know how you would approach this. If you had one last story to tell, what would be the heartbeat behind it? Would you write the story you were meant to write, or the story you wanted to write?

Let’s talk about it in the comments. After all, we’re still here, and the pages are still blank. We might as well start writing.

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 138

Day 138 – That last work

…

The Final Page: How Do You Choose Your Last Story?

If you knew that the words you were about to type would be your very last—that after this final period, your keyboard would go silent forever—what would you write?

It’s a haunting question, isn’t it? It strips away the pressure of career milestones, the need for SEO optimisation, or the desire to please a specific audience. It forces you to stand at the edge of your own creative legacy and ask: What is the one thing that truly matters?

For me, the answer is clear, yet paralysing: It would be a work of fiction.

But then, the paralysis sets in. If you have only one story left in the chamber, how do you choose which one to fire?

The Burden of Choice

The problem with choosing a “final” story is that fiction is a mirror. Depending on the day, the weather, or the ache in my heart, the reflection changes.

Some days, I want to write a sprawling epic—a tapestry of human resilience that spans generations, trying to capture the entirety of the human experience. Other days, I feel drawn to the quiet, domestic tragedy of a single conversation in a kitchen, where everything is said without a word being spoken.

How do you decide? Do you choose:

  • The Story You Haven’t Told Yet: The one that’s been living in the back of your mind for years, gathering dust, waiting for the “perfect” time?
  • The Story You’ve Already Tried to Write: The one that never came out quite right, a chance to finally fix the pacing, the ending, the soul of it?
  • The Story That Changes Nothing: A lighthearted romp, a piece of pure escapism, a final gift of joy rather than a heavy philosophical anchor?

The Search for the “Essence”

If I had to make the choice, I think I would stop trying to find the “perfect” plot and start looking for the “essence.”

A final work shouldn’t be about showing off technical skill or proving a point. It should be an act of translation. It should be the attempt to take that one, singular feeling—that strange, beautiful, and terrifying realisation of what it means to be alive—and pin it to the page like a butterfly.

I would choose a story that feels like a sunset: something that acknowledges the fading light but finds the most brilliant, saturated colours in the final moments. It wouldn’t necessarily be a “sad” story, but it would have to be an honest one.

How Would You Choose?

The beauty of this thought experiment—even if it’s purely hypothetical—is that it clarifies your values. It tells you what, deep down, you think a story is for.

Does your final piece aim to teach? To entertain? To confess? To build a world so immersive that others can hide in it when you’re gone?

If you were sitting at your desk, knowing this was your final act, would you agonise over the genre, the plot twists, or the clever turns of phrase? Or would you finally let go of the ego and write the one thing that makes you feel most human?

I’m curious to know how you would approach this. If you had one last story to tell, what would be the heartbeat behind it? Would you write the story you were meant to write, or the story you wanted to write?

Let’s talk about it in the comments. After all, we’re still here, and the pages are still blank. We might as well start writing.

…

What I learned about writing – Writing comedy

The Mirthful Art of Misunderstanding: Why Comedy Needs More Than Just Punchlines

What makes you laugh? Is it a clever turn of phrase? A perfectly timed pratfall? Or that specific, delicious moment when two realities collide in delightful chaos? For anyone who’s ever tried to craft a joke, a sketch, or an entire sitcom, you know that comedy is far more intricate than simply stringing together funny words. And at its heart, it requires one non-negotiable ingredient: a genuine sense of humour.

The Non-Negotiable: A Sense of Humour

It sounds obvious, doesn’t it? Writing comedy requires a sense of humour. Yet, you’d be surprised how often people try to reverse-engineer “funny” without that innate spark. You can learn comedic timing, structure, and even how to write a killer punchline, but if you don’t possess a fundamental understanding of what makes things absurd, ironic, or just plain ridiculous, your efforts will often fall flat.

A sense of humour isn’t just about telling jokes; it’s a way of seeing the world. It’s the ability to spot the unexpected juxtaposition, the human foibles, the inherent absurdity in everyday life. Without this lens, writing comedy becomes a technical exercise rather than an act of genuine creation. It’s like trying to be a chef without taste buds – you can follow the recipe, but you’ll never truly understand balance or flavour. So, if you’re venturing into comedy writing and find yourself consistently baffled by what causes laughter, that might be your first clue.

