Day 105

Write a story that has the line, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”

…

I looked down at the woman who called herself my mother and shook my head.

It was hard to reconcile the fact that over two hundred people turned out for the funeral, one hundred and ninety-nine of them I had never seen or met before.

Ten of them had stood up in front of the mourners and reminisced on the life of a woman that I had no idea was the person they were describing.

Kind, generous, loving, a friend to everyone…

… except her son.

The one I knew, her lawyer, who was overseeing the execution of her will.  That she would even remember me or put me in that will was a surprise.  I hadn’t seen her in forty years, the day her latest husband kicked a naive and very frightened fifteen-year-old out of ‘his’ house when she was away.

He had been just the latest of terrible men she had taken up with after the sudden death of my father, a year before.

I left and never came back.  I burned any letter that came from her until I eventually moved to the other side of the world and built a life of my own.

Until I got that fateful phone call.

My mother had died, and her last request was to find me.  I had changed names and disappeared several times, and yet I’d been found.

How?

The lawyer summed it up in a half dozen sentences.  She had a team of private investigators keep track of me.  Once she discovered what her latest ‘boyfriend’ had done, she had kicked him to the curb, an interesting expression for a lawyer, and set about finding me.  When I didn’t answer her letters, she didn’t lose interest. She just had them keep track of me, in case, one day, I changed my mind.

That I didn’t was her greatest sorrow.

I was of two minds whether to go back and attend the funeral, and nearly didn’t.  That was Noelle’s doing, insisting the lawyer pay for two first-class tickets, which he did.  That she said, spoke volumes, though not explaining what she meant.

Of course, Noelle knew the story.  Like everything about my life, she had wheedled and cajoled it out of me over a long period of time.  She knew when she met me, I was damaged goods, but I soon discovered she was everything I needed to heal.

I felt a hand slip into mine, and her aura enveloped me.  “She has passed Ian, and she can’t hurt you anymore.”

That was a matter of opinion because seeing her again dredged up a lot of very good memories after that kind, generous person they described until my father died.

It seemed odd to me that none of the other one hundred and ninety-nine attendees were very interested in me or why I was there.  But, then, nor was I interested in them.  They just seemed to melt away, leaving almost as if there were rented mourners.  Perhaps they were.

Ten minutes after the service, it was just the coffin, me, Noelle, and the lawyer, who had given me some time to be with her.  I was surprised that I hadn’t just left with everyone else.

“As I said earlier, Ian, there will be a reading of her will back in my office on Wednesday, and you are specifically requested to attend.”

“Is there any point.  I mean, after forty years, I hardly think we would ever remember she had a son.”

We’d had this same argument earlier, and he had no persuasive argument then.  This time, he had come prepared.  I could see an envelope in his hand.

“She knew that you might show some reluctance, so she wrote this letter,” he held up the envelope.  “I urge you to read it. It might explain a few things about her, or it may not.  I was not privy to the contents, only that I was given explicit instructions to give it to you at the funeral.”

He held it out.  I looked at it, then Noelle, who nodded.  I took it and put it in my coat pocket.

“Thank you, Ian.  I am very sorry for your loss, and I will leave you now.  Later, perhaps.”

He held out his hand, and I shook it.  It was my mother I hated, not him.

I remained there with her until the casket was closed and taken away for the cremation she had requested.

It was a silent drive back to the quaint hotel Noelle had found for us, and the room, she pointed out, a king back in the so-called dark ages, had stayed there. 

Given the modern look, I’d say that the King would not recognise the room now if he had stayed there, which was a remote possibility.  Just the same as an advertising hook to start there, it worked.

The letter was sitting on the table between two very comfortable leather chairs, and after dinner downstairs in the dining room, we had opened a bottle of champagne and sat in front of the fireplace, which we were told was used in winter.

It was cold but not that cold, but as I picked up the envelope, I shivered.

Her ghost?

“What did you think it said?”

“Perhaps a belated apology.  I don’t know.  She’s had forty years to think about it.”

“Are you going to read it?”

That was a question I had churned over in my mind the whole way from the church to the hotel.  Was there anything left to say, or anything she could say that would make a difference?

“Yes.”

