Day 185

Let’s talk editing.

…

I’d rather not, but it’s a necessary part of the evolution of a story.

But, first, let’s get something quite clear right here, right now.  I will NEVER use AI to “improve” my writing.

My writing is my own.  It is me, imperfections and all.  I reluctantly allow a grammar checker to correct my work, but the reason is to address the offensive misuse of punctuation and outdated grammatical conventions based on age-old rules that AI can’t alter.

Because that’s the problem with AI.  It has its own set of rules and its own way of doing things, or more importantly, the creator’s way of doing things.

And it’s not simply because I watched Terminator and saw what could happen when machines get a mind of their own.

Or, sadly, the mind of the flawed human who created it.  I’ll let you ruminate on what could happen with AI created by the wrong people.  Of course, it opens a debate on who is or is not the wrong people, but that’s a topic for others to discuss.

So…

I write the story.

I re-read the story and make edits.

I re-read the story and made more edits.

I read the story and ensure that it reads properly and that there is continuity.  Names are correct. All people belong in the story, and their roles play out.

I have forgotten people before.

Then comes the spell checker, which shouldn’t find anything.

Then, the punctuation checker, which shouldn’t find anything.

Then the grammar checker, and this is the doozy.  There are usually between four and five hundred change requests, most quite simple and warranted, others a lot more complex and do not allow for writing style and people’s patterns of speech.

That takes the longest time to work through.

I actually run this checker a few times because it doesn’t pick everything up the first time.

Then, once that is done, I sent it off to the editor for one last read. 

Day 184

My writing needs that outside world that is rich in characters, scenery, objects, and language. To sit at a table in an ordinary coffee shop is to observe the tapestries of life unfold before you.

…

Just the other night, I was sitting in a restaurant, rather pricey too, and it was packed. Had I not been a guest, would I have gone? Possibly, but at the prices for the menu items, as amazing as they sounded, it would have used up six months of my allowance for dining out.

It’s not the first time I have been to such a place, and I’ll be honest, I love these sorts of dining establishments, and the food, by and large, is absolutely delicious.

But there is another reason why these places hold such an interest for me. It’s the people who also go there, from those who can afford it to those who cannot, for those who want to impress, and for those who want to show they belong there, even though in a sense they do not.

In a sense, I did not belong, but in another, I know what is good and what is not, I know what goes with what, and I know that you don’t go there and look at the prices. You know there is not going to be any change out of a thousand dollars, and that’s before you look at a half-decent Cabernet.

But I can spot the people who don’t belong. I can see the people who do, but are not graceful with it, and I see the people who belong and are graceful and polite.

And then there are the people who pretend they belong and are just plain horrible. These are the people one often sees overseas who believe they are superior to those who live there. It’s something I can never understand.

But I digress…

Quite a few characters are borne out of my dining companions. Like the other night. The table across from me was attended by six university types, who looked to be lecturers, tutors, and family. There was the Queen Bee, the convenor, the one who sat while others deferred to her, and the hierarchy was very clear. She smiled, everyone relaxed, she perused the menu, everyone paused and deferred, the wine was her selection, where a suggestion was not to be debated, but a nod with ‘good choice’ was the response.

It simply made me glad I never have much to do with university types.

The table on the right side had three people who studied the menu intently. it was a dead giveaway that the cheap[est selections, which were not cheap, were the means by which they could say they dined there, and take the kudos from it.

They were polite, spoke quietly, enjoyed the food and the atmosphere, and were polite and accepted the very discreet assistance from the wait staff.

I suspect the wait staff have experienced all manner of diners, and we were lucky the more brash and annoying were not there that night.

Our waitress was French, with a voice that could melt ice, and had I been in a more flippant mood, I would have asked her to recite the menu in her native language. Naughty and probably annoying, I resisted the temptation. But I did ask questions about the food.

On the other side, there was a table of four, a birthday, which culminated in a very bad rendition of Happy Birthday, and the birthday girl looked somewhat embarrassed. It could have been a less enthusiastic rendition, but who does that on a birthday treat?

As it is an inner city restaurant, some of the clientele were people who lived in the nearby apartments, and a study of the menu meant that instead of spending a fortune in the supermarket, dining out could be affordable, and not have to cook every night. It was not the only restaurant in the precinct, and I guess there were enough that you could have a different type of meal every night for a month before you had to start again.

Certainly, by the time I left, I had at least another six character profiles I was going to use later in my stories. As well as the dining options, the wait staff, the wine types, and a few ideas about what I was going to try another time.

And the conversation? It’s always quite different when you’re eating and drinking in an expensive restaurant as distinct from when you go to McDonald’s. If you deign to go to McDonald’s.

Day 184

My writing needs that outside world that is rich in characters, scenery, objects, and language. To sit at a table in an ordinary coffee shop is to observe the tapestries of life unfold before you.

…

Just the other night, I was sitting in a restaurant, rather pricey too, and it was packed. Had I not been a guest, would I have gone? Possibly, but at the prices for the menu items, as amazing as they sounded, it would have used up six months of my allowance for dining out.

It’s not the first time I have been to such a place, and I’ll be honest, I love these sorts of dining establishments, and the food, by and large, is absolutely delicious.

But there is another reason why these places hold such an interest for me. It’s the people who also go there, from those who can afford it to those who cannot, for those who want to impress, and for those who want to show they belong there, even though in a sense they do not.

In a sense, I did not belong, but in another, I know what is good and what is not, I know what goes with what, and I know that you don’t go there and look at the prices. You know there is not going to be any change out of a thousand dollars, and that’s before you look at a half-decent Cabernet.

But I can spot the people who don’t belong. I can see the people who do, but are not graceful with it, and I see the people who belong and are graceful and polite.

And then there are the people who pretend they belong and are just plain horrible. These are the people one often sees overseas who believe they are superior to those who live there. It’s something I can never understand.