The Ingenious Engine: Creating the Misunderstanding

Once you have that internal funny bone, the next step is understanding comedy’s most powerful, enduring engine: the misunderstanding. This is the basic premise upon which so much successful comedy is built. It’s not about malice or cruelty, but about a delightful divergence of perception or information.

Think about it:

  • Mistaken Identity: Character A thinks Character B is someone else entirely.
  • Misinterpreted Intentions: Character C says something innocent, but Character D hears it in the worst possible way.
  • Conflicting Knowledge: The audience knows something the characters don’t, leading to dramatic (and comedic) irony.
  • Literal vs. Figurative: One character takes an idiom or figure of speech literally, while the other means it figuratively.

The brilliance of the misunderstanding lies in the tension it creates. We, the audience, are often in on the secret (or we quickly piece it together), and we squirm with anticipation as the characters dig themselves deeper into their respective holes. We see the train wreck coming, not with dread, but with a giddy excitement, knowing that the inevitable collision will be hilarious. The humour isn’t just in the individual lines; it’s in the gap between what is perceived and what is real.

The Satisfying Release: Clearing It Up

But the tension isn’t meant to last forever. The true comedic genius of the misunderstanding formula comes in the resolution. At the end, everything is cleared up. The mistaken identity is revealed, the intentions are clarified, and the truth comes out.

Why is this so satisfying?

  • Relief: After the build-up of tension and absurdity, the release of understanding is a physical and emotional relief, often expressed through laughter.
  • The “Aha!” Moment: We see how all the threads connect, how the initial false premise led to all the hilarious subsequent events. It’s a puzzle solved, and often, the simple truth is funnier than the elaborate mistaken reality.
  • Catharsis: The characters (often) learn a lesson, or at least come to terms with the absurdity of what just transpired. And crucially, everyone is happy – not necessarily every character in the story (some might be embarrassed!), but the audience is left feeling satisfied, amused, and with a sense of completion. The world, briefly thrown into comical disarray, has been righted.

The Dance of Art and Instinct

So, for aspiring comedy writers, remember this dual approach. Cultivate that innate sense of humour – watch people, observe irony, find the funny in the everyday. But then, layer it with the powerful, proven structure of the misunderstanding. Build that tension, escalate the ridiculousness, and then, with a flourish, clear it all up, letting your audience bask in the delightful “aha!” of laughter.

Because ultimately, comedy isn’t just about telling jokes. It’s about taking us on a journey from confusion to clarity, from tension to release, and leaving us with that wonderful, unifying feeling of joy. And that, my friends, is no laughing matter. (Except, of course, when it is.)

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 136/137

Days 136 and 137 – Writing Exercise

…

The first thing I could hear when consciousness returned was the swooshing sound.  It was an odd sound that lingered, causing puzzlement momentarily.

Until recognition kicked on.  A roof fan, turning slowly, regurgitates air that holds the aroma of mould.

The odd sensation, if it could be called that, was that silence wasn’t silent.  There were noises everywhere on the edge of my consciousness.

The fan was simply the loudest.

Noises that my mind, as it finally started working again, tried to identify because that will to survive had kicked in.

It needed to know where I was, why I was there, how long I had been there, and what had happened in the period just before.

Except my mind at that moment could only deal with one thing at a time.

The fact that I was alive.

…

It was dark, but when was darkness really darkness?  It wasn’t.  There was always some ambient light somewhere.  A crack, a hole, even a covered window could never stop even the tiniest of rays from getting through.

There was one, at the top, where the black paint had not been applied properly.  I focused on it, watched it get bigger, and then converted what was inky blackness into a lesser shade of black.

I was in a room.

I closed my eyes then opened them again.

There was something else.

Yes, on the periphery of my vision.  A blinking red dot.  I shifted my head slightly and saw it, perhaps the corner of the room, blink, blink, blink.

Steady.  Slow.  As if sending a message.  Of course, we are watching you.

Question: Who is the ‘we’?

…

Location established.

Not in imminent danger.

Breathe.

I was lying down on a reasonably soft surface, and carefully testing fingers, one arm then the other, one leg then the other.

No restraints.  No pain when moving any part.

Move head, no pain, so my incapacitation was not a result of being hit or shot.

Only possibility: drugged.

So…

Where was I before this happened?

It took a moment to process the memories, isolate the details.  I received an address, a house I had been to before several times, with a special code.

