Tag: Fiction

Writing a book in 365 days – 343

Day 343 – Writing Exercise

“What city is this?” he wondered out loud, looking down from a strange balcony to an unfamiliar street.

…

That might not have been the first thought that went through my mind that morning, but it had finally confirmed that I might very well be losing my mind.

What started this…

I woke.  It wasn’t any different to what had happened every morning for I believed was the last forty two years of my life.

This morning…

Not so much.  It was a room, it had two doors, and four walls, a cabinet, a TV, a painting and a window covered by heavy curtains.

OK, it was not my bedroom.

But it could be a hotel room, and since I travelled a lot, probably a hotel room in another city where we had an office.

I had been travelling a lot in recent months.

It was dark-ish, perhaps day from the light seeping in through the gaps in the curtains. 

There was an unfamiliar aroma, like the room was damp, or old, and certainly not the sort of place I usually stayed.

Then, suddenly there was a groan, and movement beside me.

I was not travelling with anyone, I do not go to bars and pick up women, I didn’t currently have a girlfriend, so who was that groaning.

I moved and felt a stabbing pain in my head.  A hangover?  Impossible.  I through off the covers and moved sideways, then looked back.

A woman, dressed thankfully, stretched out facing the other way.  I took a moment to discover I was in my forthcoming, which didn’t make sense.

Who was she?

Where did she come from?

Where the hell was I?

I went over to the window and opened the curtains, and the pain in my head was worse.  Morning light in unadjusted eyeballs hurts.

I squinted and blinked several times until I could make out shapes.  There was another door, out onto the balcony.  I stepped out and shivered.  It was freezing cold.

I looked down.  And uan nfamiliar street, an unfamiliar city.  I had no idea where I was.

“You do not have to jump, I am not that ugly,” a voice, female, accented, came from within the room.

I stepped back inside and closed the door, leaning against it.  The woman was propped up on one hand, looking at me.

She was younger than she sounded, with unruly blonde hair, not her real colour, and an exquisite face and whimsical expressions.

I had never seen her before.

“Who are you?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t even know where I am.”

“Bratislava.”

“Impossible.  I don’t even remember leaving Chicago.”

It was the last thing I remembered.  Telling my supervisor that I needed a break, and basically resigning when she refused, I packed my stuff in a box and left, handing my key card and employee ID in at the door.

So I’d finally quit.

That much I remember.  I also remembered going home and having a few drinks, then going to bed.

“You arrived yesterday afternoon.  You came to the bar where I waited tables.  You related your miserable story, drank too much, I brought you here, you asked me to stay.”

Hard to believe anyone would trust an American.

“How do you know I’m not an axe murderer?”

She laughed.  “You are not an axe murderer.  You were kind and gentle, and let me finally get a good night’s sleep in a real bed.”

“You have no home?”

“I have a home with parents, grandparents, six brothers and sisters, with no room and less privacy.  We are poor.  I work hard, but not enough for a place of my own.

“So you stay with random men who turn up at your bar.”

She looked indignant.  “I am not that sort of girl.”

“You are here with me, what sort of does that make you?”

“A friend without benefits.”

I shook my head.  I was letting the details get in the way of the main issue.  How did I finish up in Bratislava, if it was Bratislava, when the last place I’d remember was Chicago?

“Come.”  She patted the bed.  “You look stressed, and I can also give a massage.”

She sighed when I didn’t move.

“It is Sunday.  I have a day off.  You asked me to take you on a tour.  We can sleep in a little.  Get breakfast from room service.  Come, relax.”

She lay back down and pulled the sheet up, then looked at me.  I could feel the cold seeping in from the window, so I shut the curtains, shrouding the room in semi-darkness.

If she were going to rob me, she would have done something already, the same if she were going to kill me.  She was here for some other reason, and I didn’t believe for a minute I had asked her back to my room, or she would have come.

I sat on the edge of the bed and tried desperately to remember anything about the last 24 hours.  There was nothing.  Just the altercation with the supervisor, leaving, and going home.

In Chicago.  Not Bratislava.

I felt the bed move as she came over to sit next to me.  She took my hand in hers.

“You are acting very strangely.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Robert from Chicago.  Man of leisure.  Now.”

