Day 142 – Writing is many contradictions

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The Art of the Split Consciousness: Why Every Writer Must Be Two People

Writing is a profession built on paradox. We sit in silence to communicate with the world; we spend hours in solitude to understand the collective human experience; and, perhaps most curiously, we must be both the creator and the critic at the exact same moment.

Albert Camus, a titan of literature and philosophy, famously captured this internal friction when he noted that a writer “must be two persons.”

But what does it mean to split one’s consciousness in the service of the craft? And why is this internal duality the secret to truly connecting with an audience?

The Creator and the Stranger

Camus argued that a writer must possess a dual identity to effectively “translate what one feels into what one wants others to feel.”

If you only write from the perspective of the Creator, you are essentially journaling. You are purging your own emotions, fueled by the raw, unrefined intensity of your personal experience. This is necessary for the spark of an idea, but it is rarely enough to sustain a reader. The Creator knows exactly what you mean; the Creator feels the weight of the memories behind every word.

But the reader? The reader arrives at your page as a stranger. They don’t know your context, your history, or the specific ache in your chest that birthed the sentence.

This is where the second person—the Stranger—must step in.

The Power of Detachment

The “Stranger” is the part of the writer that treats the manuscript like an alien artifact. It is the cold, analytical eye that looks at a paragraph and asks, “Does this make sense if I have never lived this moment?”

To write well is to master the art of detachment. You must be able to step outside of your own ego and look at your prose as if you were picking it up in a library, written by an author you’ve never met. When you read as a stranger, you start to notice where the logic gaps are, where the prose becomes self-indulgent, and where the emotional core is buried under too many adjectives.

Bridging the Gap: Why Writers Need Readers

Ultimately, the goal of this internal division is connection. We don’t write solely to process our thoughts; we write to bridge the gap between two minds.

Camus knew that writing is a form of translation. You are taking the abstract, messy, and deeply personal language of your internal life and converting it into a language that others can consume, understand, and feel. Without that “Stranger” perspective, we are merely shouting into a void. We are writing for the person who already knows what we’re saying: ourselves.

Embracing the Duality

If you find yourself struggling to edit your own work, or feeling like your writing doesn’t quite “land” with your audience, you might be leaning too heavily on one side of your personality.

You need the Creator to dream up the vision, to bleed onto the page, and to find the truth. But you need the Stranger to finish the job. You need the Stranger to be the audience-in-residence—the one who holds the pen steady and asks, “Is this true for them, too?”

Writing is a contradiction because it requires you to be both deeply vulnerable and completely objective. It’s a difficult balance to strike, but it’s the only way to ensure that what we feel, someone else will feel, too.

So, the next time you sit down to write, don’t just ask yourself what you want to say. Ask yourself if the stranger reading your work will understand why it matters.

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Day 141 – Writer’s block

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The Blank Page Blues: Understanding the Real Effects of Writer’s Block (And How to Beat It)

Every writer, whether they are penning a Pulitzer-winning novel, a corporate newsletter, or a simple blog post, has been there. You sit down, open your laptop, crack your knuckles, and… nothing. The cursor blinks at you, rhythmically mocking your lack of progress.

Writer’s block is the universal enemy of creativity. But what actually happens when we hit that wall, and how can we climb over it? Let’s break down the mechanics of the “block” and, more importantly, how to get your momentum back.

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The Hidden Effects: More Than Just “Stuck”

We often think of writer’s block as a simple pause in production. However, the effects are usually deeper and more taxing than just an empty page.

1. The Erosion of Confidence The longer you stare at a blank screen, the more your inner critic takes the wheel. You start to doubt your premise, your vocabulary, and eventually, your aptitude as a writer. This “imposter syndrome” can linger long after the initial block has passed.

2. The “Avoidance Cycle” When writing becomes associated with the frustration of being stuck, you naturally start to avoid it. You find “productive” distractions—doing the dishes, organising your email, or doom-scrolling—which only increases the anxiety you feel when you finally do return to the desk.

3. Creative Atrophy Writing is a muscle. When you stop writing for extended periods, the “creative flow”—that effortless state of articulation—becomes harder to tap into. The longer the blockage persists, the more you have to fight your own brain to regain that rhythm.

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How to Break the Cycle

The good news? Writer’s block is not a permanent state; it’s a temporary neurological bottleneck. Here is how to unclog it:

1. Lower the Stakes

Often, we get blocked because we are trying to write something “perfect” on the first pass. Give yourself permission to write “garbage.” Write the worst draft imaginable. Once the words are on the page, you can edit them. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can always fix a bad paragraph.

2. The “Pomodoro” Trick

If the task feels gargantuan, break it down. Set a timer for 15 minutes. Tell yourself you only have to write for that long. Often, the hardest part of writing is the starting—once the gears are turning, continuing becomes much easier.

3. Change Your Environment

If your brain associates your desk with anxiety, move to a coffee shop, a library, or even your kitchen table. Sometimes a change of scenery, ambient noise, or a different chair is enough to signal to your brain that it’s time for a new mode of thinking.

4. Switch Mediums

If the laptop screen feels stifling, go analog. Grab a legal pad and a pen. The physical act of handwriting taps into different creative pathways in the brain and removes the temptation to delete, backspace, and over-edit as you go.

5. Use Prompts to Prime the Pump

If you don’t know where to start, stop trying to write the “masterpiece” and just write five sentences about anything. Describe the room you’re in. Describe your breakfast. Once you break the silence of the page, the transition to your actual project will be much smoother.

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The Bottom Line

Writer’s block isn’t a sign that you’ve lost your talent; it’s a sign that your brain needs a different strategy. Don’t try to force your way through it with sheer willpower alone. Sometimes, the best way to move forward is to step back, change the environment, and lower your expectations until the words begin to flow again.

Remember: You are a writer because you write, not because you never get stuck.

So, close this tab, take a breath, and write one sentence. Just one. That’s how the block ends.

