Day 121

Word work is sublime – so is the writing we produce, the measure of our lives?

…

I guess it depends on what you write. Certainly, if you were to ask me if my writing was to a certain extent based on my life experiences, or at the very least, influenced by my life experiences, I’d probably have to say it was.

I mean, what else can you write about? Someone else’s life experiences. Perhaps, if you have a passion for writing other people’s biographies.

Otherwise, what we may see, consciously or unconsciously, is the baring of your soul in your writing.

Of course, if you are a prolific reader and you have an interest in the ways of what the world used to be like, or the particular ways of a certain group of people, this acquired knowledge might also turn up in your work.

As a writer of period romances, or stories that have their setting in days past, a great amount of research might be required to capture the places, the people, and how they behaved or reacted in those days, because not a lot of those old ways are around today.

Back then, they didn’t have mobile phones or any phones at all. They certainly couldn’t;t jump on a plane and be on the other side of the country in a matter of hours, or on the other side of the world in half a day. Travel used to be by ship and took weeks, even months, to get from one side of the world to the other.

Trains were different, run by steam, and took longer to get to destinations; cars were rare and only affordable for the rich, and places like Africa, and the Middle East, even the Orient, were totally different than they are today, and a person who lived in that time would be shocked at how the world had changed particularly since the end of the second world war.

We only know of today, and what life is like now. Some of us know what the world was like 50 years ago, and it was different then, there was still a British Commonwealth, and we still learned about the British Empire and its kings and Queens. America was a different place, but the only way we knew of it;s colourful past was through the movies Hollywood made.

And the diversity that was out there in the world was only brought to us by immigration from all over the world.

So, we are products of out times, our words reflect what we knew, and what we know, and our perception of the world changes with each new generation of writers who entertain us with their vision of our world, the measure of what our lives are now, and not what they once were.

And some would argue that change is not always for the better.

Day 121

Word work is sublime – so is the writing we produce, the measure of our lives?

…

I guess it depends on what you write. Certainly, if you were to ask me if my writing was to a certain extent based on my life experiences, or at the very least, influenced by my life experiences, I’d probably have to say it was.

I mean, what else can you write about? Someone else’s life experiences. Perhaps, if you have a passion for writing other people’s biographies.

Otherwise, what we may see, consciously or unconsciously, is the baring of your soul in your writing.

Of course, if you are a prolific reader and you have an interest in the ways of what the world used to be like, or the particular ways of a certain group of people, this acquired knowledge might also turn up in your work.

As a writer of period romances, or stories that have their setting in days past, a great amount of research might be required to capture the places, the people, and how they behaved or reacted in those days, because not a lot of those old ways are around today.

Back then, they didn’t have mobile phones or any phones at all. They certainly couldn’t;t jump on a plane and be on the other side of the country in a matter of hours, or on the other side of the world in half a day. Travel used to be by ship and took weeks, even months, to get from one side of the world to the other.

Trains were different, run by steam, and took longer to get to destinations; cars were rare and only affordable for the rich, and places like Africa, and the Middle East, even the Orient, were totally different than they are today, and a person who lived in that time would be shocked at how the world had changed particularly since the end of the second world war.

We only know of today, and what life is like now. Some of us know what the world was like 50 years ago, and it was different then, there was still a British Commonwealth, and we still learned about the British Empire and its kings and Queens. America was a different place, but the only way we knew of it;s colourful past was through the movies Hollywood made.

And the diversity that was out there in the world was only brought to us by immigration from all over the world.

So, we are products of out times, our words reflect what we knew, and what we know, and our perception of the world changes with each new generation of writers who entertain us with their vision of our world, the measure of what our lives are now, and not what they once were.

And some would argue that change is not always for the better.

Day 120

Writing exercise – the wilds of Africa.

…

The ship took what seemed a long time from the ship’s last approach to being tied up at the wharf in Mombasa, Kenya.

I had watched the proceedings from the upper deck, the wharf swarming with people servicing other ships, and the groups waiting to take the ropes and tie us in between two similar ships to our own.

I had come for a safari, intrigued with the notion of coming face to face with a place called the Serengeti, to see native Africans and rich British and American tourists here to hunt wild animals.