OK.  Now was the time to start worrying.  My name wasn’t Robert.  Best keep that to myself.  All I could think of was that I hadn’t quit, I was on a new operation, and somewhere, somehow, I had lost my short-term memory.

And the woman next to me could be either an enemy or a contact.

But why had I told her my actual life story, or was it part of the legend?

“I’m confused, and someone like me, that’s impossible.”

“In my line of work, you get to realise everything is impossible.  Except every now and then, a ray of sunshine appears in the middle of a blizzard.  By the way, we’re expecting snow; more snow, and just when you think that the weather will change, more snow.  Best we stay in.”

I turned to look at her.  “Who are you?”

“You know who I am, but since you have trouble remembering, I am Irina, waitress extrordanaire, sometimes tour guide, sometimes bartender, not often with time off.”

“Who brought me here…”

“When I asked you where you were staying.”

“No comment from the reception clerk?”

“He is used to odd situations and people coming and going.  It is a three-star hotel.  Sometimes spies stay in such hotels.  Personally, I have never met one.  Are you a spy?”

What an odd question to ask.  Was it a spy?  No.  Not exactly.  I used to be a courier, delivering stuff for agents at dead drops, but an actual spy?  No.

“It’s an interesting thought.  A spy with no memory of why he’s here in a strange hotel in a city he does remember getting to, with…” I shook my head.  I had no idea who or what she was.

“Me,” she finished the sentence.  “Perhaps if you go back to sleep, when you wake up, everything will be clear.”

Maybe, maybe not.

“I’m just going outside to clear my head.  If you’re still here when I come back, then I’ll know at least one part of this dream is real.”

She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

“I’ve never been part of someone’s dream before.”

I’m not sure what I felt in that moment, but it wasn’t like anything I’d felt for a long time.

“Hold that thought.”

I stood and went over to the window and felt the cold.  I hadn’t shut the door.  I stepped out onto the balcony and looked out at the old architecture and the roadway below.

After a minute or two, a gust of wind stirred up the snow on the railing and made me shiver.  From within the room, I heard the door slam shut, one of those doors designed not to stay open.

I went back inside, and she was gone.

No surprise there.  If I had been with someone like me, someone who couldn’t remember who they were and where they were, I’d get out fast, too.

I stood in the middle of the room and tried to make sense of my surroundings.  I’d given up trying to figure out how I got there.  Was there anything to identify me as this Robert?

A suitcase was on the rack for suitcases, open, and items were scattered neatly.  Clothes hanging in the closet.  A backpack is on the desk, but not open.  Wallet on bedside table, anda document folder.

I sat on the bed and opened the wallet.  Money, a credit card in the name of Robert Daniels.  Illinois driver’s licence in the same name.  A wad of money in several currencies.  A lot of US dollars.

Documents, a passport, looking authentic, not a hastily manufactured item that sometimes ended up in my possession, travel itinerary from Chicago to London to Vienna, then my own arrangements to Bratislava.  No return, but open, and a card with a cell number, Luxury Experiences.  No name.

I looked in the backpack and found a diary, no name, with a mixture of what looked like my writing and someone else’s.  Dates matched the itinerary.

Strange dates.  I remembered, now, that it had been the 5th when I left the office, the date of my sister’s birthday, and that I’d tried to call her, and the date on the itinerary for leaving Chicago was the 15th.

Ten whole days that had just disappeared.

As for today?  “Await instructions.  Keep your cell phone close.  Tour the city near the hotel, but be ready to move quickly if necessary.”

What the …?

The curtains blew inward from another gust, the cold circulating in the room.

I shivered, but this time it was not the cold.  My only memory at that time was having quit the service, and now it appeared I was at the start of a new mission.

After putting everything back where I found it, I went over to the window.  I looked out and saw that light snow was falling.

I went to close the door, then, on impulse, decided to step out and see if it was really snowing.  I was having trouble separating imagination from reality.  Another gust was accompanied by the sound of the door, then …

“Robert…”

I heard her voice and moved slightly just as something smashed into the bricks just behind where I had been standing.

A split second later, it registered, and I dropped to the floor just as another crashing sound came from where I’d just been standing.

Bullets, two, then a third into the balcony.