The first few lines anyway.  I opened the envelope and pulled out several sheets of lined paper, and at first glance showed very neat and legible handwritten script, the sort that would take forever to write.  It was the sort of perfection she indulged in, and I remembered bringing with her when she used to write letters, being told at the same time that we should never lose the art of writing or communicating with others.

To her, a person who could not write or find a reason to write to someone else was not someone she would want to know.  I’m sure after I refused to write back, I fit into that category.

I unfolded the pages and steeled myself for what was to come.

My dear Ian,

If you are reading this, then I have passed.  It is regrettable that we did not speak again after you left in the spring of 1985, and sad that in the years that followed that you did not reply to my letters.

It took many months before I discovered what had happened in my absence, but it is no excuse to simply say it would not have happened in different circumstances.

In all likelihood, it would have happened anyway, then or later, because, in truth, after your father died, I stopped being your mother.  I have no excuse and offer none.  Nothing will ever make up for the injustice wrought upon you.

Though while you may have hated me, I never for one minute stopped loving you, and when I finally accepted you wanted nothing more to do with me, I asked some friends to keep an eye on you.  Although you may not have realised it, I have been able to help you in your endeavours, as a proud mother would in different circumstances.

I put the letter down for a moment and thought back over several key moments in my life, reflecting on how hard it had been to achieve certain milestones, against the odds and in the face of almost insurmountable obstacles.

Were they all that insurmountable if there was an invisible hand behind it?  Had I not achieved those milestones on my own?

Before you get all ‘het up’ over what you might consider interference, believe me when I tell you, you had achieved the unachievable all on your own, but sadly, your background was working against you.  I simply helped to level that so-called playing field.

I knew in my heart that if you wanted to reconnect with me, you would, and in that, I decided I would not interfere. Perhaps I will live to regret that, but it was never going to happen if I turned up on your doorstep.  And, believe me, there were many times I wanted to do just that.

I have said all that I wish to say about those matters.  What happened is what happened, and it can not be undone.  I hope you will see your way to come to my funeral.  It will be very strange with lots of people who will be very alien to you.

All they saw was the widow of a billionaire who was their benefactress, and hoping by paying their respects would continue to be so.  The same could not be said for you, you came because you wanted to, not because you to and for that I am very grateful.

Then, at the bottom of the page was, in a less tidy hand, the words, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”

Whatever followed was on the next page, except there wasn’t a next page.  I showed it to Noelle.

“What do you think of that?”

She read the words and turned the page over, thinking it might be on the back.  There was nothing on the back.  She looked at the page in the light, perhaps thinking there might be indentations, but there weren’t any.

“There was more, and it’s missing.  What do you think it said?”

“Something someone didn’t want me to read.  I guess we will be going to the reading of the will after all.”

“The game’s afoot?”

“Indeed.” 

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 105

Write a story that has the line, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”

…

I looked down at the woman who called herself my mother and shook my head.

It was hard to reconcile the fact that over two hundred people turned out for the funeral, one hundred and ninety-nine of them I had never seen or met before.

Ten of them had stood up in front of the mourners and reminisced on the life of a woman that I had no idea was the person they were describing.

Kind, generous, loving, a friend to everyone…

… except her son.

The one I knew, her lawyer, who was overseeing the execution of her will.  That she would even remember me or put me in that will was a surprise.  I hadn’t seen her in forty years, the day her latest husband kicked a naive and very frightened fifteen-year-old out of ‘his’ house when she was away.

He had been just the latest of terrible men she had taken up with after the sudden death of my father, a year before.

I left and never came back.  I burned any letter that came from her until I eventually moved to the other side of the world and built a life of my own.

Until I got that fateful phone call.

My mother had died, and her last request was to find me.  I had changed names and disappeared several times, and yet I’d been found.

How?

The lawyer summed it up in a half dozen sentences.  She had a team of private investigators keep track of me.  Once she discovered what her latest ‘boyfriend’ had done, she had kicked him to the curb, an interesting expression for a lawyer, and set about finding me.  When I didn’t answer her letters, she didn’t lose interest. She just had them keep track of me, in case, one day, I changed my mind.

That I didn’t was her greatest sorrow.

I was of two minds whether to go back and attend the funeral, and nearly didn’t.  That was Noelle’s doing, insisting the lawyer pay for two first-class tickets, which he did.  That she said, spoke volumes, though not explaining what she meant.

