Tag: Serial

Searching for locations: Washington DC, USA

Washington is a city with bright shiny buildings and endless monuments, each separated by a long walk or a taxi ride if you can find one.

We might have picked the wrong day, shortly after New Year’s Day when the crowds were missing along with everything else.  Or, conversely, it was probably the right time to go, when we didn’t have to battle the crowds.

Sunny but very cold, the walking warmed us up.

First stop was the Lincoln Memorial

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It was built to honor the 16th President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln.

It is located on the western end of the National Mall in Washington, D.C., across from the Washington Monument.

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The building is in the form of a Greek Doric temple and contains a large seated sculpture of Abraham Lincoln and inscriptions of two well-known speeches by Lincoln.

The next stop was the Washington Monument

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The Washington Monument is an obelisk on the National Mall in Washington, D.C., built to commemorate George Washington. Construction of the monument began in 1848 and not completed until 1888.  It was officially opened October 9, 1888.


We then took a taxi ride to the Jefferson Memorial

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This monument is dedicated to Thomas Jefferson (1743–1826), one of the most important of the American Founding Fathers as the main drafter and writer of the Declaration of Independence.

Construction of the building began in 1939 and was completed in 1943.

The bronze statue of Jefferson was added in 1947.

Conversations with my cat – 84

 

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This is Chester.  He is looking out the door at the rain.

After a long spell of heat and humidity that was practically unbearable, we now have rain and cold.

I’m standing at the back door watching the near torrential downpour, and both of us are watching the river of water flowing from the back yard down the side of the house.

Chester looks at me.  Is that the look that’s asking me to let him outside.,

I’m toying with the idea.

He turns his head and looks up at me.  Is that an imploring look to stay in or go out.

The hell with it, I open the door.  If he wants to go out in the rain, that’s his business.

He stands up and turns his head to look at me.

OK, I get it.  When you know I can’t go out, you let me out.  That’s just not right.

What’s stopping you?

You know exactly what the problem is.  Water.  You know I hate water.

That’s every other cat.  A while back you convinced you were not like the other cats.  Fearless, you said, able to take on any challenge.

Open door, it’s an invitation to paradise.

He takes two tentative steps towards freedom.  The rain comes down harder as if someone up there is playing a mean joke on him.

Another step, just about through the door.

The wind blows and we both catch a spray of water.

He jumps and scuttles back inside so fast, and I’m left alone at the door.  I close it again.

We will be discussing invincibility sometime soon, I yell out.  But, he’s gone.

I shrug and go back inside.  I will savor this victory for the next few minutes.

Or for along as he’ll let me.

X marks the spot, X in general

In the wake of watching too much television, and in particular Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, a very quaint but completely ambiguous statement was dismissed as something that would never happen in archeology, x marks the spot.

Of course, as we all know only too well, x really does mark the spot on treasure maps, and I’m sure there’s been quite a few of those over the last few centuries, what with the numbers of pirates on the high seas, well one known such as Blackbeard, and some not so well known.

And those treasure maps always seem to find their way into children’s stories for some reason, maybe because as children we’re likely to believe it possible, whereas an adult, the only place we’re likely to find an x is where someone who can’t write signs their name.

That might also include a lot of press-ganged sailors, who were virtually kidnapped into British naval service to chase down those pirates, all of whom seemed to have that same ubiquitous signature.

And, by the way, that x marks the spot was in that Indiana Jones movie, a rather large x making up a part of the marble flooring.

X doesn’t often find it’s way into mainstream English, even as a prefix, except in the case of x-rays which is electromagnetic radiation.

And in science fiction, the most interesting use of x-ray is for using x-ray vision, starting with superman, and ending with more sinister connotations.

Other than that the only word that I can remember that starts with an x is xenophobia, which seems to be raising its head around the world, the fear of people or objects from another country or culture

Writing about writing a book – Day 25

We’ve been given the introduction to who Barry McDougall is, or the man otherwise known as ‘Brainless’, and after three days of trying to get it straight, this is the first rough draft of his start in the story.

 

Barry, whose daring selfless deeds earned him the nickname Brainless because that was the only way to describe the motivation behind them, was one of the regular soldiers, and, for a long time, had been my only true friend.  His was a reputation both friends and foes alike considered awesome.  He’d been in Vietnam, and later just turned up at Davenport’s camp, reporting for duty.

