Days 200 and 201

Writing Exercise

…

Love strikes you when you least expect it, and quite often, not the person you thought it would be.

The thing is, I wasn’t looking and had made up my mind that studies came first, then a good job, save some money, and be prepared for anything.

But saying you’re not interested, and what seems to be the woman of your dreams appearing out of left field, you have to wonder if fate has something else in store.

I thought it did for me.

It came in the form of one Maria Cagnoni, year two of a four-year engineering degree, diversifying into Space, and the second day of the first semester at the university, the astrophysics lecture.

She was late and made an entrance.

Professor Moriarty, yes, right out of a Sherlock Holmes detective story, was not amused. A normal student would just sneak on and blend into the back of the room.

Not Maria.

She was like a stick of dynamite with a burning fuse. Bright red skimpy dress, long flowing artificial curly blonde hair, and a supermodel manner. My first impression is a Marilyn Monroe lookalike.

Not a word was exchanged, but we all knew what the Professor was thinking, and as for Maria, I would have said she was oblivious to what was going on around her, except she knew and by the supercilious smirk on her face, all too well the effect she’d created.

Brenda Bailey, the girl whom I’d been duelling for best student every year since the start of grade school, just groaned. It was going to be very interesting to get her take on Maria’s arrival.

Maria was a new student, transferred from one of those Ivy League universities, one I would have liked to go to, and had been accepted into, but then my mother got sick. I seriously doubted Maria was here to do astrophysics, but I was quickly reminded not to judge a book by its cover.

Brenda had missed out, or so she told me, but being every bit as clever as I was, I didn’t question the story, I just had reservations. I might have considered at first that because I wasn’t going she wasn’t, but after she picked another boy to go the the prom, I knew that whatever I thought we had, it didn’t go both ways.

It had taken a year to get past that, and it still rankled, though I kept it to myself. But it did teach me one valuable lesson: don’t get tangled up with any girls. They were all tarred with the same brush.

I was having coffee at the nearby cafe minding my own business when Maria appeared in the doorway and quickly scanned the room.

Looking for someone? She saw me, the only face she recognised, and came over.

“I know you.”

“I beg to differ.” I gave her the trademark ‘go away’ look, which didn’t work. She pulled up a chair and sat down.

“I heard you’re the resident genius.”

I glared at her. Radkin was taking the mickey again. She was definitely his sort.

“You heard wrong. That would be Brenda.”

“Your ex?”

Yep, she’d been definitely talking to Radkin. He sussed the tension first year and figured we had broken up badly.

“There is nothing between us but air. I asked her to the prom, she turned me down, it took me by surprise, I stayed a month in Tuscany with my aunt and got over it. Go annoy her.”

“You always this prickly?”

“This is a good day. Try annoying me on a bad day. What the hell do you want anyway?”

Perhaps my brusque tone would get her to leave.

“What is your problem?”

OK, I finally got the response I was looking for. “What do you and Astrophysics have in common?”

“I would be here if I didn’t have the grades.”

She didn’t say it, but the intimation was loud and clear.

“Then I should be seeking you out as the resident genius. When I have a problem, I’ll come and see you.”

She shook her head. I don’t think the conversation went quite the way she had imagined it would. And if she were clever, the Professor would find some way of tormenting me. He had a reputation for creating groups of students and using them to create solutions to near-unsolvable problems.

Then she smiled and stood. “Challenge accepted.”

It seems I lost the first skirmish

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

More about my story

…

When I was writing the original story, there was no Natasha.

The thing is, there was going to be retribution, but it was going to be the usual revenge: sneak up on the person responsible, and shoot him.

Blunt, but quick and satisfying.

But the thing is, revenge is never that simple; there are always multiple layers, events, and people that bring this revenge to life.

It helps to know who the revenge is against and why.