By all accounts, they’d killed all their own and were branching out to new pastures.

We’d come from Southampton via the Mediterranean through the Suez Canal and down the Pacific side of Africa, what I would have called a wonderful voyage, but for others a torturous trek.

If you travelled steerage.  For those with money, it was the perfect way to spend a month away from the hectic life of living in a city.

For me, even though I’d travelled steerage, it was an experience, culminating in the arrival, enjoying the breeze that tempered the heat and the exhausting conditions that had prevailed after we left Port Said.

The moment I walked down the gangplank and onto the wharf, the heat suddenly increased in intensity.  It was only going to get worse.

I looked back on board and saw Louisa Bently, Lord and Lady Bently’s eldest daughter, along with the governess and two sisters.  He was here to join the Embassy.

She had wanted to stay in England and resented the fact she had to leave all her friends and acquaintances to come to some ‘God forsaken he’ll hole’.  She looked thoroughly miserable.

I was going to give her a wave, we had become friends of a sort during the voyage, but at her insistence, a secret from her parents and limited to stolen moments.  It was a friendship that would not go anywhere; we were from different ends of the social spectrum.  I saw her glance in my direction, then back to taking instructions from the governess.  Their car had just arrived on the dock.

There were four other American families who were here for a safari, the safari that I had been requested to join as one of three security officers.

There were rumours of a war between the natives and troubles along the way in the villages, and reported reprisals against the whites, trouble borne of interfering missionaries, and railway magnates trying to open up parts of the country.

It wasn’t the first time or the last that the native might attach their so-called British superiors.

The Americans had disembarked and were filing into a coach arranged to take them to their hotel.  I had to find my own way to the first campsite with the other officers.  My overnight hotel would not be posh, but it was not far from the wharf.

They would be taken to Mombasa itself.

The recruiting agent in London had told me that Africa was mostly hot and dusty, the cities bustling, the countryside wide open, grassy and limited shade.  It was hot, he said, but moderately so with temperate breezes, and sometimes it rained, sometimes torrential.  It was no worse than the Midwest of America in summer.

It was like that overnight, raining heavily, and when dawn came, the sky had cleared and the sun was bearing down, a hint of a hot, dry day to follow.  It didn’t take long for the water to disappear.

I had just enough time to get to the agent’s office and collect my ticket on what was known as the lunatic express from Mombasa to Kimusu on Lake Victoria, the gateway for the safari. I joined the advance party heading to set up the first camp. Five other men were there, fellow security guards, and a catering staff.

It promised to be two days of travel from British South Africa to Uganda, the perfect introduction to the conditions we would experience. However, after a few hours, once we left the coastal city and headed deeper inland, the heat and desolation increased noticeably.

Perhaps it would be the heat, the dry, dusty air and the look on the faces of the natives who all looked quite fierce, that would be more of a problem than the wild animals.  Those thoughts occupied my mind for most of the morning of that first day.

It only got worse from then on.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 120

Writing exercise – the wilds of Africa.

…

The ship took what seemed a long time from the ship’s last approach to being tied up at the wharf in Mombasa, Kenya.

I had watched the proceedings from the upper deck, the wharf swarming with people servicing other ships, and the groups waiting to take the ropes and tie us in between two similar ships to our own.

I had come for a safari, intrigued with the notion of coming face to face with a place called the Serengeti, to see native Africans and rich British and American tourists here to hunt wild animals.

By all accounts, they’d killed all their own and were branching out to new pastures.

We’d come from Southampton via the Mediterranean through the Suez Canal and down the Pacific side of Africa, what I would have called a wonderful voyage, but for others a torturous trek.

If you travelled steerage.  For those with money, it was the perfect way to spend a month away from the hectic life of living in a city.

For me, even though I’d travelled steerage, it was an experience, culminating in the arrival, enjoying the breeze that tempered the heat and the exhausting conditions that had prevailed after we left Port Said.

The moment I walked down the gangplank and onto the wharf, the heat suddenly increased in intensity.  It was only going to get worse.