Davenport was more surprised than I was at his arrival, but obviously, after checking his credentials, he was impressed because he let him stay.  And it would be true to say, if he had not, I would not be here now.

So Barry was just the sort of person I needed to help me.

That was the good news.

The bad news was Barry, at the best of times, either on one of his ‘benders’ using drugs or alcohol, whatever was easier to get at the time, lost to everyone, or locked up in a mental institution, having admitted himself.  He had no interest in participating in life, hadn’t worked in years, and often said, in moments when he was at his lowest, that he did not care if he lived or died.  It had not always been that way, but his demons had all but taken him over, and despite the help, I tried to give him, nothing could shake him out of this lethargy.  He said once he envied me that I could not remember the dark days, and, now those memories had returned, I knew what he meant.

For a long time, I could not understand why he didn’t try harder to help himself, and I guess he humored me by accepting the jobs I’d found him, and the help I offered.  I owed him a great deal, but that was probably the one honorable thing about him, he never expected, nor wanted, anything in return.

He tried to make a go of being a police officer and lasted several years before he resigned over an incident that didn’t reach the papers.  There was, he said, no place for heroics in modern society.  I hadn’t got to the bottom of it, but I heard he shot some thieves at a time when the police were trying to promote a pacifist image.

He tried a few other occupations with an equal lack of success, so now he survived on whatever money I gave him.  He lived on the street, and when he was not there, I knew he could be found in a bar, in one of the more seedier parts of the city, a ubiquitous underground bar called Jackson’s, named after a man who had a salubrious reputation that hovered between load shark and saint, and who was reputed to be buried under the storeroom floor.  The present owner, or what I assumed to be the owner, was a large, gruff, ex-prizefighter, who had the proverbial heart of gold, most of the time, and who took my money and looked after Barry without making it look like he was.

I’d called the bartender in advance, and he said he was in his usual spot, and that it was at the start of the next cycle, having just discharged himself from the hospital after a bout of pneumonia.  It was, he said, getting worse, and taking longer to recover.

It was probably only a matter of time before it took him, so perhaps this time I would have to try harder to convince him to give up his nomadic lifestyle.

When I walked in, the aroma of spilled beer, stale sweat, and vomit, mingled with the industrial-strength carbolic cleaner almost took my breath away.  In the corner, two construction workers were sitting, quietly smoking and drinking large glasses of beer.  In the other, Barry was being held up by the table, an untouched double scotch sitting in front of him.  Sitting at the bar was a woman of indeterminate age, badly made up, and thin to the point of emaciation.  I was not sure what she was drinking, or what it was she was smoking, but I could smell it from the front doorway.

The bartender, Ogilvy, no first name given, was pretending to polish glasses, standing at the end of the bar, looking at the television, playing some daytime soap.  He didn’t look over when I came in, but I knew he didn’t miss anything.  I saw him flick a glance at Barry, and then shake his head.  I think he cared as much about Barry as I did, but could recognize the sadness within him.  As much as Ogilvy said, which wasn’t much, he too had seen service in Vietnam, and it had affected him too.

I ordered an orange juice, caught the glances from the construction workers, and a steely look from the woman then went over to Barry’s table and sat down.  Despite the loud scraping noise when I moved the chair, or the creaking as I sat in it, Barry didn’t move.

Whilst the bar had that seedy aroma, Barry was showing the signs of having spent time on the street.  It was one of the disadvantages of having no permanent residence and though there was a shower at the bar which Ogilvy let Barry use from time to time, he obviously hadn’t for a few days.

 

Getting all of this background in shape is hard work, and having toiled long and hard, tomorrow I’ll have a go at getting Barry back.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

 

 

Yet another story bubbles to the surface…

I write about spies, washed out, worn out or thrown out.

It’s another idea, and another lot of scribbling to go in the ‘when I’m at a loss for a new story’ book.

The first sentence of a novel is always the hardest. Like I guess many others, I sit and ponder what I’m going to write, whether it will be relevant, whether it will pull the reader into my world, and cause them to read on.

And that’s the objective, to capture the reader’s imagination and want to see what’s going to happen next.

The problem is, we have to set the scene.

Or do we?