An urgent request for help.

At the last interview, I had been instructed to give the target a burner phone with one number, mine, and a code that would be routed to me with the location.

I went to the location, gained access to the building, and found the target sitting in a room bound to a chair.

Then nothing.

They, whoever they were, had been waiting for me.

That meant only one possibility:  the target was in on the ambush.

…

Here’s the thing.

If I were to do a threat assessment, based on one being low and ten being high, it was, at the moment, a three.

I was not bound, not gagged, not hurt.

Why?

Whoever was holding me in this room wanted me for something.

The lack of restraints told me they did not expect me to retaliate, which meant they had leverage, and they would speak to me before initiating anything.

Alternatively, running through possibilities, they could use this room as a means of conditioning, alternating hot and cold, intense lighting, flashing lights, loud and soft sounds, darkness, sleep deprivation, all so I would lose track of time.

Leading to interrogation, sometimes with violence.

Been there and done that.

They could know why I was there, they might not know the whole story, or they might want something else altogether.  I was a harbinger of secrets.  A prize target. 

For someone who wanted revenge for past deeds…

Or maybe I was just being sidelined while certain people got away.  It would set us back, and I would miss the deadline.

…

The room was suddenly bathed in light.  Not bright but enough to make everything distinctly clear.  After my eyes adjusted.

It was just an ordinary room, pale green walls, carpet with water stains on one side, a window painted black. A bed and nothing else.

The bedspread had seen better days.

The sheets and pillowcase matched.

It was not a hotel room.

“Mr Ryker.”  The voice was female, youngish, not angry, but not gloating.

The sound came from the roof, near the flashing red light.  The speaker was watching me.

“I’m going to open the door.  There is no point trying to escape.  If you do try, you will be shot.  I just want to ask some questions.”

Routine or otherwise?  While attached to electric wires, I could be shocked if I didn’t give a suitable answer.

“Go ahead,” I said, whether they believed I would stay put or not.

I sat on the side of the bed after considering my options for escape.  It was possible, but it was also suicidal.  It was a better option to see who my captor was, then reassess.

After a minute, the lock clicked, and the door opened.  I could see a guard, armed, ten feet back from the other side of the door.  Just outside a woman, nothing special to define her, in dress, in features, in language.

She looked, for all intents and purposes, like a schoolteacher or librarian.  That might have been a defining feature.  A tigress dressed up to look like a kitten.

“Mr Ryker, at last we meet.  You are a very elusive man.”

“Not that elusive, apparently.”  I gave my best impression of a defeated protagonist.

She smiled.  “Don’t despair.  You only made one mistake.  You cared.”

I shrugged.  There was a difference between caring and following orders, but I wasn’t going to explain the difference. 

What I wanted to know was how they knew about the call, or worse still, the location of the target that was used to draw me into their web.

“Come.  Walk with me.”

“Isn’t that risky.  I’m sure you know what I’m capable of?”

“You’re not going to risk Deborah’s life, are you?”

Was there a simple answer to that question?  If we could not keep her safe, there was only one other option. It was one I was not very happy about.

“In normal circumstances, Mr Ryker, I would agree with you.  But you stepped over that invisible line, didn’t you?”

I closed my eyes and took a few seconds to think about how different this might be if I had not taken that one step.  It was just one kiss, but it had a profound effect on me.

Against everything I had been taught.

One moment undid years of training and work ethic, loyalty to the job, and ignoring the distractions.

A shrug, then I stood and faced her.

“My boss always said, in this line of work, everyone has a use-by date.”

“That’s a bit harsh.  You make it sound like he thinks you are all sacrificial lambs.”

“Aren’t we?”

“Doesn’t have to be so.”  She took several steps back, leaving space for me to pass, and the guard would not lose direct line of sight.

I joined her.

There was a hint of lavender in the air.

I’d never seen her before, and of all the players from the briefing, and there were about a dozen, she was not one of them.

So much for thorough research.

“You’re wondering who I am, aren’t you?”

“Not just another pretty face, I imagine.”

“You think I have a pretty face?  I assure you, back when I was a teenager, I was the proverbial ugly duckling.”

High school, peer groups, the in girls making life hell for the ugly ducklings.  Revenge could be a bitch, and I wondered how many of her contemporaries were wishing they’d never met her.

