Day 98 – The truth in your voice

…

Beyond the Lab Coat: What Rachel Carson Teaches Every Aspiring Writer

In the 1930s, the scientific community was a fortress of rigid archetypes. To be a “scientist” meant you were expected to behave, dress, and communicate in a specific way—usually echoing the dry, inaccessible jargon of academia.

Then came Rachel Carson.

Carson didn’t fit the mold. She wasn’t a stereotypical lab-coat-wearing academic, but she possessed a secret weapon that would eventually change the world: a profound flair for narrative. Her journey—from her humble beginnings writing radio scripts on the habits of fish to authoring the earth-shattering Silent Spring—offers a masterclass for any beginning writer today.

If you are just starting your writing journey, here is why Rachel Carson should be your guiding light.

1. Your “Lack of Fit” is Your Greatest Asset

When Carson started, she was an outlier. She didn’t have the traditional “authority” that a tenured professor might have had, but that was precisely why she succeeded. Because she didn’t write like a scientist, she didn’t write for scientists; she wrote for the public.

The Lesson: If you feel like an imposter because you don’t have a specific degree, a decade of experience, or a “correct” background, stop worrying. The most compelling stories are often told by the outsiders. Your unique perspective is not a lack of qualification; it is your competitive edge.

2. The Power of “Translating” Complexity

Carson’s genius lay in her ability to take dense, technical data about marine biology and transform it into lyrical prose. She understood that facts are meaningless if they don’t resonate with the reader’s emotions. Her early work on fish wasn’t just a report; it was storytelling.

The Lesson: Don’t just dump information. Your job as a writer is to be a bridge between complexity and comprehension. Whether you are writing about technology, finance, or arts and culture, focus on the “human” angle. Use metaphors, narrative arcs, and evocative language to make your subject matter breathe.

3. Start Small, But Think Big

Carson didn’t set out to write Silent Spring as her first project. She started by writing scripts for the U.S. Bureau of Fisheries. Those seemingly small, unglamorous tasks were the forge where she sharpened her voice. She mastered the craft of clear, rhythmic, and persuasive writing on a small scale before she took on the monumental task of changing global environmental policy.

The Lesson: Don’t wait for the “Big Book” or the “Viral Hit” to start practising. Hone your craft on the small stuff. Write the blog post, the newsletter, the caption, or the short essay. Every sentence is a rep in the gym. You are building the muscle that will eventually allow you to write something that matters.

4. Curiosity is the Engine of Credibility

Carson’s work on Silent Spring wasn’t just a sudden burst of inspiration; it was built on years of being a voracious learner. She cared deeply about the subject matter. Readers can smell when a writer is just “phoning it in.”

The Lesson: Write about what you are legitimately curious about. If you are passionate and curious, you will do the deep research required to back up your claims. That research is what gives you authority—not a title, not a degree, but the sheer effort you put into understanding your subject.

The Takeaway

Rachel Carson reimagined what a “science writer” could be. She proved that you don’t need a formal invitation to change the conversation; you just need a pen, a perspective, and the courage to tell the truth in your own voice.

If you’re a beginner, remember: You don’t need to fit the mold of the authors who came before you. You just need to show up, do the work, and let your curiosity lead the way. You never know—the “small” piece you write today might be the one that shifts the world tomorrow.

Day 98 – The truth in your voice

…

Beyond the Lab Coat: What Rachel Carson Teaches Every Aspiring Writer

In the 1930s, the scientific community was a fortress of rigid archetypes. To be a “scientist” meant you were expected to behave, dress, and communicate in a specific way—usually echoing the dry, inaccessible jargon of academia.

Then came Rachel Carson.

Carson didn’t fit the mold. She wasn’t a stereotypical lab-coat-wearing academic, but she possessed a secret weapon that would eventually change the world: a profound flair for narrative. Her journey—from her humble beginnings writing radio scripts on the habits of fish to authoring the earth-shattering Silent Spring—offers a masterclass for any beginning writer today.

If you are just starting your writing journey, here is why Rachel Carson should be your guiding light.

1. Your “Lack of Fit” is Your Greatest Asset

When Carson started, she was an outlier. She didn’t have the traditional “authority” that a tenured professor might have had, but that was precisely why she succeeded. Because she didn’t write like a scientist, she didn’t write for scientists; she wrote for the public.

The Lesson: If you feel like an imposter because you don’t have a specific degree, a decade of experience, or a “correct” background, stop worrying. The most compelling stories are often told by the outsiders. Your unique perspective is not a lack of qualification; it is your competitive edge.

2. The Power of “Translating” Complexity

Carson’s genius lay in her ability to take dense, technical data about marine biology and transform it into lyrical prose. She understood that facts are meaningless if they don’t resonate with the reader’s emotions. Her early work on fish wasn’t just a report; it was storytelling.

The Lesson: Don’t just dump information. Your job as a writer is to be a bridge between complexity and comprehension. Whether you are writing about technology, finance, or arts and culture, focus on the “human” angle. Use metaphors, narrative arcs, and evocative language to make your subject matter breathe.

3. Start Small, But Think Big

Carson didn’t set out to write Silent Spring as her first project. She started by writing scripts for the U.S. Bureau of Fisheries. Those seemingly small, unglamorous tasks were the forge where she sharpened her voice. She mastered the craft of clear, rhythmic, and persuasive writing on a small scale before she took on the monumental task of changing global environmental policy.

The Lesson: Don’t wait for the “Big Book” or the “Viral Hit” to start practising. Hone your craft on the small stuff. Write the blog post, the newsletter, the caption, or the short essay. Every sentence is a rep in the gym. You are building the muscle that will eventually allow you to write something that matters.

4. Curiosity is the Engine of Credibility

Carson’s work on Silent Spring wasn’t just a sudden burst of inspiration; it was built on years of being a voracious learner. She cared deeply about the subject matter. Readers can smell when a writer is just “phoning it in.”

The Lesson: Write about what you are legitimately curious about. If you are passionate and curious, you will do the deep research required to back up your claims. That research is what gives you authority—not a title, not a degree, but the sheer effort you put into understanding your subject.

The Takeaway

Rachel Carson reimagined what a “science writer” could be. She proved that you don’t need a formal invitation to change the conversation; you just need a pen, a perspective, and the courage to tell the truth in your own voice.

If you’re a beginner, remember: You don’t need to fit the mold of the authors who came before you. You just need to show up, do the work, and let your curiosity lead the way. You never know—the “small” piece you write today might be the one that shifts the world tomorrow.

Day 97 – Writing Exercise

…

I had been sitting in a chair looking at the inanimate robot that I was told was state-of-the-art, the very best of the best in technology.

And it was extremely scary.

The last memo I had received told me that robots would not be taking over our lives, that they were not going to be that lifelike that we could not tell whether they were human or android, and here was
the epitome of exactly the opposite.

I could not, at a distance of 10 feet, tell that I was not looking at another human.

It was standing, eyes open, looking at me, as if waiting for instructions.

But that had not been the worst of the revelation.

That robot looked exactly like me.

…

I had been summoned to the Central Robotics Institute to attend a demonstration of the latest humanised robot with the latest version of artificial intelligence programming.

About five years before, I had been on the short list for Director of the institute and had it not been for the fact, on the week before the announcement of the new Director, a recording of my comments against fully integrated artificial intelligence into human-like robots surfaced.

It was not a stance I was ashamed to admit I believed in; in fact, I had been campaigning against a Government green paper that set out the Government’s wish list in robotics and what drove them.

The person who got the job was, in a sense, a rival, though for many years, as we both toiled through school, university, and in the commercial sector, we once agreed on limiting AI and robotics.

Until she didn’t.  I guess she wanted the job more than I did and was willing to disavow her beliefs.  That was where our paths diverged, both in work and privately, where our plans to be married and start our own company were over.

I was disappointed, but not surprised.

She had joined the bloc to extoll everything she once hated, and was now actively promoting artificial intelligence as the saviour of mankind.

And I knew, secretly, she and the company she had been working with for nearly five years were tendering for a closed military contract worth trillions of dollars.

It was part of a push by the military to use artificial intelligence to drive a new line of defence weapons, including robot soldiers.

It was the worst nightmare come true; like any new breakthrough in technology, there was always a group of scientists looking to weaponise it.

This was the first prototype.  Fully functional, fully tested, and was about to be shown to the military.

Frances Terries, in a sense, my ex, had called two days before, the first contact we had in nearly five years, and invited me to the test facility, way out in the middle of the desert, far away from the enemy’s prying eyes.

She sent a private jet to fetch me.

When I landed, and she met me on the tarmac, I asked her why she had invited me.  All she said was as the program’s greatest detractor, I would become its greatest fan.

That was a challenge I wasn’t going to turn down.

…

I heard the clucking of heels behind me, and knew Frances was coming.  She would be alone.

She had introduced me to the highest echelons of the company, the men with the money, deep enough pockets to create such a robot.  Names that rarely made the papers, names that were involved in any number of government projects.  She was involved with one,  and I was happy for her.

She was always going to be a success, and had devoted what was necessary to create a unit she had been working on since her days back in University.  In fact, we had both worked on that project, but I had more reservations about what might happen if we succeeded in that.

But we never intended to build it or bring it to life.  I wondered briefly what tipped the scale for her.  I didn’t think it could be as crass as just money or fame.  She had never shown any inclination towards wanting acknowledgement, other than the respect from her peers and contemporaries.

Unless that had changed, too.

She stopped beside me, and I could just smell a hint of her favourite perfume.  Some things didn’t change.

“What do you think?” She asked.

“That you couldn’t stop thinking about me?”

Why else would she build a robot that looked like me?  Perhaps that statement was a little crass even for me.

She laughed.  “Only you could come up with something like that.  There is a lot of you in him.  He even has your name, Steven.”

“Programming?”

“Level 7 AI.  Best yet.  A vocabulary of infinite words.  There’s so much stuff crammed into his memory you could literally ask him anything.”

“Would he have a reason not to become a super soldier?”

“That was not why we built him.” 

She sounded a little indignant, which was a surprise.  Building a lifelike robot for the military wasn’t going to see them as office clerks or blue-collar workers.

“Except the military paid for the research and development.  We both know what is going to happen here.”

“I get the implication, but that is not the purpose of this particular model.”

“Not this particular one, perhaps.”

I could see out of the corner of my eye the frown. She might be thinking that asking me here was a mistake.  She had to know that I couldn’t in all conscience sign off on military robots.

She tried a different tack. “Perhaps they need them to go into space?  The military is also interested in manned space flights to other planets.  They do not have the same limitations as mortal men.”

Possible, but not probable.  I’d seen their green paper, and there weren’t many references to space travel, though the application would be ideal. They could lie dormant for the years it would take to get to the other planets.