Of course, Noelle knew the story.  Like everything about my life, she had wheedled and cajoled it out of me over a long period of time.  She knew when she met me, I was damaged goods, but I soon discovered she was everything I needed to heal.

I felt a hand slip into mine, and her aura enveloped me.  “She has passed Ian, and she can’t hurt you anymore.”

That was a matter of opinion because seeing her again dredged up a lot of very good memories after that kind, generous person they described until my father died.

It seemed odd to me that none of the other one hundred and ninety-nine attendees were very interested in me or why I was there.  But, then, nor was I interested in them.  They just seemed to melt away, leaving almost as if there were rented mourners.  Perhaps they were.

Ten minutes after the service, it was just the coffin, me, Noelle, and the lawyer, who had given me some time to be with her.  I was surprised that I hadn’t just left with everyone else.

“As I said earlier, Ian, there will be a reading of her will back in my office on Wednesday, and you are specifically requested to attend.”

“Is there any point.  I mean, after forty years, I hardly think we would ever remember she had a son.”

We’d had this same argument earlier, and he had no persuasive argument then.  This time, he had come prepared.  I could see an envelope in his hand.

“She knew that you might show some reluctance, so she wrote this letter,” he held up the envelope.  “I urge you to read it. It might explain a few things about her, or it may not.  I was not privy to the contents, only that I was given explicit instructions to give it to you at the funeral.”

He held it out.  I looked at it, then Noelle, who nodded.  I took it and put it in my coat pocket.

“Thank you, Ian.  I am very sorry for your loss, and I will leave you now.  Later, perhaps.”

He held out his hand, and I shook it.  It was my mother I hated, not him.

I remained there with her until the casket was closed and taken away for the cremation she had requested.

It was a silent drive back to the quaint hotel Noelle had found for us, and the room, she pointed out, a king back in the so-called dark ages, had stayed there. 

Given the modern look, I’d say that the King would not recognise the room now if he had stayed there, which was a remote possibility.  Just the same as an advertising hook to start there, it worked.

The letter was sitting on the table between two very comfortable leather chairs, and after dinner downstairs in the dining room, we had opened a bottle of champagne and sat in front of the fireplace, which we were told was used in winter.

It was cold but not that cold, but as I picked up the envelope, I shivered.

Her ghost?

“What did you think it said?”

“Perhaps a belated apology.  I don’t know.  She’s had forty years to think about it.”

“Are you going to read it?”

That was a question I had churned over in my mind the whole way from the church to the hotel.  Was there anything left to say, or anything she could say that would make a difference?

“Yes.”

The first few lines anyway.  I opened the envelope and pulled out several sheets of lined paper, and at first glance showed very neat and legible handwritten script, the sort that would take forever to write.  It was the sort of perfection she indulged in, and I remembered bringing with her when she used to write letters, being told at the same time that we should never lose the art of writing or communicating with others.

To her, a person who could not write or find a reason to write to someone else was not someone she would want to know.  I’m sure after I refused to write back, I fit into that category.

I unfolded the pages and steeled myself for what was to come.

My dear Ian,

If you are reading this, then I have passed.  It is regrettable that we did not speak again after you left in the spring of 1985, and sad that in the years that followed that you did not reply to my letters.

It took many months before I discovered what had happened in my absence, but it is no excuse to simply say it would not have happened in different circumstances.

In all likelihood, it would have happened anyway, then or later, because, in truth, after your father died, I stopped being your mother.  I have no excuse and offer none.  Nothing will ever make up for the injustice wrought upon you.

Though while you may have hated me, I never for one minute stopped loving you, and when I finally accepted you wanted nothing more to do with me, I asked some friends to keep an eye on you.  Although you may not have realised it, I have been able to help you in your endeavours, as a proud mother would in different circumstances.

I put the letter down for a moment and thought back over several key moments in my life, reflecting on how hard it had been to achieve certain milestones, against the odds and in the face of almost insurmountable obstacles.

Were they all that insurmountable if there was an invisible hand behind it?  Had I not achieved those milestones on my own?

Before you get all ‘het up’ over what you might consider interference, believe me when I tell you, you had achieved the unachievable all on your own, but sadly, your background was working against you.  I simply helped to level that so-called playing field.