“Not any more.”

…

It was a long passage with doors with numbers on them.  A dormitory, perhaps.  An old school.

At the end of the passage a large ornate staircase, with two sets of stairs to the level below, one on the left-hand side, and one on the right.

The wall opposite the balcony had windows, some glass, smeared with years of detritus, the centre Staines glass with a depiction of Christ of the cross and angels swirling.

Below looked dusty and littered with furniture that had been, if I were to guess, tossed by disaffected students or inmates.

Odd, no one had tried to hurl a desk or chair through the window.

It was impossible to see outside.

“What is this place?”

“A monument to the rich and powerful who strived hard to keep most of the population in poverty.”

“And when the revolution came, you simply traded one set of greedy bastards for another.  The people basically traded poverty for death.”

There was a flash of anger in her eyes.  “You think you’re better than us?”

“I think if you were to go back to your village and see how the people are, they would be no better off than they were a hundred and fifty years ago.  If I were to go back home to my village, we would be no better off than we were a hundred years ago.  The world revolves around the one per cent who own everything and the five per cent that run everything.  I’m sure you want for nothing, which makes this a hollow argument about ideology.”

What looked like someone counting to ten before exploding, she sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“We will beg to differ.”

“Think what you like.  You’re totally wrong, and if your people taught you anything, it’s not to debate with the enemy.”

The smile returned, the first in her eyes remained.

Was I going to be the challenge she might be looking for? 

Several volleys of machine gun fire broke the tension, and her eyes betrayed her thoughts.

“What the…”

A single shot dropped the guard with the gun, and out of the shadows, one of Barrymore’s agents appeared.  Jocelyn or Josephine, I couldn’t remember her name.

Another two heavily armoured agents came up the stairs, guns pointed at my mysterious friend.

I saw Jocelyn put a hand to her ear and listen. The reply, “Clean up, move out.”

The two agents bound the girl and took her away.  She had not recovered from the shock.  I was still a little surprised myself.

“It works,” Jocelyn said.

She was referring to the device that had been implanted in me before the operation.  They needed a crash test dummy.  I volunteered.

If it hadn’t worked, it was quite literally a suicide mission.

“Is she anyone of consequence?”  I was referring to my captor.

“Just one of a dozen brainwashed agents he thinks can contribute to a better world.  It’s like a cult, with a maniacal leader and a bunch of acolytes.  Pity really.”  She slapped me on the shoulder. “Good work.  We got another assignment for you.  Not quite as easy as this one was.”

Crash test dummy or suicidal maniac? 

All in a day’s work.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 136/137

Days 136 and 137 – Writing Exercise

…

The first thing I could hear when consciousness returned was the swooshing sound.  It was an odd sound that lingered, causing puzzlement momentarily.

Until recognition kicked on.  A roof fan, turning slowly, regurgitates air that holds the aroma of mould.

The odd sensation, if it could be called that, was that silence wasn’t silent.  There were noises everywhere on the edge of my consciousness.

The fan was simply the loudest.

Noises that my mind, as it finally started working again, tried to identify because that will to survive had kicked in.

It needed to know where I was, why I was there, how long I had been there, and what had happened in the period just before.

Except my mind at that moment could only deal with one thing at a time.

The fact that I was alive.

…

It was dark, but when was darkness really darkness?  It wasn’t.  There was always some ambient light somewhere.  A crack, a hole, even a covered window could never stop even the tiniest of rays from getting through.

There was one, at the top, where the black paint had not been applied properly.  I focused on it, watched it get bigger, and then converted what was inky blackness into a lesser shade of black.

I was in a room.

I closed my eyes then opened them again.

There was something else.

Yes, on the periphery of my vision.  A blinking red dot.  I shifted my head slightly and saw it, perhaps the corner of the room, blink, blink, blink.

Steady.  Slow.  As if sending a message.  Of course, we are watching you.

Question: Who is the ‘we’?

…

Location established.

Not in imminent danger.

Breathe.

I was lying down on a reasonably soft surface, and carefully testing fingers, one arm then the other, one leg then the other.

No restraints.  No pain when moving any part.

Move head, no pain, so my incapacitation was not a result of being hit or shot.

Only possibility: drugged.

So…

Where was I before this happened?

It took a moment to process the memories, isolate the details.  I received an address, a house I had been to before several times, with a special code.