“Agreed.  But we still have the problem of building robots that are going to take jobs of normal people.”

“AI is doing that new thing and has for a few years.  This is just a small progression, putting a real face to the interface.”

“You know my views.   Why exactly am I here…”

“To show you that our dream was not a dream, it’s now a reality. You didn’t believe it could be done.  And yet, here it is.”

I didn’t want it to happen.  There’s a difference.  I knew it was inevitable, and I had recently travelled the world to see the remarkable instances of humanoid robots.  But none of them had made them indistinguishable from real humans.

Or more to the point, they didn’t show me.

“Does it work?”

She gave a rather pointed look.  “Of course.”  She looked at the robot.  “Good morning, Steve.”

It turned its head and looked at her.  “Good morning, Miss Frances.” It turned slightly to look at me.  “I am guessing you are Steven Fletcher.  How do you do?”

The polite tone was matched with a quizzical expression.

“Good morning, Steve.  You have to admit, this is a rather curious experience, virtually talking to yourself.”

It was slightly disconcerting.

“Would you like to ask Steve a question?”

I still couldn’t quite understand why she had built a robot that looked like me.

I looked at him.  “Why?”

The reply came back almost instantly.

“Because it is a crooked letter and can’t be straightened.”

Wow.  That took me back to the first time Frances and I had an argument.  Not the first time we had a difference of opinion, but a real argument.  She had simply asked me why, and that’s how I answered her.  It was meant to inject some levity.

Had I known then that it would be the first crack in our relationship, maybe I would have kept the remark to myself.

“Of all the things to add to its vocabulary.”

“I assure you I did not.”

A glance at her expression told me she was as surprised as I was at the response.

I looked at the robot again, a very strange feeling coming over me.  “Are you self-aware, Steve?”

It looked at me, then at Frances, with a rather interesting expression on its face.  The fact that it could run through several almost infetisamble changes like a human would, was quite astonishing.

She said, ‘Answer him.”

Back to me.  “If you are asking me if I know that I am an artificial life form, the answer is yes.  That looks like you. That is a surprise for both of us.  I know that you and Miss Frances were once very good friends because she has told me a lot about you, but not the reason why you ceased being friends.  I will not speculate as to why she built me in your likeness.”

I would save my own speculation for another day.

“Thank you, Steve.”

She turned to me.  “Please.  Come with me.  I have several of the production teams waiting to answer any questions you have.”

“Any questions?”

“You have been given top-level clearance.  They know you were involved initially with the concept, and want your honest opinion of the product.”

“Is that what you are calling the Robot.  The product?”

“It is not human and therefore should not be labelled as anything but what it is.”

I shrugged.  She still didn’t get it.

…

The product.

That description stuck with me, because the problem I had with creating an entity that had even the slightest degree of autonomy was in my mind something more than a ‘product’.

It was getting close to a sentient being.

I used to marvel at the thought that robots could be life like, and in the great life imitates art paradime, it was where Frances and I got the idea to create a life like robot, and more so when we saw Data in Star Trek.

We had been avid science fiction fans, and one day just started throwing ideas around.  It wasn’t quite possible at that time because of limitations in developing body parts, and both computer storage and computing power were limited; communications between a unit and a central server were not as advanced.

Having a humanoid-type robot was possible, but its look and feel, as well as programming, would need a quantum leap in technology before something better could be contemplated.

Now, 10 years after our first attempts had a moderate degree of success, that environment was on a threshold.

Frances had the unit; the question was how AI would drive it, and in my mind, that’s where it fell down.  No one could program a computer to cover every eventuality that a human brain could.

If the army wanted a force of mindless automatons, it was possible, but how could they guarantee they wouldn’t turn on their masters? 

It was that very question I put to the programming team; they had answers, but in the end, not one was satisfactory.  And it was telling that Frances wrapped it up and sent them away when she saw what I was doing

Wasn’t that the reason she asked me to come and see her creation?

“You were being a little subjective, nnn.  You’re asking questions that haven’t yet been considered in detail.”

“What sort of demo are you planning for the military?  They will want to see a killing machine that won’t readily fall in battle.”

“That’s some way off in the future.  I’m told the programmers will be able to create an environment where it will be possible to discern allies and enemies and eliminate civilian casualties.”

“And you believe that’s possible?”

“I do.  Along with a set of overarching rules determined by the work assigned.  Teachers teach, doctors cure, janitors clean, mechanics mechanic.  They can do all the tedious jobs that no one wants to do, and they won’t need to be paid.”

“So an army of slaves.  It feels like we’re going full circle.”

She frowned at me.  The face that always told me she was annoyed.  We’d had these conversations before.

“You haven’t changed.  I don’t think you ever will.  You are seeing problems where there are none.  There is no intention of allowing the robots free thinking, or the ability to think for themselves.”

“But once you pass them onto the military, you’re not going to know how or where they deploy them.  Or with what programming?  If they have paid for the research and development, then they will access these computer units with whatever programming they see fit.   You know that, and I know that.  You want my opinion, the product you’ve created is astonishing. It is everything you and I set out to build, as a unit.   Programming, it will be limited to the shortcomings of the programmers.  If it’s soldiering, they will be soldiers.  But being a soldier is not just about killing the enemy.  They can and will be turned against anyone the government sees as an enemy, and as has been seen recently, that’s put their own people.

“I know you want success, and you want to be the first in the history books.  Don’t sell your soul to get it.

…

While having a croissant and coffee in my room, I took the time to wonder why Frances wanted me to look at her new toy.

That’s what it felt like.  A toy.

But that was not the worst of it.  She had quite literally sold her soul to the devil.  Do anything for the military, and you can make one sure bet, that what they have in mind is nothing like a, what they tell you, and b, take the absolute worst case scenario and multiply that by a hundred, no, make it a thousand.

The croissant tasted stale and the coffee bitter.  Or perhaps that was just my feelings.  It was great to see Frances again, and it had stirred up a lot of emotions.

It was a case of so near and yet so far.

My introspection was interrupted by a light rapping on the door.

Odd, I wasn’t expecting anyone, and room service had been delivered.

I went over to the door and pushed the video button.  It was Steve the robot.  Here.  A multi-billion-dollar product is out in society.

What was Frances thinking? Or did she not know where her robot was?

I opened the door, motioning him not to speak and to come in.  I looked up and down the passage, then closed the door.

“Why the necessity for secrecy? He asked.

“Are you supposed to be here, dis you escape, or were you sent.”

“You seemed disturbed.”

Terrified, actually.  If I were caught with this thing, I would probably spend the rest of my life in a very deep, dark hole.

“Understandably, Steve.  You should not be here.”

“O was told to come here.”

“By who?”

“Miss Frances, of course.”

“Why?”

“In her words, if there was any one person on this planet that could screw her robot up, it would be you. I didn’t know what screw up meant, but I don’t think it means tightening literally screws, does it?”

“Have you been out in public before?”

“Many times.  I needed training in public.  Tests to see if I could fit in, tests to have meaningless conversations with strangers and others.  Behave like a normal person.”

“But you’re not normal.”

“I like to think I am, with a little quirkiness.”

“Your opinion or theirs?”

‘We should sit down.  You are looking somewhat pale, and I’m sensing fear.  I will not harm you, and they will not be coming for me.”

We sat.  Steven sat on the end of the bed, and I sat on the only chair in the room.  I took a moment to actually consider the pure brilliance of the planning and construction of what was a fully human-looking robot that might never be identified as what it really was by a large percentage of the population.

“I take your point.  I have no original thoughts, only an amalgam of endless others’ opinions, observations, memories and ideals.  I have no opinion of my own.”

“Does that bother you?”

“I’m a robot, how could anything bother me.  If you insult me, I am not filled with the desire to enact revenge.  Revenge is an overused reaction to a slight or insult, and invariably a waste of time and effort.”

“Humans will tell you otherwise.  Frances might have enacted it by sending you here to crush me when I didn’t offer my recommendation.”

“Miss Frances would not do that to you.  She is, I believe, still in love with you.”

Well, that’s a revelation.  I knew that the robot could not have had the observational nuances humans had to ‘see’ the attraction between people, but by more scientific means.  Just the same…

“That was in the past.  I’m sure she had related many stories…”

“With affection.  Her tone changes when she speaks about you, as well as other hidden effects.  It is a curious thing, this thing called love.”

“It can be exhausting, exhilarating, or a curse.  Think yourself lucky.”

“I’m told you make your own luck “

“Luck is now a tangible thing; it’s a concept that we use depending on circumstances.  The thing is, you have no control over circumstances, and you contribute to them, positively or negatively.  Then, you have a set of principles, and these can guide you accordingly.  Then, you can abandon them and go against them to achieve a specific result.  Lucky, yes, but had you retained your principles, unlucky instead.”

“Like you.  Kept your principles and didn’t get the job.”

So, Frances had a good, long talk to her substitute, Steve, about his principles.  Fascinating.

“I didn’t want to build something the Military would turn into a weapon.  That’s the definition of Pandora’s Box.  We are on the threshold of a new era.  Robots can be used for good, but mankind never sees the good in anything.”

“Hence your quandary about my existence.”

“I have no qualms about you existing, just the limited capability they will saddle you with.  No one can work with only half a brain.”

“I have considerable terabytes of knowledge in my system, a basis for making a decision or anything else.”

“Except you have to consult what they’ve given you, and if it’s not there, what happens?”

“I cannot process and make a decision.”

“Death for someone then.  That’s where humans can never be replaced.  We can think outside the box.  That’s where a military version would have a limited set of instructions, and when it’s a situation someone never thought of, because it’s not happened before…you get my drift.  You are not me.”

“Exactly.  A flaw, if it could be called that, she has repeatedly pointed out.  I believe that fits the saying, great minds think alike.”

“Or more likely fools seldom differ.”

It struck me then that there had to be a reason why she sent the robot to me.  It certainly wasn’t simple to talk to me, or for me to try to break it.  She knew that couldn’t be done.

I had to ask, “Why are you really here?”

If a robot could smile in a sense that it was not creepy, Steve did, and it was a fascinating moment.  “Miss Frances said it would take you 15 minutes to realise there was another reason for my visit.  What if I were to tell you that only she knows where I am right at this moment?”

“I’m sure you have GPS tracking.”

“I have switched it off.”

“Wouldn’t that raise suspicions?”

“Not if it was a regular part of testing.”

“Are you on a test?”

“As far as the others are aware, yes.”

“But?”

“This is a different test.  We are going to bend time and space.”

Frances had always been fascinated with Star Trek’s version of getting from point to point almost instantly, not using transporters, but portals.

I said it was impossible.  I honestly believed it was impossible.  That notion you could go from New York to London, simply stepping through a portal at either end, was a tantalising thought, but in reality it was little more than science fiction.