But I digress…

Quite a few characters are borne out of my dining companions. Like the other night. The table across from me was attended by six university types, who looked to be lecturers, tutors, and family. There was the Queen Bee, the convenor, the one who sat while others deferred to her, and the hierarchy was very clear. She smiled, everyone relaxed, she perused the menu, everyone paused and deferred, the wine was her selection, where a suggestion was not to be debated, but a nod with ‘good choice’ was the response.

It simply made me glad I never have much to do with university types.

The table on the right side had three people who studied the menu intently. it was a dead giveaway that the cheap[est selections, which were not cheap, were the means by which they could say they dined there, and take the kudos from it.

They were polite, spoke quietly, enjoyed the food and the atmosphere, and were polite and accepted the very discreet assistance from the wait staff.

I suspect the wait staff have experienced all manner of diners, and we were lucky the more brash and annoying were not there that night.

Our waitress was French, with a voice that could melt ice, and had I been in a more flippant mood, I would have asked her to recite the menu in her native language. Naughty and probably annoying, I resisted the temptation. But I did ask questions about the food.

On the other side, there was a table of four, a birthday, which culminated in a very bad rendition of Happy Birthday, and the birthday girl looked somewhat embarrassed. It could have been a less enthusiastic rendition, but who does that on a birthday treat?

As it is an inner city restaurant, some of the clientele were people who lived in the nearby apartments, and a study of the menu meant that instead of spending a fortune in the supermarket, dining out could be affordable, and not have to cook every night. It was not the only restaurant in the precinct, and I guess there were enough that you could have a different type of meal every night for a month before you had to start again.

Certainly, by the time I left, I had at least another six character profiles I was going to use later in my stories. As well as the dining options, the wait staff, the wine types, and a few ideas about what I was going to try another time.

And the conversation? It’s always quite different when you’re eating and drinking in an expensive restaurant as distinct from when you go to McDonald’s. If you deign to go to McDonald’s.

Day 183

Poetry – or my thoughts on it

…

I have often wondered what the interest in poetry is because I have read those same poems that people wax lyrical about, and it just doesn’t have the same effect.

But…

Then I did some digging…

Poetry requires words written in lines for a specified number of lines about almost anything.

Two, three, four, five lines, and more.

Words that rhyme, words that do not, there are rules and types, and then there is not.

It encompasses anything and everything. It can read at a fast or slow pace, professing undying love or utter hatred, and can describe something familiarly or make the familiar sound like something else.

Objects become feelings, and feelings become objects.

Some poets are famous; there are poets we like and poets we hate.  Some poets are just there.  There are poets we should read and poets we shouldn’t, though why is anyone’s guess.

There are poets we know, not because we have read them but because they are in the collective consciousness, poets like Burns, W B Yeats, Walter Whitman, Shakespeare, and Emily Dickinson.

I even know them because people who are in the TV shows and movies are always reciting them.

Perhaps I appreciate poetry more than I care to admit.

In writing this and taking a deep dive into the world of poems and what it is all about, I have come across some rather meaningful poetry.

Perhaps I might find one that encapsulated my life and ask for it to be read at my funeral.  At the very least, the attendees will be utterly surprised. 

Day 183

Poetry – or my thoughts on it

…

I have often wondered what the interest in poetry is because I have read those same poems that people wax lyrical about, and it just doesn’t have the same effect.

But…

Then I did some digging…

Poetry requires words written in lines for a specified number of lines about almost anything.

Two, three, four, five lines, and more.

Words that rhyme, words that do not, there are rules and types, and then there is not.

It encompasses anything and everything. It can read at a fast or slow pace, professing undying love or utter hatred, and can describe something familiarly or make the familiar sound like something else.

Objects become feelings, and feelings become objects.

Some poets are famous; there are poets we like and poets we hate.  Some poets are just there.  There are poets we should read and poets we shouldn’t, though why is anyone’s guess.

There are poets we know, not because we have read them but because they are in the collective consciousness, poets like Burns, W B Yeats, Walter Whitman, Shakespeare, and Emily Dickinson.

I even know them because people who are in the TV shows and movies are always reciting them.

Perhaps I appreciate poetry more than I care to admit.

In writing this and taking a deep dive into the world of poems and what it is all about, I have come across some rather meaningful poetry.

Perhaps I might find one that encapsulated my life and ask for it to be read at my funeral.  At the very least, the attendees will be utterly surprised. 

Day 182

He decided that, for once, he was going to ignore everything he knew about living a good life.

…

At what point do you decide that, having done everything that was asked of you, taken heed of all the advice, and achieved everything possible, your life isn’t a life but an empty shell where a living, vibrant human being should be?

Forty.

It was supposed to be that magical age where everything was supposed to come together. At least, that was what his mother had told him last night at the special dinner held in his honour.

Not just family like he had requested, but over 200 specially selected guests, friends and business connections of his parents, people he knew but didn’t know, people who were an important part of the business network.

And then there was that one comment, some guy he’d never seen before but was what his mother would call a radical, someone who didn’t conform.  Blue shirt and green tie.  Pale blue suit and tan shoes.  A fashion disaster.

He said, quite off-hand, “It’s time for you to go off the rails, forties mate.  Fast cars and younger women.”  He was with his wife, he was fiftyish, she was about twenty, it wasn’t a good look, and the expression on his mother’s face: priceless.

I shook his hand and moved on.

Forty.

Lying in bed the next morning, the first shard of light showing through the curtains, was it time to reassess where I was in the greater scheme of things? 

My hand-picked wife was up and out for her morning run on the specially landscaped path built throughout the extensive gardens that surrounded the manor house.

She had become a clone of my mother.  She was descended from royalty, my mother said, but I had my doubts.  A few too many drinks and her character changed completely, and under that ice queen exterior, there was a real person.

When I asked her about it, she simply denied it existed and then never drank again.

We had two perfect children.  Well, some would say they were perfect, I thought they needed to be allowed to be children, but who listened to me?

Forty.

Life begins at…

It felt like my life was over.  I wanted, I craved for a single moment when I was out of my depth, where I was frightened of the consequences of my actions, scared to make a decision because it was the right one, not one that would please my mother.