Do we need to cover the who, what, where, and when criteria in that first sentence? Can we just start with the edge of the seat suspense, like,

 

The first bullet hit the concrete wall about six inches above my head with a resounding thwack that scared the living daylights out of me. The second, sent on its way within a fraction of a second of the first found its mark, the edge of my shoulder, slicing through the material, and creasing skin and flesh. There was blood and then panic.

Milliseconds later my brain registered the near-miss and sent the instruction: get down you idiot.

I hit the ground just as another bullet slammed into the concrete where my head had just been.

 

It can use some more work, fewer commas, perhaps shorter, sharper sentences to convey the urgency and danger.

Perhaps we could paint a picture of the main character.

He tentatively has the name of Jackson Galworthy. He has always aspired to be a ‘secret agent’ or ‘spy’ and but through luck more than anything else, he was given his opportunity. The problem is he failed his first test and failure means washing out of the program.

What had ‘they’ said? When the shit hits the fan, you need to be calm, cool and collected. He’d been anything but.

Maybe we’ll flesh the character out as we go along.

OK, I just had another thought for an opening,

 

Light snow was still falling, past the stage where each flake dissolved as it hit the ground, and now starting to gather in white patches.

It was cold, very cold, and even with the three layers I still shivered.

What surprised me was the silence, but, of course, it was a graveyard beside an ancient church, and everyone who had attended the funeral service had left.

It was a short service for the few that came and a shorter burial. No one seemed keen to hang around, not with the evening darkness and the snow setting in.

I stood, not far from the filled grave looking at it, but not looking at it. Was I expecting it’s occupant to rise again? Was I expecting forgiveness? I certainly didn’t deserve it.

The truth is, I was responsible for this person’s death, making a mistake a more seasoned professional might not, and the reason why I was shown the door. I had been given very simple instructions; protect this man at all costs.

It was going to be a simple extraction, go in, get the target, and get out before anyone noticed.

A pity then I was the only one who got that memo.

 

Any thoughts?

In a word: Freeze

Yes, if the temperature was 20 degrees below zero and the forecast for the net week was the same, then that would be the big freeze.

In a more understandable way of putting it, to freeze something is to preserve it at a temperature below zero.

Some things don’t freeze, like petrol.

And you want to hope that you put antifreeze in your radiator otherwise you are going to have big problems with your car in winter.

It also means to stand still.

You can also isolate someone by freezing them out.

And freeze in fear, unable to move, like a deer in headlights.

But the worst example of a freeze is when your computer stops, and you forgot to save that 200-page novel, thereby being lost forever.

No.  That would never happen, you had autosave on, didn’t you?

Didn’t you??????????

Freeze is not to be confused with a frieze which is a broad horizontal band of sculpted or painted decoration, especially on a wall near the ceiling.

Or frees, which in some countries type of football described multiple free kicks, in one sense, and, in another, what you do when you let them go, e.g. he frees the dog.

Writing about writing a book – Day 24, a missing piece of the puzzle

In what might seem a disjointed piece of narrative, we never quite got to understand why Bill was in the hospital, or more on those he met along the way.

This should precede the reading in Day 22

 

“Bastards,” Killer muttered.

We called him ‘Killer’ because it was the nickname the Army had given him.  We were sharing the guard duty and had spoken briefly over the watch, but up till then, the silence had stretched over an hour or so.  It didn’t take long for anyone to realize he was a man of few words.

He’d been in the regular army for years and asked for the posting.  He’d made Sergeant several times, only to lose those same stripes for fighting, usually after R&R and a bout of heavy drinking.  Now assigned to our platoon to lend his experience, the conscripts were expecting him to ‘look after’ them.  Other than myself and the Lieutenant, he was the only other regular soldier.  Unfortunately for them, he hated both conscripts and the Viet Cong in varying degrees, and depending on his mood there was little tolerance left for the rest of us.

“The people who sent us here or the people trying to kill us?” I asked before I realized I’d spoken.

I didn’t hear the reply, the skies opening up with another torrential downpour that lasted for about five minutes, and going as fast as it came.  When the sun finally came up, it would make the atmosphere steamy, hot, and unbearable.  It was quite warm now, and I was feeling both uncomfortable, and fatigued.

Killer looked just as stoic as he had before the rain.  He looked at me.  “Damn weather.  Worse than home.”

“Scotland?”

“Scapa Flow, Kirkwall.  I should have been an engineer on ships like my father, but I was too stupid.  Joined the Army, finished up here.  What’s your excuse?”