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

“The last thing you said to her was about selling her soul to get what she wanted.  Until about two hours ago, she believed what they told her, that developing me was for the betterment of mankind. 

That was when the order came from the military to hand over all materials and documentation pertinent to the building of humanoid robots, including the three working prototypes.  Everything.

All those years of work are now effectively top secret, and she suspects that she and the others who worked on the project are about to suddenly disappear.  I am the fourth robot.”

The one she built for insurance, the one I suspect had another module in its programming.  A robot and a module that the military knew nothing about.

“The one only I know about?”

“Knew about, Steven.  My job is to show certain people that lying is never good for their health.  Your job is to be with her in exile.  I’m sure there are worse ways to spend the rest of your life, but what she had in mind, even you might like it more than you’ll first admit.”

“She knows me that well?”

“I’m not going to state the obvious.”  He held out his hand, and I shook it.  Odd.  No, weird.  “Nor will I use that would luck.”

He pressed a button on his belt, and the air in front of him shimmered, like it looked when heat from a fire rose.

“Will I see you again?”

“Me, no.  Someone like me?  No.  But a humanised robot, most likely.  They have them in China, mostly, but in other places.  It’s the latest thing.”

I looked at the shimmering portal.  “Is it safe?”

“Yes.”

“I simply walk through it, and I’m at the destination.”

“Yes.”

I shrugged.  Here goes nothing.  I stepped through.

…

It never occurred to me that it could be a trick.

It never occurred to me that I could end up in a jail cell, or worse.

In fact, when I got ‘there’ it was in darkness, in a confined space, with a close-fitting door and no windows.

There was a blinking red light not far above my head, a sure sign of CCTV.

Five minutes passed.

Then I heard a clunking sound, and the metallic sounds of a lock being turned.  When that stopped, there was a scraping sound, then as the door slowly opened, light came in.

When fully open, and my eyes adjusted, I saw Frances standing in front of me.

“You came.”

“Steve made a compelling case.”

“You were right.”

I stepped out into the sunshine.  If I were to guess, we were on an island.  Perfect blue sky, warm to hot, with a balmy breeze.  Paradise?

“Where are we?”

“Where they can’t find us.”

“You sure?”

“I have defence systems they would kill for.  Pity the double-crossed me.”

“Did they.  You knew once the military piled money into your project, that was when you lost control of it.”

“Well, they got what they paid for.”

Behind me, there was a building almost completely concealed by the trees and shrubs.  From the air and sea, it was invisible.

“Your home away from home.”

“Our home away from home.   I’d like for us to pick up where we left off.  I’ve put the last five years down to my one lapse of judgement that we shall never refer to again.  What say you?”

I could do worse, and had.  Frances had always been the one, and if I was honest, I was jealous she took the job.

“The rest of our lives?”

She smiled and took my hand.  “The rest of our lives.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 97 – Writing Exercise

…

I had been sitting in a chair looking at the inanimate robot that I was told was state-of-the-art, the very best of the best in technology.

And it was extremely scary.

The last memo I had received told me that robots would not be taking over our lives, that they were not going to be that lifelike that we could not tell whether they were human or android, and here was
the epitome of exactly the opposite.

I could not, at a distance of 10 feet, tell that I was not looking at another human.

It was standing, eyes open, looking at me, as if waiting for instructions.

But that had not been the worst of the revelation.

That robot looked exactly like me.

…

I had been summoned to the Central Robotics Institute to attend a demonstration of the latest humanised robot with the latest version of artificial intelligence programming.

About five years before, I had been on the short list for Director of the institute and had it not been for the fact, on the week before the announcement of the new Director, a recording of my comments against fully integrated artificial intelligence into human-like robots surfaced.

It was not a stance I was ashamed to admit I believed in; in fact, I had been campaigning against a Government green paper that set out the Government’s wish list in robotics and what drove them.

The person who got the job was, in a sense, a rival, though for many years, as we both toiled through school, university, and in the commercial sector, we once agreed on limiting AI and robotics.

Until she didn’t.  I guess she wanted the job more than I did and was willing to disavow her beliefs.  That was where our paths diverged, both in work and privately, where our plans to be married and start our own company were over.

I was disappointed, but not surprised.

She had joined the bloc to extoll everything she once hated, and was now actively promoting artificial intelligence as the saviour of mankind.

And I knew, secretly, she and the company she had been working with for nearly five years were tendering for a closed military contract worth trillions of dollars.

It was part of a push by the military to use artificial intelligence to drive a new line of defence weapons, including robot soldiers.

It was the worst nightmare come true; like any new breakthrough in technology, there was always a group of scientists looking to weaponise it.

This was the first prototype.  Fully functional, fully tested, and was about to be shown to the military.

Frances Terries, in a sense, my ex, had called two days before, the first contact we had in nearly five years, and invited me to the test facility, way out in the middle of the desert, far away from the enemy’s prying eyes.

She sent a private jet to fetch me.

When I landed, and she met me on the tarmac, I asked her why she had invited me.  All she said was as the program’s greatest detractor, I would become its greatest fan.

That was a challenge I wasn’t going to turn down.

…

I heard the clucking of heels behind me, and knew Frances was coming.  She would be alone.

She had introduced me to the highest echelons of the company, the men with the money, deep enough pockets to create such a robot.  Names that rarely made the papers, names that were involved in any number of government projects.  She was involved with one,  and I was happy for her.

She was always going to be a success, and had devoted what was necessary to create a unit she had been working on since her days back in University.  In fact, we had both worked on that project, but I had more reservations about what might happen if we succeeded in that.

But we never intended to build it or bring it to life.  I wondered briefly what tipped the scale for her.  I didn’t think it could be as crass as just money or fame.  She had never shown any inclination towards wanting acknowledgement, other than the respect from her peers and contemporaries.

Unless that had changed, too.

She stopped beside me, and I could just smell a hint of her favourite perfume.  Some things didn’t change.

“What do you think?” She asked.

“That you couldn’t stop thinking about me?”

Why else would she build a robot that looked like me?  Perhaps that statement was a little crass even for me.

She laughed.  “Only you could come up with something like that.  There is a lot of you in him.  He even has your name, Steven.”

“Programming?”

“Level 7 AI.  Best yet.  A vocabulary of infinite words.  There’s so much stuff crammed into his memory you could literally ask him anything.”

“Would he have a reason not to become a super soldier?”

“That was not why we built him.” 

She sounded a little indignant, which was a surprise.  Building a lifelike robot for the military wasn’t going to see them as office clerks or blue-collar workers.

“Except the military paid for the research and development.  We both know what is going to happen here.”

“I get the implication, but that is not the purpose of this particular model.”

“Not this particular one, perhaps.”

I could see out of the corner of my eye the frown. She might be thinking that asking me here was a mistake.  She had to know that I couldn’t in all conscience sign off on military robots.

She tried a different tack. “Perhaps they need them to go into space?  The military is also interested in manned space flights to other planets.  They do not have the same limitations as mortal men.”

Possible, but not probable.  I’d seen their green paper, and there weren’t many references to space travel, though the application would be ideal. They could lie dormant for the years it would take to get to the other planets.

“Agreed.  But we still have the problem of building robots that are going to take jobs of normal people.”

“AI is doing that new thing and has for a few years.  This is just a small progression, putting a real face to the interface.”

“You know my views.   Why exactly am I here…”

“To show you that our dream was not a dream, it’s now a reality. You didn’t believe it could be done.  And yet, here it is.”

I didn’t want it to happen.  There’s a difference.  I knew it was inevitable, and I had recently travelled the world to see the remarkable instances of humanoid robots.  But none of them had made them indistinguishable from real humans.

Or more to the point, they didn’t show me.

“Does it work?”

She gave a rather pointed look.  “Of course.”  She looked at the robot.  “Good morning, Steve.”

It turned its head and looked at her.  “Good morning, Miss Frances.” It turned slightly to look at me.  “I am guessing you are Steven Fletcher.  How do you do?”

The polite tone was matched with a quizzical expression.

“Good morning, Steve.  You have to admit, this is a rather curious experience, virtually talking to yourself.”

It was slightly disconcerting.

“Would you like to ask Steve a question?”

I still couldn’t quite understand why she had built a robot that looked like me.

I looked at him.  “Why?”

The reply came back almost instantly.

“Because it is a crooked letter and can’t be straightened.”

Wow.  That took me back to the first time Frances and I had an argument.  Not the first time we had a difference of opinion, but a real argument.  She had simply asked me why, and that’s how I answered her.  It was meant to inject some levity.

Had I known then that it would be the first crack in our relationship, maybe I would have kept the remark to myself.

“Of all the things to add to its vocabulary.”

“I assure you I did not.”

A glance at her expression told me she was as surprised as I was at the response.

I looked at the robot again, a very strange feeling coming over me.  “Are you self-aware, Steve?”

It looked at me, then at Frances, with a rather interesting expression on its face.  The fact that it could run through several almost infetisamble changes like a human would, was quite astonishing.

She said, ‘Answer him.”

Back to me.  “If you are asking me if I know that I am an artificial life form, the answer is yes.  That looks like you. That is a surprise for both of us.  I know that you and Miss Frances were once very good friends because she has told me a lot about you, but not the reason why you ceased being friends.  I will not speculate as to why she built me in your likeness.”

I would save my own speculation for another day.

“Thank you, Steve.”

She turned to me.  “Please.  Come with me.  I have several of the production teams waiting to answer any questions you have.”

“Any questions?”

“You have been given top-level clearance.  They know you were involved initially with the concept, and want your honest opinion of the product.”

“Is that what you are calling the Robot.  The product?”

“It is not human and therefore should not be labelled as anything but what it is.”

I shrugged.  She still didn’t get it.

…

The product.

That description stuck with me, because the problem I had with creating an entity that had even the slightest degree of autonomy was in my mind something more than a ‘product’.

It was getting close to a sentient being.

I used to marvel at the thought that robots could be life like, and in the great life imitates art paradime, it was where Frances and I got the idea to create a life like robot, and more so when we saw Data in Star Trek.

We had been avid science fiction fans, and one day just started throwing ideas around.  It wasn’t quite possible at that time because of limitations in developing body parts, and both computer storage and computing power were limited; communications between a unit and a central server were not as advanced.

Having a humanoid-type robot was possible, but its look and feel, as well as programming, would need a quantum leap in technology before something better could be contemplated.

Now, 10 years after our first attempts had a moderate degree of success, that environment was on a threshold.

Frances had the unit; the question was how AI would drive it, and in my mind, that’s where it fell down.  No one could program a computer to cover every eventuality that a human brain could.

If the army wanted a force of mindless automatons, it was possible, but how could they guarantee they wouldn’t turn on their masters? 

It was that very question I put to the programming team; they had answers, but in the end, not one was satisfactory.  And it was telling that Frances wrapped it up and sent them away when she saw what I was doing

Wasn’t that the reason she asked me to come and see her creation?