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Day 141 – Writer’s block

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The Blank Page Blues: Understanding the Real Effects of Writer’s Block (And How to Beat It)

Every writer, whether they are penning a Pulitzer-winning novel, a corporate newsletter, or a simple blog post, has been there. You sit down, open your laptop, crack your knuckles, and… nothing. The cursor blinks at you, rhythmically mocking your lack of progress.

Writer’s block is the universal enemy of creativity. But what actually happens when we hit that wall, and how can we climb over it? Let’s break down the mechanics of the “block” and, more importantly, how to get your momentum back.

---

The Hidden Effects: More Than Just “Stuck”

We often think of writer’s block as a simple pause in production. However, the effects are usually deeper and more taxing than just an empty page.

1. The Erosion of Confidence The longer you stare at a blank screen, the more your inner critic takes the wheel. You start to doubt your premise, your vocabulary, and eventually, your aptitude as a writer. This “imposter syndrome” can linger long after the initial block has passed.

2. The “Avoidance Cycle” When writing becomes associated with the frustration of being stuck, you naturally start to avoid it. You find “productive” distractions—doing the dishes, organising your email, or doom-scrolling—which only increases the anxiety you feel when you finally do return to the desk.

3. Creative Atrophy Writing is a muscle. When you stop writing for extended periods, the “creative flow”—that effortless state of articulation—becomes harder to tap into. The longer the blockage persists, the more you have to fight your own brain to regain that rhythm.

---

How to Break the Cycle

The good news? Writer’s block is not a permanent state; it’s a temporary neurological bottleneck. Here is how to unclog it:

1. Lower the Stakes

Often, we get blocked because we are trying to write something “perfect” on the first pass. Give yourself permission to write “garbage.” Write the worst draft imaginable. Once the words are on the page, you can edit them. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can always fix a bad paragraph.

2. The “Pomodoro” Trick

If the task feels gargantuan, break it down. Set a timer for 15 minutes. Tell yourself you only have to write for that long. Often, the hardest part of writing is the starting—once the gears are turning, continuing becomes much easier.

3. Change Your Environment

If your brain associates your desk with anxiety, move to a coffee shop, a library, or even your kitchen table. Sometimes a change of scenery, ambient noise, or a different chair is enough to signal to your brain that it’s time for a new mode of thinking.

4. Switch Mediums

If the laptop screen feels stifling, go analog. Grab a legal pad and a pen. The physical act of handwriting taps into different creative pathways in the brain and removes the temptation to delete, backspace, and over-edit as you go.

5. Use Prompts to Prime the Pump

If you don’t know where to start, stop trying to write the “masterpiece” and just write five sentences about anything. Describe the room you’re in. Describe your breakfast. Once you break the silence of the page, the transition to your actual project will be much smoother.

---

The Bottom Line

Writer’s block isn’t a sign that you’ve lost your talent; it’s a sign that your brain needs a different strategy. Don’t try to force your way through it with sheer willpower alone. Sometimes, the best way to move forward is to step back, change the environment, and lower your expectations until the words begin to flow again.

Remember: You are a writer because you write, not because you never get stuck.

So, close this tab, take a breath, and write one sentence. Just one. That’s how the block ends.

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Day 140 – Writing longhand rather than digitally

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The Case for the Page: Why Your Next First Draft Should Be Handwritten

In an era of lightning-fast keyboards, voice-to-text, and AI-assisted drafting, the act of putting pen to paper can feel almost prehistoric. Why reach for a pen when you can type at 80 words per minute? Why endure the hand cramp when you can edit with a simple backspace?

Yet, there is a growing movement of writers—from novelists to essayists—who are returning to the humble notebook for their first drafts. Beyond the aesthetic appeal of a leather-bound journal or the scratch of a fountain pen, there is a profound, functional benefit to writing in longhand.

If you’ve been feeling disconnected from your writing, here is why you might want to slow it down and go analog.

1. A Tangible Record of Your Evolution

When you write digitally, the “delete” key is a magician. You type a sentence, realise it’s weak, hit backspace, and it vanishes into the ether. It is as if the thought never existed.

In longhand, you cannot truly erase. You can only cross out.

This creates a tangible map of your creative process. When you look back at a physical page, you see the evolution of your ideas. You see the discarded phrases, the scribbled synonyms in the margins, and the sudden arrows pointing to a better arrangement. This “messy” draft becomes a record of your intellectual labor. It proves you didn’t just arrive at the finished product; you fought for it. There is a deep, psychological satisfaction in seeing that history remain on the page, rather than in a digital void.

2. The Permanence of Thought

Digital writing is ephemeral. Even with “Track Changes” or version history, the digital experience is defined by constant editing. We are trained to polish as we go, which stifles the raw, uninhibited flow of a first draft.

Longhand forces a slower pace, but it also provides a sense of finality. Once the ink touches the paper, the thought is “baked.” This forces you to be more deliberate with your word choices, yet paradoxically, it also allows you to make mistakes without the pressure to correct them immediately. Because you can’t easily “clean up” a handwritten draft, you are forced to keep moving forward, which is the golden rule of drafting: don’t look back until the page is full.

3. A Deeper Cognitive Connection

Neuroscience suggests that the brain processes information differently when we engage in handwriting. The physical act of forming letters and the tactile sensation of pen on paper activate different areas of the brain than typing does.

Many writers report that longhand helps them enter a “flow state” more easily. There are no notifications popping up in the corner of your notebook. No temptation to check email. No ability to reformat your font or check the word count every five minutes. It is just you and the paper, creating an environment where deep focus is the default, not the exception.

4. The Beauty of the “Permanent Erasure”

There is a unique kind of vulnerability in handwriting. Because you cannot delete, you learn to embrace the imperfection. You stop obsessing over the perfect opening sentence and start focusing on the truth of the sentence.

