Tag: Story

What do you call time away from what you usually do?

And, do you truly ever have any time ‘off’?

Of course, in our minds, this time off has any one of a large number of different descriptions, like Annual Leave, Vacation, Holiday, Leave.

We want to believe this is a time when we can rest and relax.

Can we do this at home?

No.

Can we do this when we are away?

Maybe.

It depends on where ‘away’ is.

A holiday shack, or cabin?  Chances are it is deep in the woods, or on the shore of a lake, or river, or beside the sea somewhere in another state, or just far enough away that home is no longer home.

Except, you have all the comforts of home?  Then it really isn’t a holiday as such, just a decamping to another location.

So, do we go for the ‘real’ holiday, out of the country and far away, far enough away that we might not be reminded of our usual life?

Maybe that will do the trick.

If we don’t deliberately take our cell phones, just in case the boss calls, or there is a problem.  And that’s the point, some of us cannot find a cutoff point.

Those long days at the office, the decisions, the deadlines, the endless pressure of having to achieve the impossible are supposed to all melt away when you walk out the door.

Does it?  Can it?  Will it?

Let’s just say you have made the effort, you’ve switched off, and that pesky phone.

As anyone will tell  you, it’s often wise to travel the next day if at all possible, because you need some time to decompress before tackling what sometimes can be an arduous getting to the final destination, especially if it is at a peak holiday period, or on planes where anything and everything can go wrong very quickly.

Been there done that.

But, this time, we traveled the next day, nothing went wrong, and all is fine.

Except …

As a writer and having spent the last few months finishing off my last novel, I was looking forward to some downtime.  The editor has the final draft, and I’m happy.

Then, as it always does, the best-laid plans of mice and men …

It all comes unstuck.

Inspiration often comes out of left field; something happens, a piece in a newspaper, an item on TV, or just lying down staring at the ceiling, when ‘bang’  it hits you.

The start of a story, a theme that you can run with.

Damn.

I’ve been away for four days now and written seven chapters and the words will not stop.

If only …

Hey, what a great title for the story…

Sorry, got to get back to work!

The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 22

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

 

I was a fool for thinking that I could help Nadia when the whole time she was playing me.  There didn’t look like any tension between them, and nothing that would convince me that he had any sort of hold over her.

I cursed myself for my own stupidity.

With a shake of the head, I went over to the bar attached to the beachside restaurant and order a cold beer, then another.   The bartender gave me a long measured look as if trying to gauge my age, but I was old enough and had the ID card to prove it.  

It was a curse to look so young for that reason, but I suppose, like more old men, I would eventually curse being old.  At least, that’s what my mother said, along with the warning I should not be so eager to start drinking booze.

At least I didn’t smoke, though that hadn’t always been the case, and, at times, it was hard not to reach for a cigarette in moments of anguish or anger, like now.

I was on my fourth bottle when I heard someone sit on the stool next to mine.  About the same time I recognised the perfume wafting my way.

Nadia.

“So, this is where you’re hiding?”

I looked sideways at her.  My first thought was to tell her exactly what I thought of her.  That passed quickly.  No telling how many of her friends were here, and the thought of facing Vince was not something I wanted to do, any time.

“What do you want?”

“I thought I saw you on the pier?”

“I like to see how the other half live.  What’s your excuse?”  OK, that didn’t come out exactly how I wanted it to.

I could feel her glaring at me.  She knew exactly what I was talking about.  At least she wasn’t going to dodge the issue.

“I do what I have to.  If it means I have to cosy up to a rattlesnake, then I will.”  Delivered barely above a whisper, but spat out with a great deal of venom.  “What happened out there?”

“Rico got busted for having a dead body on his boat.  You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“I didn’t put it there if that’s what you mean.”

“Alex?”

“He hasn’t got the brains for something like that.  Not in plain sight.”

That was an odd thing to say, in plain sight.  Did that mean they were in full view of Rico’s boat the whole time he was not on it?

“Why do you say that?”  I looked sideways at her.  Slightly sunburned on the top of her cheeks.  No makeup, and surprisingly, she looked very different, not as grown-up.

“The yacht was parked three bays down.  Engines were not working again and Alex had to come back and just made it into the dock.  Sent down a couple of divers to check the propellers or something.”

“You see Rico on his boat?”

“Briefly.  He was with a couple of Benderby’s thugs.  They left the boat, and about ten minutes later we left the dock.  Alex said some fishing line had fouled the propeller.”

“What happened then?”

“We went down below to have lunch.  The Captain took it for a run, everything seemed to be working, and we came back.  That’s when I saw you and Rico on the dock and all the police. You in some sort of trouble?”