I sighed. 

That was never going to happen.

Eloise came back from her run, and it was the only time I saw her, if I saw her, a mess. I liked the mess, said so once, and she was horrified.

“You do realise that you look great.” I decided today I was going to act out of character.

“I’m sorry.  I thought you were asleep.”

“Well, I could be dreaming, and if I am, it’s one of the better ones.”

She smiled.  That was something else about her.  She rarely smiled. That is to say, smiled so that her whole face lit up.

In that moment, it did, and that girl I saw twenty years ago suddenly came back to life.  The one my mother had almost destroyed in her quest to make her a Marron clone.

“You should be up.”

“I don’t want to be up.  What I want is you, right here, right now.  The girl I first met twenty years ago, the girl before my mother turned her into a robot.”

“That girl is gone, Alec.”

“That girl is standing right in front of me.”

She suddenly looked confused.  It was an expression I’d not seen on her face for many years.

I got out of bed, a ridiculously large ocean of self-pity, and all of a sudden, I had no interest in wallowing in it and walked over to her.

The room was as large as a ballroom, and we could have performed a waltz in it.

She watched me warily until I stopped in front of her and took her hands in mine.  “My mother has completely taken her away.  You peer out every now and then, and it makes my heart miss a beat or two when it does.”

She blinked.  Her eyes had tears forming, and then after another blink, a tear escaped, and I watched it slowly run down the side of her face.

“I hate my life,” I said. “I hate everything to do with this place, my work, what it has done to both of us.  I want the girl you were, still are, hiding there behind an almost impenetrable facade.  Please give her back to me.”

I could see more confusion, and I think she thought this might be a test.  In the early days of our relationship, my mother had always been one to look out for signs that she was not doing enough.

In my mind, she was too good for the likes of this family, having seen what my mother had done to my older sister, the one we never mentioned or talked about, and Eloise was almost down that same path.

“I can’t.  You know why I can’t. “

At what point do you choose all of what we had against having a life?  The money, the luxury, the possessions, the power that came with it?  It could be intoxicating, but in truth, it was a curse.

“Is it the money?  Power? The notion that you can wear a hundred thousand dollar dress once and never again?  Or wear that million-dollar diamond necklace?  What do you think you have?”

“Everything I ever wanted.”

“Except freedom.”

She shrugged.  “There is always a price to pay.  It would be the same anywhere else.  With anyone else.  Life is simply a series of compromises.”

That was my mother speaking, right there.  The facade had reappeared, the stony look returning, the one I saw every morning down in the breakfast room.

I sighed, let her go, and kissed her on her forehead.

“Another day, another million dollars.  See you downstairs.  We’ve got that Anderson thing this morning.”

She gave me a last wary look.  “Are you alright?”

I was not surprised she thought I might be ill.  It had been a long time since the last time I acted out of character.

“Sure.  Must have something to do with turning forty.  I’m sure it’s just a guy thing.”

I don’t think she quite believed me.

Of course, had she been in my office the previous afternoon, just before I was about to go home and change for the big birthday bash my mother had organised for me, Alfred H Ribbentop, the Chief Executive lawyer, came to see me.

The last time I’d seen him was the day he read the family my father’s will, nearly six years ago, after he suffered a heart attack and died.

I wanted to believe my mother killed him.  I was still looking for proof.  Apparently, he left everything to her and just small annuities to his children, ensuring we remain her slaves.

That was the last thing my father had wanted for us.

Alfred came in and sat in the seat opposite my desk.  No one ever sat on that seat, no one except my father, and after he passed, my mother.

I didn’t tell him my mother would be very displeased if she found out.

“I have a letter from your father.”

“A miracle then, since he’s been dead neatly six years.”

“You know that the Lord works in mysterious ways.”  He pulled an envelope out of his top pocket and put it on the desk facing me.

It was my father’s handwriting.

“Is it real?”

“Did I forge it? No.  I was in the room when he wrote it because there was some stuff I had to organise.  Read it.”

I shrugged.  What harm could a message from to grave do?

Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper.

“Alec…

“A man is no good until he turns 40.  I know, that’s how long it took me to realise I was a nincompoop.  You will have been kowtowing to your mother because she thinks she has all the power.  The truth is, I didn’t have the time to stop her.  But the devil is always in the details that she never asked about or was interested in.

“Well, today that ignorance is going to come back and bite her.  As of today, you have 51 per cent of the management company’s shares, which means you are now in total control of what happens.  I figured about five years under her thumb would be long enough.

“And you, of all the children, would have been smart enough to plan for something like this.  After all, Alfred would have dropped his mysterious hints as he always did with me.

“So, run away with Eloise and take the time to enjoy your life because I didn’t and look what happened to me.”

“Dad.”

I looked over at Alfred, a man who rarely smiled.  If it were humanly possible, I would have said he looked amused.

“Is this true?”

“Eldest living son, at age 40.  Yes.”

“Does Mother know?”

“Yes.  She had her legal people go over every line and tried to break it, and tried to set up a new entity and turn your inheritances into a worthless shell.  Your father was three steps ahead of her, even from the grave.  She was 100 shares short of doing anything that meddled with the corporate structure.  And the beauty of it, no one knew who the anonymous shareholder was, but their proxy always sided with you and your eldest sister’s shares, which were the controlling interest.  Your mother alienating her was the biggest mistake of her life.”

“And the mysterious shareholder?”

“It doesn’t matter.  You have the controlling interest, so use it wisely.  You don’t have to be here. You can proxy someone of your choice to do as you wish.  I will ask you to be sensible, as I know you will.  Your mother may have been somewhat misguided when it came to people, but she can run the company.  She just needs the voice of reason in her ear, just as it was when your father was alive.”

He stood.  “Use this information as you wish, but I always find springing subtle surprises are always more fun than just blurting it out.”

With that, he was gone.

I had a lot to think about.

Breakfast, unless we were away from home, was mandatory. 

Mother insisted we all be in attendance so she could make sure we were ready and on point for the day to come.

