Day 213

Grammar with commas, adjectives and parentheses

…

Never let it be said that I would try to have four commas in a sentence.  Not that I would deliberately expect to see how it would sound.

After all, the comma is the point where the reader takes a breath.  One official definition of the comma is to separate clauses or lists of three or more items.

Someone might want to tell the people who create grammar checkers that, because sometimes their suggested edits are a little perplexing.

Of course, the humble comma is also very useful for making the author’s meaning clearer to the reader, who, it seems, is always trying to misinterpret what he or she is trying to say.

Sadly, just about everything I write can be misinterpreted, especially by those strange grammar checkers.  You see, the programmers who are behind such beasts injected their own interpretation, so no matter what you want to say, they change it into something incomprehensible.

Unless, of course, you take charge and override the changes or simply ignore the suggestions.  The problem is, it won’t let it go, underscoring or highlighting what it thinks is wrong and takes you back, like an errant child, expecting you to conform.

Even selecting ignore only lets you think you have won!

But all the same, there are eight rules for using commas, and it doesn’t hurt to at least read what they are so you can make up your own mind.

The next battle, and believe me, I have drawn the line on the battlefield, a line these mechanical behemoths simply roll right over.

I know what words I was to use.  It doesn’t or shouldn’t after what I use because those ate my words.  The checker can not possibly know what I want to convey.

And yet there it is, saying that I have no idea what I’m talking about.

OK.  I get it.  We don’t want to have too much flowery language.  But just what is flowery language?  Acting dumb, I’d say I don’t use flowers to describe stuff.

Then, there’s a lavender aroma, a rose coloured cheek, as yellow as a daffodil.

Who doesn’t know of a yellow daffodil, a red rose, though these days there are red, yellow, white, and pink roses.

Oops, I just used more than four commas in a sentence. 

But there is a good argument for using words that most people would recognise because the last thing you need is reader frustration.  But, again, you still have to take into consideration the narrator or the character and their characteristics.

Lastly, who hasn’t used an afterthought or an explanation in the middle of a sentence just to make sure the reader knows what is going on

I mean, we shouldn’t have to; it should be readily apparent if we had spelled out beforehand, but that little reminder is so that the reader isn’t left scratching their head, which can sometimes happen.

It’s not ideal, but sometimes necessary.

I use it myself, which, of course, isn’t a validation of its use. It’s just the way I write.

It is just another thing on that ever-growing list of pointers that we accumulated as we advance further into the writing mire.

Nothing is ever simple. 

Day 213

Grammar with commas, adjectives and parentheses

…

Never let it be said that I would try to have four commas in a sentence.  Not that I would deliberately expect to see how it would sound.

After all, the comma is the point where the reader takes a breath.  One official definition of the comma is to separate clauses or lists of three or more items.

Someone might want to tell the people who create grammar checkers that, because sometimes their suggested edits are a little perplexing.

Of course, the humble comma is also very useful for making the author’s meaning clearer to the reader, who, it seems, is always trying to misinterpret what he or she is trying to say.

Sadly, just about everything I write can be misinterpreted, especially by those strange grammar checkers.  You see, the programmers who are behind such beasts injected their own interpretation, so no matter what you want to say, they change it into something incomprehensible.

Unless, of course, you take charge and override the changes or simply ignore the suggestions.  The problem is, it won’t let it go, underscoring or highlighting what it thinks is wrong and takes you back, like an errant child, expecting you to conform.

Even selecting ignore only lets you think you have won!

But all the same, there are eight rules for using commas, and it doesn’t hurt to at least read what they are so you can make up your own mind.

The next battle, and believe me, I have drawn the line on the battlefield, a line these mechanical behemoths simply roll right over.

I know what words I was to use.  It doesn’t or shouldn’t after what I use because those ate my words.  The checker can not possibly know what I want to convey.

And yet there it is, saying that I have no idea what I’m talking about.