I knew in my heart that if you wanted to reconnect with me, you would, and in that, I decided I would not interfere. Perhaps I will live to regret that, but it was never going to happen if I turned up on your doorstep.  And, believe me, there were many times I wanted to do just that.

I have said all that I wish to say about those matters.  What happened is what happened, and it can not be undone.  I hope you will see your way to come to my funeral.  It will be very strange with lots of people who will be very alien to you.

All they saw was the widow of a billionaire who was their benefactress, and hoping by paying their respects would continue to be so.  The same could not be said for you, you came because you wanted to, not because you to and for that I am very grateful.

Then, at the bottom of the page was, in a less tidy hand, the words, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”

Whatever followed was on the next page, except there wasn’t a next page.  I showed it to Noelle.

“What do you think of that?”

She read the words and turned the page over, thinking it might be on the back.  There was nothing on the back.  She looked at the page in the light, perhaps thinking there might be indentations, but there weren’t any.

“There was more, and it’s missing.  What do you think it said?”

“Something someone didn’t want me to read.  I guess we will be going to the reading of the will after all.”

“The game’s afoot?”

“Indeed.” 

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 104

Great are the days when writing flows easily, and bad are the days when it doesn’t flow at all. What you’re striving for is somewhere in the middle.

If that is at all possible.

Conditions have to be conducive, which means it doesn’t necessarily follow that you can write just anywhere.

That means you need, if it is at all possible, to set up a little, or big, nook someone in your residence where you can write.

It doesn’t necessarily have to be free of distractions, except, of course, the electronic kind.  Of course, if you are writing on a computer of any sort,t it would be better if it were not connected to the internet, where every few seconds there’s an alert, an email, a phone call, or breaking news headlines.

Nor do you really want to be near a phone, except if you’re expecting a call from your agent telling you you just got a multi-million dollar three-film contract.

OK, I’m projecting my own desires here…

But…

A writing room or nook would to me be a room with a view, my preference overlooking the ocean high on a cliff so that I could see the roiling ocean and dhimips battling against the odds.

Distraction.

Not necessarily, but on summery days it can provide the background for a lengthy piece of prose, or even a poem, an ode to days of leisure.

And to dream…

Yes inspired.

In such a computable and familiar place, it is possible to write without hindrance.  I do not have a room with a view, but I am surrounded by a thousand books, lounge chairs, and the tools to inspire me.

Writing isn’t difficult. It’s more about getting out there because the daily routine often gets in the way

But, my best writing happens at night after everyone has retired for the day, and the words come.  Often, it is no trouble to write a whole short story or several chapters of a novel.

But, then, having participated in the yearly A to Z blog month and twice yearly NANOWRIMO novel writing month has conditioned me to getting the job done. 

Day 104

Great are the days when writing flows easily, and bad are the days when it doesn’t flow at all. What you’re striving for is somewhere in the middle.

If that is at all possible.

Conditions have to be conducive, which means it doesn’t necessarily follow that you can write just anywhere.

That means you need, if it is at all possible, to set up a little, or big, nook someone in your residence where you can write.

It doesn’t necessarily have to be free of distractions, except, of course, the electronic kind.  Of course, if you are writing on a computer of any sort,t it would be better if it were not connected to the internet, where every few seconds there’s an alert, an email, a phone call, or breaking news headlines.

Nor do you really want to be near a phone, except if you’re expecting a call from your agent telling you you just got a multi-million dollar three-film contract.

OK, I’m projecting my own desires here…

But…

A writing room or nook would to me be a room with a view, my preference overlooking the ocean high on a cliff so that I could see the roiling ocean and dhimips battling against the odds.

Distraction.

Not necessarily, but on summery days it can provide the background for a lengthy piece of prose, or even a poem, an ode to days of leisure.

And to dream…

Yes inspired.

In such a computable and familiar place, it is possible to write without hindrance.  I do not have a room with a view, but I am surrounded by a thousand books, lounge chairs, and the tools to inspire me.

Writing isn’t difficult. It’s more about getting out there because the daily routine often gets in the way

But, my best writing happens at night after everyone has retired for the day, and the words come.  Often, it is no trouble to write a whole short story or several chapters of a novel.

But, then, having participated in the yearly A to Z blog month and twice yearly NANOWRIMO novel writing month has conditioned me to getting the job done. 