A sniper. 

On another building opposite, looking down.  After the fourth bullet, it stopped.

“Don’t come out,” I yelled.

“What is….”

A bullet shattered the window above me.

“Call the police, and tell them to hurry.”

If she didn’t have the sense to run and never be seen again.  I wasn’t sure, but somewhere in the back of my mind was a thought that I had just reached my use-by date.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

“People have a way of surprising you…” – A short story

Last days were supposed to be joyous, the end of your working life and the start of the rest of your life.

I’d spent the last 35 years working for the company, navigating through three buyouts, five name changes, and three restructures. I was surprised I was still employed after the last, only two years before.

But, here I was, sitting in the divisional manager’s office, my office for one more day, with my successor, Jerry, and best friend, sitting on the other side.

“Last day, what are you thinking?” He asked casually.

It might have been early, but we both had a glass of scotch, a single malt I’d kept aside for an important occasion and this seemed like one.

I picked up the glass and surveyed the contents, giving myself a few moments to consider an answer to what could be a difficult question. To be honest, the thinking had started on the subway on the way in, when I should have been working on the crossword, but instead, I was lamenting the fact that the next chapter of my life would be without Ellen.

We would have been married, coincidently, 43 years ago today, had she been alive. Unfortunately, she had died suddenly about four months ago, after a long battle with cancer.

And I still hadn’t had time to process it. Truth is, it had been work that kept me together, and I was worried about what was going to happen when it would no longer there.

To a certain extent, I was still on autopilot, her death coming in the middle of a major disaster concerning the company, one that had finally, and successfully, been brought to a conclusion with favorable results for everyone.

But what was I thinking right then, at that precise moment in time? Not something he would want to hear, so I made the necessary adjustment. “That I’m basically leaving you a clean slate, so don’t screw it up.”

I could see that was not what he wanted to hear.

He decided to take a different tack. “What have you got planned for the first day of retirement.”

He knew about Ellen and had been there for me, above and beyond what could have been expected from anyone. I owed him more than a platitude.

“Sleep in, probably, but I’m going to be fighting that body clock. It’s going to be difficult after so many years getting up the same time, rail hail or shine. But we had plans to go away for a few months, you know, the trip of a lifetime, then move. Ellen wanted to go back home for a while, now, I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”

“Then perhaps you should, or at the very least, go home for a while. You said you both come from there; who knows, being back among family might just be what you need.”

It was something I had been thinking about and had been issued an open-ended invitation from her parents to come and stay for as long as I wanted, one that I was seriously considering.

But, before I could tell him that, the phone rang.

Never a dull day…
The day went quickly, and as much as it was expected I’d hand over anything that happened to my successor, I couldn’t quite let go. There was the proverbial storm in a teacup, but it was a good opportunity to watch the man who was taking over in action. He had a great teacher, even if I said so myself.

But it was the end of the day and the moment I had been dreading. I’d asked the personnel manager not to make a big deal out of my departure, and that I didn’t want the usual sendoff, where everyone in the office came and I would find myself at a loss of words and feel like I had to speak to a lot of people I didn’t really know.

There were only about a dozen that I really knew, a dozen that had survived the layoffs and restructuring, and although there were others, I didn’t have anything to do with them. My last job took me out of the office more than being there, and so many of the other people were from offices scattered all up and down the east coast.

I’d mostly said my goodbyes to them on the last quarterly visit. Sixteen offices, fifty-odd employees who were as much friends as they were staff who worked for me. There had been small dinners and heartfelt moments.

This I was hoping would be the same.

Jerry had been charged with the responsibility of getting me to the presentation; they called it a presentation because I had no doubt there would be a presentation of some sort. I had told the CEO a handshake and a couple of drinks would suffice, and he just congenially nodded.

Jerry had taken the manager’s chair and I was sitting on the other side of the table. We’d finished off the last of the single malt, and dirt was time to go. I closed the door to the office for the last time, and we walked along the passage towards the dining room. It was a perk I’d fought hard to keep during the last restructure when the money men were trying to cut costs.

It was one of the few battles I won.

He opened the door and stood to one side, and ushered me through.