First, Willoughby’s head of department, O’Connell’s the man who can’t lie straight in bed. To him, a double cross is like a grist to the mill. He’s not the instigator, just the agent of doom. McConnell has no time for people like Whitelaw or Fitzherbert.

Second, Whitelaw, the man who perceived the unjust treatment of his request to head the new department. He’s the yes man that every minister needs, except his minister decides to give it to McConnell. What more reason for a man like Whitelaw, who doesn’t suffer rebuff very well, is needed to try and bring McConnell down?

Pity those caught in the crossfire? Absolutely.

Third, Fitzherbert, the relevant minister, and a problem. He doesn’t understand the spy business
But what minister does unless he was a spy or ran a covert intelligence agency?

Pity then the man who has oversight is barely able to spell intelligence, let alone handle oversight. That’s the bailiwick of the permanent head (sadly, our disgruntled Whitelaw)

You can see where this is going.

Four, Archibald, the Prime Minister, who wasn’t when Natasha first arrived, but her handlers knew the potential, and she got in on the ground floor as his mistress, among others.

Five, Natasha herself, was recruited with her sister from an orphanage and trained to be a sleeper agent until activated. Spies.

The question is whether Archibald knew who and what she was, because he’s the one who recalls her from retirement to do what had turned out to be a very messy internecine war that had crippled their intelligence operations.

And for Natasha, she was already invested because of Willoughby being the final victim in that war. She was already in the country monitoring Willoughby’s progress, and it was only a matter of time before she unravelled the situation.

And pissing off Natasha was the last thing any of them wanted to do because retribution in her hands meant only one outcome.

More about my story

…

When I was writing the original story, there was no Natasha.

The thing is, there was going to be retribution, but it was going to be the usual revenge: sneak up on the person responsible, and shoot him.

Blunt, but quick and satisfying.

But the thing is, revenge is never that simple; there are always multiple layers, events, and people that bring this revenge to life.

It helps to know who the revenge is against and why.

First, Willoughby’s head of department, O’Connell’s the man who can’t lie straight in bed. To him, a double cross is like a grist to the mill. He’s not the instigator, just the agent of doom. McConnell has no time for people like Whitelaw or Fitzherbert.

Second, Whitelaw, the man who perceived the unjust treatment of his request to head the new department. He’s the yes man that every minister needs, except his minister decides to give it to McConnell. What more reason for a man like Whitelaw, who doesn’t suffer rebuff very well, is needed to try and bring McConnell down?

Pity those caught in the crossfire? Absolutely.

Third, Fitzherbert, the relevant minister, and a problem. He doesn’t understand the spy business
But what minister does unless he was a spy or ran a covert intelligence agency?

Pity then the man who has oversight is barely able to spell intelligence, let alone handle oversight. That’s the bailiwick of the permanent head (sadly, our disgruntled Whitelaw)

You can see where this is going.

Four, Archibald, the Prime Minister, who wasn’t when Natasha first arrived, but her handlers knew the potential, and she got in on the ground floor as his mistress, among others.

Five, Natasha herself, was recruited with her sister from an orphanage and trained to be a sleeper agent until activated. Spies.

The question is whether Archibald knew who and what she was, because he’s the one who recalls her from retirement to do what had turned out to be a very messy internecine war that had crippled their intelligence operations.

And for Natasha, she was already invested because of Willoughby being the final victim in that war. She was already in the country monitoring Willoughby’s progress, and it was only a matter of time before she unravelled the situation.

And pissing off Natasha was the last thing any of them wanted to do because retribution in her hands meant only one outcome.

Day 199

Writing before computers.

…

It’s the 250th anniversary of something to do with Jane Austen, and I was watching a limited series about her life, or her sister, or something like that.

I’m a Jane Austen fan, by the way, introduced to her writing by Pride and Prejudice, the TV series way, way back with Colin Firth as Mr Darcy.

But I digress…

What was notable about it was how Jane Austen wrote her books, on sheets of paper with a quill and ink, and I got the impression she created her own ink, and it was messy. Her writing fingers were stained with the black stuff.