Days 102 and 103

Using alternate words to Love, Announce, Beautiful, Delicious, and Move.

…

There was something about Felicity that had struck me from the first time I saw her, across a hall, through a crowded dance floor. Had it been the dress, or the way she stood, cigarette in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, casually watching those on the dance floor trying to execute a fluid and in-sync waltz.

Or was it the expression of disdain?

All I knew in that moment she was the one, and it was love at first sight, for me.

A half hour later, after my sister, the reason for the gathering, announced her engagement to Mr Phillip Alexander William Thorogood, she left him to explain himself to her friends and came over to where I had been watching the proceedings.

Her engagement was entirely unexpected by me and our parents.

“So, what do you think?”

“He has too many names, and therefore must be a criminal.”

“He’s English. They all have too many names. It’s their idea of keeping the relatives of the past unforgotten, or something like that. I confess I switched off when he started on the history of the Thorogoods.”

“I hope you will be happy.”

“But you want to know about Felicity. I’ve seen you giving her that look.”

“What look?”

“She interests you. But as beautiful as she appears, I can assure you she is not. With her, beauty is only skin deep.”

“That’s hardly the way you should speak of your friends.”

“She is not my friend, she’s a relative or some such of Phillips, who came with her parents. But enough about her, have you tried the Apple cake? It’s absolutely delicious, if not divine. It’s going to be my wedding cake.”

I shook my head. She had an obsession with apples. “And what did Phillip think of that?”

“He doesn’t know yet, but he won’t care?”

I saw Felicity look in my direction, though I suspect it was directed more towards my sister. I got the impression she was here at Phillip’s parents’ behest, checking her out.

Then, a glance at me, Felicity started walking towards us.

“Oh, dear. I just don’t want to talk to her, so I will move around and mingle. Head her off at the pass, will you, Peter? There’s a good little brother.”

She went sideways, and I headed towards Felicity to head her off at the pass, happy to take one for the team.

….

Now to replace the above key words…

….

There was something about Felicity that had struck me from the first time I saw her, across a hall, through a crowded dance floor. Had it been the dress, or the way she stood, cigarette in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, casually watching those on the dance floor trying to execute a fluid and in-sync waltz.

Or was it the expression of disdain?

All I knew in that moment she was the one, and it was love at first sight, for me.

A half hour later, my sister, Annabel, was called up, after a brief speech thanking everyone for coming, to tell the gathering in her usual coy manner that she had accepted Mr Phillip Alexander William Thorogood’s hand in marriage. Afterwards, like a deer caught in headlights, she left him to explain himself to her friends and came over to where I had been watching the proceedings.

Her engagement was entirely unexpected by me and our parents.

“So, what do you think?”

“He has too many names, and therefore must be a criminal.”

“He’s English. They all have too many names. It’s their idea of keeping the relatives of the past unforgotten, or something like that. I confess I switched off when he started on the history of the Thorogoods.”

“I hope you will be happy.”

“As much as I can see you’re dying to hear all about him, I can see you want to know about Felicity. I’ve seen you giving her that look.”

“What look?”

“The one you reserve for interesting people that won’t have anything to do with you. She may appear to have that certain thing about her, I can assure you, she can be and has been trouble for Phillip and his parents. If you want an opinion, her beauty is only skin deep.”

“That’s hardly the way you should speak of your friends.”

“She is not my friend, she’s a relative or some such of Phillips, who came with her parents. But enough about her, have you tried the Apple cake? It’s one of several cakes the bakers of my wedding cake tendered as a sample, and it’s divine. We’ve practically decided it’s going to be the wedding cake.”

I shook my head. She had an obsession with apples. “And what did Phillip think of that?”

“He doesn’t know yet, but he won’t care?”

I saw Felicity look in my direction, though I suspect it was directed more towards my sister. I got the impression she was here at the behest of Phillip’s parents and checking her out.

Then, a glance at me, Felicity started walking towards us.

“Oh, dear. I just don’t want to talk to her. You use your charm on her while I mingle. Head her off at the pass, will you, Peter? There’s a good little brother.”

She went sideways, and I headed towards Felicity to head her off at the pass, happy to take one for the team. The fact that Annabel didn’t like her made Felicity far more interesting.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Days 102 and 103

Using alternate words to Love, Announce, Beautiful, Delicious, and Move.