OK.  I get it.  We don’t want to have too much flowery language.  But just what is flowery language?  Acting dumb, I’d say I don’t use flowers to describe stuff.

Then, there’s a lavender aroma, a rose coloured cheek, as yellow as a daffodil.

Who doesn’t know of a yellow daffodil, a red rose, though these days there are red, yellow, white, and pink roses.

Oops, I just used more than four commas in a sentence. 

But there is a good argument for using words that most people would recognise because the last thing you need is reader frustration.  But, again, you still have to take into consideration the narrator or the character and their characteristics.

Lastly, who hasn’t used an afterthought or an explanation in the middle of a sentence just to make sure the reader knows what is going on

I mean, we shouldn’t have to; it should be readily apparent if we had spelled out beforehand, but that little reminder is so that the reader isn’t left scratching their head, which can sometimes happen.

It’s not ideal, but sometimes necessary.

I use it myself, which, of course, isn’t a validation of its use. It’s just the way I write.

It is just another thing on that ever-growing list of pointers that we accumulated as we advance further into the writing mire.

Nothing is ever simple. 

Day 212

Contributing to happiness – Writing exercise

…

It was the small town that we had visited once, some years ago, that had enticed me back.

Those had been happier times, times when the stench of money hadn’t overtaken sensibility, and who we really were.

Not that I had changed all that much, except for the Upper West Side apartment, and a posh car to go with it, but what had disappointed me was the change in Liz, the woman I thought once was the love of my life.

Without the trappings of wealth, she was the kindest, most thoughtful, and generous person I knew, but that changed when I became the recipient of an inheritance that beggared belief.  We both made a promise from the outset that it would not change us, but unfortunately, it did.

And that was probably the main reason I was standing outside an old fixer-upper house on several acres overlooking the ocean.

I’d asked Liz to come, but she was having a weekend away in Las Vegas with her new friends, or as one of the ladies rather salaciously said, ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ kind of weekend.

Charmaine had told me about the house, one that she had admired for a long time, but didn’t have the means to buy it.

Charmaine was a painter, a rather good one, and both Liz and I had met her on a weekend away upstate, and I’d bought one of her landscapes to hang in our new apartment.  Liz hated it, but I think that had more to do with the painter than the painting, and that was because Charmaine had flirted with me, and that, I had observed over time, was how she was with everyone.

She called it her sales technique.  After all, it had worked on me.

I listened to the auctioneer go through the rules of the auction and then move on to a physical description of the property.  I’d attended several viewings and gained an idea of what was needed if I were to buy it.  It had good foundations and had only suffered from a lack of TLC.  It was how the auctioneer summed it up.

When he called for the first bid, I felt a hand slip into mine, and a glance sideways showed it to be Charmaine.  I had asked her along for support, but she had something else to do; it appeared now that she hadn’t.

“So,” she whispered next to my ear, “you were serious about this place?”

I had been dithering, not being able to make up my mind, but Liz, in the end, made the decision for me.  I’d overheard a snippet of conversation with one of her new friends, and to be honest, I’d been surprised.

“Perhaps it was time to find a hideaway.”

“Things that bad?”

I shrugged.  “Maybe I’m writing too much into it.  At any rate, I needed an excuse to get out of town, and being here was as good as any.”

The first bid came in at 450,000.   I knew the reserve was about 700,000, and I was prepared for 850,000.  I was hoping to spend less than that, as the renovations would be another 250,000.

“We could go and have a picnic.  It’ll certainly cost less than buying this place.”

“I’m here now.”

Holding hands was just one of Charmaine’s ‘things’, and I had never written anything into what might have been called a relationship of sorts.  We were not lovers, and the conversation had never been steered in that direction, but I did find myself gravitating towards her when Liz was off doing her thing with her friends.  To be honest, I simply liked the idea of a picnic and watching Charmaine paint her landscapes.

I raised the bid to 500,000.  Another from the previous bidder, 550,000.  Another at 600,000.  It seems there were three bidders for the property.  The other sixteen people attending were observers, undoubtedly locals interested in how this would help their property value.