When you do eventually transcribe your handwritten draft into a digital format, you are essentially performing your first major edit. You aren’t just copying; you’re reading, refining, and selecting the best parts of what you wrote. It turns the editing process into a deliberate, second-pass creative act rather than a chore.

The Verdict?

Writing in longhand isn’t about being a Luddite. It’s about recognising that the “best” tools for efficiency aren’t always the “best” tools for creativity.

If your writing feels stagnant or you find yourself endlessly editing instead of creating, put the laptop away. Grab a pen. Feel the weight of the ink on the page. You might find that the best way to move your writing forward is to take a step back into the past.

Have you ever tried handwriting your first draft? Do you find it helps you unlock new ideas, or does it feel like extra work? Let me know in the comments below.

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Day 140 – Writing longhand rather than digitally

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The Case for the Page: Why Your Next First Draft Should Be Handwritten

In an era of lightning-fast keyboards, voice-to-text, and AI-assisted drafting, the act of putting pen to paper can feel almost prehistoric. Why reach for a pen when you can type at 80 words per minute? Why endure the hand cramp when you can edit with a simple backspace?

Yet, there is a growing movement of writers—from novelists to essayists—who are returning to the humble notebook for their first drafts. Beyond the aesthetic appeal of a leather-bound journal or the scratch of a fountain pen, there is a profound, functional benefit to writing in longhand.

If you’ve been feeling disconnected from your writing, here is why you might want to slow it down and go analog.

1. A Tangible Record of Your Evolution

When you write digitally, the “delete” key is a magician. You type a sentence, realise it’s weak, hit backspace, and it vanishes into the ether. It is as if the thought never existed.

In longhand, you cannot truly erase. You can only cross out.

This creates a tangible map of your creative process. When you look back at a physical page, you see the evolution of your ideas. You see the discarded phrases, the scribbled synonyms in the margins, and the sudden arrows pointing to a better arrangement. This “messy” draft becomes a record of your intellectual labor. It proves you didn’t just arrive at the finished product; you fought for it. There is a deep, psychological satisfaction in seeing that history remain on the page, rather than in a digital void.

2. The Permanence of Thought

Digital writing is ephemeral. Even with “Track Changes” or version history, the digital experience is defined by constant editing. We are trained to polish as we go, which stifles the raw, uninhibited flow of a first draft.

Longhand forces a slower pace, but it also provides a sense of finality. Once the ink touches the paper, the thought is “baked.” This forces you to be more deliberate with your word choices, yet paradoxically, it also allows you to make mistakes without the pressure to correct them immediately. Because you can’t easily “clean up” a handwritten draft, you are forced to keep moving forward, which is the golden rule of drafting: don’t look back until the page is full.

3. A Deeper Cognitive Connection

Neuroscience suggests that the brain processes information differently when we engage in handwriting. The physical act of forming letters and the tactile sensation of pen on paper activate different areas of the brain than typing does.

Many writers report that longhand helps them enter a “flow state” more easily. There are no notifications popping up in the corner of your notebook. No temptation to check email. No ability to reformat your font or check the word count every five minutes. It is just you and the paper, creating an environment where deep focus is the default, not the exception.

4. The Beauty of the “Permanent Erasure”

There is a unique kind of vulnerability in handwriting. Because you cannot delete, you learn to embrace the imperfection. You stop obsessing over the perfect opening sentence and start focusing on the truth of the sentence.

When you do eventually transcribe your handwritten draft into a digital format, you are essentially performing your first major edit. You aren’t just copying; you’re reading, refining, and selecting the best parts of what you wrote. It turns the editing process into a deliberate, second-pass creative act rather than a chore.

The Verdict?

Writing in longhand isn’t about being a Luddite. It’s about recognising that the “best” tools for efficiency aren’t always the “best” tools for creativity.

If your writing feels stagnant or you find yourself endlessly editing instead of creating, put the laptop away. Grab a pen. Feel the weight of the ink on the page. You might find that the best way to move your writing forward is to take a step back into the past.

Have you ever tried handwriting your first draft? Do you find it helps you unlock new ideas, or does it feel like extra work? Let me know in the comments below.

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Day 139 – Writing Exercise

The hall was the quietest it had been while the king was still alive.

…

There had been a hush all over the kingdom after the old king had died.  He had lived for exactly 100 years, and right up until the last day, he had been wise and imposing.

Not once in his sixty-five-year reign had there been any talk of sedition or treason.  He was fair and forceful to everyone, whatever station in life they came from.

It was more than could be said for his forebears, some of whom had been ‘terrible’.  Ivan had been a particular example.  Some had been ‘benevolent’ like George, his grandfather.  He promised his Queen he would never be like his father before him, and he wasn’t.

When it came time for the eldest child, either male or female, to take over the role of Monarch of West Lexis, you were allowed to use your own name or pick one from a set.

Those sets included Ivan, George, Richard, John and Charles.  For the girls, the names were Elizabeth, Jane, Anne, Margaret and Susannah.

In the most recent line of succession, there had been three boys, George, Walter and John, and three girls, Elizabeth, Susan and Frances.  George was the eldest boy, and Elizabeth was the second eldest.

In an unusual accident whilst conducting the annual hunt, in which men went out into the woods to kill deer to stock up on meat for winter, it was the right of the eldest son to run the hunt.

He had been, it was said when the news of the fatality had been broadcast across the land, in the wrong place at the wrong time.  And it had been the first time ever.

It had caused great sadness, and a hundred days of mourning had to pass before the new monarch was crowned.  That had happened from the day after the old king was buried in the sacred graveyard of the monarchs, a place where only the Chancellor and his personal guard knew.

Once there, and buried, only then could his mortal soul continue on its journey to the final resting place of all monarchs, Valhalla.

…

Ludrig, Superintendent of the castle guard, was about to do the morning rounds, the day after it had been proclaimed that the hundred days of mourning were over.

The sun had come up through the mountains, a bright yellow, signifying not only a brilliant start to the next day, but a good omen, that the weight of the next monarchs would begin with the blessings of the Gods.