It was a very large space, usually filled with tables, chairs, and diners. Now it was filled with people, leaving a passageway from the door to a podium that had been set up in front of the servery, where a large curtain stretched across the width of the building with the company logo displayed on it.

There were 2,300 people who worked in this office and another 700 from the regional offices. By the look of the crowd, every single one of them was there.

It took fifteen minutes to get from the door to the podium. Faces of people I’d seen every day, faces I’d seen a few times a year, and faces I’d never seen before. On the podium there was a dozen more, faces I’d only seen in the Annual Accounts document, except for the General Manager and the CEO.

“You will be pleased to know everyone here wanted to come and bid you farewell,” the General Manager said.

“Everyone? Why?”

“Well, I’ve learned a lot about this company and its people over the last week, and frankly, people have a way of surprising you. And given the impact you have had on each and every one of them, I’m not surprised. So much so, they wanted to give you something to remember them by.”

A nod of the head and the curtains were pulled back, and behind them was an original 1968 XJ6 Jaguar, fully restored, a very familiar XJ6. The car had belonged to Helen and I had to sell it to help pay the medical bills. It had been a gut-wrenching experience, coming at a time when everything that was happened to her almost overwhelmed me.

“Jerry told us about this particular car, so all of your friends thought, as a fitting memory to you and of her, that we should find it and restore it. Everyone here contributed. It is our gift to you for everything you have done for us.”

So much for the usual sendoff…

—-

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Writing a book in 365 days – 342

Day 342

The Power of Language: Unleashing the Imagination

Anthony Burgess, the renowned English writer and critic, once said, “Language exists less to record the actual than to liberate the imagination.” These profound words highlight the dual nature of language, which not only serves as a tool for communication but also as a catalyst for creativity and imagination. In this blog post, we will delve into the concept of language as a liberator of the imagination, exploring its implications and significance in our daily lives.

The Limitations of Recording the Actual

Language is often seen as a means of recording and conveying information about the world around us. We use words to describe people, places, objects, and events, attempting to capture their essence and characteristics. However, as Burgess notes, language is not merely a passive recorder of reality. If it were, it would be limited to simply documenting facts and figures, without any room for interpretation, creativity, or innovation.

Liberating the Imagination

The true power of language lies in its ability to transcend the mundane and ordinary, to tap into our imagination and creativity. Through language, we can conjure up worlds, characters, and scenarios that are entirely fictional, yet eerily relatable. We can use words to evoke emotions, to paint vivid pictures, and to convey complex ideas and concepts. Language becomes a tool for self-expression, allowing us to channel our thoughts, feelings, and experiences into something tangible and meaningful.

The Role of Metaphor and Symbolism

One of the key ways in which language liberates the imagination is through the use of metaphor and symbolism. By comparing two seemingly unrelated things, we can create new meanings and associations, revealing hidden connections and patterns. Metaphors and symbols can transport us to new realms of understanding, enabling us to see the world from fresh perspectives. For example, when we describe a person as a “ray of sunshine,” we are not merely recording a fact, but rather using language to evoke a sense of warmth, happiness, and optimism.

The Importance of Imagination in Human Experience

Imagination is a fundamental aspect of the human experience, enabling us to dream, to innovate, and to create. It is through imagination that we can envision new possibilities, challenge existing norms, and push the boundaries of what is thought possible. Language, as a liberator of the imagination, plays a vital role in this process, providing us with the tools to express ourselves, to communicate our ideas, and to bring our visions to life.

Conclusion

Anthony Burgess’s statement reminds us that language is not just a utilitarian tool but a powerful catalyst for creativity and imagination. By recognising the dual nature of language, we can harness its potential to liberate our imagination, to express ourselves authentically, and to create new worlds, characters, and scenarios. As we continue to navigate the complexities of the human experience, we must prioritise the imagination, using language as a tool to inspire, innovate, and bring our most fantastical ideas to life. In doing so, we can unlock the full potential of language and unleash the imagination that lies within us all.

Writing a book in 365 days – 342

Day 342

The Power of Language: Unleashing the Imagination

Anthony Burgess, the renowned English writer and critic, once said, “Language exists less to record the actual than to liberate the imagination.” These profound words highlight the dual nature of language, which not only serves as a tool for communication but also as a catalyst for creativity and imagination. In this blog post, we will delve into the concept of language as a liberator of the imagination, exploring its implications and significance in our daily lives.