I went 625,000 when the auctioneer changed the increment after a lack of bidding.  It was countered, and the next bid was 650,000.  Another at 657,500, and then the first bidder went to 700,000, the reserve.

“You do realise the other bidders are friends of the owner and are there to push the price up?” Charmaine whispered in my ear.

I’d heard of it happening, but I’d not suspected it until she mentioned it.

“Going once, going twice at 700,000.”  The auctioneer looked at me.  “I’ll accept 10,000 increments.”

I nodded.  710,000.  It quickly moved to 800,000, after I bid 790,000.

The auctioneer looked at me expectantly.  “810,000, sir?”

That was more than I wanted to spend, though an elbow in the ribs was the clincher, and when I declined, there was an air of disappointment.

“Going once, going twice, all done at 800,000?”  A look around the crowd confirmed we were all done, and the gavel came down.

“Looks like we’re going on a picnic,” she said.  “I’d expect a call in an hour or so.”

Two things happened that weekend, both of which surprised me.  The first, Charmaine was right, I did get a call, and finished up with a hideaway in the country, overlooking the ocean.  The second, Liz didn’t come back from Las Vegas.  She had apparently found someone new, someone more exciting, or so she said.

I was disappointed but not overly concerned.  She had changed, and I had not, and if the truth be told, we were drifting apart.  We parted amicably, sold the apartment, and moved on in different directions.

I had a new residence and renovations to take my mind off the break-up, and when I told Charmaine, she said she thought we were not a perfect match, in her opinion.  And in light of my new status, I could now ask her to come and stay in the spare bedroom, a lot better, I said, than the one-person tent she had been using, an offer she readily accepted.

Until, a year later, it became something more than that.

…

© Charles Heath 2025

Day 212

Contributing to happiness – Writing exercise

…

It was the small town that we had visited once, some years ago, that had enticed me back.

Those had been happier times, times when the stench of money hadn’t overtaken sensibility, and who we really were.

Not that I had changed all that much, except for the Upper West Side apartment, and a posh car to go with it, but what had disappointed me was the change in Liz, the woman I thought once was the love of my life.

Without the trappings of wealth, she was the kindest, most thoughtful, and generous person I knew, but that changed when I became the recipient of an inheritance that beggared belief.  We both made a promise from the outset that it would not change us, but unfortunately, it did.

And that was probably the main reason I was standing outside an old fixer-upper house on several acres overlooking the ocean.

I’d asked Liz to come, but she was having a weekend away in Las Vegas with her new friends, or as one of the ladies rather salaciously said, ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ kind of weekend.

Charmaine had told me about the house, one that she had admired for a long time, but didn’t have the means to buy it.

Charmaine was a painter, a rather good one, and both Liz and I had met her on a weekend away upstate, and I’d bought one of her landscapes to hang in our new apartment.  Liz hated it, but I think that had more to do with the painter than the painting, and that was because Charmaine had flirted with me, and that, I had observed over time, was how she was with everyone.

She called it her sales technique.  After all, it had worked on me.

I listened to the auctioneer go through the rules of the auction and then move on to a physical description of the property.  I’d attended several viewings and gained an idea of what was needed if I were to buy it.  It had good foundations and had only suffered from a lack of TLC.  It was how the auctioneer summed it up.

When he called for the first bid, I felt a hand slip into mine, and a glance sideways showed it to be Charmaine.  I had asked her along for support, but she had something else to do; it appeared now that she hadn’t.

“So,” she whispered next to my ear, “you were serious about this place?”

I had been dithering, not being able to make up my mind, but Liz, in the end, made the decision for me.  I’d overheard a snippet of conversation with one of her new friends, and to be honest, I’d been surprised.

“Perhaps it was time to find a hideaway.”

“Things that bad?”

I shrugged.  “Maybe I’m writing too much into it.  At any rate, I needed an excuse to get out of town, and being here was as good as any.”