Life was beginning to return to the castle’s main corridors and rooms, with the castle workers moving on to clean and prepare for the coronation activities before the big day.

Ludrig’s job was to oversee those activities in conjunction with the Chancellor.  He was on top of the East tower, the first to see the sun every morning, when the skies were clear.

It was this morning, and along with the second in command of the castle guard, Walther, they had stood together, swords facing the first rays until the light glinted on the metal, then swore their allegiance to the new monarch.

Elizabeth.

The king had reached Valhalla, the hundred days of mourning were complete, the people no longer had to wear black out of respect, and life could begin again.

The two men sheathed their swords.  They were as much ceremonial as they were for battle, though no one could remember the last battle West Lexis had fought with anyone.

From the top of the castle, on a good day, one could see the main castle of East Lexia, quite a distance away.  On a good day, like today.

“Wonder what they’re thinking?”

“That it’s time for celebrations.  We have the three other Lexias dignitaries coming to the festivities, and the games are promising to be the best ever.

Ludrig was the current Joust champion and had just fallen short of winning the Knight, Grand Master title, a title he had held for the last five tournaments.

It was bound to happen eventually.  He was getting old, despite being remarkably fit for his age.

“All of them are, Walther.  And I have been working on the fault that caused the loss of the title last.  Sir Samson will not get away with it again.”

“I heard he has a new bag of tricks available.”

“What new tricks?  He talks big but doesn’t show us anything.  He is, as he had always been, a windbag.
He won’t know what hit him.”

Or so Ludrig thought. It was Ludrig’s only failing, his ego that refused to believe he could never be bested.

Walther shrugged.  That was in the future.

In the meantime, it was going to be non-stop preparations.  Tournaments to be set up, names of the competitors to be collected, sport fields set up, banquets for both nobles and the commoners to be set you and food arranged.

The young queen was out of mourning and could now tour the country, and the sister countries for many discussions and political policy reviews, the way the country would be run and how it would interact with her sister countries.

He was in charge of the Queen’s escort and had to prepare for that too.  It was going to be a very busy schedule.

“Time passes far too quickly for my liking.”

“Better get to it then.”

The last rays of the sun that lowered up onto the sky before it came out from behind the hills had dissipated, and the yellow orb glowed in a clear blue sky.  The omen was predicting peace, happiness, and prosperity for all.

The separated in the guard house below, Ludwig to report to the Queen, Walther to the barracks to begin drilling the men.  The lazy days were over.

…

It was a 500-year-old story, how the four kingdoms of Lexia came into existence.  Far, far back in the almost forgotten mists of time, there used to be one single kingdom.  Lexia.

And had not a miracle occurred, there would still be one kingdom.

Or, as some would say, very quietly, it was exactly the opposite.

But whether a miracle or a judgement from the Gods, the Queen of Lexia gave birth to four children on the same day, and under Lexia’s Royal charter, the eldest child was the rightful heir.

That meant the firstborn.

That edict remained in place until the King was on his deathbed, and the Queen, along with the then Chancellor, got the King to sign a decree that all children would become Monarchs in their own right, and that Lexia would be divided into four equal kingdoms, North, South, East, and West.  All the same size, each with a central castle, and an equal share of the country’s wealth.

And so it was done.

It had worked for 200 or more years before a dispute broke out between two of the kingdoms, a battle ensued, and then was quelled by the other two, with the surrender terms negotiated, life returned to normal.

Only for one kingdom, or more importantly, the Monarch, it didn’t.

David Montgomery, King of East Lexia, was discontent with how his kingdom was made to pay for the battle he didn’t start, 300 years ago, and it had festered since through the generations.

But he did know that it was the King of West Lexia, back then, who had something to do with the settlement terms, and had managed to get away with stealing a very valuable set of jewels that belonged to West Lexia.

It was one of the original four that Lexia, when united, used for coronations.  Each of the four had been granted a set each.

There was a story somewhere in the mists of time that was the true and correct account of the Jewels of the Moonbeam, said to be part of the astrological connection to the Gods.  And as far as Mongonery was concerned, West Lexia had them, and he wanted them back.

And with the coronation of the new Queen of West Lexia, it was time for the truth to come out.

…

It was early, the first day of the pre-coronation festivities, starting with the grand tour of West Lexia.

Not that Elizabeth hadn’t been out and about during the mourning period, after all, she was still the Queen, and had only to be officially recognised by government and the church.

At long last, and thankfully, she would not have to wear black. Only those who chose to would. 

Her personal maid, Nathalie, had set out a purple dress, relatively plain in design, but spoke of elegance and majesty.  With her Princess tiara and the sapphire necklace that was inherited from her mother on the day of succession, it would let everyone know that Elizabeth was their Queen.

Nathalie had worked hard to progress to be the Queen’s personal handmaid.  It had been her goal from the moment she started as a maid in the castle. She knew one day her mistress would become Queen, and had persevered through all the tantrums and youthful exuberance and their relationship that once started very rocky, had matured into one of mutual respect.

As one of her talents, the ability to converse, listen, and understand what she was either hearing or discussing, Nathalie always had her ears open, taking in everything around her. 

Her mistress never once asked to be a spy, but was genuinely surprised that Nathalie was always well across Castle affairs, and had stories she could tell, but she had learned early that discretion was a wise master.  Sometimes, just part of a story was not the whole story.

There was always a scandal, however, and Elizabeth loved scandal, especially if it involved her brothers and sisters and nobility, simply because of their hypocrisy.  Elizabeth herself had secrets, but she made sure that she was very discreet.

Elizabeth summoned Nathalie when it was time to get ready for the Chancellor’s morning visit, starting the conversation with the same question, “What is the gossip this morning?”

Nathalie had already laid out all her mistress’s clothing ready for the mistress to approve or disapprove, which didn’t happen very often, ready to put on, piece by piece.  Sometimes it could be a laborious job.