It took me back to when I started, a little more modern with a ruled exercise book and a biro, though it was no less messy when the ink of the biro got messy and smudgy.

So I graduated to a pencil and found that I could cross out less and use an eraser to get rid of what I didn’t want. The pencil stayed, and the notebooks got smaller so I could take one with me everywhere in case an idea popped into my head.

I have a box of about three or four hundred of them, filled with writing that was later transcribed into books.

However, after pencil and paper came a typewriter, my mother’s old portable with a ribbon that often needed replacement before the writing became too hard to read.

And the typeface got bent out of shape, making the strings of letters somewhat odd.

But these days I have an app on my phone, a Galaxy tab and a notebook computer, but I still use Notepads and pencils and handwrite a lot of my writing. Just in case technology disappears and we go back to living in caves.

Day 199

Writing before computers.

…

IT’s the 250th anniversary of something to do with Jane Austen, and I was watching a limited series about her life, or her sister, or something like that.

I’m a Jane Austen fan, by the way, introduced to her writing by Pride and Prejudice, the TV series way, way back with Colin Firth as Mr Darcy.

But I digress…

What was notable about it was how Jane Austen wrote her books, on sheets of paper with a quill and ink, and I got the impression she created her own ink, and it was messy. Her writing fingers were stained with the black stuff.

It took me back to when I started, a little more modern with a ruled exercise book and a biro, though it was no less messy when the ink of the biro got messy and smudgy.

So I graduated to a pencil and found that I could cross out less and use an eraser to get rid of what I didn’t want. The pencil stayed, and the notebooks got smaller so I could take one with me everywhere in case an idea popped into my head.

I have a box of about three or four hundred of them, filled with writing that was later transcribed into books.

However, after pencil and paper came a typewriter, my mother’s old portable with a ribbon that often needed replacement before the writing became too hard to read.

And the typeface got bent out of shape, making the strings of letters somewhat odd.

But these days I have an app on my phone, a Galaxy tab and a notebook computer, but I still use Notepads and pencils and handwrite a lot of my writing. Just in case technology disappears and we go back to living in caves.

Day 198

Writing a story to astonish the reader

…

I was sitting down and wondering just what I could write that would create a sense of astonishment, or even shock the reader.

Then my news feed arced up and – well, I have to say I’m astonished.

At the state of American politics, and the lengths political parties will go to avoid getting caught, especially when they’ve been caught.

I utterly refuse to believe that the Democratic Party is to blame for absolutely everything in America. It takes a long time to completely stuff everything up, and both parties have a hand in all the problems.

It’s the same in Australia. We’ve got a lot of problems, but no one party has caused them; they are caused by both, and a lot to do with election cycles. No one wants to set in place the 10-year cycle it would take to fix things.

Then, I have to say it is the same everywhere.

The next thing that flashes up in the news cycle, pedophiles. OK, not the domain of one party, but everyone has a hand in this. And it is abhorrent, and we say we don’t tolerate it, but the fact is, politicians, judges, policemen, lawyers, doctors, priests and even presidents are complicit. The thing is, we all know they’re complicit, we want answers and arrests, and somehow it all gets buried.

Shock!

Or not.

It’s no surprise, no shock, and we are not even astonished when the politicians from the top down, and then the law enforcement officers, all lie, lie, lie, and then lie again.

And we let them.

There’s the shock, right there.

And the next shock? Nothing is going to happen. We’ll be talking about this in four years, and no one will be arrested. Someone might commit suicide (ha bloody ha), absolving the guilty.

If the Republicans are in power, it’s all the Democrats who are pedophiles, and if the Democrats are in power then it’s all the Republicans who are pedophiles, and when you can’t even believe in or trust your president, well, what hope is there for all those victims?