It’s why I liked being away.  She could not intimidate us, not directly.

We lived at home along with my two younger brothers.  My sister had long escaped the lunatic asylum, as she called it, and I only got to see her when visiting the other side of the country.

I was usually down first, my brother John second, sometimes Eloise, then my other brother Walter and rarely his wife, who wanted to escape but didn’t have the courage to leave.

This morning, when I entered the room, everyone bar Eloise was there, and Mother was presiding like the hanging judge.

When I stepped into the room, all eyes shifted to me. 

“Why aren’t you dressed?” Mothers’ tone was one not to be reckoned with.

I leaned against the doorjamb and crossed my arms.
I’d been reading up on body language, and this meant something like being obstinate.

“I’ve decided to take the day off.  The thing is, I don’t remember the last time I did.”

The other three looked at each other and then stood.  Each said they had somewhere else to be, and mother did not stop them from leaving the room.  Perhaps she knew what was coming.

When we were alone, she said, “What’s this about?”

“I think you know.”

“Alfred.”

“I wouldn’t bother worrying about who or what or when.  It doesn’t matter.  I was always going to be standing here, right at this moment in time, saying what I may or may not say.”

“You think…”

“I don’t care.  You see, you think whatever you say or do will right the ship, your ship, but you can’t.  Your words might have some impact if I did care, but sadly, I don’t.  I did what you asked, and Eloise did as she was asked.  And not once did you acknowledge it.”

“You weren’t raised to be a sob story.”

“I’m sure you weren’t raised to be a tyrannical bitch, but here we are.”

She slowly got out of her chair and took the stance that indicated a pitched battle was about to ensue.  It was meant to intimidate.  Two days ago, it might have.

She put on her ice queen face.  I’d once compared my mother to Bodecia in her war chariot, going into battle.  She thought it amusing.

“Go back upstairs, change, and be down here ready to go in 30 minutes.  We have work to do.  We’ll talk about this, whatever this is, later.”

Two days ago, that bollocking would have been enough.  Today, it was laughable.

I heard movement behind me, and it had to be Eloise.  A moment later, she was behind me, the trademark perfume just reaching out.  She must have heard my mother’s raised voice.  It got louder

I felt her hand on my shoulder.

“There’s nothing to talk about.  Richards is outside the front door waiting for you.  I expect you to handle the meetings today and tomorrow as the Chief Executive.  I spoke to Larry yesterday, and he’s on board with the changes.”

I could see the red tinges in her cheeks, not the rouge but rage.

“This is ridiculous.”

“This is how it will be.  Or you can retire, and I will get someone else to do it.  There will be no discussion.  What will it be?”

“This isn’t over.”

“No, it isn’t.  You have to sign a new contract.  As soon as you arrive at the office.  Otherwise, I will consider your refusal as your resignation.  I would like you to stay on exactly as you are.  You simply have a lesser amount of voting shares.  Talk to Alfred.  He’s got all the details.”

She shook her head and crossed the room.  She stopped when she saw Eloise behind me, and I could feel her shrink back.

I could see the hostility on my mother’s face.

“There are many things I could say, but sadly, it would be like water off a duck’s back.  But I will say this.  Once.  If you think this is defiance brought on by what Alfred told me yesterday, you’re wrong.  I woke up yesterday morning and simply decided I’d had enough.  I was planning to leave this morning, with or without Eloise, and never come back.  Yesterday, I hated you, this place, the company, perhaps even the entire world.  Today, a lot of that hasn’t changed.  I know I wanted my Eloise of old, and I know she’s been very disappointed in me for not defending her right to be herself and that changes now.  You will treat her with respect, or you will have me to deal with, and if you think you can be scary, just remember I learned scary from the very best.  Now, save the bluster, the anger, and all that nonsense you go on about, and go.”

She took a deep breath as if mentally counting to ten, or working on a perfect retort, and i braced myself for the incoming missiles.

“Very good.  Do you want to know when the papers are signed?”

“A brief text will suffice.”

“Agreed.  Good morning.”

Lambert, her personal assistant, was hovering just beyond the door, an incredulous expression on her face.  I guess it was going to be almost permanent.

I turned, reached out and took Eloise’s hand in mine.  “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Not being the man you expected me to be.”

“Perhaps i should apologise too.”

“No.  You were everything I expected and more.”

“OK.  Do we have to stay here?  I want my own place.”

“A mansion?”

“God no.  Just a small cosy house, big enough for the four of us. I think the kids should be taken out of that horrid school and go to a local high school.  I have been looking, you know.”

“I do.  And to that end, after breakfast, we’ll be taking a drive to collect David and Elizabeth from that horrid school, and then, house hunting.”

“Like real people?”

“Like real people.  Just remember not to wear a fifty-thousand-dollar dress.  We don’t want the realtor to think we have a lot of money.”

Well, we were probably going to have to work on that aspect.  Getting unused to being rich was going to be a lot harder than the alternative.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 182

He decided that, for once, he was going to ignore everything he knew about living a good life.

…

At what point do you decide that, having done everything that was asked of you, taken heed of all the advice, and achieved everything possible, your life isn’t a life but an empty shell where a living, vibrant human being should be?

Forty.

It was supposed to be that magical age where everything was supposed to come together. At least, that was what his mother had told him last night at the special dinner held in his honour.

Not just family like he had requested, but over 200 specially selected guests, friends and business connections of his parents, people he knew but didn’t know, people who were an important part of the business network.

And then there was that one comment, some guy he’d never seen before but was what his mother would call a radical, someone who didn’t conform.  Blue shirt and green tie.  Pale blue suit and tan shoes.  A fashion disaster.

He said, quite off-hand, “It’s time for you to go off the rails, forties mate.  Fast cars and younger women.”  He was with his wife, he was fiftyish, she was about twenty, it wasn’t a good look, and the expression on his mother’s face: priceless.

I shook his hand and moved on.

Forty.

Lying in bed the next morning, the first shard of light showing through the curtains, was it time to reassess where I was in the greater scheme of things? 