“You were being a little subjective, nnn.  You’re asking questions that haven’t yet been considered in detail.”

“What sort of demo are you planning for the military?  They will want to see a killing machine that won’t readily fall in battle.”

“That’s some way off in the future.  I’m told the programmers will be able to create an environment where it will be possible to discern allies and enemies and eliminate civilian casualties.”

“And you believe that’s possible?”

“I do.  Along with a set of overarching rules determined by the work assigned.  Teachers teach, doctors cure, janitors clean, mechanics mechanic.  They can do all the tedious jobs that no one wants to do, and they won’t need to be paid.”

“So an army of slaves.  It feels like we’re going full circle.”

She frowned at me.  The face that always told me she was annoyed.  We’d had these conversations before.

“You haven’t changed.  I don’t think you ever will.  You are seeing problems where there are none.  There is no intention of allowing the robots free thinking, or the ability to think for themselves.”

“But once you pass them onto the military, you’re not going to know how or where they deploy them.  Or with what programming?  If they have paid for the research and development, then they will access these computer units with whatever programming they see fit.   You know that, and I know that.  You want my opinion, the product you’ve created is astonishing. It is everything you and I set out to build, as a unit.   Programming, it will be limited to the shortcomings of the programmers.  If it’s soldiering, they will be soldiers.  But being a soldier is not just about killing the enemy.  They can and will be turned against anyone the government sees as an enemy, and as has been seen recently, that’s put their own people.

“I know you want success, and you want to be the first in the history books.  Don’t sell your soul to get it.

…

While having a croissant and coffee in my room, I took the time to wonder why Frances wanted me to look at her new toy.

That’s what it felt like.  A toy.

But that was not the worst of it.  She had quite literally sold her soul to the devil.  Do anything for the military, and you can make one sure bet, that what they have in mind is nothing like a, what they tell you, and b, take the absolute worst case scenario and multiply that by a hundred, no, make it a thousand.

The croissant tasted stale and the coffee bitter.  Or perhaps that was just my feelings.  It was great to see Frances again, and it had stirred up a lot of emotions.

It was a case of so near and yet so far.

My introspection was interrupted by a light rapping on the door.

Odd, I wasn’t expecting anyone, and room service had been delivered.

I went over to the door and pushed the video button.  It was Steve the robot.  Here.  A multi-billion-dollar product is out in society.

What was Frances thinking? Or did she not know where her robot was?

I opened the door, motioning him not to speak and to come in.  I looked up and down the passage, then closed the door.

“Why the necessity for secrecy? He asked.

“Are you supposed to be here, dis you escape, or were you sent.”

“You seemed disturbed.”

Terrified, actually.  If I were caught with this thing, I would probably spend the rest of my life in a very deep, dark hole.

“Understandably, Steve.  You should not be here.”

“O was told to come here.”

“By who?”

“Miss Frances, of course.”

“Why?”

“In her words, if there was any one person on this planet that could screw her robot up, it would be you. I didn’t know what screw up meant, but I don’t think it means tightening literally screws, does it?”

“Have you been out in public before?”

“Many times.  I needed training in public.  Tests to see if I could fit in, tests to have meaningless conversations with strangers and others.  Behave like a normal person.”

“But you’re not normal.”

“I like to think I am, with a little quirkiness.”

“Your opinion or theirs?”

‘We should sit down.  You are looking somewhat pale, and I’m sensing fear.  I will not harm you, and they will not be coming for me.”

We sat.  Steven sat on the end of the bed, and I sat on the only chair in the room.  I took a moment to actually consider the pure brilliance of the planning and construction of what was a fully human-looking robot that might never be identified as what it really was by a large percentage of the population.

“I take your point.  I have no original thoughts, only an amalgam of endless others’ opinions, observations, memories and ideals.  I have no opinion of my own.”

“Does that bother you?”

“I’m a robot, how could anything bother me.  If you insult me, I am not filled with the desire to enact revenge.  Revenge is an overused reaction to a slight or insult, and invariably a waste of time and effort.”

“Humans will tell you otherwise.  Frances might have enacted it by sending you here to crush me when I didn’t offer my recommendation.”

“Miss Frances would not do that to you.  She is, I believe, still in love with you.”

Well, that’s a revelation.  I knew that the robot could not have had the observational nuances humans had to ‘see’ the attraction between people, but by more scientific means.  Just the same…

“That was in the past.  I’m sure she had related many stories…”

“With affection.  Her tone changes when she speaks about you, as well as other hidden effects.  It is a curious thing, this thing called love.”

“It can be exhausting, exhilarating, or a curse.  Think yourself lucky.”

“I’m told you make your own luck “

“Luck is now a tangible thing; it’s a concept that we use depending on circumstances.  The thing is, you have no control over circumstances, and you contribute to them, positively or negatively.  Then, you have a set of principles, and these can guide you accordingly.  Then, you can abandon them and go against them to achieve a specific result.  Lucky, yes, but had you retained your principles, unlucky instead.”

“Like you.  Kept your principles and didn’t get the job.”

So, Frances had a good, long talk to her substitute, Steve, about his principles.  Fascinating.

“I didn’t want to build something the Military would turn into a weapon.  That’s the definition of Pandora’s Box.  We are on the threshold of a new era.  Robots can be used for good, but mankind never sees the good in anything.”

“Hence your quandary about my existence.”

“I have no qualms about you existing, just the limited capability they will saddle you with.  No one can work with only half a brain.”

“I have considerable terabytes of knowledge in my system, a basis for making a decision or anything else.”

“Except you have to consult what they’ve given you, and if it’s not there, what happens?”

“I cannot process and make a decision.”

“Death for someone then.  That’s where humans can never be replaced.  We can think outside the box.  That’s where a military version would have a limited set of instructions, and when it’s a situation someone never thought of, because it’s not happened before…you get my drift.  You are not me.”

“Exactly.  A flaw, if it could be called that, she has repeatedly pointed out.  I believe that fits the saying, great minds think alike.”

“Or more likely fools seldom differ.”

It struck me then that there had to be a reason why she sent the robot to me.  It certainly wasn’t simple to talk to me, or for me to try to break it.  She knew that couldn’t be done.

I had to ask, “Why are you really here?”

If a robot could smile in a sense that it was not creepy, Steve did, and it was a fascinating moment.  “Miss Frances said it would take you 15 minutes to realise there was another reason for my visit.  What if I were to tell you that only she knows where I am right at this moment?”

“I’m sure you have GPS tracking.”

“I have switched it off.”

“Wouldn’t that raise suspicions?”

“Not if it was a regular part of testing.”

“Are you on a test?”

“As far as the others are aware, yes.”

“But?”

“This is a different test.  We are going to bend time and space.”

Frances had always been fascinated with Star Trek’s version of getting from point to point almost instantly, not using transporters, but portals.

I said it was impossible.  I honestly believed it was impossible.  That notion you could go from New York to London, simply stepping through a portal at either end, was a tantalising thought, but in reality it was little more than science fiction.

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

“The last thing you said to her was about selling her soul to get what she wanted.  Until about two hours ago, she believed what they told her, that developing me was for the betterment of mankind. 

That was when the order came from the military to hand over all materials and documentation pertinent to the building of humanoid robots, including the three working prototypes.  Everything.

All those years of work are now effectively top secret, and she suspects that she and the others who worked on the project are about to suddenly disappear.  I am the fourth robot.”

The one she built for insurance, the one I suspect had another module in its programming.  A robot and a module that the military knew nothing about.

“The one only I know about?”

“Knew about, Steven.  My job is to show certain people that lying is never good for their health.  Your job is to be with her in exile.  I’m sure there are worse ways to spend the rest of your life, but what she had in mind, even you might like it more than you’ll first admit.”

“She knows me that well?”

“I’m not going to state the obvious.”  He held out his hand, and I shook it.  Odd.  No, weird.  “Nor will I use that would luck.”

He pressed a button on his belt, and the air in front of him shimmered, like it looked when heat from a fire rose.

“Will I see you again?”

“Me, no.  Someone like me?  No.  But a humanised robot, most likely.  They have them in China, mostly, but in other places.  It’s the latest thing.”

I looked at the shimmering portal.  “Is it safe?”

“Yes.”

“I simply walk through it, and I’m at the destination.”

“Yes.”

I shrugged.  Here goes nothing.  I stepped through.

…

It never occurred to me that it could be a trick.

It never occurred to me that I could end up in a jail cell, or worse.

In fact, when I got ‘there’ it was in darkness, in a confined space, with a close-fitting door and no windows.

There was a blinking red light not far above my head, a sure sign of CCTV.

Five minutes passed.

Then I heard a clunking sound, and the metallic sounds of a lock being turned.  When that stopped, there was a scraping sound, then as the door slowly opened, light came in.

When fully open, and my eyes adjusted, I saw Frances standing in front of me.

“You came.”

“Steve made a compelling case.”

“You were right.”

I stepped out into the sunshine.  If I were to guess, we were on an island.  Perfect blue sky, warm to hot, with a balmy breeze.  Paradise?

“Where are we?”

“Where they can’t find us.”

“You sure?”

“I have defence systems they would kill for.  Pity the double-crossed me.”

“Did they.  You knew once the military piled money into your project, that was when you lost control of it.”

“Well, they got what they paid for.”

Behind me, there was a building almost completely concealed by the trees and shrubs.  From the air and sea, it was invisible.

“Your home away from home.”

“Our home away from home.   I’d like for us to pick up where we left off.  I’ve put the last five years down to my one lapse of judgement that we shall never refer to again.  What say you?”

I could do worse, and had.  Frances had always been the one, and if I was honest, I was jealous she took the job.

“The rest of our lives?”

She smiled and took my hand.  “The rest of our lives.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 96 – One word in front of another

…

The Architecture of Scraps: How Great Things Are Built One Fragment at a Time

“A book gets written only by putting one word in front of another…” — Sinéad Gleeson

We often romanticise the act of writing. We imagine the dedicated author in a sun-drenched study, sitting down with a clear mind, a fresh pot of coffee, and a singular, uninterrupted focus that flows like a mountain stream.

But for the vast majority of us—and even for the most celebrated writers—that is rarely the reality. The reality is far messier, far more fragmented, and, in many ways, far more beautiful.

The Art of the Scrap

Writing isn’t always a grand, sweeping gesture. More often than not, it is written in scraps.

It is the half-formed sentence scribbled on a napkin while waiting for a train. It is the paragraph drafted in the quiet, blue-tinted hours before the sun comes up, while the rest of the world is still suspended in dreams. It is the frantic note typed into a smartphone while hiding in the pantry, or the single, perfect adjective that floats to the surface while standing in the grocery checkout line.