…

There was something about Felicity that had struck me from the first time I saw her, across a hall, through a crowded dance floor. Had it been the dress, or the way she stood, cigarette in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, casually watching those on the dance floor trying to execute a fluid and in-sync waltz.

Or was it the expression of disdain?

All I knew in that moment she was the one, and it was love at first sight, for me.

A half hour later, after my sister, the reason for the gathering, announced her engagement to Mr Phillip Alexander William Thorogood, she left him to explain himself to her friends and came over to where I had been watching the proceedings.

Her engagement was entirely unexpected by me and our parents.

“So, what do you think?”

“He has too many names, and therefore must be a criminal.”

“He’s English. They all have too many names. It’s their idea of keeping the relatives of the past unforgotten, or something like that. I confess I switched off when he started on the history of the Thorogoods.”

“I hope you will be happy.”

“But you want to know about Felicity. I’ve seen you giving her that look.”

“What look?”

“She interests you. But as beautiful as she appears, I can assure you she is not. With her, beauty is only skin deep.”

“That’s hardly the way you should speak of your friends.”

“She is not my friend, she’s a relative or some such of Phillips, who came with her parents. But enough about her, have you tried the Apple cake? It’s absolutely delicious, if not divine. It’s going to be my wedding cake.”

I shook my head. She had an obsession with apples. “And what did Phillip think of that?”

“He doesn’t know yet, but he won’t care?”

I saw Felicity look in my direction, though I suspect it was directed more towards my sister. I got the impression she was here at Phillip’s parents’ behest, checking her out.

Then, a glance at me, Felicity started walking towards us.

“Oh, dear. I just don’t want to talk to her, so I will move around and mingle. Head her off at the pass, will you, Peter? There’s a good little brother.”

She went sideways, and I headed towards Felicity to head her off at the pass, happy to take one for the team.

….

Now to replace the above key words…

….

There was something about Felicity that had struck me from the first time I saw her, across a hall, through a crowded dance floor. Had it been the dress, or the way she stood, cigarette in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, casually watching those on the dance floor trying to execute a fluid and in-sync waltz.

Or was it the expression of disdain?

All I knew in that moment she was the one, and it was love at first sight, for me.

A half hour later, my sister, Annabel, was called up, after a brief speech thanking everyone for coming, to tell the gathering in her usual coy manner that she had accepted Mr Phillip Alexander William Thorogood’s hand in marriage. Afterwards, like a deer caught in headlights, she left him to explain himself to her friends and came over to where I had been watching the proceedings.

Her engagement was entirely unexpected by me and our parents.

“So, what do you think?”

“He has too many names, and therefore must be a criminal.”

“He’s English. They all have too many names. It’s their idea of keeping the relatives of the past unforgotten, or something like that. I confess I switched off when he started on the history of the Thorogoods.”

“I hope you will be happy.”

“As much as I can see you’re dying to hear all about him, I can see you want to know about Felicity. I’ve seen you giving her that look.”

“What look?”

“The one you reserve for interesting people that won’t have anything to do with you. She may appear to have that certain thing about her, I can assure you, she can be and has been trouble for Phillip and his parents. If you want an opinion, her beauty is only skin deep.”

“That’s hardly the way you should speak of your friends.”

“She is not my friend, she’s a relative or some such of Phillips, who came with her parents. But enough about her, have you tried the Apple cake? It’s one of several cakes the bakers of my wedding cake tendered as a sample, and it’s divine. We’ve practically decided it’s going to be the wedding cake.”

I shook my head. She had an obsession with apples. “And what did Phillip think of that?”

“He doesn’t know yet, but he won’t care?”

I saw Felicity look in my direction, though I suspect it was directed more towards my sister. I got the impression she was here at the behest of Phillip’s parents and checking her out.

Then, a glance at me, Felicity started walking towards us.

“Oh, dear. I just don’t want to talk to her. You use your charm on her while I mingle. Head her off at the pass, will you, Peter? There’s a good little brother.”

She went sideways, and I headed towards Felicity to head her off at the pass, happy to take one for the team. The fact that Annabel didn’t like her made Felicity far more interesting.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

More about my story

…

Sleeping with the…

The devil takes many forms, and our protagonist has met quite a few. In his line of work, there are few opportunities to snatch a little rest and recreation between life-and-death missions.