“Square peg in a round hole.  The army seems to handle us in its stride.”  It was more or less the truth.  I joined the Army to get away from my parents.

“That it does.  That it does.”

The rain came and went, during which the rest of the camp roused and went about its business.  It had been a long night for some, still getting over the shock of the attack, and the ever-pervading thought the enemy was still out there, biding their time.  It would be, for them, a waiting game, waiting for the conditions to wear us down, and lose concentration as inevitably we would.

Certainly, by the time we were relieved from sentry duty, I felt I was in no condition to match wits with a donkey, let alone the enemy on his own home ground.  When I stumbled over to the mess area and looked at the tired and haggard looks on the faces of the platoon, I realized that went for all of us.

Killer and I managed to get about an hour’s rest before the call came to move out, rain or no rain, and after a breakfast to make anyone ill, we left.  For hours it rained.  No one spoke as we strained to listen over the rain spattering on the undergrowth, all the time expecting the unexpected.  That was the benefit of the surprise attack; we no longer took for granted we would be safe.

Water gathered in pools along the trail, hiding any chance of seeing landmines.  Rainwater and sweat ran into our eyes, making it difficult to see.  Water leaked everywhere, making it very uncomfortable.  This was not war.  This was utter stupidity.

I was about to remark on the futility of it all to the Lieutenant, who had taken the lead, when one second he was talking to me and the next he crashed to the ground, a sniper’s bullet killing him instantly.   Someone yelled “Contact” and we hit the ground, bullets flying all around us. 

Too late, I thought, as I felt the hit of what seemed to be a large rock, then the searing pain in my leg, just as I hit the ground…

 

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

 

Past conversations with my cat – 45

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This is Chester.  We’ve been getting quite a few scam calls lately.

Like today, the caller said they were a technician from Telstra, our leading telecommunications company in this country.

The scammers think that most if not all people are with Telstra.  The problem is, it’s a lot less than they think.

Hence getting the phone slammed down in their ear, because nearly everyone knows they’re scammers.

So, Chester gives me the death stare after today’s effort.  it’s not the first time, and the banging noise startles him if he’s asleep.

That’s enough yelling and banging the phone, he says.

Then you answer the phone and sort them out.

You know I can’t do that.

Well, you should I say.  They always ask for the owner of the house, and that’s you isn’t it?

No, I just live here.

I snort this time.

I make your bed, get you foot, clean the little, put up with your cantankerous ways.  If you’re going to behave like that, then you have to start taking responsibility.

He gives me that condescending look reserved for the servants.

The phone rings.

Funny, Chester just disappeared.

 

 

In a word: Pray

It’s usually associated with the church, and saying a prayer for someone or something, but it kind of covers a lot of different situations, like,

We’ll pray for rain, we’ll pray for Mary to recover, I’ll pray for forgiveness.

In other words, in all of these instances, we are looking for intervention by God.

There is another instance, not related to religion, in that in a general sense you can pray for good weather over the weekend because they’re going camping.

In fact it is basically to hope for something very much.

It is, in a sense, wishful thinking, because in reality, no-one can predict, let alone dictate, what the weather will be.

It is also a forceful way of saying something, like,

Where the hell have you been, pray tell?

There is another word that sounds quite similar, prey.

That describes a creature that is hunted by another for food.

It’s also someone who is easily deceived or harmed.

It could also be something that preys on your mind

Conversations with my cat – 83

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This is Chester.  He has reminded me that it’s Groundhog Day.

So I had to ask, where on earth did you get that from?

Everybody knows it’s Groundhog Day.  He sits there with this knowing look in his face, and it dawns on me, he’s been looking up stuff on the computer again.

I am going to have to remember to turn it off.

In Canada and America maybe, but we don’t have it here because we don’t have the cold and snow like they do.

We have cold because you light the fire.  I’m sure there’s been snow.

Now I know he’s finally losing it.

It’s 35 degrees Celcius outside, and even when it is cold it’s still 16 degrees Celcius, not Fahrenheit.

Look, get with the program here.  We need something to celebrate.

Why?  And a second later realizing I should not ask.

It’s been a bit dull, no mice, no treats, all bad news on the internet.  Oh and by the way, since cats only get cat flu, you want to be careful not to get that new coronavirus going around.

I shake my head.

Now I’m definitely turning off the computer at night.

Cat flu indeed!