The first bid came in at 450,000.   I knew the reserve was about 700,000, and I was prepared for 850,000.  I was hoping to spend less than that, as the renovations would be another 250,000.

“We could go and have a picnic.  It’ll certainly cost less than buying this place.”

“I’m here now.”

Holding hands was just one of Charmaine’s ‘things’, and I had never written anything into what might have been called a relationship of sorts.  We were not lovers, and the conversation had never been steered in that direction, but I did find myself gravitating towards her when Liz was off doing her thing with her friends.  To be honest, I simply liked the idea of a picnic and watching Charmaine paint her landscapes.

I raised the bid to 500,000.  Another from the previous bidder, 550,000.  Another at 600,000.  It seems there were three bidders for the property.  The other sixteen people attending were observers, undoubtedly locals interested in how this would help their property value.

I went 625,000 when the auctioneer changed the increment after a lack of bidding.  It was countered, and the next bid was 650,000.  Another at 657,500, and then the first bidder went to 700,000, the reserve.

“You do realise the other bidders are friends of the owner and are there to push the price up?” Charmaine whispered in my ear.

I’d heard of it happening, but I’d not suspected it until she mentioned it.

“Going once, going twice at 700,000.”  The auctioneer looked at me.  “I’ll accept 10,000 increments.”

I nodded.  710,000.  It quickly moved to 800,000, after I bid 790,000.

The auctioneer looked at me expectantly.  “810,000, sir?”

That was more than I wanted to spend, though an elbow in the ribs was the clincher, and when I declined, there was an air of disappointment.

“Going once, going twice, all done at 800,000?”  A look around the crowd confirmed we were all done, and the gavel came down.

“Looks like we’re going on a picnic,” she said.  “I’d expect a call in an hour or so.”

Two things happened that weekend, both of which surprised me.  The first, Charmaine was right, I did get a call, and finished up with a hideaway in the country, overlooking the ocean.  The second, Liz didn’t come back from Las Vegas.  She had apparently found someone new, someone more exciting, or so she said.

I was disappointed but not overly concerned.  She had changed, and I had not, and if the truth be told, we were drifting apart.  We parted amicably, sold the apartment, and moved on in different directions.

I had a new residence and renovations to take my mind off the break-up, and when I told Charmaine, she said she thought we were not a perfect match, in her opinion.  And in light of my new status, I could now ask her to come and stay in the spare bedroom, a lot better, I said, than the one-person tent she had been using, an offer she readily accepted.

Until, a year later, it became something more than that.

…

© Charles Heath 2025

Day 211

Writing – a dystopian world

…

On the other side, there was another door, but before we went through it, I was ‘decontaminated,’ which meant being sprayed with a gas of some sort.  It didn’t have a bad smell.

Then another invisible door, or archway, opened, and beyond, it was a large open space with blue skies, trees, flowers, what was once parkland, because we had something similar in what was called a ‘public space’, but on a smaller scale.  Life, such as before me, was still not possible on the outside, but it was improving.

Or so we were told.

It was a world within a world.  It was warm, there were creatures, and people tended it.

“It’s a pity we have to die before we get to see what we once had,” I said.  She had slowed down to match my movement.

She was what we called a power walker.

“There is much to explore over the coming week.”

It was large and a long walk. There was a lake, and there were small row boats.  The only rowing I’d done was in a gym.  Perhaps I’d get a chance to go on a boat.

We walked for half an hour.  We reached a row of bungalows built along the water’s edge.  At the third bungalow, she said, “This will be your residence for the next week.”

She led the way.  As we approached the door, it opened.  She went in, and I followed.  It was far better than anything I’d lived in my whole life, the sort of place we speculated management lived in.

“You have everything you need for the next week.”

“Am I free to explore that world outside my door?”

“With me, yes.  I will be staying here with you.”

Interesting.  “And interaction with any others who are staying here.”

“Of course.  This is not a prison. But as I said, I will be with you.”

It was beginning to feel like it was a prison.