Oh, hang on, we seem to have forgotten about the victims. I was a victim. I know what it’s like to be abused. I know what it’s like not to get justice. I know what it’s like to listen to the lies of the perpetrator and watch him get away with it.

I cannot be shocked, surprised or astonished anymore.

What would shock me?

Just one of those turds being hung at noon in a public square as a reminder that it will not be tolerated.

Rant over!

Day 198

Writing a story to astonish the reader

…

I was sitting down and wondering just what I could write that would create a sense of astonishment, or even shock the reader.

Then my news feed arced up and – well, I have to say I’m astonished.

At the state of American politics, and the lengths political parties will go to avoid getting caught, especially when they’ve been caught.

I utterly refuse to believe that the Democratic Party is to blame for absolutely everything in America. It takes a long time to completely stuff everything up, and both parties have a hand in all the problems.

It’s the same in Australia. We’ve got a lot of problems, but no one party has caused them; they are caused by both, and a lot to do with election cycles. No one wants to set in place the 10-year cycle it would take to fix things.

Then, I have to say it is the same everywhere.

The next thing that flashes up in the news cycle, pedophiles. OK, not the domain of one party, but everyone has a hand in this. And it is abhorrent, and we say we don’t tolerate it, but the fact is, politicians, judges, policemen, lawyers, doctors, priests and even presidents are complicit. The thing is, we all know they’re complicit, we want answers and arrests, and somehow it all gets buried.

Shock!

Or not.

It’s no surprise, no shock, and we are not even astonished when the politicians from the top down, and then the law enforcement officers, all lie, lie, lie, and then lie again.

And we let them.

There’s the shock, right there.

And the next shock? Nothing is going to happen. We’ll be talking about this in four years, and no one will be arrested. Someone might commit suicide (ha bloody ha), absolving the guilty.

If the Republicans are in power, it’s all the Democrats who are pedophiles, and if the Democrats are in power then it’s all the Republicans who are pedophiles, and when you can’t even believe in or trust your president, well, what hope is there for all those victims?

Oh, hang on, we seem to have forgotten about the victims. I was a victim. I know what it’s like to be abused. I know what it’s like not to get justice. I know what it’s like to listen to the lies of the perpetrator and watch him get away with it.

I cannot be shocked, surprised or astonished anymore.

What would shock me?

Just one of those turds being hung at noon in a public square as a reminder that it will not be tolerated.

Rant over!

Day 197

Could you write a fantasy story to avoid getting too serious

For years, people used to tell me I was living in my own fantasy land.

What amazed me was that they could see into my mind that I wanted to be a knight in shining armour, a superhero, a billionaire who wanted for nothing, and a spy who beat the bad guys and won over the girl.

Of course, none of this could ever happen in reality, only in my imagination.

With the arrival of three grandchildren and being asked to take up child-minding, came the time to read them stories before they went to bed.

I used to think that the violence that was within those stories would keep any sane person up all night, but I was quick to realise that any sort of cartoon or fantasy story always carried an indecent level of violence.

Perhaps from a young age, we are supposed to be taught that good triumphs over evil and the bad guys always come off second best.

However….

After reading a lot of fairy tales to the girls, I thought to myself I could do better and decided to write my own.

A snotty, egotistical princess is about to be married off to the prince in the kingdom next door, and he isn’t very nice.  The thing is, no one likes her, and everyone is glad she’s going away to be with her prince.

She’s been betrothed since they were children, and that notion she could marry for love was dashed many years before.

But…

There’s a legend that comes once in a millennium called ‘the conflagration’, where the firstborn eldest daughter from one of the kingdoms in the realm is selected to become ‘the saviour’, who has to go on a quest to find the twelve pieces of the tablet needed to restore peace and order.

It just happens that after the invasion of her kingdom by another, that of her prince, soon to be husband, the conflagration begins. Her ‘knight in shining armour’ comes to collect her, only it is not marriage he has in mind.