“Your Royal Highness.”  She curtsied.  “Outside the castle, there are rumours of incursions by bandits from the south.”

“We have those all the time.  Since the famine, it has been difficult for all of us, and some people think it is easier to steal than to try to mitigate the effects by doing something about it.  We built a dam, and now have the water to grow crops during famine.  As for the incursions, we will put a stop to them.”

She had spoken to the Chancellor, and he was drawing up a proclamation.  All thieves who were caught and found guilty were not going to enjoy the same accommodations her father extended to them.

There were other interesting snippets of conversation between the two, always in hushed tones because there was no telling who was listening, as the layers went on.

“Was there anything else?”  They were up to the top layer, a sash, the tiara, jewellery, and shoes.  This morning it was taking a long time.

“Have you heard of the Jewels of the Moonbeam?”

She stopped suddenly and gripped the arm of the girl. “Where did you hear that?”

Nathalie immediately went on the defensive, thinking she had gone too far, that it was a top secret subject, and should have inferred that from the fact she hadn’t heard very much and initially wasn’t going to say anything.

Now she had stepped over that line and couldn’t worm her way out.

“Two … two soldiers walking down the street,” Nathalie stammered breathlessly, now almost terrified.

Elizabeth immediately realised she had scared her maid, obviously fearing the worst.  The Royal Children had a reputation for quick tempers and appalling behaviour, and whilst her earlier years were difficult, she had matured.

She immediately softened her look and let her go, and gently caressed the red welt forming above her wrist.  “I am sorry, Nathalie, I don’t know what came over me.  It’s a touchy subject for all of the Royal families.”

“Then I shall not mention it again.”

“No. No.  We keep no secrets between us, Nathalie.  I would like to know anything you hear.  But please don’t tell anyone else.  But this, you overheard two soldiers?  Would you recognise them again?”

Nathalie looked surprised.  “No.  They all look the same to me.”

Elizabeth had to admit she was right.  Except for a small flag on the sleeves, one kingdom could not really be identified by another.  But she knew, instinctively, that they were not soldiers from her kingdom.

“Can you remember if they said anything else?”

“That was all I heard.  They were too far away, and I wasn’t going to follow them.  You know what soldiers do to servant girls.”

She did, and that was something else she had to address with the Chancellor.

As for the Jewels, she had only just heard from the Chancellor that they would have to visit the castle strongroom where family valuables were kept, along with the Kingdom’s fortune, to try on the Coronation jewellery, also known as West Lexia’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

It was the first time she had ever heard of them.

“You must not repeat anything you heard about those Jewels.  They are a secret within a very small circle of this Kingdom.  You will never mention them again.  Am I clear?”

“I shall not, your Majesty.  You have my word of honour.”

“Excellent.  I know I can rely on you.”

They went back to finishing dressing.  Nathalie had to get home.  She had told one other person, her mother, and she was not one to hold her tongue at the best of times.

…

Walther had been summoned to the castle and the Queen’s chambers.  She needed escorting.  He brought three men, the leaders of each of the three groups that made up the guard.

It had been, he believed, the luck of the draw, his name with three others tossed into the box and to be drawn for who would be second in command.

Each of the four men was equally qualified, but Ludrig had been particularly pleased that he had drawn Walther’s name.

Walther had been his protege; he had taught him well, and unlike some of the others, was willing to learn and not improvise.

He was also intelligent and could improvise when it mattered, like in the middle of mock battles.  It made him an excellent choice for the Queen’s private guard.  It helped that she liked him, unlike his two predecessors, both of whom treated her like an errant child.

Both ended up languishing at a border guard post.

Walther believed in punctuality and respect for the uniform.  Each of his men was in ceremonial dress, but also armed, ready for anything.

A formidable force to be reckoned with.

And as they made their way from the guard’s mess to the Queen’s chambers, it was a reminder to the people that the guard were visible, available, and ready to protect the Queen and her people.

The cry, “Make way for the Queen’s guard,” was treated with the respect and reverence it deserved.

Outside the main chamber, the three guardsmen formed a line.  No one would pass unless bidden.

Walther entered when requested.

She was ready, taking two of her personal maids with her.  Walther would walk with her, half a step behind, the maids, one guard on either side of the maids and one at the rear.

Destination: the Treasury.

Ludrig had set up checkpoints and had men on guard.  It was the first real exercise since her accession.  Practice was over.

The path from the chamber required leaving the main castle and taking a path to one of the structures at the rear of the main castle, one of the granary, the middle, the church, or the other, the treasury. 

In the treasury was a vault, and in the vault were the Kingdom’s most valuable treasures.  The treasury was also where the Kingdom’s coins were struck, and they were currently creating a set of coins commemorating the coronation of the new Queen.

As far as Walther was concerned, his Queen was there to inspect the new coinage.

As expected, people turned out to see their Queen along the short path in the open.  Walther saw no hostility, but it wasn’t exactly as joyous as he thought it might be.

In fact, if someone had asked him what the general mood of the people was, it would be subdued, maybe even a little disappointed.  But alongside that, he noticed something else: men loitering.

They did not look like labourers or artisans; they were men who looked like they had military training, dressed in labourers’ clothes to hide behind.

That was far more worrisome and a matter to take up with Ludrig after this detail.

At the Treasury, they left the three-man guard at the entrance to the Treasury, and he joined the Queen, her two maids and the Chancellor who had just appeared from inside the main building.

From the entrance, they went to the vault.  The treasury guard was the only person who had a key, and by the time they reached the vault, the head of the guard, Smithton, arrived breathless.

And late.

Elizabeth was unimpressed.

The Chancellor apologised and said he would take care of the matter.  The atmosphere was quite tense. 

If it were up to Walther, he would have taken the guard and locked him up.

The vault was opened, and only the Queen and the Chancellor went in.