She sat down at the table.  “Please join me, and we’ll go over the rules.”

Was I disappointed?  No.  I could think of worse ways to live the last week of my life.  It was just so unexpected that places like this existed, and my last week would be an endless reminder of what I had, in more ways than one.

About ten minutes into what seemed to be a well-rehearsed speech, I made a discovery.  Well, it was not so much a discovery as it was confirmation of a theory I once had.

About a year before, I was given a case that involved a missing woman who had not turned up for work that morning.  Normally, people had to be missing several days before we investigated, but I got the impression she was important.

And a surprise because crimes involving people were far and few between, and anyone committing crimes that killed or seriously injured others and was found guilty was summarily terminated.

In a small community, it was an effective deterrent.

And being such an important case, I was surprised my superior dropped the file on my desk with the warning, discretion was paramount, that I was to report results to him directly and only him, and if anyone came to me for information, I was to direct them to him.

It was an odd case, one where I should have got a similar story from everyone, especially in her block where she lived, but no two stories were the same.  Similar, perhaps, but always a key detail amiss.

Only one of the thirty-odd people I spoke to had a completely different story.  He had been missing the week she arrived, and when he came back, he discovered her living next door.

And when he tried to talk to her, she simply ignored him.  Another strange thing was that she had a visitor who turned up late at night, and they would leave together, return in the early hours, and the visitor left before anyone else in the block woke.

And then, that very morning, neither returned.

When I asked why he didn’t report the events, he, like many others, said they didn’t want to get involved.  I knew he knew more than he was telling me, but I also recognised fear.

I took my findings to my superior, and he told me it was imperative that I find her as soon as possible.  He didn’t say why.

But I knew what it was he wasn’t saying.

A lot of my job involved discretion; one of only a few who were privy to information that was restricted.  Yes, we had security levels, and due to seniority and my ability to keep secrets, I’d advanced to the highest level.

It was a privilege and also a curse.

It was where I discovered the people above my pay grade had a different life and privileges, which most people, if they knew, would be surprised.  It was, someone once said, a case of don’t do as I do, do as I say.

Very apt.

It led me to the conclusion that she was having an illicit relationship with a man she worked with.  I could go to her workplace to ask embarrassing questions, but instead visited the more exclusive hotels where illicit relationships played out.

There were seven I knew about, one near the block where she lived. I went there first, and when I told them who I was and what I was doing there, I was taken to the manager’s office, and then to a room where, very carefully laid out, the body of the missing woman.

They had known someone would come for her, and that it was better they did not report it via the usual means.

There were no visible signs of violence, so no harm had been inflicted on her.  I asked who had booked the room and received a blank stare.  No names were ever used, and there was no CCTV footage.

In certain circumstances, of which this was one.  It told me that management was, or could be, involved.

I dismissed the manager and made a cursory inspection of the room and the body.  Fully dressed, she looked as though she were asleep.  It was not my job to determine the cause of death, but the skin under my fingers when determining if there was a pulse was odd.

She was perfect in every way, not exactly the norm.

Examination completed, I reported back and was told to leave, my job done.  As I went through the foyer, I could see that someone had spoken to the manager; he looked a deathly shade of white.

I remained at a cafe not far from the hotel to see what happened next, and within ten minutes, two black cars and a van arrived, men in black uniforms from the cars, and men in white suits from the van.

Ten more minutes, and they were gone. I didn’t see the body being removed.

Nothing more was said, but seeing Miranda in front of me, now, she had all the same characteristics.

Wise or not, I had to ask, “Are you self-aware?”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 211

Writing – a dystopian world

…

On the other side, there was another door, but before we went through it, I was ‘decontaminated,’ which meant being sprayed with a gas of some sort.  It didn’t have a bad smell.

Then another invisible door, or archway, opened, and beyond, it was a large open space with blue skies, trees, flowers, what was once parkland, because we had something similar in what was called a ‘public space’, but on a smaller scale.  Life, such as before me, was still not possible on the outside, but it was improving.