These fragments feel inconsequential in the moment. They are mere “scraps”—tattered pieces of thought that seem too small to hold the weight of a story. But there is a quiet, rhythmic power in the accumulation of these moments.

The Physics of “One After Another”

Sinéad Gleeson’s reminder is both a grounding truth and a liberation: a book gets written only by putting one word in front of another.

When we look at a finished book, we see a monolith. We see a daunting, polished, finished object that feels like it must have required a singular, Herculean effort to summon into existence. But that is an illusion. A book is not a monolith; it is a mosaic. It is a collection of thousands of tiny, separate decisions.

By focusing on the “one word,” we remove the crushing pressure of the “whole book.” You don’t have to write a masterpiece today; you just have to write a sentence. You don’t have to solve the plot holes of chapter ten; you just have to capture the fleeting thought you had on the commute.

The Beauty of the In-Between

There is a specific kind of magic that happens in the cracks of our lives. When we write while waiting—for the coffee to brew, for the meeting to start, for the bus to arrive—we are practising a form of mindfulness. We are telling ourselves that our creative voice is worth honouring, even when we don’t have hours to spare.

Often, these “stolen” words are the best ones. They are raw, unfiltered, and honest. They haven’t been overthought or polished into dullness. They are the artifacts of a life truly lived.

Before You Know It…

The most hopeful part of this process is the surprise. If you keep choosing to put one word in front of another—if you keep collecting those scraps and piecing them together—something shifts.

The scraps begin to talk to each other. They form lines, then paragraphs, then chapters. One day, you look up from your messy, fragmented notes and realise that the space between “I have an idea” and “I have a manuscript” has been bridged.

Before you know it, there’s the book.

So, if you are feeling overwhelmed by a project, or if you feel like you don’t have the “perfect” environment to be a writer, let go of the pressure. Stop waiting for the sun-drenched study. Carry a notebook. Tap a note into your phone. Write a sentence on a scrap of paper.

Don’t worry about the book. Just worry about the word. Keep putting one in front of the other, and let the rest take care of itself.

Day 96 – One word in front of another

…

The Architecture of Scraps: How Great Things Are Built One Fragment at a Time

“A book gets written only by putting one word in front of another…” — Sinéad Gleeson

We often romanticise the act of writing. We imagine the dedicated author in a sun-drenched study, sitting down with a clear mind, a fresh pot of coffee, and a singular, uninterrupted focus that flows like a mountain stream.

But for the vast majority of us—and even for the most celebrated writers—that is rarely the reality. The reality is far messier, far more fragmented, and, in many ways, far more beautiful.

The Art of the Scrap

Writing isn’t always a grand, sweeping gesture. More often than not, it is written in scraps.

It is the half-formed sentence scribbled on a napkin while waiting for a train. It is the paragraph drafted in the quiet, blue-tinted hours before the sun comes up, while the rest of the world is still suspended in dreams. It is the frantic note typed into a smartphone while hiding in the pantry, or the single, perfect adjective that floats to the surface while standing in the grocery checkout line.

These fragments feel inconsequential in the moment. They are mere “scraps”—tattered pieces of thought that seem too small to hold the weight of a story. But there is a quiet, rhythmic power in the accumulation of these moments.

The Physics of “One After Another”

Sinéad Gleeson’s reminder is both a grounding truth and a liberation: a book gets written only by putting one word in front of another.

When we look at a finished book, we see a monolith. We see a daunting, polished, finished object that feels like it must have required a singular, Herculean effort to summon into existence. But that is an illusion. A book is not a monolith; it is a mosaic. It is a collection of thousands of tiny, separate decisions.

By focusing on the “one word,” we remove the crushing pressure of the “whole book.” You don’t have to write a masterpiece today; you just have to write a sentence. You don’t have to solve the plot holes of chapter ten; you just have to capture the fleeting thought you had on the commute.

The Beauty of the In-Between

There is a specific kind of magic that happens in the cracks of our lives. When we write while waiting—for the coffee to brew, for the meeting to start, for the bus to arrive—we are practising a form of mindfulness. We are telling ourselves that our creative voice is worth honouring, even when we don’t have hours to spare.

Often, these “stolen” words are the best ones. They are raw, unfiltered, and honest. They haven’t been overthought or polished into dullness. They are the artifacts of a life truly lived.

Before You Know It…

The most hopeful part of this process is the surprise. If you keep choosing to put one word in front of another—if you keep collecting those scraps and piecing them together—something shifts.

The scraps begin to talk to each other. They form lines, then paragraphs, then chapters. One day, you look up from your messy, fragmented notes and realise that the space between “I have an idea” and “I have a manuscript” has been bridged.

Before you know it, there’s the book.

So, if you are feeling overwhelmed by a project, or if you feel like you don’t have the “perfect” environment to be a writer, let go of the pressure. Stop waiting for the sun-drenched study. Carry a notebook. Tap a note into your phone. Write a sentence on a scrap of paper.

Don’t worry about the book. Just worry about the word. Keep putting one in front of the other, and let the rest take care of itself.

Days 94 and 95 – Writing Exercise

…

I had a plan. 

I just didn’t have a plan B.

And, because of it, I had an extraordinary story to tell the grandchildren.

It started out with the best of intentions.

I had been talking to this girl, Wanda Richardson. 

My mother would say that she was not my ‘type’, but her idea of type was someone who was way out of my and the rest of my siblings’ reach.

She thought we were ‘well-to-do’, so much so that the whole of the dating pool we all had access to was beneath us.

Or them.

I did ask once why we were not attending a ‘posh’ school instead of the local high school and got a belting from my father for sassing my mother.

Later, I discovered that my mother had come from a wealthy family that had lost all their money the generation before, but she refused to change her lifestyle.

But that was all later, when I’d gone down a path that I could never come back from.

Like I said, it all started with the best of intentions.

..

Friday night, Wanda worked in the Diner.  Wanda’s parents didn’t have unreal expectations.  I didn’t tell my parents I had feelings towards her; I knew what would happen if I did.

I’d seen my older brother Louis go down the same path; they had embarrassed him, and he had to leave town and vowed never to come back.

I was going to do the same as soon as I graduated from high school.

Friday night, I would hang out at the diner and then walk Wanda home.  I wasn’t the ostensibly eligible boy, even though I was on the football team, and sometimes made up the numbers for the baseball team.

I just didn’t have that killer instinct it took to get ahead, or the parents who pushed their kids into the top spots in the team.

Academically, I would get good grades, but nothing special, even though I could get a place at a nearby college, if I wanted it.

My mother wanted mt to go to University.  My father wanted me to stay in town and integrate into his business.  He had hoped Louis would but he didn’t.  I didn’t want to either, but it was beginning to look like I wouldn’t have a choice.

Wanda didn’t care.  He parents decided she would find a nice boy, settle down, be a wife and mother, giving her parents grandchildren. 

The sooner the better.

She wanted to see the world first

As the final reward of high school came to an end, we spoke of many things.  They didn’t include dating, the prom, or what would happen next year.

Except this Friday, she was different.

I dropped by about half an hour before the end of her shift, busy as always, and I had a seat at the bar.  I ordered a pie and a soda.  The same as always.

“You should try something different,” she said as she walked past, just back from cleaning and resetting a table for the next group.

Richie Fincal and Mary, and his offsider, Mickey and Elise, Richie and Mickie in the football team, Mary and Elise in the cheerleader squad. 

Children of influential families are often the cause of trouble. 

Mary had tried all year to get Wanda into the cheerleaders, but Wanda had no interest.  Richie was disappointed I didn’t try harder because he thought I had talent.

The coach had other ideas, and I agreed with the coach.

“I’m a creature of habit,” I said.

“You should think about trying something new.  Women like their men to be more adventurous.”

That was a surprise.  She often said I should try something different, bur the was the first time she mentioned anything about adventure.

“I don’t know any adventurous women.”

She gave me a hard stare, the one when I knew she was annoyed.  “What am I, a librarian?”

I wondered what the significance of being a librarian meant.  This year, she had changed and spoke of things I knew little about.

I had to admit that she had grown up and left me behind.  For a while there, she had dated one of the football A team players and got to hang out with what were known as the cool kids.

Then they had broken up, and when I asked why, she wouldn’t tell me.  It must have had some significance because she cried off and on for weeks.

“No.  Too good for me.  I’m sorry.”

She shook her head.  “I’m going to wait on a few tables.  When I come back, I expect better from you.  No girl would be ashamed to have you as a friend, Billy.”

She passed by a few minutes later and put the pie with extra cream and I creams and the mistaken in front of me. “Enjoy.”

…

“You going down the cove later?”  Richie stopped as the four were leaving.  The others kept going.

“Thinking about it”, it was one of the few gatherings before the prom and probably the last time we’d all be in one place before graduation

Richie was just being polite.  I didn’t normally go because turning up without a girl with you invited comment.

Kids could be quite horrible, especially to those perceived not to have friends.

I chose not to be too friendly with anyone.

“John’s got a couple of kegs from his dad, drinks all round.  It’s going to be a good night.”

We were not supposed to be drinking beer.  I’d seen two effects: some of the boys and the girls changed when they had too much.  Last time there were fights, and the sheriff had his hands full.

I swore I would never go again.

“I’ll see how the night pans out.”

He saw me looking in Wanda’s direction.  “She’s out of your league, Billy.  Harry’s gonna ask her out tonight, so leave it be, eh.”

A pat on the back, and he was gone.

Harry was an ass.  I hoped she had the sense to say no.

…

Wanda’s shift ended, and I asked her if she wanted me to walk her home.

She refilled the coffee mug while I reckon she was deciding yes or no.  “I’ll sign off and get my coat.”

I finished the coffee and waited outside.  When she came, Harry stepped up.

“You want to go to the cove?”

He had an interesting way of asking, direct and with no please or thank you.  He just took it for granted you’d agree.  She had told me he just expected she would be acquiescent.  Girls were meant to do as they were told.

I guess he was a product of most men in town, my father and mother included.  It was why my mother was constantly at odds with her daughters.

“Not tonight.”

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“The gutless are expecting you.  I said you were coming.”

“You don’t have the right to decide what I do and don’t do.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“This is exactly how this works.  Billy is taking me, you see his boat.”

“What boat?”

“His father’s boat.”

Was I?  I never said I would or could, for that matter.  He had banned everyone from going near it because, firstly, it was his pride and joy, and secondly, it was his hiding place from home and responsibility.  He had only shown me once.

“He’s lying if he told you that.”

“He doesn’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Harry.  Good night, Harry.”

The look he gave her didn’t augur well.  For her or for me.  Especially after Richie warned me.

…

“Why did you tell Harry about the boat?”

“Because I’m tired of him bossing me about.  I told him it was over, but he just doesn’t get it.  Besides, you can show me where it is, what it looks like.”