An urgent request for help.

At the last interview, I had been instructed to give the target a burner phone with one number, mine, and a code that would be routed to me with the location.

I went to the location, gained access to the building, and found the target sitting in a room bound to a chair.

Then nothing.

They, whoever they were, had been waiting for me.

That meant only one possibility:  the target was in on the ambush.

…

Here’s the thing.

If I were to do a threat assessment, based on one being low and ten being high, it was, at the moment, a three.

I was not bound, not gagged, not hurt.

Why?

Whoever was holding me in this room wanted me for something.

The lack of restraints told me they did not expect me to retaliate, which meant they had leverage, and they would speak to me before initiating anything.

Alternatively, running through possibilities, they could use this room as a means of conditioning, alternating hot and cold, intense lighting, flashing lights, loud and soft sounds, darkness, sleep deprivation, all so I would lose track of time.

Leading to interrogation, sometimes with violence.

Been there and done that.

They could know why I was there, they might not know the whole story, or they might want something else altogether.  I was a harbinger of secrets.  A prize target. 

For someone who wanted revenge for past deeds…

Or maybe I was just being sidelined while certain people got away.  It would set us back, and I would miss the deadline.

…

The room was suddenly bathed in light.  Not bright but enough to make everything distinctly clear.  After my eyes adjusted.

It was just an ordinary room, pale green walls, carpet with water stains on one side, a window painted black. A bed and nothing else.

The bedspread had seen better days.

The sheets and pillowcase matched.

It was not a hotel room.

“Mr Ryker.”  The voice was female, youngish, not angry, but not gloating.

The sound came from the roof, near the flashing red light.  The speaker was watching me.

“I’m going to open the door.  There is no point trying to escape.  If you do try, you will be shot.  I just want to ask some questions.”

Routine or otherwise?  While attached to electric wires, I could be shocked if I didn’t give a suitable answer.

“Go ahead,” I said, whether they believed I would stay put or not.

I sat on the side of the bed after considering my options for escape.  It was possible, but it was also suicidal.  It was a better option to see who my captor was, then reassess.

After a minute, the lock clicked, and the door opened.  I could see a guard, armed, ten feet back from the other side of the door.  Just outside a woman, nothing special to define her, in dress, in features, in language.

She looked, for all intents and purposes, like a schoolteacher or librarian.  That might have been a defining feature.  A tigress dressed up to look like a kitten.

“Mr Ryker, at last we meet.  You are a very elusive man.”

“Not that elusive, apparently.”  I gave my best impression of a defeated protagonist.

She smiled.  “Don’t despair.  You only made one mistake.  You cared.”

I shrugged.  There was a difference between caring and following orders, but I wasn’t going to explain the difference. 

What I wanted to know was how they knew about the call, or worse still, the location of the target that was used to draw me into their web.

“Come.  Walk with me.”

“Isn’t that risky.  I’m sure you know what I’m capable of?”

“You’re not going to risk Deborah’s life, are you?”

Was there a simple answer to that question?  If we could not keep her safe, there was only one other option. It was one I was not very happy about.

“In normal circumstances, Mr Ryker, I would agree with you.  But you stepped over that invisible line, didn’t you?”

I closed my eyes and took a few seconds to think about how different this might be if I had not taken that one step.  It was just one kiss, but it had a profound effect on me.

Against everything I had been taught.

One moment undid years of training and work ethic, loyalty to the job, and ignoring the distractions.

A shrug, then I stood and faced her.

“My boss always said, in this line of work, everyone has a use-by date.”

“That’s a bit harsh.  You make it sound like he thinks you are all sacrificial lambs.”

“Aren’t we?”

“Doesn’t have to be so.”  She took several steps back, leaving space for me to pass, and the guard would not lose direct line of sight.

I joined her.

There was a hint of lavender in the air.

I’d never seen her before, and of all the players from the briefing, and there were about a dozen, she was not one of them.

So much for thorough research.

“You’re wondering who I am, aren’t you?”

“Not just another pretty face, I imagine.”

“You think I have a pretty face?  I assure you, back when I was a teenager, I was the proverbial ugly duckling.”

High school, peer groups, the in girls making life hell for the ugly ducklings.  Revenge could be a bitch, and I wondered how many of her contemporaries were wishing they’d never met her.

“Not any more.”