Or so we were told.

It was a world within a world.  It was warm, there were creatures, and people tended it.

“It’s a pity we have to die before we get to see what we once had,” I said.  She had slowed down to match my movement.

She was what we called a power walker.

“There is much to explore over the coming week.”

It was large and a long walk. There was a lake, and there were small row boats.  The only rowing I’d done was in a gym.  Perhaps I’d get a chance to go on a boat.

We walked for half an hour.  We reached a row of bungalows built along the water’s edge.  At the third bungalow, she said, “This will be your residence for the next week.”

She led the way.  As we approached the door, it opened.  She went in, and I followed.  It was far better than anything I’d lived in my whole life, the sort of place we speculated management lived in.

“You have everything you need for the next week.”

“Am I free to explore that world outside my door?”

“With me, yes.  I will be staying here with you.”

Interesting.  “And interaction with any others who are staying here.”

“Of course.  This is not a prison. But as I said, I will be with you.”

It was beginning to feel like it was a prison.

She sat down at the table.  “Please join me, and we’ll go over the rules.”

Was I disappointed?  No.  I could think of worse ways to live the last week of my life.  It was just so unexpected that places like this existed, and my last week would be an endless reminder of what I had, in more ways than one.

About ten minutes into what seemed to be a well-rehearsed speech, I made a discovery.  Well, it was not so much a discovery as it was confirmation of a theory I once had.

About a year before, I was given a case that involved a missing woman who had not turned up for work that morning.  Normally, people had to be missing several days before we investigated, but I got the impression she was important.

And a surprise because crimes involving people were far and few between, and anyone committing crimes that killed or seriously injured others and was found guilty was summarily terminated.

In a small community, it was an effective deterrent.

And being such an important case, I was surprised my superior dropped the file on my desk with the warning, discretion was paramount, that I was to report results to him directly and only him, and if anyone came to me for information, I was to direct them to him.

It was an odd case, one where I should have got a similar story from everyone, especially in her block where she lived, but no two stories were the same.  Similar, perhaps, but always a key detail amiss.

Only one of the thirty-odd people I spoke to had a completely different story.  He had been missing the week she arrived, and when he came back, he discovered her living next door.

And when he tried to talk to her, she simply ignored him.  Another strange thing was that she had a visitor who turned up late at night, and they would leave together, return in the early hours, and the visitor left before anyone else in the block woke.

And then, that very morning, neither returned.

When I asked why he didn’t report the events, he, like many others, said they didn’t want to get involved.  I knew he knew more than he was telling me, but I also recognised fear.

I took my findings to my superior, and he told me it was imperative that I find her as soon as possible.  He didn’t say why.

But I knew what it was he wasn’t saying.

A lot of my job involved discretion; one of only a few who were privy to information that was restricted.  Yes, we had security levels, and due to seniority and my ability to keep secrets, I’d advanced to the highest level.

It was a privilege and also a curse.

It was where I discovered the people above my pay grade had a different life and privileges, which most people, if they knew, would be surprised.  It was, someone once said, a case of don’t do as I do, do as I say.

Very apt.

It led me to the conclusion that she was having an illicit relationship with a man she worked with.  I could go to her workplace to ask embarrassing questions, but instead visited the more exclusive hotels where illicit relationships played out.

There were seven I knew about, one near the block where she lived. I went there first, and when I told them who I was and what I was doing there, I was taken to the manager’s office, and then to a room where, very carefully laid out, the body of the missing woman.

They had known someone would come for her, and that it was better they did not report it via the usual means.

There were no visible signs of violence, so no harm had been inflicted on her.  I asked who had booked the room and received a blank stare.  No names were ever used, and there was no CCTV footage.

In certain circumstances, of which this was one.  It told me that management was, or could be, involved.

I dismissed the manager and made a cursory inspection of the room and the body.  Fully dressed, she looked as though she were asleep.  It was not my job to determine the cause of death, but the skin under my fingers when determining if there was a pulse was odd.