The Limitations of Recording the Actual

Language is often seen as a means of recording and conveying information about the world around us. We use words to describe people, places, objects, and events, attempting to capture their essence and characteristics. However, as Burgess notes, language is not merely a passive recorder of reality. If it were, it would be limited to simply documenting facts and figures, without any room for interpretation, creativity, or innovation.

Liberating the Imagination

The true power of language lies in its ability to transcend the mundane and ordinary, to tap into our imagination and creativity. Through language, we can conjure up worlds, characters, and scenarios that are entirely fictional, yet eerily relatable. We can use words to evoke emotions, to paint vivid pictures, and to convey complex ideas and concepts. Language becomes a tool for self-expression, allowing us to channel our thoughts, feelings, and experiences into something tangible and meaningful.

The Role of Metaphor and Symbolism

One of the key ways in which language liberates the imagination is through the use of metaphor and symbolism. By comparing two seemingly unrelated things, we can create new meanings and associations, revealing hidden connections and patterns. Metaphors and symbols can transport us to new realms of understanding, enabling us to see the world from fresh perspectives. For example, when we describe a person as a “ray of sunshine,” we are not merely recording a fact, but rather using language to evoke a sense of warmth, happiness, and optimism.

The Importance of Imagination in Human Experience

Imagination is a fundamental aspect of the human experience, enabling us to dream, to innovate, and to create. It is through imagination that we can envision new possibilities, challenge existing norms, and push the boundaries of what is thought possible. Language, as a liberator of the imagination, plays a vital role in this process, providing us with the tools to express ourselves, to communicate our ideas, and to bring our visions to life.

Conclusion

Anthony Burgess’s statement reminds us that language is not just a utilitarian tool but a powerful catalyst for creativity and imagination. By recognising the dual nature of language, we can harness its potential to liberate our imagination, to express ourselves authentically, and to create new worlds, characters, and scenarios. As we continue to navigate the complexities of the human experience, we must prioritise the imagination, using language as a tool to inspire, innovate, and bring our most fantastical ideas to life. In doing so, we can unlock the full potential of language and unleash the imagination that lies within us all.

Writing a book in 365 days – 341/342

Days 341 and 342

The Ultimate Test: Reading Your Own Work as a Reader

As writers, we’ve all been there – pouring our hearts and souls into a project, painstakingly crafting each sentence, and meticulously editing every detail. But once we’ve finally completed our masterpiece, there’s a crucial step that many of us often overlook: reading it as a reader, not as a writer.

This concept may seem simple, but it’s a game-changer. By setting aside our writer’s hat and donning the reader’s cap, we can gain a fresh perspective on our work and determine whether it truly resonates with our target audience. The idea is straightforward: if we, as writers, find our own work enjoyable and engaging, then it’s likely that our readers will too. But if we struggle to get through our own content, then it’s back to the drawing board.

Why Reading as a Reader Matters

When we read our own work as writers, we’re often too close to the material. We’re familiar with the plot twists, character arcs, and themes, and we know exactly what we’re trying to convey. But readers don’t have this insider knowledge. They’re approaching our work with a blank slate, and it’s our job to draw them in and keep them engaged.

By reading our work as a reader, we can experience it in the same way that our audience will. We can identify areas where the pacing is slow, the dialogue is clunky, or the exposition is too dense. We can pinpoint moments where we’re confused, bored, or disconnected from the story. And we can make adjustments accordingly.

The Benefits of Reading as a Reader

So, what can we gain from reading our own work as a reader? Here are just a few benefits:

  1. Improved pacing: By reading our work from a reader’s perspective, we can identify areas where the story drags or feels rushed. We can make adjustments to the pacing to keep our readers engaged.
  2. Tighter writing: Reading our work as a reader helps us to eliminate unnecessary words, phrases, and scenes. We can streamline our writing and make every sentence count.
  3. Increased tension and suspense: By experiencing our story as a reader, we can identify moments where the tension and suspense are lacking. We can add twists and turns to keep our readers on the edge of their seats.
  4. Better character development: Reading our work as a reader helps us to see our characters through fresh eyes. We can add depth, nuance, and complexity to our characters, making them more relatable and believable.