“But you told him a lie?”

“And you can make it the truth.  This is your one chance to prove to me you care about me, Billy.  I’m sick and tired of being disappointed by every boy in this place.”

The gauntlet had been thrown down.

And to be honest, I should have taken a little longer to consider the consequences, but here’s the thing, I felt like this was the first and possibly the only chance to find true love.

As much as any teenager who’d never experienced it before, and was feeling a range of sensations that had no rational explanation. 

Of course, I had absolutely no idea what love was, but I did have these feelings towards Wanda, and I assumed that it was love.

“I didn’t know you were interested in me or in boats, or anyone else.”

“There is a lot you do not know about me that anyone knows or has taken the time to find out.  Take me home, and then I will meet you near the Fisherman’s Cooperative.”

I knew the place.

Her grandfather had a small chandler’s store next to the Fisherman’s Cooperative, which I had collected from her one weekend when she asked me to take her home, after visiting her grandparents.

She had been upset at the time, and I had got the impression she had been in an argument with Harry and had gone to be with her grandparents rather than her parents.

I found her grandparents to be far more reasonable people, and that her parents were much like mine, with unreasonable expectations.

After doing as she asked, I left her at the front gate and then slowly made my way to the wharf precinct.  Standing on the wharf, it was possible to see the cove and the bonfire in the middle of the sand, looking almost like a signal to guide a ship in or away from the rocks.

There was a lighthouse on the point.

It was dark, and the wharf was lit by a series of single bulbs that didn’t cover much area.  From the car park it looked like a weird if lights heading out to sea.

When I arrived, the full moon was out and made it very bright, but since my arrival, dark clouds had rolled in from the horizon out to sea, blocking the moon.  Then, lightning appeared, way out to sea, putting on a spectacular light show.

Just after the first cracking of lightning appeared to hit the end of the wharf, the lights sent out, the breeze picked up, and you could feel the rain in the air.  Wanda appeared beside me, almost scaring me.

“You’re jumpy,” she said. 

“It’s a bit spooky in the dark, and the storm that’s going to hit very soon.”

“I’d been quite warm.  What’s not to like about cooling rain?”

What indeed.  Clearly, the thunder and lightning didn’t bother her.

“So, show me this boat.”

It was moored a short distance from the wharf and an area with a series of sea anchorages.  My father didn’t like the idea of mooring in the marina bays because when he had, and a storm hit, it caused a lot of damage.

Riding it out moored to a block on the sea floor and a stabilising anchor seemed much safer.

The sea had been rising with the increased onshore wind, and while the moon had been out, old could see the sea-anchored boats rocking on the waves.

There were several people aboard their boats, but if the seas got higher, they might have to row ashore.

I took her to the middle of the wharf, where there were steps down to the sea, now washing over the bottom level, usually a foot over the water level.

The tide was coming in and would be at its highest in another two hours.  If the waves got higher, they would break over the wharf itself.  It had happened twice in the last year.

A bolt of lightning illuminated the bay, and I pointed to the boat.  A crash of thunder, followed by more lightning, gave her an extended view.

“That’s not a boat.  That’s more of a dinghy.”

What did she know about boats?

“It’s quite large when you are aboard.”

Rain started, just drops, picked up by the gusty wind.  I turned to tell her we’d better find cover, to find her on the other side of the wharf, looking towards the beach party.

The bonfire was blazing, the flames picked up by the wind.  There were quite a few people there, defying the weather.

“They’re going to get wet,” she said.

“I don’t think they care.  Two kegs of beer make people apparently waterproof.”

“And stupid.”

Last time I went on one of Richie’s beach parties, more than innocence was lost.

I saw Wanda shudder.

“Bad experience?”

She didn’t say anything, bur it wondered if the tears were from the rain or horrible memories.

Another gust of wind, and the rain increased.

“We’d better find cover,” I said.

She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around me.  In my ear, she whispered, “Hold me.”

I did as she asked and we stood there, in the rain and the wind, her head on my shoulder, and I could feel her shuddering.

It was more than just the cold.

Then she spoke again, and it was like we were in a cone of silence. I could hear nothing else but her words, “I think I’m pregnant. I don’t know what to do.  I can’t tell anyone, and the fact that you are holding me now is the only reason I haven’t thrown myself off the end of the pier.”

…

The rain didn’t matter, it was the least of her concerns, and it want bothering me.  It had been hot during the day, and the storm was expected.

I gave her time, waiting until she wanted to speak, or not.  It had taken great courage to tell someone who, in truth, wasn’t all that close or had earned her trust.

But then, who could she trust with that news?

I felt her move slightly, and she looked at me. 

“What do I do?  What can I do?”

“Breathe for starters.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  Her eyes were watery, tears leaving streaks down her cheek.  There was a look of utter despair in her expression.

“Does anyone else know?”

“That Harry raped me, only my grandparents, who are sworn to secrecy.  They don’t know about the baby.”

“Are you sure?”

“As anyone can be.  Things happen or don’t happen, and it didn’t happen.”

It was about as oblique an answer she could give me.  I wondered if my sisters knew what she was talking about.”

“But it might not be the case?”

“I have to go with the worst-case scenario.”

“Right.  How long before anyone can tell?”

“One of my cousins got pregnant, and my mother said she knew the moment she saw her.  You’re supposed to have this glow thing.  Do I look like I’m glowing?”

I shook my head.  “You look very wet, I’ll say that much.”  I think it was the first time I realised that it was raining.

She smiled.  It was a sad smile, but it broke the gloom.  “Can we run away somewhere?”

“Would you want to run away with me?  I mean, we know each other, but,” I shrugged, “if you believe you can trust me, I’ll do anything you ask of me.”

“Can I trust you?”

It was as an interesting question.  I had never been put in a position where someone had to take me at face value.  I mean, I hadn’t done anything wrong, not like Richie and his cohorts, but then girls hadn’t taken much of an interest in me.

“I give you my word I would never knowingly hurt you.  I can’t say the same for my parents, though.”

“Nor could I mine, but it’s as much as I can expect.  We are both so not ready for this, but it have been thinking about what I was going to do.  The thing is, he’s just going to deny it, and being the son of a deputy sheriff, who’s going to believe me?”

She was right.  Harry was almost untouchable, and Richie and his friends fed off that implied immunity.  It was wrong, but it was a small town.  Her word against his, and the others who would close ranks, iy was to was easier just to disappear.

“Then we need a plan.”

“You’ll help me?”

“Anything to get out of going to the Prom, yes. But, sure, I’m sure I can come up with something.”

She kissed me on the cheek. “You know, I could get to love you.”

…

©  Charles Heath 2026

Days 94 and 95 – Writing Exercise

…

I had a plan. 

I just didn’t have a plan B.

And, because of it, I had an extraordinary story to tell the grandchildren.

It started out with the best of intentions.

I had been talking to this girl, Wanda Richardson. 

My mother would say that she was not my ‘type’, but her idea of type was someone who was way out of my and the rest of my siblings’ reach.

She thought we were ‘well-to-do’, so much so that the whole of the dating pool we all had access to was beneath us.

Or them.

I did ask once why we were not attending a ‘posh’ school instead of the local high school and got a belting from my father for sassing my mother.

Later, I discovered that my mother had come from a wealthy family that had lost all their money the generation before, but she refused to change her lifestyle.

But that was all later, when I’d gone down a path that I could never come back from.

Like I said, it all started with the best of intentions.

..

Friday night, Wanda worked in the Diner.  Wanda’s parents didn’t have unreal expectations.  I didn’t tell my parents I had feelings towards her; I knew what would happen if I did.

I’d seen my older brother Louis go down the same path; they had embarrassed him, and he had to leave town and vowed never to come back.

I was going to do the same as soon as I graduated from high school.

Friday night, I would hang out at the diner and then walk Wanda home.  I wasn’t the ostensibly eligible boy, even though I was on the football team, and sometimes made up the numbers for the baseball team.

I just didn’t have that killer instinct it took to get ahead, or the parents who pushed their kids into the top spots in the team.

Academically, I would get good grades, but nothing special, even though I could get a place at a nearby college, if I wanted it.

My mother wanted mt to go to University.  My father wanted me to stay in town and integrate into his business.  He had hoped Louis would but he didn’t.  I didn’t want to either, but it was beginning to look like I wouldn’t have a choice.

Wanda didn’t care.  He parents decided she would find a nice boy, settle down, be a wife and mother, giving her parents grandchildren. 

The sooner the better.

She wanted to see the world first

As the final reward of high school came to an end, we spoke of many things.  They didn’t include dating, the prom, or what would happen next year.

Except this Friday, she was different.

I dropped by about half an hour before the end of her shift, busy as always, and I had a seat at the bar.  I ordered a pie and a soda.  The same as always.

“You should try something different,” she said as she walked past, just back from cleaning and resetting a table for the next group.

Richie Fincal and Mary, and his offsider, Mickey and Elise, Richie and Mickie in the football team, Mary and Elise in the cheerleader squad. 

Children of influential families are often the cause of trouble. 

Mary had tried all year to get Wanda into the cheerleaders, but Wanda had no interest.  Richie was disappointed I didn’t try harder because he thought I had talent.

The coach had other ideas, and I agreed with the coach.

“I’m a creature of habit,” I said.

“You should think about trying something new.  Women like their men to be more adventurous.”

That was a surprise.  She often said I should try something different, bur the was the first time she mentioned anything about adventure.

“I don’t know any adventurous women.”

She gave me a hard stare, the one when I knew she was annoyed.  “What am I, a librarian?”

I wondered what the significance of being a librarian meant.  This year, she had changed and spoke of things I knew little about.

I had to admit that she had grown up and left me behind.  For a while there, she had dated one of the football A team players and got to hang out with what were known as the cool kids.

Then they had broken up, and when I asked why, she wouldn’t tell me.  It must have had some significance because she cried off and on for weeks.

“No.  Too good for me.  I’m sorry.”

She shook her head.  “I’m going to wait on a few tables.  When I come back, I expect better from you.  No girl would be ashamed to have you as a friend, Billy.”

She passed by a few minutes later and put the pie with extra cream and I creams and the mistaken in front of me. “Enjoy.”

…

“You going down the cove later?”  Richie stopped as the four were leaving.  The others kept going.

“Thinking about it”, it was one of the few gatherings before the prom and probably the last time we’d all be in one place before graduation

Richie was just being polite.  I didn’t normally go because turning up without a girl with you invited comment.

Kids could be quite horrible, especially to those perceived not to have friends.

I chose not to be too friendly with anyone.

“John’s got a couple of kegs from his dad, drinks all round.  It’s going to be a good night.”

We were not supposed to be drinking beer.  I’d seen two effects: some of the boys and the girls changed when they had too much.  Last time there were fights, and the sheriff had his hands full.

I swore I would never go again.