My hand-picked wife was up and out for her morning run on the specially landscaped path built throughout the extensive gardens that surrounded the manor house.

She had become a clone of my mother.  She was descended from royalty, my mother said, but I had my doubts.  A few too many drinks and her character changed completely, and under that ice queen exterior, there was a real person.

When I asked her about it, she simply denied it existed and then never drank again.

We had two perfect children.  Well, some would say they were perfect, I thought they needed to be allowed to be children, but who listened to me?

Forty.

Life begins at…

It felt like my life was over.  I wanted, I craved for a single moment when I was out of my depth, where I was frightened of the consequences of my actions, scared to make a decision because it was the right one, not one that would please my mother.

I sighed. 

That was never going to happen.

Eloise came back from her run, and it was the only time I saw her, if I saw her, a mess. I liked the mess, said so once, and she was horrified.

“You do realise that you look great.” I decided today I was going to act out of character.

“I’m sorry.  I thought you were asleep.”

“Well, I could be dreaming, and if I am, it’s one of the better ones.”

She smiled.  That was something else about her.  She rarely smiled. That is to say, smiled so that her whole face lit up.

In that moment, it did, and that girl I saw twenty years ago suddenly came back to life.  The one my mother had almost destroyed in her quest to make her a Marron clone.

“You should be up.”

“I don’t want to be up.  What I want is you, right here, right now.  The girl I first met twenty years ago, the girl before my mother turned her into a robot.”

“That girl is gone, Alec.”

“That girl is standing right in front of me.”

She suddenly looked confused.  It was an expression I’d not seen on her face for many years.

I got out of bed, a ridiculously large ocean of self-pity, and all of a sudden, I had no interest in wallowing in it and walked over to her.

The room was as large as a ballroom, and we could have performed a waltz in it.

She watched me warily until I stopped in front of her and took her hands in mine.  “My mother has completely taken her away.  You peer out every now and then, and it makes my heart miss a beat or two when it does.”

She blinked.  Her eyes had tears forming, and then after another blink, a tear escaped, and I watched it slowly run down the side of her face.

“I hate my life,” I said. “I hate everything to do with this place, my work, what it has done to both of us.  I want the girl you were, still are, hiding there behind an almost impenetrable facade.  Please give her back to me.”

I could see more confusion, and I think she thought this might be a test.  In the early days of our relationship, my mother had always been one to look out for signs that she was not doing enough.

In my mind, she was too good for the likes of this family, having seen what my mother had done to my older sister, the one we never mentioned or talked about, and Eloise was almost down that same path.

“I can’t.  You know why I can’t. “

At what point do you choose all of what we had against having a life?  The money, the luxury, the possessions, the power that came with it?  It could be intoxicating, but in truth, it was a curse.

“Is it the money?  Power? The notion that you can wear a hundred thousand dollar dress once and never again?  Or wear that million-dollar diamond necklace?  What do you think you have?”

“Everything I ever wanted.”

“Except freedom.”

She shrugged.  “There is always a price to pay.  It would be the same anywhere else.  With anyone else.  Life is simply a series of compromises.”

That was my mother speaking, right there.  The facade had reappeared, the stony look returning, the one I saw every morning down in the breakfast room.

I sighed, let her go, and kissed her on her forehead.

“Another day, another million dollars.  See you downstairs.  We’ve got that Anderson thing this morning.”

She gave me a last wary look.  “Are you alright?”

I was not surprised she thought I might be ill.  It had been a long time since the last time I acted out of character.

“Sure.  Must have something to do with turning forty.  I’m sure it’s just a guy thing.”

I don’t think she quite believed me.

Of course, had she been in my office the previous afternoon, just before I was about to go home and change for the big birthday bash my mother had organised for me, Alfred H Ribbentop, the Chief Executive lawyer, came to see me.

The last time I’d seen him was the day he read the family my father’s will, nearly six years ago, after he suffered a heart attack and died.

I wanted to believe my mother killed him.  I was still looking for proof.  Apparently, he left everything to her and just small annuities to his children, ensuring we remain her slaves.

That was the last thing my father had wanted for us.

Alfred came in and sat in the seat opposite my desk.  No one ever sat on that seat, no one except my father, and after he passed, my mother.

I didn’t tell him my mother would be very displeased if she found out.

“I have a letter from your father.”

“A miracle then, since he’s been dead neatly six years.”

“You know that the Lord works in mysterious ways.”  He pulled an envelope out of his top pocket and put it on the desk facing me.

It was my father’s handwriting.

“Is it real?”

“Did I forge it? No.  I was in the room when he wrote it because there was some stuff I had to organise.  Read it.”

I shrugged.  What harm could a message from to grave do?

Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper.

“Alec…

“A man is no good until he turns 40.  I know, that’s how long it took me to realise I was a nincompoop.  You will have been kowtowing to your mother because she thinks she has all the power.  The truth is, I didn’t have the time to stop her.  But the devil is always in the details that she never asked about or was interested in.

“Well, today that ignorance is going to come back and bite her.  As of today, you have 51 per cent of the management company’s shares, which means you are now in total control of what happens.  I figured about five years under her thumb would be long enough.

“And you, of all the children, would have been smart enough to plan for something like this.  After all, Alfred would have dropped his mysterious hints as he always did with me.

“So, run away with Eloise and take the time to enjoy your life because I didn’t and look what happened to me.”

“Dad.”

I looked over at Alfred, a man who rarely smiled.  If it were humanly possible, I would have said he looked amused.

“Is this true?”

“Eldest living son, at age 40.  Yes.”

“Does Mother know?”

“Yes.  She had her legal people go over every line and tried to break it, and tried to set up a new entity and turn your inheritances into a worthless shell.  Your father was three steps ahead of her, even from the grave.  She was 100 shares short of doing anything that meddled with the corporate structure.  And the beauty of it, no one knew who the anonymous shareholder was, but their proxy always sided with you and your eldest sister’s shares, which were the controlling interest.  Your mother alienating her was the biggest mistake of her life.”