Coming back from a mandatory rest period, to recover from the worst of disasters that nearly cost him his life, there is time for the mortality aspect to start doing a number in his head.

It is inevitable.

And as inevitable is the slow breaking down of those beliefs in his invincibility. 

But worse than that, his handler started to think he was losing his edge, enough to send a backup just in case.

And why does it have to be an enigma wrapped up in a mystery?  It’s not as if to say she is there for any other reason than help in the mission, but after getting shot, and taking a cocktail of drugs and alcohol, his mind wanders.

The woman in white, that apparition that appears to be too good to be true, is dancing on the edge of his memory.  Who is she?  Well, in a moment of finally doing his job, keeping a watchful eye over the conference delegate, a woman from his past, he sees them together, and their chemistry together tells him it is a daughter or a special relative. 

It doesn’t explain why the woman in white is there.

It is a question for another day.

More about my story

…

Sleeping with the…

The devil takes many forms, and our protagonist has met quite a few. In his line of work, there are few opportunities to snatch a little rest and recreation between life-and-death missions.

Coming back from a mandatory rest period, to recover from the worst of disasters that nearly cost him his life, there is time for the mortality aspect to start doing a number in his head.

It is inevitable.

And as inevitable is the slow breaking down of those beliefs in his invincibility. 

But worse than that, his handler started to think he was losing his edge, enough to send a backup just in case.

And why does it have to be an enigma wrapped up in a mystery?  It’s not as if to say she is there for any other reason than help in the mission, but after getting shot, and taking a cocktail of drugs and alcohol, his mind wanders.

The woman in white, that apparition that appears to be too good to be true, is dancing on the edge of his memory.  Who is she?  Well, in a moment of finally doing his job, keeping a watchful eye over the conference delegate, a woman from his past, he sees them together, and their chemistry together tells him it is a daughter or a special relative. 

It doesn’t explain why the woman in white is there.

It is a question for another day.

Day 101

So here’s the deal – you’re not as good as you think you are.

…

I can attest to that. I’ve been through a story a dozen times, and still there is something to be changed, or a detail or nuance missed. Our eyes play tricks on us, they seem to see what you eant them to see rather than what is there.

It’s why we have other people look at our work.

Everyone can get hold of a style manual, a thesaurus and a dictionary.

My biggest bugbear is continuity and names, plot timing, and making sure events happen when they’re supposed to, not just when you write about it and hope it fits the timeline.

I have a problem with that right now with a story I’m writing, where people are living the events in two different time zones, and I need to get it right.

This is where a spreadsheet comes in handy, because you can use a formula to work out the time in a different time zone and run the event timeline in both zones.

It’s always great when the pilot tells you just before you land what time it is at the destination. Scary too sometimes when you’re flying from Brisbane backwards through time to London and find you’re landing 13 or so hours before. I left at 10 pm, and I’m landing at 5:30 in the morning on the same day.

And a surefire way of discovering what your text sounds like, run it through an AI text-to-speech converter and listen. When it sounds really weird, and it will at least once, then you know where to fix it.

Day 101

So here’s the deal – you’re not as good as you think you are.

…

I can attest to that. I’ve been through a story a dozen times, and still there is something to be changed, or a detail or nuance missed. Our eyes play tricks on us, they seem to see what you eant them to see rather than what is there.

It’s why we have other people look at our work.

Everyone can get hold of a style manual, a thesaurus and a dictionary.

My biggest bugbear is continuity and names, plot timing, and making sure events happen when they’re supposed to, not just when you write about it and hope it fits the timeline.

I have a problem with that right now with a story I’m writing, where people are living the events in two different time zones, and I need to get it right.

This is where a spreadsheet comes in handy, because you can use a formula to work out the time in a different time zone and run the event timeline in both zones.

It’s always great when the pilot tells you just before you land what time it is at the destination. Scary too sometimes when you’re flying from Brisbane backwards through time to London and find you’re landing 13 or so hours before. I left at 10 pm, and I’m landing at 5:30 in the morning on the same day.

And a surefire way of discovering what your text sounds like, run it through an AI text-to-speech converter and listen. When it sounds really weird, and it will at least once, then you know where to fix it.