She was perfect in every way, not exactly the norm.

Examination completed, I reported back and was told to leave, my job done.  As I went through the foyer, I could see that someone had spoken to the manager; he looked a deathly shade of white.

I remained at a cafe not far from the hotel to see what happened next, and within ten minutes, two black cars and a van arrived, men in black uniforms from the cars, and men in white suits from the van.

Ten more minutes, and they were gone. I didn’t see the body being removed.

Nothing more was said, but seeing Miranda in front of me, now, she had all the same characteristics.

Wise or not, I had to ask, “Are you self-aware?”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 210

Writing exercise

…

It was no one fault that Melinda’s parents died in the accident. It just happened.

The day after she turned fifteen, and faced with losing her brothers and sisters in an unforgiving foster care system, she packed a bag for each and told them that they could take one toy and left.

Joey was 13, Annabel was 11, and Gertie was 9.  The two youngest didn’t understand what had happened to them and wanted to know where Mom and Dad were.

There was no simple answer.

Instead, Melinda had to tell them in no uncertain terms that their lives had changed, and they had to leave. Otherwise, bad people would come and take them away.

It was emphasised by the four cars, lights flashing starkly against the dark night, the police and others coming to take them away.

After that, it was just a trial, sleeping during the day and walking at night.

It took three months.  The plan if anything ever happens to their parents.  Left with the eldest daughter, whom they charged with the responsibility to save their children and go to what Mom had called a safe house.

In Canada.

Three months and seven near misses, knowing everyone was looking for them.  And not all of them with good intentions.

During those three months, Melinda had turned 16.  Her mother had been looking forward to her 16th birthday; they were going to have a celebration.

That morning, after the other three went to sleep, failing to remember the day, Melinda cried.  It felt like it was the end of the world.

Perhaps it was, in a sense.

Now, on the eve of her 18th birthday, the family was safe with their grandparents she had never met or knew about. It was almost like it had been before.

Except she knew it wasn’t.

She would always be looking over her shoulder.  Even after the adjustments, like the change of names, the change of appearance, the learning of a different language and accent, German, to disguise who they had been.

It was time for the others to go back to school and resume their childhood.

For Melinda, watching the sun set behind the trees of her long-gone childhood, life would never be the same. 

“You are sad, my child?”

Her grandmother, Heidi, was a kind and gentle soul, the one who had nurtured and home-schooled them as a mother would.  Adolf, the grandfather, was gruff and angry but sympathetic to their situation.  It was he who had toughened them up by teaching them to survive.

“I never got to experience all those things a young girl does, love, a broken heart, dancing, parties, just being a child, I guess.”

“There is an English expression. Youth is wasted on the young.  The English have an expression for everything.  You may think you have missed those golden years, but you have not.  You simply spent them differently, much better than your contemporaries.  As Adolf would say, come the apocalypse, who do you think will survive it?”

“Do you think there will be one?”

The sun had set, and darkness was closing in.

“Take a look around, smell the aromas of Mother Nature, savour the cool breeze as it rustles gently through the trees.  This will always be here, despite the humans’ efforts to destroy it.”

It was a question she had never dared to ask, and she had impressed upon her siblings that certain questions must never be asked but now seemed to be the time.

“What really happened to my mom and dad?”

The old lady put her arm around her shoulder and hugged her.  “It is not for me to say. It can only be a matter of speculation.  Your grandfather went to your home some months after you arrived and obtained the police report on the accident.  It read like an accident, but details are missing.  There may be reasons why there may not.  I think it’s best not to dwell on the past, Leisl.”

It took a while to remember who she now was, a name she selected herself, from a movie she one saw that made her happy, The Sound of Music.  She used to go around the house and sing that song Sixteen Going on Seventeen while doing her chores.

Now, it was just another distant memory.

“As you wish.  Do you think it’s wise that I leave now?  I mean, the others seemed reconciled, but I will miss them.”