“And the mysterious shareholder?”

“It doesn’t matter.  You have the controlling interest, so use it wisely.  You don’t have to be here. You can proxy someone of your choice to do as you wish.  I will ask you to be sensible, as I know you will.  Your mother may have been somewhat misguided when it came to people, but she can run the company.  She just needs the voice of reason in her ear, just as it was when your father was alive.”

He stood.  “Use this information as you wish, but I always find springing subtle surprises are always more fun than just blurting it out.”

With that, he was gone.

I had a lot to think about.

Breakfast, unless we were away from home, was mandatory. 

Mother insisted we all be in attendance so she could make sure we were ready and on point for the day to come.

It’s why I liked being away.  She could not intimidate us, not directly.

We lived at home along with my two younger brothers.  My sister had long escaped the lunatic asylum, as she called it, and I only got to see her when visiting the other side of the country.

I was usually down first, my brother John second, sometimes Eloise, then my other brother Walter and rarely his wife, who wanted to escape but didn’t have the courage to leave.

This morning, when I entered the room, everyone bar Eloise was there, and Mother was presiding like the hanging judge.

When I stepped into the room, all eyes shifted to me. 

“Why aren’t you dressed?” Mothers’ tone was one not to be reckoned with.

I leaned against the doorjamb and crossed my arms.
I’d been reading up on body language, and this meant something like being obstinate.

“I’ve decided to take the day off.  The thing is, I don’t remember the last time I did.”

The other three looked at each other and then stood.  Each said they had somewhere else to be, and mother did not stop them from leaving the room.  Perhaps she knew what was coming.

When we were alone, she said, “What’s this about?”

“I think you know.”

“Alfred.”

“I wouldn’t bother worrying about who or what or when.  It doesn’t matter.  I was always going to be standing here, right at this moment in time, saying what I may or may not say.”

“You think…”

“I don’t care.  You see, you think whatever you say or do will right the ship, your ship, but you can’t.  Your words might have some impact if I did care, but sadly, I don’t.  I did what you asked, and Eloise did as she was asked.  And not once did you acknowledge it.”

“You weren’t raised to be a sob story.”

“I’m sure you weren’t raised to be a tyrannical bitch, but here we are.”

She slowly got out of her chair and took the stance that indicated a pitched battle was about to ensue.  It was meant to intimidate.  Two days ago, it might have.

She put on her ice queen face.  I’d once compared my mother to Bodecia in her war chariot, going into battle.  She thought it amusing.

“Go back upstairs, change, and be down here ready to go in 30 minutes.  We have work to do.  We’ll talk about this, whatever this is, later.”

Two days ago, that bollocking would have been enough.  Today, it was laughable.

I heard movement behind me, and it had to be Eloise.  A moment later, she was behind me, the trademark perfume just reaching out.  She must have heard my mother’s raised voice.  It got louder

I felt her hand on my shoulder.

“There’s nothing to talk about.  Richards is outside the front door waiting for you.  I expect you to handle the meetings today and tomorrow as the Chief Executive.  I spoke to Larry yesterday, and he’s on board with the changes.”

I could see the red tinges in her cheeks, not the rouge but rage.

“This is ridiculous.”

“This is how it will be.  Or you can retire, and I will get someone else to do it.  There will be no discussion.  What will it be?”

“This isn’t over.”

“No, it isn’t.  You have to sign a new contract.  As soon as you arrive at the office.  Otherwise, I will consider your refusal as your resignation.  I would like you to stay on exactly as you are.  You simply have a lesser amount of voting shares.  Talk to Alfred.  He’s got all the details.”

She shook her head and crossed the room.  She stopped when she saw Eloise behind me, and I could feel her shrink back.

I could see the hostility on my mother’s face.

“There are many things I could say, but sadly, it would be like water off a duck’s back.  But I will say this.  Once.  If you think this is defiance brought on by what Alfred told me yesterday, you’re wrong.  I woke up yesterday morning and simply decided I’d had enough.  I was planning to leave this morning, with or without Eloise, and never come back.  Yesterday, I hated you, this place, the company, perhaps even the entire world.  Today, a lot of that hasn’t changed.  I know I wanted my Eloise of old, and I know she’s been very disappointed in me for not defending her right to be herself and that changes now.  You will treat her with respect, or you will have me to deal with, and if you think you can be scary, just remember I learned scary from the very best.  Now, save the bluster, the anger, and all that nonsense you go on about, and go.”

She took a deep breath as if mentally counting to ten, or working on a perfect retort, and i braced myself for the incoming missiles.

“Very good.  Do you want to know when the papers are signed?”

“A brief text will suffice.”

“Agreed.  Good morning.”

Lambert, her personal assistant, was hovering just beyond the door, an incredulous expression on her face.  I guess it was going to be almost permanent.

I turned, reached out and took Eloise’s hand in mine.  “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Not being the man you expected me to be.”

“Perhaps i should apologise too.”

“No.  You were everything I expected and more.”

“OK.  Do we have to stay here?  I want my own place.”

“A mansion?”

“God no.  Just a small cosy house, big enough for the four of us. I think the kids should be taken out of that horrid school and go to a local high school.  I have been looking, you know.”

“I do.  And to that end, after breakfast, we’ll be taking a drive to collect David and Elizabeth from that horrid school, and then, house hunting.”

“Like real people?”

“Like real people.  Just remember not to wear a fifty-thousand-dollar dress.  We don’t want the realtor to think we have a lot of money.”

Well, we were probably going to have to work on that aspect.  Getting unused to being rich was going to be a lot harder than the alternative.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 181

You should write, first of all, to please yourself. OK. Then, writing can’t be a way of life; the important part of writing is living. OK. And lastly, you have to live in such a way that your writing emerges from it.

Wow!

How do you make sense of that?

…

Perhaps somebody else has worked out what this conundrum means.

I’ve been trawling the endless collection of Twitter descriptions provided by my fellow writers, noting that there used to be a restriction of 140 characters.