…

It was a long passage with doors with numbers on them.  A dormitory, perhaps.  An old school.

At the end of the passage a large ornate staircase, with two sets of stairs to the level below, one on the left-hand side, and one on the right.

The wall opposite the balcony had windows, some glass, smeared with years of detritus, the centre Staines glass with a depiction of Christ of the cross and angels swirling.

Below looked dusty and littered with furniture that had been, if I were to guess, tossed by disaffected students or inmates.

Odd, no one had tried to hurl a desk or chair through the window.

It was impossible to see outside.

“What is this place?”

“A monument to the rich and powerful who strived hard to keep most of the population in poverty.”

“And when the revolution came, you simply traded one set of greedy bastards for another.  The people basically traded poverty for death.”

There was a flash of anger in her eyes.  “You think you’re better than us?”

“I think if you were to go back to your village and see how the people are, they would be no better off than they were a hundred and fifty years ago.  If I were to go back home to my village, we would be no better off than we were a hundred years ago.  The world revolves around the one per cent who own everything and the five per cent that run everything.  I’m sure you want for nothing, which makes this a hollow argument about ideology.”

What looked like someone counting to ten before exploding, she sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“We will beg to differ.”

“Think what you like.  You’re totally wrong, and if your people taught you anything, it’s not to debate with the enemy.”

The smile returned, the first in her eyes remained.

Was I going to be the challenge she might be looking for? 

Several volleys of machine gun fire broke the tension, and her eyes betrayed her thoughts.

“What the…”

A single shot dropped the guard with the gun, and out of the shadows, one of Barrymore’s agents appeared.  Jocelyn or Josephine, I couldn’t remember her name.

Another two heavily armoured agents came up the stairs, guns pointed at my mysterious friend.

I saw Jocelyn put a hand to her ear and listen. The reply, “Clean up, move out.”

The two agents bound the girl and took her away.  She had not recovered from the shock.  I was still a little surprised myself.

“It works,” Jocelyn said.

She was referring to the device that had been implanted in me before the operation.  They needed a crash test dummy.  I volunteered.

If it hadn’t worked, it was quite literally a suicide mission.

“Is she anyone of consequence?”  I was referring to my captor.

“Just one of a dozen brainwashed agents he thinks can contribute to a better world.  It’s like a cult, with a maniacal leader and a bunch of acolytes.  Pity really.”  She slapped me on the shoulder. “Good work.  We got another assignment for you.  Not quite as easy as this one was.”

Crash test dummy or suicidal maniac? 

All in a day’s work.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

What I learned about writing – Mortal danger and the story that saves you

The Scheherazade Challenge: If My Life (and Your Attention) Depended On It…

Let’s play a dangerous game, shall we?

Imagine, for a fleeting moment, that the weight of an ancient dynasty rests on your shoulders. The Sultan, broken by betrayal and consumed by cynicism, has vowed to take a new bride each night and execute her by dawn. And then, there’s you. A single, fragile life against the tide of his despair, with only one weapon: a story.

Not just any story. A story so compelling, so intricate, so profoundly human, that it can outwit the executioner, melt a frozen heart, and stretch the boundaries of time itself. Your very survival, the fate of all women in the kingdom, hinges on your ability to spin a tale that leaves the Sultan hanging on your every word, desperate for the next sunrise to reveal its continuation.

Now, take a deep breath. We’re not in a dusty, lamp-lit palace, and (thankfully) my head isn’t on a literal chopping block. But as a writer in this wild, wonderful, and wonderfully noisy digital age, there are still stakes. My “Sultan” is you, dear reader, scrolling through an endless bazaar of content. My “dawn” is the moment you might click away, drawn by the siren song of another tab. And my “life” (or at least, my creative soul and my ability to connect with you) depends on telling an amazing story.

So, if I were Scheherazade, faced with that impossible mandate, what tale would I weave?

It wouldn’t be a simple adventure, nor a flat romance. It would need layers, heart, and a message so subtle yet profound that it could soften the hardest of souls.

My Life-Saving Story: “The Loom of Whispers and the Cartographer of Hidden Threads”

My story would begin in a city unlike any other, not built of stone and mortar, but of stories themselves. Let’s call it Aethelgard, the City of Echoes. Its streets are paved with forgotten proverbs, its buildings rise from ancient legends, and the very air hums with the whispers of every life ever lived within its bounds.