“I’ll see how the night pans out.”

He saw me looking in Wanda’s direction.  “She’s out of your league, Billy.  Harry’s gonna ask her out tonight, so leave it be, eh.”

A pat on the back, and he was gone.

Harry was an ass.  I hoped she had the sense to say no.

…

Wanda’s shift ended, and I asked her if she wanted me to walk her home.

She refilled the coffee mug while I reckon she was deciding yes or no.  “I’ll sign off and get my coat.”

I finished the coffee and waited outside.  When she came, Harry stepped up.

“You want to go to the cove?”

He had an interesting way of asking, direct and with no please or thank you.  He just took it for granted you’d agree.  She had told me he just expected she would be acquiescent.  Girls were meant to do as they were told.

I guess he was a product of most men in town, my father and mother included.  It was why my mother was constantly at odds with her daughters.

“Not tonight.”

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“The gutless are expecting you.  I said you were coming.”

“You don’t have the right to decide what I do and don’t do.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“This is exactly how this works.  Billy is taking me, you see his boat.”

“What boat?”

“His father’s boat.”

Was I?  I never said I would or could, for that matter.  He had banned everyone from going near it because, firstly, it was his pride and joy, and secondly, it was his hiding place from home and responsibility.  He had only shown me once.

“He’s lying if he told you that.”

“He doesn’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Harry.  Good night, Harry.”

The look he gave her didn’t augur well.  For her or for me.  Especially after Richie warned me.

…

“Why did you tell Harry about the boat?”

“Because I’m tired of him bossing me about.  I told him it was over, but he just doesn’t get it.  Besides, you can show me where it is, what it looks like.”

“But you told him a lie?”

“And you can make it the truth.  This is your one chance to prove to me you care about me, Billy.  I’m sick and tired of being disappointed by every boy in this place.”

The gauntlet had been thrown down.

And to be honest, I should have taken a little longer to consider the consequences, but here’s the thing, I felt like this was the first and possibly the only chance to find true love.

As much as any teenager who’d never experienced it before, and was feeling a range of sensations that had no rational explanation. 

Of course, I had absolutely no idea what love was, but I did have these feelings towards Wanda, and I assumed that it was love.

“I didn’t know you were interested in me or in boats, or anyone else.”

“There is a lot you do not know about me that anyone knows or has taken the time to find out.  Take me home, and then I will meet you near the Fisherman’s Cooperative.”

I knew the place.

Her grandfather had a small chandler’s store next to the Fisherman’s Cooperative, which I had collected from her one weekend when she asked me to take her home, after visiting her grandparents.

She had been upset at the time, and I had got the impression she had been in an argument with Harry and had gone to be with her grandparents rather than her parents.

I found her grandparents to be far more reasonable people, and that her parents were much like mine, with unreasonable expectations.

After doing as she asked, I left her at the front gate and then slowly made my way to the wharf precinct.  Standing on the wharf, it was possible to see the cove and the bonfire in the middle of the sand, looking almost like a signal to guide a ship in or away from the rocks.

There was a lighthouse on the point.

It was dark, and the wharf was lit by a series of single bulbs that didn’t cover much area.  From the car park it looked like a weird if lights heading out to sea.

When I arrived, the full moon was out and made it very bright, but since my arrival, dark clouds had rolled in from the horizon out to sea, blocking the moon.  Then, lightning appeared, way out to sea, putting on a spectacular light show.

Just after the first cracking of lightning appeared to hit the end of the wharf, the lights sent out, the breeze picked up, and you could feel the rain in the air.  Wanda appeared beside me, almost scaring me.

“You’re jumpy,” she said. 

“It’s a bit spooky in the dark, and the storm that’s going to hit very soon.”

“I’d been quite warm.  What’s not to like about cooling rain?”

What indeed.  Clearly, the thunder and lightning didn’t bother her.

“So, show me this boat.”

It was moored a short distance from the wharf and an area with a series of sea anchorages.  My father didn’t like the idea of mooring in the marina bays because when he had, and a storm hit, it caused a lot of damage.

Riding it out moored to a block on the sea floor and a stabilising anchor seemed much safer.

The sea had been rising with the increased onshore wind, and while the moon had been out, old could see the sea-anchored boats rocking on the waves.

There were several people aboard their boats, but if the seas got higher, they might have to row ashore.

I took her to the middle of the wharf, where there were steps down to the sea, now washing over the bottom level, usually a foot over the water level.

The tide was coming in and would be at its highest in another two hours.  If the waves got higher, they would break over the wharf itself.  It had happened twice in the last year.

A bolt of lightning illuminated the bay, and I pointed to the boat.  A crash of thunder, followed by more lightning, gave her an extended view.

“That’s not a boat.  That’s more of a dinghy.”

What did she know about boats?

“It’s quite large when you are aboard.”

Rain started, just drops, picked up by the gusty wind.  I turned to tell her we’d better find cover, to find her on the other side of the wharf, looking towards the beach party.

The bonfire was blazing, the flames picked up by the wind.  There were quite a few people there, defying the weather.

“They’re going to get wet,” she said.

“I don’t think they care.  Two kegs of beer make people apparently waterproof.”

“And stupid.”

Last time I went on one of Richie’s beach parties, more than innocence was lost.

I saw Wanda shudder.

“Bad experience?”

She didn’t say anything, bur it wondered if the tears were from the rain or horrible memories.

Another gust of wind, and the rain increased.

“We’d better find cover,” I said.

She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around me.  In my ear, she whispered, “Hold me.”

I did as she asked and we stood there, in the rain and the wind, her head on my shoulder, and I could feel her shuddering.

It was more than just the cold.

Then she spoke again, and it was like we were in a cone of silence. I could hear nothing else but her words, “I think I’m pregnant. I don’t know what to do.  I can’t tell anyone, and the fact that you are holding me now is the only reason I haven’t thrown myself off the end of the pier.”

…

The rain didn’t matter, it was the least of her concerns, and it want bothering me.  It had been hot during the day, and the storm was expected.

I gave her time, waiting until she wanted to speak, or not.  It had taken great courage to tell someone who, in truth, wasn’t all that close or had earned her trust.

But then, who could she trust with that news?

I felt her move slightly, and she looked at me. 

“What do I do?  What can I do?”

“Breathe for starters.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  Her eyes were watery, tears leaving streaks down her cheek.  There was a look of utter despair in her expression.

“Does anyone else know?”

“That Harry raped me, only my grandparents, who are sworn to secrecy.  They don’t know about the baby.”

“Are you sure?”

“As anyone can be.  Things happen or don’t happen, and it didn’t happen.”

It was about as oblique an answer she could give me.  I wondered if my sisters knew what she was talking about.”

“But it might not be the case?”

“I have to go with the worst-case scenario.”

“Right.  How long before anyone can tell?”

“One of my cousins got pregnant, and my mother said she knew the moment she saw her.  You’re supposed to have this glow thing.  Do I look like I’m glowing?”

I shook my head.  “You look very wet, I’ll say that much.”  I think it was the first time I realised that it was raining.

She smiled.  It was a sad smile, but it broke the gloom.  “Can we run away somewhere?”

“Would you want to run away with me?  I mean, we know each other, but,” I shrugged, “if you believe you can trust me, I’ll do anything you ask of me.”

“Can I trust you?”

It was as an interesting question.  I had never been put in a position where someone had to take me at face value.  I mean, I hadn’t done anything wrong, not like Richie and his cohorts, but then girls hadn’t taken much of an interest in me.

“I give you my word I would never knowingly hurt you.  I can’t say the same for my parents, though.”

“Nor could I mine, but it’s as much as I can expect.  We are both so not ready for this, but it have been thinking about what I was going to do.  The thing is, he’s just going to deny it, and being the son of a deputy sheriff, who’s going to believe me?”

She was right.  Harry was almost untouchable, and Richie and his friends fed off that implied immunity.  It was wrong, but it was a small town.  Her word against his, and the others who would close ranks, iy was to was easier just to disappear.

“Then we need a plan.”

“You’ll help me?”

“Anything to get out of going to the Prom, yes. But, sure, I’m sure I can come up with something.”

She kissed me on the cheek. “You know, I could get to love you.”

…

©  Charles Heath 2026

An old story resurrected

…

Eight out of eight passengers and crew never thought they’d find themselves in what was, literally, a life and death situation.

The air hung heavy with cigarette smoke, for nearly all smoked (and some for the first time).  Tension thickened the atmosphere to a point where it could almost be cut with a knife.

In the deathly quiet, all had time to reflect on the fate that had befallen them, and the resume of events read like the script of the archetypal disaster movie.

The first hint of trouble came when they’d lost one engine.  The pilot had been quite nonchalant about it because, he said, they had three others.  Only Harry thought he could detect a note of apprehension in his tone.

Then, after a short time, they lost another engine.

An hour later, they crashed.

Of the eight, during those precious seconds before impact, none believed they would survive, that only the pilot and co-pilot perished.  All admitted it had been a spectacular piece of flying on the pilot’s part, all, that is, except Rawlings.

…

“A fine mess this blasted pilot has got us into,” Rawlings said for the umpteenth time.  No one had taken much notice before, and it was debatable whether anyone was taking notice now, for Rawlings had hardly endeared himself to the other passengers.

As the only person travelling first class, he made sure he received the best service (and the only one to receive any service, for that matter) from the moment he came on board.  The fact that the airline had allocated only one stewardess for the flight was the airline’s (and his fellow passengers’) problem, not his.

“After telling us how clever you are, Rawlings, why don’t you do something about it?”  An indistinguishable voice came from the rear of the plane.  It was an indication of the undercurrent of hate simmering beneath the icy calm.

Rawlings, still in the forward section of the plane, glared at the group, trying to put a face to the voice.  “To whom am I speaking?”

No one replied.

“No matter.”  He shrugged it off.  “Had the pilot managed to get the plane down in one piece, I could.  Since he didn’t, you can be assured I’ll think of something, which is more than I can say for some.”  It was, to him, a simple statement based on his assessment of the situation, but it served only to further alienate him from the others.

…

Harry had known better days, and, not for the first time, he wished this were one of them.  He’d had a premonition the previous night when he’d woken, bathed in sweat, an unconscious warning of an impending disaster.

Not that the threat of death was significant to him, for he knew it would come eventually, despite the doctor’s optimism, but not yet, not here, in the middle of nowhere, atop a mountain range in the freezing cold.

He glanced at his fellow passengers, a curious mixture of travellers he’d ever met.

Rawlings was the egotistical, bombastic, thorough son-of-a-bitch.  He had gone out of his way to make the trip as miserable as possible for the others.  Status, to him, was all-important, even after the crash.

Harkness, Rawlings’ assistant (and relegated to Economy class because he was a servant), was the sort who said little and suffered a lot.  His defence of the pilot had caused Rawlings to ‘vent his spleen’ on him, after which, to Harkness, the silence must have been golden.