How do you sum yourself and/or your life in 140 characters, or even 280?

I started out with a few catchphrases, something that would draw followers. I’m thinking the word ‘aspiring’ will be my catchphrase. But how will my writing encapsulate that? It needs a little qualification or substance.

I’m aspiring to be a writer, or is that author?  Is there a difference? Is there a guide to what I can call myself?

My life, quite simply put, but in more than 140 characters, is married happily, two wonderful children, three amazing grandchildren, and a wealth of experience acquired over the years in parenting and surviving in a world that isn’t easy to live in.

To be honest, I don’t think anyone would be interested in any story based on those precepts. Actually, that sounds rather boring, doesn’t it?

Maybe it would be better if I were a retired policeman, or a retired lawyer, or a retired sheriff, or a retired private investigator, or a retired doctor, someone who had an occupation that was a rich mine of information from which to draw upon.

Retired computer programmers, supermarket shelf stackers, night cleaners, accounts clerks and general dogsbodies don’t quite cut the mustard. Should we try to embellish our personal history to make it more appealing?

It’s much the same as writing about daily life.  No one wants to read about it; people want to be taken out of the humdrum of normalcy and be taken into a world where they can become the character in the book.

And there you have it, in a nutshell, why I write.

I want to escape the mundanity of everyday life and become something, someone else, and, with a little luck, you, the reader, will come along for the roller coaster ride with me.

Or come out of retirement, join a secret intelligence agency and go and save the world.

Then write about it.

Then I’ll be living in such a way that my writing will emerge from it.

Yet…

Death and mayhem sound so much better in my head than in reality.

Day 181

You should write, first of all, to please yourself. OK. Then, writing can’t be a way of life; the important part of writing is living. OK. And lastly, You have to live in such a way that your writing emerges from it.

Wow!

How do you make sense of that?

…

Perhaps someopne else has worked out what this conumdrm means.

I’ve been trawling the endless collection of twitter descriptions provided by my fellow writers, noting that there used to be a restriction of 140 characters.

How do you sum yourself and/or your life in 140 characters, or even 280?

I started out with a few catchphrases, something that will draw followers. I’m thinking the word ‘aspiring’ will be my catchphrase. But how will my writing encapsulate that? It needs a little qualification or substance.

I’m aspiring to be a writer, or is that author?  Is there a difference? Is there a guide to what I can call myself?

My life, quite simply put, but in more than 140 characters, is married happily, two wonderful children, three amazing grandchildren, and a wealth of experience acquired over the years in parenting and surviving in a world that isn’t easy to live in.

To be honest, I don’t think anyone would be interested in any story based on those precepts. Actually, that sounds rather boring, doesn’t it?

Maybe it would be better if I were a retired policeman, or a retired lawyer, or a retired sheriff, or a retired private investigator, or a retired doctor, someone who had an occupation that was a rich mine of information from which to draw upon.

Retired computer programmers, supermarket shelf stackers, night cleaners, accounts clerks and general dogsbodies don’t quite cut the mustard. Should we try to embellish our personal history to make it more appealing?

It’s much the same as writing about daily life.  No one wants to read about it; people want to be taken out of the humdrum of normalcy and be taken into a world where they can become the character in the book.

And there you have it, in a nutshell, why I write.

I want to escape the mundanity of everyday life and become something, someone else, and, with a little luck, you, the reader, will come along for the roller coaster ride with me.

Or come out of retirement, join a secret intelligence agency and go and save the world.

Then write about it.

Then I’ll be living in such a way that my writing will emerge from it.

Yet…

Death and mayhem sound so much better in my head than in reality.

Days 179 and 180

Writing Exercise – Change the plot using these words: dormant, stoop, and maelstrom

…

Secrets, by their very nature, are pieces of information that are destined to come out, eventually.

I was told right from day one that no one, no matter who they were, or how many Bibles they swore an oath on, would always give that secret up. And when they least likely expected it.

Mt family dealt in secrets. Our own. Secrets were sworn from the day we were able to understand what giving your word meant, that we would never tell anyone ever what we knew.

Secrets that were passed down from generation to generation, since time immemorial. And those secrets could only change hands if there was no successor to the family.

There were four such families, in different parts of the world, who only knew their quarter of the puzzle. None was known to the other, and wouldn’t unless a certain event happened.

Until then, it lay dormant within the minds of the keepers. All they knew when the time came, they would receive instructions.

…

The day I turned thirty, I began having dreams.

Well, dreams might not be the right word, but over time, a little more would be revealed.

I was in a schoolroom, or what looked like a schoolroom, with a dozen other boys of the same age, and for some weird reason. looked like me. Every day, we had to write down a sentence. Some were long, some were short, none made any sense. They were in a language that I didn’t understand.

The day I turned forty, the dreams stopped, and I went about my life as if nothing had happened.

The thing is, I had other secrets I was supposed to keep, secrets that went with my job, national secrets that other people, if they knew I held them, would try to extract them. It was coincidental that I finished up in a position that required such knowledge.

And the part of the whole situation which was ironic, if it could be said it was anything. Someone else had a secret that pointed to me holding a secret, which wasn’t the secret that mattered. Except if it fell into the hands of the wrong people.

Confused?

Not for long. Like I said, secrets by their very nature are pieces of information that are destined to come out, eventually. It just took the right person to unlock it.

Jack Moreno was a tough kid, and then an even tougher grown-up. All he ever wanted to be was an agent who had some small part in saving the world. I had known Jack from grade school, and we came from the same neighbourhood. We both did Military training at school, a stint in the National Guard, a few tours in the Army with foreign deployment, and when we returned, he stayed on, and I went into the intelligence branch and drove a desk.

I’d seen enough death and mayhem as a soldier; I didn’t want to see more as an agent of some ultra-secret squad who undertook black ops wherever and whenever it was required. We crossed paths from time to time, when he was on deployment, and I was on holiday, but the last time had been three years, and I had heard he’d died, but it was never confirmed, and I’d thought no more of it.