Our protagonist would be Elara, not a warrior or a princess, but a reclusive Cartographer of Hidden Threads. Her unique gift (and burden) is that she can see the invisible, iridescent threads that connect every living being in Aethelgard. Each thread represents a shared experience, a glance exchanged, a kindness given, a betrayal suffered, a dream whispered in unison. Most people only see their own thread, a solitary line stretching from their heart. But Elara sees the entirety: a magnificent, terrifying, ever-shifting tapestry of countless lives interwoven.

The story would begin with a creeping malaise. Aethelgard, once vibrant, is losing its colour. Its echoes are fading. People are growing isolated, suspicious, convinced their own struggles are unique and paramount. The threads, once brilliantly intertwined, are fraying, even breaking. Elara knows the city is dying because its people are forgetting how deeply they are connected.

Her quest is not to slay a monster, but to mend the tapestry. She must journey not across lands, but through the stories themselves.

Each night, I would begin one of Elara’s “thread-following” expeditions:

  • Night One: She follows a flickering, almost invisible thread from a lonely old baker who believes no one cares for him. The thread leads her back through generations, revealing how his great-grandmother, a woman he never knew, once saved a merchant’s fortune with a single, anonymous act of kindness, and how that merchant’s lineage later funded the very orphanage where the baker himself found refuge as a child. The baker’s life, he would discover, was built on an ancient, forgotten thread of generosity.
  • Night Two: Elara traces a taut, angry thread between two feuding families, their hatred centuries old. As she follows it, she uncovers the true origin: not a grand slight, but a misinterpreted joke, a stolen flower, and a series of escalating misunderstandings, each fueled by pride and a refusal to truly listen. But she also finds faint counter-threads – moments of shared joy, unspoken longing for peace, nearly-forgiven transgressions – that still hum beneath the surface.
  • Night Three: She investigates a vibrant thread of innovation and creativity, discovering it’s not the solitary genius of a famous artist, but the culmination of countless, unacknowledged inspirations: a child’s forgotten drawing, a beggar’s hummed tune, a weaver’s discarded pattern, each contributing a vital, invisible strand to the masterpiece.

Through Elara’s journey, the Sultan (and you, dear reader) would witness the profound irony of human existence: we are all singular, yet inextricably bound. Our greatest joys and deepest pains are rarely our own alone. Every act, every word, every silence sends ripples through the great tapestry.

The “cliffhanger” each night wouldn’t be a sword fight, but a dawning realisation. Elara would be on the verge of revealing a crucial, heart-wrenching, or profoundly beautiful connection that implicates seemingly disparate characters, perhaps even hinting at the Sultan’s own lineage, his own perceived isolation, as being a part of this vast, interconnected web.

The story would be a mirror, reflecting the Sultan’s own life back at him – not judging, but revealing. It would show him that just as a breaking thread in the farthest corner of Aethelgard could unravel the entire city, so too did his own actions send tremors through the lives of everyone around him. It would demonstrate that true power comes not from severing connections, but from understanding and honouring them.

By the final night, the Sultan wouldn’t just be entertained; he would be transformed. He would see himself not as an isolated ruler, but as a vital, powerful weaver in the Loom of Whispers. And with that understanding, perhaps, the desire to cut threads would vanish, replaced by a profound respect for the intricate, beautiful, and utterly inescapable tapestry of life.

What about you? If your life depended on it, what story would you tell? And what hidden threads would you uncover?

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My Second Story 19

More about my second novel

…

Rupert follows Worthington and Arabella to and from the concert, and then observes them over dinner, wondering what it is that’s missing in his life until they go back to the room for the night.

To him, it seems like it’s just a sex weekend with cultural embellishments.

Until he spies Worthington on the move at two am, leaving the hotel on foot.  It turns into a meeting between him and two other men in the park before Worthington returns to the hotel, business concluded.

It has to be something to do with John and Zoe; otherwise, the meeting would have been in the hotel, not the deep recesses of the park.  Rupert has photographs and gives them to Sebastian for identification.

At least they now know the reason for Worthington being in Vienna.  Arabella just makes it look more casual.

John breaks his plan to Zoe over breakfast, and she is surprised.  It’s a good plan, and once she had dealt with the problems, it would be a go.

And, she added quite sombrely, if they all survive.