Her father’s trusted Master-at-Arms is sent to save her from the prince and take her on the quest, sent to him in his dreams. The problem is, the king believes the Gods have made a mistake, but trusts his personal knight to guide her in her role.

Of course, the knight doesn’t believe she will get past the first task. For that reason, he doesn’t tell her the real reason why they are heading into the Kingdom of Magic. Not until it’s time to find the first artefact.

There are twelve to find, and by the time she locates the last piece of the puzzle, she transforms from the whiny, self-indulgent brat into a fearless leader.

Everything a saviour needed to be.

By the time the first draft was finished, it was 1,100 pages of the story called The Enchanted Horse.

Well, Mr Disney, I’ve just created your next Disney Princess, The Princess Marigold!

Day 197

Could you write a fantasy story to avoid getting too serious

For years, people used to tell me I was living in my own fantasy land.

What amazed me was that they could see into my mind that I wanted to be a knight in shining armour, a superhero, a billionaire who wanted for nothing, and a spy who beat the bad guys and won over the girl.

Of course, none of this could ever happen in reality, only in my imagination.

With the arrival of three grandchildren and being asked to take up child-minding, came the time to read them stories before they went to bed.

I used to think that the violence that was within those stories would keep any sane person up all night, but I was quick to realise that any sort of cartoon or fantasy story always carried an indecent level of violence.

Perhaps from a young age, we are supposed to be taught that good triumphs over evil and the bad guys always come off second best.

However….

After reading a lot of fairy tales to the girls, I thought to myself I could do better and decided to write my own.

A snotty, egotistical princess is about to be married off to the prince in the kingdom next door, and he isn’t very nice.  The thing is, no one likes her, and everyone is glad she’s going away to be with her prince.

She’s been betrothed since they were children, and that notion she could marry for love was dashed many years before.

But…

There’s a legend that comes once in a millennium called ‘the conflagration’, where the firstborn eldest daughter from one of the kingdoms in the realm is selected to become ‘the saviour’, who has to go on a quest to find the twelve pieces of the tablet needed to restore peace and order.

It just happens that after the invasion of her kingdom by another, that of her prince, soon to be husband, the conflagration begins. Her ‘knight in shining armour’ comes to collect her, only it is not marriage he has in mind.

Her father’s trusted Master-at-Arms is sent to save her from the prince and take her on the quest, sent to him in his dreams. The problem is, the king believes the Gods have made a mistake, but trusts his personal knight to guide her in her role.

Of course, the knight doesn’t believe she will get past the first task. For that reason, he doesn’t tell her the real reason why they are heading into the Kingdom of Magic. Not until it’s time to find the first artefact.

There are twelve to find, and by the time she locates the last piece of the puzzle, she transforms from the whiny, self-indulgent brat into a fearless leader.

Everything a saviour needed to be.

By the time the first draft was finished, it was 1,100 pages of the story called The Enchanted Horse.

Well, Mr Disney, I’ve just created your next Disney Princess, The Princess Marigold!

Day 196

I don’t remember anything about last night or last week!

When I woke, the sun was streaming through the window.  Odd, I thought, because I had closed the curtains the night before.

While everything looked the same as I’d left it the night before, why did I have a sudden feeling of unease with a shiver going down my spine? 

I could hear the sound of running water coming from within the bathroom. 

I looked sideways and could see that the bedding was turned over like someone had been sleeping on the other side of the bed.  The pillow had a slight dent in it.

Someone had spent the night with me.

I shuddered.  I couldn’t remember anything other than coming home, having a precooked dinner, watching the news, reading for an hour, and then going to bed.

In fact, I could not remember ever bringing a girl home to my flat, simply because I didn’t think she would stay.  It was that bad.

I waited, the water stopped, rustling in the bathroom, and then the door opened.

I didn’t recognise her.  “Who are you?”