Then, while I was having a coffee and watching the Trevi fountain, or more to the point, the bustling crowds trying to catch a glimpse of it, I thought I saw him, or someone who looked like him. I shrugged, maybe not, and went back to watching people casting a coin and making a wish. I made a wish earlier, one I knew would never come true.

That’s when the brash American and what looked like his girlfriend strolled past, he happened to look in my direction, and he seemed to recognise me. Not that recognising me made any difference, it was just that I preferred anonymity.

But, in the seconds that followed, something else happened. The girl he was with looked at me and our eyes met, and in that moment, I had a vision of her and me very close together, under a stoop, watching the total and instant destruction of everything in front of us.

And then it was gone.

“As I live and breathe, Rex Barnard. Amy, this is Rex, my oldest friend.”

I shook my head and opened my eyes. Jack Moreno. The man who was supposed to be dead.

“You seem well for…”

“… a man going through a new lease of life, of course. I call it the Amy effect.”

Clearly, he didn’t want any mention of the fact that he was supposed to be dead, which I gathered equally as quickly as he was on a black op. Good thing, then, I didn’t use his name.

She smiled. “You give me credit where none is due Rich.” The look she gave me was one of momentary surprise, then it just disappeared.

I wondered briefly if she knew who I was, and then dismissed the thought.

“Care for a coffee?”

“We would, but we have to be somewhere, you know, the life of a celebrity is never his own. We’ll catch up, you’ve got my number?”

“Of course. Great to see you, Rich.”

“You too.” He waved, and they disappeared into the crowd.

He could have just wandered past and ignored me, but he didn’t. That charade was for a reason. Long enough head start, I got out of the chair and went in the same direction.

…

The day was hot, the typical midsummer day in Rome, where the temperature was high and the breeze non-existent. I had toured the ruins near the Colosseum the day before, and I had nearly melted. How the Romans, thousands of years ago, handled the heat was anyone’s guess, but then there were buildings, not ruins, and they were probably cool. I know I sought relief inside the Colosseum, where it was shady.

I’d almost made it to the Spanish Steps before I saw them again. Anyone would have mistaken them for a couple on their honeymoon. Until one minute they were together, and the next, both had disappeared. It was not possible because I was staring straight at them.

I moved forward slowly, trying to reacquire the targets, without success.

Suddenly, I felt a shiver go through me, then a voice in my ear, speaking in a language I had only heard in my dreams, “You are one, are you not?”

The girl was behind me, leaning against the wall. Rex was nowhere to be seen.

“He is not here. He does not know.”

She was not speaking; she was communicating without talking.

“I understand the language, if that means anything.”

“You were called here.”

That might have been true. I woke up three days ago, and Rome was in my mind, and the idea of going there was so strong that I went to the airport and got on a plane. “Yes.”

“Then it is going to happen. The other two will be here, somewhere.”

“The other two?”

“We are four. Direct descendants of the Roman Gods. Why, I don’t know, but I think we’ll find out soon enough.”

It didn’t surprise me that there were more. Nor did it surprise me that I knew my way around the Roman ruins, or that I’d been drawn to them.

“An attack, from the sky.”

“You saw it too?”

“Did you recognise where?”

“I think it was the ruins near the Colosseum. I was there two days ago and had some very vivid images in my head.”

“Then that’s where we need to be.”

…

Perhaps one of my foibles that others didn’t understand was my obsession with flying saucers, in fact, the whole concept of there being aliens in outer space. It was not as if it was something i picked up reading comic books, or watched all the documentaries that purported to say there was evidence of visits over the centuries.

After all, we had to come from somewhere, and I wasn’t buying the idea we came from the apes. Or that the evolution of man back when the unexplainable buildings and technology were built, and we still couldn’t replicate it.

The only answer I could attribute it to was the fact that aliens from outer space, people who had evolved much further than we had, even now, had come and left behind the beginnings of humankind, only to be struck down by weather events and asteroids, causing life extinction, and the remains of wonderous ruins hinting at how more clever they were than us.

Or other aliens came and killed off those on the planet, and seeded it with their version of humans. It was not a theory I told anyone else, nor of my obsession, I tried that once and nearly got locked up in an asylum.

It took time to get to the Colosseum, time to have a conversation, which was odd since we were not communicating in the normal manner, all while having short spasms of shivering, which i think we finally agreed was a warning.

For what?

From a day that started without a cloud in the sky, by the time we arrived at the Colosseum, there was no blue sky to be seen, but it was no cooler; if anything, it was hotter.

Then, suddenly, the clouds started swirling, and a very strange sound came from the sky.

Two more voices were in my head, and I looked sideways to see another man and a girl. Four of us. There were no introductions; we just joined hands.

“What now?” we all said in unison.

“Each of you has an incantation. Say it now.” It was another voice, not one of us.

As we did, out of the maelstrom above us were the first signs of a very large spacecraft, slowly hovering. It was slowly moving over us as we spoke the lines we had taken ten years to learn, and when we’d finished, all at the same time, a huge bolt of something emanated from the ground near us and went straight up to the craft and sent crazy lightning strikes through it.

This lasted for a few minutes, and suddenly, as quickly as the craft came, it left, taking the clouds with it.

After that, I remembered nothing until I woke, sitting in the chair back at the Trevi fountain, everything as it had been before I had seen Rex and Amy.

In fact, I was not sure what had happened, only that I had got up to follow them, and it was obvious I hadn’t. Perhaps it was just my imagination.

I heard the scraping of a chair and looked sideways. A woman my age, obviously American sat down. “This chair is free, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Thanks. I need it. Just tossed a coin in and made a wish. It came true, I was wishing for a free seat to rest my weary bones. Janice Walker, weary visitor.” She held out her hand.

I shook it, and got a tingle, along with an image. Amy. Then it was gone.

“I think we are going to be very good friends,” she said. “One of those feelings. You have those, too?”

“I think I do. Now.”

“Good. Now, what’s the coffee like here?”

…

© Charles Heath  2025