“No.  The FBI has taken over the investigation, and told Johnson to let us go.”

“I’m sure Johnson is absolutely thrilled the feds took over his ticket to becoming the next Sherriff.”

“Why?  Is he in the Cossatino’s back pocket?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.  This will put a dent in your plan to help me out with Alex.  I can’t pretend to like the bastard for much longer, and I swear if he touches me again, I’ll kill him.”

I guess it was easy, for a minute, to forget that her brother was exactly the same with other women, and, when we’d been at school, girls too frightened to say no.  Perhaps it was the Cossatino blood running through her veins, that it was alright in some cases, and not in others.  “That’s ironic after what Vince has done, and probably still does, don’t you think?”

The bartender stopped and put a half-full glass of straight bourbon in front of her.  A nod and the bill was paid.

She looked at me, picked it up and drunk the contents straight down, then said, “You’re a bastard smidge.  You know I could crush you like the insignificant bug you are, but I’m not going to.  You see, I like you, no matter what you think of me.  Just call me once you’ve got over your bout of smug superiority.”

A smile, or a grimace, I wasn’t sure what it was, she slid off the stool and left.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

In a word: Line (and there’s more)

There’s more to that word ‘line’, a lot more, making it more confusing, especially for those learning English as a second language.

I keep thinking how I could explain some of the sayings, but the fact is, it’s only my interpretation, which could possibly have nothing to do with its real meaning if it has one.

Such as,

Hook, line, and sinker

We would like to think that this is only used in a fishing depot, but while it is generally, there are other meanings, one of which is, a con artist has taken in a victim completely, or as the saying goes, hook, line, and sinker.

At the end of the line

Exactly what it t says though the connotations of this expression vary.

For me, the most common use is when you’re waiting, like for a table in a restaurant with a time-specific reservation, and you see people who arrive after you, getting a table before you, it’s like being continually sent to the end of the line.

Line ball decision

This is a little more obscure, but for me, it means the result could go either way, and it’s a matter of making a call. The problem is both decisions are right, and unfortunately, you’re the poor sod who has to decide.

It of course partners very well with you can’t please everyone all of the time.

These are the most difficult because one side is going to be aggrieved at the decision especially when it is supposed to be impartial and sometimes isn’t.

Get it over the line

This, of course, has many connotations in sport, particularly rugby when the aim is to get the ball over the try line.

But another more vicarious meaning might be from a senior salesman to a junior, get [the sale] over the line, i.e. get it signed sealed and delivered by any means possible by close of business.

Line of credit

A more straight forward use of the word, meaning the bank will extend credit up to a certain limit, but it’s generally quite large and can feel like its neverending.

Until you have to pay it back.

There’s more, but it can wait till another day.

Motive, means, and opportunity – Opportunity

I’m working on a novella which may boringly be called “Motive, Means and Opportunity” where I will present a chunk of information from which you if you want to, can become the armchair detective.

Here’s the third part, the Opportunity

 

Where was I last night between 9pm and 3am?

Not with my wife, Wendy. She had gone out before 6 pm, about the time is got home from work. No, she didn’t really say where she was going, or if she did, given the list of the past, I didn’t believe her.

Where was I?

Home, alone.

Could anyone corroborate that?

Sadly no.  Isn’t that always the way, though?

But, the car I was driving was a company car. It had a GPS and tracking system, part of so-called security measures put in by the company I worked for, but in reality there to check after hours use.

The GPS would show I never left home.  Using the car, that is.

The only other car had been taken by Wendy so the reality was, I hadn’t left home. The other car, the off-road vehicle was in the workshop, still waiting to be repaired. It was the car out son had been killed in, and neither of us had the heart to do anything with it.

But…

Apparently, I had a visitor.

James Burgman had been seen outside my house at 10:30 pm, his car had been found two blocks away in the car park, away from the street, and he was found dead, shot by a gun that used 9mm bullets, at 4:45 am the next morning.

No. I had not been seen leaving the house, but it had been ascertained that it was possible to leave and not be seen, if I tried hard enough.

I hadn’t and had no reason to, but that didn’t seem to matter.

Sitting in the interview room, purportedly to help the police in their enquiries, Detective John Sanderson had detailed quite succinctly how I had a motive, the means, and opportunity.

Little else mattered, and particularly the fact I didn’t do it. It was only a matter of time before the gun was found.

So, there I sat in the station, waiting for a series of test results to come back, mainly gunshot residue on me and on my clothes, not just those I was wearing, but everything I owned.