The Ugly Truth: When It’s Not Enjoyable

But what happens when we read our work as a reader and it’s just not enjoyable? What if we find ourselves skipping sentences, zoning out, or worse, falling asleep? Well, that’s when the real work begins.

It’s time to take a step back, reassess our project, and make significant changes. This might involve rewriting entire sections, reworking our plot, or even scrapping our manuscript altogether. It’s a tough pill to swallow, but it’s better to face the music now than to publish a subpar work that fails to resonate with our readers.

Conclusion

Reading our own work as a reader is a crucial step in the writing process. It allows us to experience our story in a new way, identify areas for improvement, and make adjustments to create a more engaging and enjoyable read. So, take the time to sit down, read your work as a reader, and be honest with yourself. If it’s enjoyable, then you’re on the right track. But if not, don’t be afraid to go back to the drawing board and try again. Your readers will thank you.

Writing a book in 365 days – 341/342

Days 341 and 342

The Ultimate Test: Reading Your Own Work as a Reader

As writers, we’ve all been there – pouring our hearts and souls into a project, painstakingly crafting each sentence, and meticulously editing every detail. But once we’ve finally completed our masterpiece, there’s a crucial step that many of us often overlook: reading it as a reader, not as a writer.

This concept may seem simple, but it’s a game-changer. By setting aside our writer’s hat and donning the reader’s cap, we can gain a fresh perspective on our work and determine whether it truly resonates with our target audience. The idea is straightforward: if we, as writers, find our own work enjoyable and engaging, then it’s likely that our readers will too. But if we struggle to get through our own content, then it’s back to the drawing board.

Why Reading as a Reader Matters

When we read our own work as writers, we’re often too close to the material. We’re familiar with the plot twists, character arcs, and themes, and we know exactly what we’re trying to convey. But readers don’t have this insider knowledge. They’re approaching our work with a blank slate, and it’s our job to draw them in and keep them engaged.

By reading our work as a reader, we can experience it in the same way that our audience will. We can identify areas where the pacing is slow, the dialogue is clunky, or the exposition is too dense. We can pinpoint moments where we’re confused, bored, or disconnected from the story. And we can make adjustments accordingly.

The Benefits of Reading as a Reader

So, what can we gain from reading our own work as a reader? Here are just a few benefits:

  1. Improved pacing: By reading our work from a reader’s perspective, we can identify areas where the story drags or feels rushed. We can make adjustments to the pacing to keep our readers engaged.
  2. Tighter writing: Reading our work as a reader helps us to eliminate unnecessary words, phrases, and scenes. We can streamline our writing and make every sentence count.
  3. Increased tension and suspense: By experiencing our story as a reader, we can identify moments where the tension and suspense are lacking. We can add twists and turns to keep our readers on the edge of their seats.
  4. Better character development: Reading our work as a reader helps us to see our characters through fresh eyes. We can add depth, nuance, and complexity to our characters, making them more relatable and believable.

The Ugly Truth: When It’s Not Enjoyable

But what happens when we read our work as a reader and it’s just not enjoyable? What if we find ourselves skipping sentences, zoning out, or worse, falling asleep? Well, that’s when the real work begins.

It’s time to take a step back, reassess our project, and make significant changes. This might involve rewriting entire sections, reworking our plot, or even scrapping our manuscript altogether. It’s a tough pill to swallow, but it’s better to face the music now than to publish a subpar work that fails to resonate with our readers.

Conclusion

Reading our own work as a reader is a crucial step in the writing process. It allows us to experience our story in a new way, identify areas for improvement, and make adjustments to create a more engaging and enjoyable read. So, take the time to sit down, read your work as a reader, and be honest with yourself. If it’s enjoyable, then you’re on the right track. But if not, don’t be afraid to go back to the drawing board and try again. Your readers will thank you.

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

Writing a book in 365 days – 339

Day 339

Unlock Your Potential: The Power of Joining a Writer’s Group

Writing is often a solitary pursuit. Hunched over a keyboard, staring at a blank page, or lost in the quiet hum of creativity—these moments define the life of a writer. But what if there was a way to transform isolation into inspiration? Enter writers’ clubs, workshops, or writing groups: vibrant communities that offer more than just feedback. They become the bedrock of growth, connection, and resilience for writers at any stage of their journey. Let’s explore the transformative benefits of joining such a group.