Her cheerful expression changed slightly, one of surprise.  “Of course, you know who I am. You’re just playing with me, Robert.  You said you had a wicked sense of humour.”

I was an accountant, and I knew my colleagues considered I was the last person who would have any sort of humour as part of my persona.

Something was awfully wrong because I could not remember anything from the previous night, no matter how hard I tried.

“Be that as it may, let’s just assume for the moment I can’t remember anything.  I suspect I might have uncharacteristically got drunk and now have temporary amnesia.  I’ve heard it can happen.  Please remind me who you are and why you are here?”

“Seriously?”  She sighed. “Alright, you were quite tipsy, I’ll say that.  You were at a party, reluctantly, and your friends, though I have to say they were not very friendly, were plying you with drinks, and I felt I had to rescue you.  You were grateful, we went to another bar briefly, then I brought you home.  You were not well, and I asked you if you wanted me to stay. You agreed, and I did.”

It felt like the truth.  What she described was possible, even probable. It was just that I couldn’t remember.  Would I have asked a random woman up to my flat?  Definitely not, not if I wanted to impress her. I would have asked her to go to a hotel room.

She had a towel around her and was using another to dry her hair.  My imagination went to a place it shouldn’t have, but I still wondered if she was naked under that towel.  I don’t think I was myself.

I’d realised the moment I woke, I was not dressed in my usual pyjamas.  I was trying not to think of the ramifications of that discovery.

“Did I suggest…”

“…we go to a hotel?  Yes.  You said your place was a dump, but I said you had to see my place before you described yours.  It’s far worse than this.  In fact, I find this place quaint, and best of all, your bathroom has hot water.”

OK, so that sounds like me. I was still stuck in the notion I could have gelled with a random woman in a bar, anywhere.  I couldn’t string two words together when it came to talking to Jenny at work, and she was as amazing as the one standing in the bathroom door.

This girl was among the type that wouldn’t give me a second look, let alone a first.  Drunk or sober.

“What day is it?”

“Wednesday.  Why?”

Now she was looking concerned.  Perhaps she had just realised she’d come home with an axe murderer.

And Wednesday?  The last day I remember was a Thursday, the day of the party.  Oh shit!  It was not a day I couldn’t remember. It was a whole week.

She switched from drying her hair to brushing it.  I don’t know why it piqued my interest.  Where did she get the brush from?

“How long have you been here?”

“Just last night.  I stayed because you asked me, very sweetly.  And then promptly threw up, mercifully not over anything.”

“Did we…”

“No.  I’m not that sort of girl.”

“Did I….?”

“Try to seduce me?  No.  You were the perfect gentleman, except for being drunk.”

I shook my head.  “Sorry.”

I tried not to look at her, but she was one of those girls you just notice, and if she walked into a room, even in a hessian sack, all eyes and attention would be on her.

Even with amnesia, there’s no way I would forget her.

“Don’t be.”

Finished brushing her hair, she put the brush down and came over to my side of the bed and sat down. She smiled, brushed a few straying hairs out of my eyes, and said, “You really don’t remember last night, do you?”

I didn’t.  Nor the week before that.  I was surprised the company didn’t call to find out where I was.  Or come looking for me. 

I shook my head.  “No.”

I heard the vibration of my cell phone on the table beside the bed.  She picked up the phone and handed it to me.

“It might be your work.  I’ll just finish up in the bathroom.”

I watched her walk back to the bathroom and close the door behind her.  If my imagination was playing me tricks, she would now disappear.

I brought up the messages.  Only two, one from last Thursday from Mr Graham, head partner, to say the company was sorry to see me go and wished me success in my next venture, and the one that just arrived, a horoscope that said, ‘while one door closes another will open, a friendly face just might not be friendly, so beware.”

Had I really quit my job?  There was absolutely no reason why I would, not after the head of the practice had said that if I put my head down, I could expect an invitation to become a partner in the new year.

Now I knew something was terribly wrong.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025