In the end, there was nothing. They couldn’t prove I left home, or that I shot him. Not then. I was advised not to leave the city, that I was a person of interest.

When I asked either my wife, Wendy, had been subjected to the same interrogation, the atmosphere changed, and Sanderson had rounded on me quite savagely.

“Her innocence is not in question. In fact, you would not be here if it wasn’t for her statement. She honestly believes you shot him out of pure jealousy, and, quite frankly Mr Winters, so do I, and it will only be a matter of time before I find the evidence to convict you.  Now, get out of my sight.”

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 2

As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.

Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

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This is Chester.  T for Tonkinese, capital T for trouble.

If you think you can win an argument with a Tonkinese you are sadly mistaken!

So, we got over the abandonment issues, and have moved onto the sleeping arrangements.  There seems to be some misconceptions on Chester’s part.

He thinks the bed is his domain.

Right.

We have provided him with several very comfortable, warn, and inviting places about the house where is he quite welcome to sleep, or keep a watchful eye over his domain.

That’s right, I thought I owned the house.

He has his own bed in our room where he can stay when he feels lonely, but it seems he has to be near us.

When he’s not walking across the bed, and us, or ‘resting’ on our feet.

And if we move, you’d think we’d taken a big stick to him.

Come to think of it …

Just to show his displeasure at his bed, the blankets always seem to be on the floor, and when I ask what happened, it was, of course, Mr Nobody.

After I’ve picked them up six times in a day, I ask him what his last slave died of?

And there’s the Siamese coming out, a snarl, and then aloof dismissal.

There is banishment to the great outdoors, but that’s another story.

Searching for locations: The Peninsula Hotel, Hong Kong

The sight of the Peninsula Hotel is very familiar to all who visit Hong Kong, if not to stay but certainly if you want to see the last vestiges of British influence in what was once a far eastern colony.

That is, we’re talking about the front building, not the new tower at the back.  In the older days there would have been a great view of the harbor from the Veranda (that area with the blue striped canopy) where today, breakfast is taken.

We had breakfast, lunch, and the famous afternoon tea in the ground floor cafe.

These days you would mostly see taxis, buses, and Teslas, if not a flurry of Mercedes and green Rolls Royces in the small car park below.  There is no clear view of the harbor anymore.

From our room, one facing the harbor we could see the space museum, and on the day we arrived, rain, at times, blotting out the harbor and Hong Kong Island barely discernable in the distance.

As for the room itself, it was excellent, a junior suite, I think, because it had two distinctive areas.  Everything was run from a tablet computer, blinds, lights, television, and most importantly, air conditioning.  This was the first hotel I’ve stayed in where it was neither too hot or too cold, but just rights.

The bed was very large and extremely comfortable, as were the pillows.  Pillows, I’m afraid, are a bugbear with me, as no hotel seems to be able to get it right.  They’re either too soft or too hard, too tall, or too shallow.  Here, they managed to get it right.

The windows were just the right size not to affect the air conditioning, ie. let too much heat in.

I’m not sure I could say the lounge chair was comfortable, but there was only one, which makes it difficult if there are two of you.  I wasn’t going to fight for it.

The desk had a surprise in the bottom drawer, a printer!

And the bathroom, though slightly smaller than expected, had some hint of what it may have been like in the early days.  It had both a shower and a bath.

The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 22

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

 

I was a fool for thinking that I could help Nadia when the whole time she was playing me.  There didn’t look like any tension between them, and nothing that would convince me that he had any sort of hold over her.

I cursed myself for my own stupidity.

With a shake of the head, I went over to the bar attached to the beachside restaurant and order a cold beer, then another.   The bartender gave me a long measured look as if trying to gauge my age, but I was old enough and had the ID card to prove it.  

It was a curse to look so young for that reason, but I suppose, like more old men, I would eventually curse being old.  At least, that’s what my mother said, along with the warning I should not be so eager to start drinking booze.

At least I didn’t smoke, though that hadn’t always been the case, and, at times, it was hard not to reach for a cigarette in moments of anguish or anger, like now.

I was on my fourth bottle when I heard someone sit on the stool next to mine.  About the same time I recognised the perfume wafting my way.

Nadia.

“So, this is where you’re hiding?”

I looked sideways at her.  My first thought was to tell her exactly what I thought of her.  That passed quickly.  No telling how many of her friends were here, and the thought of facing Vince was not something I wanted to do, any time.

“What do you want?”

“I thought I saw you on the pier?”

“I like to see how the other half live.  What’s your excuse?”  OK, that didn’t come out exactly how I wanted it to.