1. Constructive Feedback and a Fresh Perspective

One of the most immediate benefits of joining a writing group is the constructive feedback you receive. While self-editing is essential, external perspectives can unveil blind spots. For example, a fellow writer might notice an inconsistency in a character’s motivation or suggest a pacing adjustment you hadn’t considered. Workshops often foster a culture of honesty and kindness, helping you refine your work with specific, actionable insights.

Moreover, reading others’ work exposes you to diverse styles, genres, and techniques. This cross-pollination of ideas can spark creativity and broaden your own writing toolkit.

2. Motivation, Accountability, and Discipline

The writing process can be inconsistent. Deadlines slip, self-doubt creeps in, and distractions abound. A writer’s group provides structure and accountability. Regular meetings, shared writing goals (like word counts or drafting timelines), and peer encouragement create a rhythm that keeps you on track.

Imagine committing to write 500 words a week, knowing your group will check in on your progress. Suddenly, the task feels personal and collaborative. The shared energy of a room (or virtual space) filled with fellow writers can reignite your passion on even the toughest days.

3. Learning and Skill Development

Writing groups often double as learning hubs. Many workshops include writing exercises, mini-lessons on grammar or storytelling techniques, or guest speakers who share industry tips. For instance, a member might lead a session on dialogue writing, or the facilitator could guide a critique focused on character development.

Even informal exchanges—discussing a favourite novel or dissecting a challenging scene—can deepen your understanding of the craft. The more you engage, the sharper your skills become.

4. Networking and Collaboration Opportunities

Connections matter. By joining a writing group, you become part of a network of like-minded individuals. These relationships can lead to collaborations—co-authoring a story, editing each other’s manuscripts, or even finding a publishing agent through introductions.

Additionally, many groups host or share information about contests, publications, or local literary events. For emerging writers, these opportunities can be invaluable for visibility and growth.

5. Emotional Support and Validation

Writing is an emotionally charged endeavour. Rejection letters, “fix-it” feedback, and the pressure to publish can wear you down. A writer’s group offers emotional support, a safe space to vent, celebrate small wins, and process setbacks.

Feeling part of a community combats the isolation many writers face. Sharing your struggles with others who “get it” fosters resilience and reminds you that your voice matters.

6. Access to Resources and Creative Stimulation

Many groups curate resources: writing prompts, book recommendations, or even shared tools like grammar checkers. Some offer access to exclusive workshops or masterclasses. Online groups, in particular, can connect you to global experts and trends in the literary world.

The collaborative brainstorming sessions are gold, too. A tired plot idea revived by a group member’s unexpected twist, or a new genre explored through peer encouragement—these moments keep creativity alive.

7. Building Confidence and Overcoming Self-Doubt

Imposter syndrome is common among writers. Hearing peers praise your work or admit they struggle with similar doubts can be incredibly validating. Over time, the supportive environment of a writing group helps you trust your voice and embrace your unique style.

Additionally, sharing your writing aloud in a group setting helps build confidence in your work—and your ability to receive feedback without defensiveness.

Find Your Tribe: Where to Start

Still unsure? Begin by searching for local writing groups through libraries, community centres, or platforms like Meetup and Eventbrite. If in-person isn’t possible, online writing communities (e.g., Reddit’s r/writing, Scribophile) offer equally rich interactions. For the bold, consider starting your own group!

Final Thoughts

A writer’s group isn’t just a place to “get feedback.” It’s a village of collaborators, cheerleaders, and mentors who help you grow both personally and professionally. By joining such a community, you invest in your craft—and your confidence. So, take the leap. Share your work, lean on others, and watch your writing thrive in ways you never imagined.

What’s your favourite benefit of a writing group? Share your experiences in the comments below!