…

The vault was quite large and had various rooms within it for the treasures: one for gold, one for silver, one for spare utensils used throughout the castle, and another for gemstones.

And in the corner, a pedestal with a special box which held the Kingdom’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

They were the most significant treasure in the Kingdom, used only for the Coronation of the new monarch.  Elizabeth had requested to see them.

“The necklace was one of four created at the time of the great split, each given a different colour, red, blue, green and amber.  Ours is the blue set.”

The Chancellor took out a special key and unlocked the box, as Elizabeth moved closer. 

He lifted the lid.

Both gasped.  The box was empty.

The Jewels were gone.

“Where is it?” Elizabeth asked.

“It was here the last time I looked.  I check once a month.”

“Can we have the coronation without it?”

“No.  The charter forbids it.”

Elizabeth went back to Walther.  “Seal off the castle.  No one out but let people come in.  Turn out the guard.  I want this whole castle searched from top to bottom.”  She gave him a drawing of the necklace the Chancellor had given her.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And if anyone tries to leave or gives you any trouble, lock them up.”

He nodded, then left. 

…

Charles Heath  2026

Day 139 – Writing Exercise

The hall was the quietest it had been while the king was still alive.

…

There had been a hush all over the kingdom after the old king had died.  He had lived for exactly 100 years, and right up until the last day, he had been wise and imposing.

Not once in his sixty-five-year reign had there been any talk of sedition or treason.  He was fair and forceful to everyone, whatever station in life they came from.

It was more than could be said for his forebears, some of whom had been ‘terrible’.  Ivan had been a particular example.  Some had been ‘benevolent’ like George, his grandfather.  He promised his Queen he would never be like his father before him, and he wasn’t.

When it came time for the eldest child, either male or female, to take over the role of Monarch of West Lexis, you were allowed to use your own name or pick one from a set.

Those sets included Ivan, George, Richard, John and Charles.  For the girls, the names were Elizabeth, Jane, Anne, Margaret and Susannah.

In the most recent line of succession, there had been three boys, George, Walter and John, and three girls, Elizabeth, Susan and Frances.  George was the eldest boy, and Elizabeth was the second eldest.

In an unusual accident whilst conducting the annual hunt, in which men went out into the woods to kill deer to stock up on meat for winter, it was the right of the eldest son to run the hunt.

He had been, it was said when the news of the fatality had been broadcast across the land, in the wrong place at the wrong time.  And it had been the first time ever.

It had caused great sadness, and a hundred days of mourning had to pass before the new monarch was crowned.  That had happened from the day after the old king was buried in the sacred graveyard of the monarchs, a place where only the Chancellor and his personal guard knew.

Once there, and buried, only then could his mortal soul continue on its journey to the final resting place of all monarchs, Valhalla.

…

Ludrig, Superintendent of the castle guard, was about to do the morning rounds, the day after it had been proclaimed that the hundred days of mourning were over.

The sun had come up through the mountains, a bright yellow, signifying not only a brilliant start to the next day, but a good omen, that the weight of the next monarchs would begin with the blessings of the Gods.

Life was beginning to return to the castle’s main corridors and rooms, with the castle workers moving on to clean and prepare for the coronation activities before the big day.

Ludrig’s job was to oversee those activities in conjunction with the Chancellor.  He was on top of the East tower, the first to see the sun every morning, when the skies were clear.

It was this morning, and along with the second in command of the castle guard, Walther, they had stood together, swords facing the first rays until the light glinted on the metal, then swore their allegiance to the new monarch.

Elizabeth.

The king had reached Valhalla, the hundred days of mourning were complete, the people no longer had to wear black out of respect, and life could begin again.

The two men sheathed their swords.  They were as much ceremonial as they were for battle, though no one could remember the last battle West Lexis had fought with anyone.

From the top of the castle, on a good day, one could see the main castle of East Lexia, quite a distance away.  On a good day, like today.

“Wonder what they’re thinking?”

“That it’s time for celebrations.  We have the three other Lexias dignitaries coming to the festivities, and the games are promising to be the best ever.

Ludrig was the current Joust champion and had just fallen short of winning the Knight, Grand Master title, a title he had held for the last five tournaments.

It was bound to happen eventually.  He was getting old, despite being remarkably fit for his age.

“All of them are, Walther.  And I have been working on the fault that caused the loss of the title last.  Sir Samson will not get away with it again.”

“I heard he has a new bag of tricks available.”

“What new tricks?  He talks big but doesn’t show us anything.  He is, as he had always been, a windbag.
He won’t know what hit him.”

Or so Ludrig thought. It was Ludrig’s only failing, his ego that refused to believe he could never be bested.

Walther shrugged.  That was in the future.

In the meantime, it was going to be non-stop preparations.  Tournaments to be set up, names of the competitors to be collected, sport fields set up, banquets for both nobles and the commoners to be set you and food arranged.

The young queen was out of mourning and could now tour the country, and the sister countries for many discussions and political policy reviews, the way the country would be run and how it would interact with her sister countries.

He was in charge of the Queen’s escort and had to prepare for that too.  It was going to be a very busy schedule.

“Time passes far too quickly for my liking.”

“Better get to it then.”

The last rays of the sun that lowered up onto the sky before it came out from behind the hills had dissipated, and the yellow orb glowed in a clear blue sky.  The omen was predicting peace, happiness, and prosperity for all.

The separated in the guard house below, Ludwig to report to the Queen, Walther to the barracks to begin drilling the men.  The lazy days were over.

…

It was a 500-year-old story, how the four kingdoms of Lexia came into existence.  Far, far back in the almost forgotten mists of time, there used to be one single kingdom.  Lexia.

And had not a miracle occurred, there would still be one kingdom.

Or, as some would say, very quietly, it was exactly the opposite.

But whether a miracle or a judgement from the Gods, the Queen of Lexia gave birth to four children on the same day, and under Lexia’s Royal charter, the eldest child was the rightful heir.

That meant the firstborn.