Daphne and her mother, Mrs Gaunt, two of the three women on board, were congenial, cheerful people who bore up well considering they were terrified out of their wits.  Daphne, in fact, had taken over stewardess duties for the Economy passengers, a job much appreciated by them.

The remaining two passengers, geologists, were odd sorts who arrived late and drunk.  After taking off, they’d fallen asleep and, in fact, had slept through the crash.  They were, Harry thought, in for one hell of a shock when they finally woke.

Above all, however, the stewardess had fared the worst, after the pilots, having, after the discovery of the death of the pilots, become hysterical.  It was an interesting development because she had kept a tight, calm grip on the situation all through the calamity.

Harry huddled closer under his blanket, only to remember his sore arm.  He didn’t think it was broken, but it certainly felt like it.  And the hell of it was, he couldn’t remember how it happened.  He shuddered as a gust of icy wind came through the rent in the fuselage near his seat.  But it was not only the cold which left him with almost uncontrollable shakes – it was also the onset of shock. 

In the back of his mind, he relived those cataclysmic minutes after successive engines failed.  It was then he wished he hadn’t been so insistent on having a window seat.

As the plane lurched sickeningly, the pilot calmly said they’d have to land immediately.  Of course, he added equally as calm, it would be difficult in mountainous country.  However, they were fortunate it had been snowing recently.  All except Rawlings took the news with equanimity.  It was odd, someone said later, that with all his knowledge and self-praise, Rawlings didn’t take over the plane and fly them to safety.

The plane was barely in the air when the order came to brace themselves, and all were prepared when the plane hit the ground moments later.

The plane came to rest abruptly in a snow-covered valley; the silence, after the cacophony of tearing metal and involuntary screams, was almost maddening.  The first realisation each had was that they were still alive – the second, the icy wind coming in through the large cracks in the fuselage.

Harry was the first to move himself into action and to make an appraisal of the situation.  The other passengers were more or less unharmed, except for the stewardess, who was slightly dazed.  Then, Harkness joining him, he went forward to the flight deck.  When they managed to wrench the door open, they were greeted by a scene of total destruction.  Both pilots were dead, unrecognisable in the mass of twisted wreckage.  Harry quickly reclosed the door before he was physically ill.

At least it explained why the plane had stopped so abruptly:  they’d crashed into a rock in the last stage of the slide.  It was miraculous that the plane hadn’t caught fire.

Harry had no intention of taking charge; it just happened.  He told the others what the situation was, briefly and down to earth and then suggested they search for food and other items such as blankets.  Everyone noted Rawlings’ lack of enthusiasm to help, and if it had not been for Daphne, he would not have received blankets or food.  Most ignored him, wondering at the fact that he could still be so aloof in such tragic circumstances.

Because of the cold, they quickly organised themselves so they could wait for their rescue.  It wouldn’t, they reasoned, relatively cheerfully, be long.

…

Whilst the others may have considered Rawlings little more than a pain in the neck, it would have surprised them to learn that he despaired for them.  He couldn’t understand their attitude towards him, for all he wanted to do was make them feel better, and, if he could, help.

But there was little chance of that occurring, and, in fact, as much chance as him receiving the treatment he considered he deserved.  It was clear in his own mind that there were two types of people in the world: the leaders and the led.  By virtue of his station in life, he was one of the leaders.  Why, he asked himself rhetorically, didn’t they realise that?  He glared at them, all studiously ignoring his presence.  There was, he thought bitterly, little prospect of getting any assistance from those people.

…

Conditions were unbearable during the first night.  Darkness had fallen quickly, and with no hot food to ward off even a fraction of the coldness that had settled on them, their relatively good spirits quickly dissipated. 

To Harry (and the others) the night seemed interminable, and he found it impossible to sleep for any length of time.  He was shaking uncontrollably, despite the warm clothing and number of blankets, and, as dawn broke, he wasted no time getting up and about to get his circulation going again, urging the others to do likewise.  It was something he remembered having seen in a film once: if the cold was allowed to take over, a person quickly succumbed and died.

His first venture outside was something of an experience.  In the first instance, it was colder outside than in, if that was possible, and in the second, the landscape was as bleak, in his opinion, as their prospects of rescue.

After trekking some distance through the rather solid snow and up a rise, he found he had a good view of the plane, and the fact that there were, strangely, no trees from one end of the valley to the other.  The same could not be said for the surrounding country.  It seemed an impossibility that the pilot had been able to find such a place, and, desperately unlucky, he should hit the only rock Harry could see in the line of the plane’s path.

The plane was half covered in snow.  It was apparent it had been snowing during the night, and by the look of the sky, more was on the way.  Low clouds continually swept through the valley, obscuring everything from view, and that, he considered, would make discovery from the air nigh on impossible.

What it really meant was that they would have to come up with their own plan of action rather than wait for hypothermia to take its toll.  It was something he had been thinking about most of the night, but he had been unable to progress to any sort of workable alternatives.

During a clear period, Harry saw Harkness coming towards him slowly.  He was rapidly gaining respect for Harkness, as he was not only surprisingly cheerful (despite being blunted by the more dominant Rawlings) he was resourceful.

By the time he reached Harry, he was out of breath and needed a few minutes to recover.  Harry noted he looked a good deal older than he had first estimated.

“What a hike, but it sure beats the hell out of waiting down there,” Harkness said when he’d recovered sufficiently, nodding towards the wreckage.  “And, God knows how, I feel warm.”

“So do I.  It was one of the reasons I came here.”

“Those two geologists, or whatever they are, are finally awake.  Boy, you should have seen their faces.  One swore he’d give up drink forever.”

“He may get his wish sooner than he thinks.”

“You don’t rate our chances of discovery high, eh?”

“Take a look.”  Harry beckoned to the mist, swirling through the valley, obliterating everything in their view.  Harry, in fact, could hardly see Harkness.

“Yes.  I see what you mean.  What do you think we should do?”

“God knows.  But one thing is for sure, I don’t think we can afford to sit and wait for someone to come and find us.  Not under the current circumstances, with more snow imminent.   It’ll take only another fall to completely hide us from any viewpoint.”

Harkness looked at the sky, then at the surroundings, and nodded in agreement, adding, after a minute, “It seems odd this is the only part of the country that’s clear of trees.  Do you think there’s any significance in that?”

“Exactly, would you believe, what I was thinking?”

“Do you think we might be near help?”

“Who knows.  But, because of the urgency of the situation, I think we should find out.  The question is who the ideal person is.”  There was, however, no doubt in his mind.

…

“You’re mad, stark, staring mad,” Rawlings said when Harry told the others of the plan he and Harkness had formulated on their way back to the plane.

“I agree there is an element of risk….”

“Risk?” Rawlings exploded.  “Risk?  It’s bloody suicide.  My own view is that we should sit tight.  We have enough to eat, and we’re relatively warm.  It won’t be long before the search parties are out now we are overdue.”

“You haven’t been outside.  Circumstances dictate that we must seek help.  It’s been explained in detail.  If you cannot understand the situation, then don’t interfere.”  Harkness glared at his old chief, for the first time feeling more than a match for him.  Rawlings would never again dominate him.

“Then you’re fools, as are all the rest of you if you condone this idiocy.  I wash my hands of it.”  And he ignored them, going back to his book.  If that Davidson character wanted to kill himself, that was his business.

There were no other objections.  The others understood the realities of the situation, both Harkness and Harry had explained at length.  Harry would seek assistance.  Harkness would do his best to keep the others alive.

Then, after a good meal (in the circumstances) and taking enough food for two days, Harry left.  At the top of the rise, he stopped, briefly, looking at the scene.  It was, he thought, exactly as it had been in the dream.

For two days, it had snowed continuously.  The sub-zero temperatures had virtually sapped them all of whatever energy they had left, and, on the morning of the third day, they were all barely alive

At the end of the second day, Harkness had requested everybody to huddle together, including the standoffish Rawlings, who finally agreed, despite inner misgivings.  It was probably this single action that saved them.

Harkness, though he said nothing, had given up hope that Harry would still be alive.  No one could have survived the intensity of the blizzard.

Harkness had woken to inky darkness and a death-like silence, the storm having abated.  His first thought was that he had died, but that passed as the cold slowly made itself felt.  Soon after, finding his torch still worked, he roused everyone and cajoled or browbeat them into doing their exercises to ward off frostbite.

It was then that they heard the strange throbbing sound, and Harkness instinctively went to go outside and found they’d been snowed in.  As the throbbing sound passed over them again, Harkness didn’t need to ask for assistance to make an opening in the snow.  They frantically dug their way through; luckily, the snow wall was only of powder-like consistency.  Not long after daylight showed through, and then Harkness was out.  But the plane, or what he assumed to be a plane, had gone.

Instead, he was alone, by the snow mountain that covered the plane, greeted by a perfectly blue sky and the sun’s rays.  It was, he thought wryly, perfect skiing weather, but awfully lonely if no one could see where you were.

In a minute, he was joined by Daphne, and the disappointment was written on her face.  They waited, wordless, by the plane for an hour, glad to be out of the confined space of the fuselage, and were, at various times, joined by the others, escaping what Mrs Gaunt had said (now, after the rescue plane had gone) would probably be their grave.  The disbelief and joy of having survived the crash had now worn off, and Harkness knew that if they had to try to survive another night, some might not make it.

He was alone, striking out for the rise when the throbbing sound returned, coming from behind him.  And judging by the sound, it could not be a plane.  It was too low and too slow.  Thus, he was not surprised when a helicopter hovered over the rise and slowed as the occupants sighted him waving frantically, and yelling, quickly being joined by the others.

They all couldn’t believe they’d been rescued, all, that is, except Rawlings.  In every instance, Rawlings had been the exception, and it was not to his credit.  He was the only one who had suffered severely from frostbite.  He was, however, the one to say, when they finally reached what he called civilisation, that he’d been right:  that all they had to do was sit tight and wait.  They’d be rescued sooner or later.

That was when the leader of the rescue operation shattered his illusion – and shocked everyone else.  “That’s not necessarily so, Mr Rawlings.  You would have been discovered, but late in spring, after the thaw.  The plane was terribly off course, and to be honest, after the second day, we’d given up any real hope of finding you.  The country around here is very rugged.  No, you owe a great deal to a fellow called Davidson.”

“Davidson, you say?” Harkness muttered.  “He’s alive?”

“Unfortunately, no.  He died soon after he told us about the plane and where it had crashed.  If he hadn’t, you’d still be there.”

“My God.”  Harkness slumped into a chair, only barely able to hear Rawlings say, quietly, “I told him it was suicide, but no one listened to me.  Suicide, I said.  And, as for that damn pilot…..”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026