Ready to connect? Explore local or online writing groups today and unlock the power of collective creativity. 📝

Writing a book in 365 days – 339

Day 339

Unlock Your Potential: The Power of Joining a Writer’s Group

Writing is often a solitary pursuit. Hunched over a keyboard, staring at a blank page, or lost in the quiet hum of creativity—these moments define the life of a writer. But what if there was a way to transform isolation into inspiration? Enter writers’ clubs, workshops, or writing groups: vibrant communities that offer more than just feedback. They become the bedrock of growth, connection, and resilience for writers at any stage of their journey. Let’s explore the transformative benefits of joining such a group.

1. Constructive Feedback and a Fresh Perspective

One of the most immediate benefits of joining a writing group is the constructive feedback you receive. While self-editing is essential, external perspectives can unveil blind spots. For example, a fellow writer might notice an inconsistency in a character’s motivation or suggest a pacing adjustment you hadn’t considered. Workshops often foster a culture of honesty and kindness, helping you refine your work with specific, actionable insights.

Moreover, reading others’ work exposes you to diverse styles, genres, and techniques. This cross-pollination of ideas can spark creativity and broaden your own writing toolkit.

2. Motivation, Accountability, and Discipline

The writing process can be inconsistent. Deadlines slip, self-doubt creeps in, and distractions abound. A writer’s group provides structure and accountability. Regular meetings, shared writing goals (like word counts or drafting timelines), and peer encouragement create a rhythm that keeps you on track.

Imagine committing to write 500 words a week, knowing your group will check in on your progress. Suddenly, the task feels personal and collaborative. The shared energy of a room (or virtual space) filled with fellow writers can reignite your passion on even the toughest days.

3. Learning and Skill Development

Writing groups often double as learning hubs. Many workshops include writing exercises, mini-lessons on grammar or storytelling techniques, or guest speakers who share industry tips. For instance, a member might lead a session on dialogue writing, or the facilitator could guide a critique focused on character development.

Even informal exchanges—discussing a favourite novel or dissecting a challenging scene—can deepen your understanding of the craft. The more you engage, the sharper your skills become.

4. Networking and Collaboration Opportunities

Connections matter. By joining a writing group, you become part of a network of like-minded individuals. These relationships can lead to collaborations—co-authoring a story, editing each other’s manuscripts, or even finding a publishing agent through introductions.

Additionally, many groups host or share information about contests, publications, or local literary events. For emerging writers, these opportunities can be invaluable for visibility and growth.

5. Emotional Support and Validation

Writing is an emotionally charged endeavour. Rejection letters, “fix-it” feedback, and the pressure to publish can wear you down. A writer’s group offers emotional support, a safe space to vent, celebrate small wins, and process setbacks.

Feeling part of a community combats the isolation many writers face. Sharing your struggles with others who “get it” fosters resilience and reminds you that your voice matters.

6. Access to Resources and Creative Stimulation

Many groups curate resources: writing prompts, book recommendations, or even shared tools like grammar checkers. Some offer access to exclusive workshops or masterclasses. Online groups, in particular, can connect you to global experts and trends in the literary world.

The collaborative brainstorming sessions are gold, too. A tired plot idea revived by a group member’s unexpected twist, or a new genre explored through peer encouragement—these moments keep creativity alive.

7. Building Confidence and Overcoming Self-Doubt

Imposter syndrome is common among writers. Hearing peers praise your work or admit they struggle with similar doubts can be incredibly validating. Over time, the supportive environment of a writing group helps you trust your voice and embrace your unique style.

Additionally, sharing your writing aloud in a group setting helps build confidence in your work—and your ability to receive feedback without defensiveness.

Find Your Tribe: Where to Start

Still unsure? Begin by searching for local writing groups through libraries, community centres, or platforms like Meetup and Eventbrite. If in-person isn’t possible, online writing communities (e.g., Reddit’s r/writing, Scribophile) offer equally rich interactions. For the bold, consider starting your own group!

Final Thoughts

A writer’s group isn’t just a place to “get feedback.” It’s a village of collaborators, cheerleaders, and mentors who help you grow both personally and professionally. By joining such a community, you invest in your craft—and your confidence. So, take the leap. Share your work, lean on others, and watch your writing thrive in ways you never imagined.

What’s your favourite benefit of a writing group? Share your experiences in the comments below!

Ready to connect? Explore local or online writing groups today and unlock the power of collective creativity. 📝