That edict remained in place until the King was on his deathbed, and the Queen, along with the then Chancellor, got the King to sign a decree that all children would become Monarchs in their own right, and that Lexia would be divided into four equal kingdoms, North, South, East, and West.  All the same size, each with a central castle, and an equal share of the country’s wealth.

And so it was done.

It had worked for 200 or more years before a dispute broke out between two of the kingdoms, a battle ensued, and then was quelled by the other two, with the surrender terms negotiated, life returned to normal.

Only for one kingdom, or more importantly, the Monarch, it didn’t.

David Montgomery, King of East Lexia, was discontent with how his kingdom was made to pay for the battle he didn’t start, 300 years ago, and it had festered since through the generations.

But he did know that it was the King of West Lexia, back then, who had something to do with the settlement terms, and had managed to get away with stealing a very valuable set of jewels that belonged to West Lexia.

It was one of the original four that Lexia, when united, used for coronations.  Each of the four had been granted a set each.

There was a story somewhere in the mists of time that was the true and correct account of the Jewels of the Moonbeam, said to be part of the astrological connection to the Gods.  And as far as Mongonery was concerned, West Lexia had them, and he wanted them back.

And with the coronation of the new Queen of West Lexia, it was time for the truth to come out.

…

It was early, the first day of the pre-coronation festivities, starting with the grand tour of West Lexia.

Not that Elizabeth hadn’t been out and about during the mourning period, after all, she was still the Queen, and had only to be officially recognised by government and the church.

At long last, and thankfully, she would not have to wear black. Only those who chose to would. 

Her personal maid, Nathalie, had set out a purple dress, relatively plain in design, but spoke of elegance and majesty.  With her Princess tiara and the sapphire necklace that was inherited from her mother on the day of succession, it would let everyone know that Elizabeth was their Queen.

Nathalie had worked hard to progress to be the Queen’s personal handmaid.  It had been her goal from the moment she started as a maid in the castle. She knew one day her mistress would become Queen, and had persevered through all the tantrums and youthful exuberance and their relationship that once started very rocky, had matured into one of mutual respect.

As one of her talents, the ability to converse, listen, and understand what she was either hearing or discussing, Nathalie always had her ears open, taking in everything around her. 

Her mistress never once asked to be a spy, but was genuinely surprised that Nathalie was always well across Castle affairs, and had stories she could tell, but she had learned early that discretion was a wise master.  Sometimes, just part of a story was not the whole story.

There was always a scandal, however, and Elizabeth loved scandal, especially if it involved her brothers and sisters and nobility, simply because of their hypocrisy.  Elizabeth herself had secrets, but she made sure that she was very discreet.

Elizabeth summoned Nathalie when it was time to get ready for the Chancellor’s morning visit, starting the conversation with the same question, “What is the gossip this morning?”

Nathalie had already laid out all her mistress’s clothing ready for the mistress to approve or disapprove, which didn’t happen very often, ready to put on, piece by piece.  Sometimes it could be a laborious job.

“Your Royal Highness.”  She curtsied.  “Outside the castle, there are rumours of incursions by bandits from the south.”

“We have those all the time.  Since the famine, it has been difficult for all of us, and some people think it is easier to steal than to try to mitigate the effects by doing something about it.  We built a dam, and now have the water to grow crops during famine.  As for the incursions, we will put a stop to them.”

She had spoken to the Chancellor, and he was drawing up a proclamation.  All thieves who were caught and found guilty were not going to enjoy the same accommodations her father extended to them.

There were other interesting snippets of conversation between the two, always in hushed tones because there was no telling who was listening, as the layers went on.

“Was there anything else?”  They were up to the top layer, a sash, the tiara, jewellery, and shoes.  This morning it was taking a long time.

“Have you heard of the Jewels of the Moonbeam?”

She stopped suddenly and gripped the arm of the girl. “Where did you hear that?”

Nathalie immediately went on the defensive, thinking she had gone too far, that it was a top secret subject, and should have inferred that from the fact she hadn’t heard very much and initially wasn’t going to say anything.

Now she had stepped over that line and couldn’t worm her way out.

“Two … two soldiers walking down the street,” Nathalie stammered breathlessly, now almost terrified.

Elizabeth immediately realised she had scared her maid, obviously fearing the worst.  The Royal Children had a reputation for quick tempers and appalling behaviour, and whilst her earlier years were difficult, she had matured.

She immediately softened her look and let her go, and gently caressed the red welt forming above her wrist.  “I am sorry, Nathalie, I don’t know what came over me.  It’s a touchy subject for all of the Royal families.”

“Then I shall not mention it again.”

“No. No.  We keep no secrets between us, Nathalie.  I would like to know anything you hear.  But please don’t tell anyone else.  But this, you overheard two soldiers?  Would you recognise them again?”

Nathalie looked surprised.  “No.  They all look the same to me.”

Elizabeth had to admit she was right.  Except for a small flag on the sleeves, one kingdom could not really be identified by another.  But she knew, instinctively, that they were not soldiers from her kingdom.

“Can you remember if they said anything else?”

“That was all I heard.  They were too far away, and I wasn’t going to follow them.  You know what soldiers do to servant girls.”

She did, and that was something else she had to address with the Chancellor.

As for the Jewels, she had only just heard from the Chancellor that they would have to visit the castle strongroom where family valuables were kept, along with the Kingdom’s fortune, to try on the Coronation jewellery, also known as West Lexia’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

It was the first time she had ever heard of them.

“You must not repeat anything you heard about those Jewels.  They are a secret within a very small circle of this Kingdom.  You will never mention them again.  Am I clear?”

“I shall not, your Majesty.  You have my word of honour.”

“Excellent.  I know I can rely on you.”

They went back to finishing dressing.  Nathalie had to get home.  She had told one other person, her mother, and she was not one to hold her tongue at the best of times.