“As they will miss you, but it is not forever.  You must continue your education, and you will be returning during the semester breaks.  It is what your parents wanted for you.”

She had read the letter they had written, one for each of the children.  It explained who the grandparents were and what was going to happen.  It was part of a plan, and she had often wondered if it would have been the same if they had lived.

“But, now, we must celebrate your birthday.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 210

Writing exercise

…

It was no one fault that Melinda’s parents died in the accident. It just happened.

The day after she turned fifteen, and faced with losing her brothers and sisters in an unforgiving foster care system, she packed a bag for each and told them that they could take one toy and left.

Joey was 13, Annabel was 11, and Gertie was 9.  The two youngest didn’t understand what had happened to them and wanted to know where Mom and Dad were.

There was no simple answer.

Instead, Melinda had to tell them in no uncertain terms that their lives had changed, and they had to leave. Otherwise, bad people would come and take them away.

It was emphasised by the four cars, lights flashing starkly against the dark night, the police and others coming to take them away.

After that, it was just a trial, sleeping during the day and walking at night.

It took three months.  The plan if anything ever happens to their parents.  Left with the eldest daughter, whom they charged with the responsibility to save their children and go to what Mom had called a safe house.

In Canada.

Three months and seven near misses, knowing everyone was looking for them.  And not all of them with good intentions.

During those three months, Melinda had turned 16.  Her mother had been looking forward to her 16th birthday; they were going to have a celebration.

That morning, after the other three went to sleep, failing to remember the day, Melinda cried.  It felt like it was the end of the world.

Perhaps it was, in a sense.

Now, on the eve of her 18th birthday, the family was safe with their grandparents she had never met or knew about. It was almost like it had been before.

Except she knew it wasn’t.

She would always be looking over her shoulder.  Even after the adjustments, like the change of names, the change of appearance, the learning of a different language and accent, German, to disguise who they had been.

It was time for the others to go back to school and resume their childhood.

For Melinda, watching the sun set behind the trees of her long-gone childhood, life would never be the same. 

“You are sad, my child?”

Her grandmother, Heidi, was a kind and gentle soul, the one who had nurtured and home-schooled them as a mother would.  Adolf, the grandfather, was gruff and angry but sympathetic to their situation.  It was he who had toughened them up by teaching them to survive.

“I never got to experience all those things a young girl does, love, a broken heart, dancing, parties, just being a child, I guess.”

“There is an English expression. Youth is wasted on the young.  The English have an expression for everything.  You may think you have missed those golden years, but you have not.  You simply spent them differently, much better than your contemporaries.  As Adolf would say, come the apocalypse, who do you think will survive it?”

“Do you think there will be one?”

The sun had set, and darkness was closing in.

“Take a look around, smell the aromas of Mother Nature, savour the cool breeze as it rustles gently through the trees.  This will always be here, despite the humans’ efforts to destroy it.”

It was a question she had never dared to ask, and she had impressed upon her siblings that certain questions must never be asked but now seemed to be the time.

“What really happened to my mom and dad?”

The old lady put her arm around her shoulder and hugged her.  “It is not for me to say. It can only be a matter of speculation.  Your grandfather went to your home some months after you arrived and obtained the police report on the accident.  It read like an accident, but details are missing.  There may be reasons why there may not.  I think it’s best not to dwell on the past, Leisl.”

It took a while to remember who she now was, a name she selected herself, from a movie she one saw that made her happy, The Sound of Music.  She used to go around the house and sing that song Sixteen Going on Seventeen while doing her chores.

Now, it was just another distant memory.

“As you wish.  Do you think it’s wise that I leave now?  I mean, the others seemed reconciled, but I will miss them.”

“As they will miss you, but it is not forever.  You must continue your education, and you will be returning during the semester breaks.  It is what your parents wanted for you.”

She had read the letter they had written, one for each of the children.  It explained who the grandparents were and what was going to happen.  It was part of a plan, and she had often wondered if it would have been the same if they had lived.

“But, now, we must celebrate your birthday.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025