The bad news was that she would be leaving the next morning to visit an old friend, Dominica, who probably isn’t so friendly now, to get information.  And, no, she was not sure what would happen after that, but if she could, she would call him.

With the two men identified and the danger they presented, Sebastian had to move to plan B and set it up.  He deliberately doesn’t tell either of them because he knows they would strenuously object.

The plan:  sniper to shoot them from a building across the road, not to kill, but to slow them down.  It would be difficult to be out plotting when in the emergency ward of a hospital.

But, as usual, things don’t quite go to plan.  Worthington is hit and wounded, though not severely as Sebastian had hoped, but Arabella moved slightly just before he pulled the trigger, and he couldn’t see what happened, but what he could see, it looked very, very bad.

…

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My Second Story 19

More about my second novel

…

Rupert follows Worthington and Arabella to and from the concert, and then observes them over dinner, wondering what it is that’s missing in his life until they go back to the room for the night.

To him, it seems like it’s just a sex weekend with cultural embellishments.

Until he spies Worthington on the move at two am, leaving the hotel on foot.  It turns into a meeting between him and two other men in the park before Worthington returns to the hotel, business concluded.

It has to be something to do with John and Zoe; otherwise, the meeting would have been in the hotel, not the deep recesses of the park.  Rupert has photographs and gives them to Sebastian for identification.

At least they now know the reason for Worthington being in Vienna.  Arabella just makes it look more casual.

John breaks his plan to Zoe over breakfast, and she is surprised.  It’s a good plan, and once she had dealt with the problems, it would be a go.

And, she added quite sombrely, if they all survive.

The bad news was that she would be leaving the next morning to visit an old friend, Dominica, who probably isn’t so friendly now, to get information.  And, no, she was not sure what would happen after that, but if she could, she would call him.

With the two men identified and the danger they presented, Sebastian had to move to plan B and set it up.  He deliberately doesn’t tell either of them because he knows they would strenuously object.

The plan:  sniper to shoot them from a building across the road, not to kill, but to slow them down.  It would be difficult to be out plotting when in the emergency ward of a hospital.

But, as usual, things don’t quite go to plan.  Worthington is hit and wounded, though not severely as Sebastian had hoped, but Arabella moved slightly just before he pulled the trigger, and he couldn’t see what happened, but what he could see, it looked very, very bad.

…

…

What I learned about writing – Writing a story to astonish the reader

I was sitting down and wondering just what I could write that would create a sense of astonishment, or even shock the reader.

Then my news feed arced up and – well, I have to say I’m astonished.

At the state of American politics, and the lengths political parties will go to avoid getting caught, especially when they’ve been caught.

I utterly refuse to believe that the Democratic Party is to blame for absolutely everything in America. It takes a long time to completely stuff everything up, and both parties have a hand in all the problems.

It’s the same in Australia. We’ve got a lot of problems, but no one party has caused them; they are caused by both, and a lot to do with election cycles. No one wants to set in place the 10-year cycle it would take to fix things.

Then, I have to say it is the same everywhere.

The next thing that flashes up in the news cycle, pedophiles. OK, not the domain of one party, but everyone has a hand in this. And it is abhorrent, and we say we don’t tolerate it, but the fact is, politicians, judges, policemen, lawyers, doctors, priests and even presidents are complicit. The thing is, we all know they’re complicit, we want answers and arrests, and somehow it all gets buried.

Shock!

Or not.

It’s no surprise, no shock, and we are not even astonished when the politicians from the top down, and then the law enforcement officers, all lie, lie, lie, and then lie again.

And we let them.

There’s the shock, right there.

And the next shock? Nothing is going to happen. We’ll be talking about this in four years, and no one will be arrested. Someone might commit suicide (ha bloody ha), absolving the guilty.

If the Republicans are in power, it’s all the Democrats who are pedophiles, and if the Democrats are in power then it’s all the Republicans who are pedophiles, and when you can’t even believe in or trust your president, well, what hope is there for all those victims?

Oh, hang on, we seem to have forgotten about the victims. I was a victim. I know what it’s like to be abused. I know what it’s like not to get justice. I know what it’s like to listen to the lies of the perpetrator and watch him get away with it.

I cannot be shocked, surprised or astonished anymore.

What would shock me?

Just one of those turds being hung at noon in a public square as a reminder that it will not be tolerated.

Rant over!