…

Walther had been summoned to the castle and the Queen’s chambers.  She needed escorting.  He brought three men, the leaders of each of the three groups that made up the guard.

It had been, he believed, the luck of the draw, his name with three others tossed into the box and to be drawn for who would be second in command.

Each of the four men was equally qualified, but Ludrig had been particularly pleased that he had drawn Walther’s name.

Walther had been his protege; he had taught him well, and unlike some of the others, was willing to learn and not improvise.

He was also intelligent and could improvise when it mattered, like in the middle of mock battles.  It made him an excellent choice for the Queen’s private guard.  It helped that she liked him, unlike his two predecessors, both of whom treated her like an errant child.

Both ended up languishing at a border guard post.

Walther believed in punctuality and respect for the uniform.  Each of his men was in ceremonial dress, but also armed, ready for anything.

A formidable force to be reckoned with.

And as they made their way from the guard’s mess to the Queen’s chambers, it was a reminder to the people that the guard were visible, available, and ready to protect the Queen and her people.

The cry, “Make way for the Queen’s guard,” was treated with the respect and reverence it deserved.

Outside the main chamber, the three guardsmen formed a line.  No one would pass unless bidden.

Walther entered when requested.

She was ready, taking two of her personal maids with her.  Walther would walk with her, half a step behind, the maids, one guard on either side of the maids and one at the rear.

Destination: the Treasury.

Ludrig had set up checkpoints and had men on guard.  It was the first real exercise since her accession.  Practice was over.

The path from the chamber required leaving the main castle and taking a path to one of the structures at the rear of the main castle, one of the granary, the middle, the church, or the other, the treasury. 

In the treasury was a vault, and in the vault were the Kingdom’s most valuable treasures.  The treasury was also where the Kingdom’s coins were struck, and they were currently creating a set of coins commemorating the coronation of the new Queen.

As far as Walther was concerned, his Queen was there to inspect the new coinage.

As expected, people turned out to see their Queen along the short path in the open.  Walther saw no hostility, but it wasn’t exactly as joyous as he thought it might be.

In fact, if someone had asked him what the general mood of the people was, it would be subdued, maybe even a little disappointed.  But alongside that, he noticed something else: men loitering.

They did not look like labourers or artisans; they were men who looked like they had military training, dressed in labourers’ clothes to hide behind.

That was far more worrisome and a matter to take up with Ludrig after this detail.

At the Treasury, they left the three-man guard at the entrance to the Treasury, and he joined the Queen, her two maids and the Chancellor who had just appeared from inside the main building.

From the entrance, they went to the vault.  The treasury guard was the only person who had a key, and by the time they reached the vault, the head of the guard, Smithton, arrived breathless.

And late.

Elizabeth was unimpressed.

The Chancellor apologised and said he would take care of the matter.  The atmosphere was quite tense. 

If it were up to Walther, he would have taken the guard and locked him up.

The vault was opened, and only the Queen and the Chancellor went in.

…

The vault was quite large and had various rooms within it for the treasures: one for gold, one for silver, one for spare utensils used throughout the castle, and another for gemstones.

And in the corner, a pedestal with a special box which held the Kingdom’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

They were the most significant treasure in the Kingdom, used only for the Coronation of the new monarch.  Elizabeth had requested to see them.

“The necklace was one of four created at the time of the great split, each given a different colour, red, blue, green and amber.  Ours is the blue set.”

The Chancellor took out a special key and unlocked the box, as Elizabeth moved closer. 

He lifted the lid.

Both gasped.  The box was empty.

The Jewels were gone.

“Where is it?” Elizabeth asked.

“It was here the last time I looked.  I check once a month.”

“Can we have the coronation without it?”

“No.  The charter forbids it.”

Elizabeth went back to Walther.  “Seal off the castle.  No one out but let people come in.  Turn out the guard.  I want this whole castle searched from top to bottom.”  She gave him a drawing of the necklace the Chancellor had given her.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And if anyone tries to leave or gives you any trouble, lock them up.”

He nodded, then left. 

…

Charles Heath  2026

Day 138 – That last work

…

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

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

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

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

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

The Burden of Choice

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

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

How do you decide? Do you choose:

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

The Search for the “Essence”

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

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

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

How Would You Choose?

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

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

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

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

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

…

Day 138 – That last work

…

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

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

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

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

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

The Burden of Choice

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

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

How do you decide? Do you choose:

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

The Search for the “Essence”

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

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

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

How Would You Choose?

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

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

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

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

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

…

Days 136 and 137 – Writing Exercise

…

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

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

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

The fan was simply the loudest.

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

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

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

The fact that I was alive.

…

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

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

I was in a room.

I closed my eyes then opened them again.

There was something else.

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

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

Question: Who is the ‘we’?

…

Location established.

Not in imminent danger.

Breathe.

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

No restraints.  No pain when moving any part.

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

Only possibility: drugged.

So…

Where was I before this happened?

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

An urgent request for help.

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

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

Then nothing.

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

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

…

Here’s the thing.

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

I was not bound, not gagged, not hurt.

Why?

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

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

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

Leading to interrogation, sometimes with violence.

Been there and done that.

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

For someone who wanted revenge for past deeds…

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

…

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

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

The bedspread had seen better days.

The sheets and pillowcase matched.

It was not a hotel room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come.  Walk with me.”

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

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

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

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

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

Against everything I had been taught.

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

A shrug, then I stood and faced her.

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

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

“Aren’t we?”

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

I joined her.

There was a hint of lavender in the air.

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

So much for thorough research.

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

“Not just another pretty face, I imagine.”

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

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

“Not any more.”

…

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

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

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

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

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

It was impossible to see outside.

“What is this place?”

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

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

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

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

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

“We will beg to differ.”

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

The smile returned, the first in her eyes remained.

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

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

“What the…”

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

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

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

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

“It works,” Jocelyn said.

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

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

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

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

Crash test dummy or suicidal maniac? 

All in a day’s work.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026