I could feel her glaring at me.  She knew exactly what I was talking about.  At least she wasn’t going to dodge the issue.

“I do what I have to.  If it means I have to cosy up to a rattlesnake, then I will.”  Delivered barely above a whisper, but spat out with a great deal of venom.  “What happened out there?”

“Rico got busted for having a dead body on his boat.  You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“I didn’t put it there if that’s what you mean.”

“Alex?”

“He hasn’t got the brains for something like that.  Not in plain sight.”

That was an odd thing to say, in plain sight.  Did that mean they were in full view of Rico’s boat the whole time he was not on it?

“Why do you say that?”  I looked sideways at her.  Slightly sunburned on the top of her cheeks.  No makeup, and surprisingly, she looked very different, not as grown-up.

“The yacht was parked three bays down.  Engines were not working again and Alex had to come back and just made it into the dock.  Sent down a couple of divers to check the propellers or something.”

“You see Rico on his boat?”

“Briefly.  He was with a couple of Benderby’s thugs.  They left the boat, and about ten minutes later we left the dock.  Alex said some fishing line had fouled the propeller.”

“What happened then?”

“We went down below to have lunch.  The Captain took it for a run, everything seemed to be working, and we came back.  That’s when I saw you and Rico on the dock and all the police. You in some sort of trouble?”

“No.  The FBI has taken over the investigation, and told Johnson to let us go.”

“I’m sure Johnson is absolutely thrilled the feds took over his ticket to becoming the next Sherriff.”

“Why?  Is he in the Cossatino’s back pocket?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.  This will put a dent in your plan to help me out with Alex.  I can’t pretend to like the bastard for much longer, and I swear if he touches me again, I’ll kill him.”

I guess it was easy, for a minute, to forget that her brother was exactly the same with other women, and, when we’d been at school, girls too frightened to say no.  Perhaps it was the Cossatino blood running through her veins, that it was alright in some cases, and not in others.  “That’s ironic after what Vince has done, and probably still does, don’t you think?”

The bartender stopped and put a half-full glass of straight bourbon in front of her.  A nod and the bill was paid.

She looked at me, picked it up and drunk the contents straight down, then said, “You’re a bastard smidge.  You know I could crush you like the insignificant bug you are, but I’m not going to.  You see, I like you, no matter what you think of me.  Just call me once you’ve got over your bout of smug superiority.”

A smile, or a grimace, I wasn’t sure what it was, she slid off the stool and left.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Motive, means, and opportunity – Means

I’m working on a novella which may boringly be called “Motive, Means and Opportunity” where I will present a chunk of information from which you if you want to, can become the armchair detective.

Here’s the second part, the so-called Means

 

Everyone knew I had a gun.  It was locked away in a safe that was not in an obvious position in the dressing room at home.

Several years ago our neighbourhood had been subjected to several breaking and several people had been injured, prompting the rest of us to seriously consider getting protection.

I got a Glock 19, 9 mm along with several of my neighbours and then both Wendy and I got lessons so we knew how to use it properly, and avoid shooting either each other or in our feet.

The thing is, there had only been that one round of breaking, and since the gun was put away on the safe about eighteen months ago, it had not seen the light of day since.

Or so I thought.

When asked to check if it was still there, it wasn’t, much to my surprise.

Equally, to my surprise, the bullet that killed James Burgman was a nine millimetre.  Was that a coincidence, I didn’t think so.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Searching for locations: Hong Kong Park, Hong Kong

After arriving in Hong Kong early in the morning, we were taken to the Hong Kong Conrad Hotel where we were staying for several days.  We had a short sleep, then I took the grandchildren for a walk and we found Hong Kong Park, with a Fountain Plaza, waterways, a waterfall, and turtles.

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Part of the fountain area.

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Turtles resting on a rock

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A turtle about to go in the water

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The waterfall.

It was a pleasant surprise to find this park in such a highly built-up area.

Nearby was a multi-story underground shopping center that was huge, and very conveniently accessible from our hotel.

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 23

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Whilst in reality these steps go down to a very narrow space of the beach, and scattered rocks in the shallow water, so much more could be inspired by this photograph.

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Further out that day, divers were out exploring about 100 yards offshore.

But, to me, it what you don’t see that gives it its fascination.

We could be anywhere along a 1,000-mile shoreline, one side a small village lazily gets through the day, on the other, a deserted and overgrown picnic spot that no one ever comes to anymore since the bypass road was built.

But it is not any of those.  it’s in Mornington, Victoria, Australia, the pier that is not far from a small park, and that day, very, very busy.

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It simply goes to show that sometimes a photograph can provide enough information to inspire a story.