I looked back on board and saw Louisa Bently, Lord and Lady Bently’s eldest daughter, along with the governess and two sisters.  He was here to join the Embassy.

She had wanted to stay in England and resented the fact she had to leave all her friends and acquaintances to come to some ‘God forsaken he’ll hole’.  She looked thoroughly miserable.

I was going to give her a wave, we had become friends of a sort during the voyage, but at her insistence, a secret from her parents and limited to stolen moments.  It was a friendship that would not go anywhere; we were from different ends of the social spectrum.  I saw her glance in my direction, then back to taking instructions from the governess.  Their car had just arrived on the dock.

There were four other American families who were here for a safari, the safari that I had been requested to join as one of three security officers.

There were rumours of a war between the natives and troubles along the way in the villages, and reported reprisals against the whites, trouble borne of interfering missionaries, and railway magnates trying to open up parts of the country.

It wasn’t the first time or the last that the native might attach their so-called British superiors.

The Americans had disembarked and were filing into a coach arranged to take them to their hotel.  I had to find my own way to the first campsite with the other officers.  My overnight hotel would not be posh, but it was not far from the wharf.

They would be taken to Mombasa itself.

The recruiting agent in London had told me that Africa was mostly hot and dusty, the cities bustling, the countryside wide open, grassy and limited shade.  It was hot, he said, but moderately so with temperate breezes, and sometimes it rained, sometimes torrential.  It was no worse than the Midwest of America in summer.

It was like that overnight, raining heavily, and when dawn came, the sky had cleared and the sun was bearing down, a hint of a hot, dry day to follow.  It didn’t take long for the water to disappear.

I had just enough time to get to the agent’s office and collect my ticket on what was known as the lunatic express from Mombasa to Kimusu on Lake Victoria, the gateway for the safari. I joined the advance party heading to set up the first camp. Five other men were there, fellow security guards, and a catering staff.

It promised to be two days of travel from British South Africa to Uganda, the perfect introduction to the conditions we would experience. However, after a few hours, once we left the coastal city and headed deeper inland, the heat and desolation increased noticeably.

Perhaps it would be the heat, the dry, dusty air and the look on the faces of the natives who all looked quite fierce, that would be more of a problem than the wild animals.  Those thoughts occupied my mind for most of the morning of that first day.

It only got worse from then on.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 119

The writing exercise starts with: “It was her first day of class, and she was already really behind.”

…

It was her first day of class, and she was already really behind.

Walking the the archway that dignified in a sense that I was transitioning from one phase of my life to the next, I stopped, eyes almost involuntarily on the girl with red hair, a feature that made her stand out.

Like me, she didn’t belong.  Fumbling in a voluminous handbag, stuff was falling out on the floor, and she was looking both sheepish and apologetic.

It took another single, casual glance over the occupants in the room, a very diverse collection of people that ranged from, in my opinion, Hollywood starlets to maximum security prison inmates, to instantly make the assessment that out of a hundred, perhaps two might make it.

I took a seat at the back, ready to leave.

A man in his 30s perhaps younger, dressed casually to the point where he was the least expected person you would expect to see, given the nature of the advertisement that brought everyone to this hall, stepped up onto the podium, take a look around the collective, tapped twice on the microphone to see if was working, then, when silence had replaced the sound of many conversations, said, “For some, this is the first day of the rest of your life.”

I’d heard it all before.

I scanned the faces I could see, those that wanted to hear what he had to say, and those that didn’t.”

“From this moment onwards, everything is a test.  What you do, what you don’t do, what you say, and what you don’t say.  Every question can be a double-edged sword.  Most of you won’t make it past this first day.  It’s not a reflection on you personally; it’s just that we are looking for particular types of people.  And, even if you do make the first cut, there will be a second and a third and a fourth and so on.”

I watched him look around at the sea of expectant faces and, like myself, stopped on the girl with the red hair, this time with a cell phone in her hand.  Perhaps it was ringing, and she was hesitant about answering.  It went face down on the desk

His eyes moved on.

“There’s a questionnaire on the desk in front of you.  It looks like one of those odious examinations you did at high school.  It is.  Only you can’t fail.  It is designed to tell us about you, things that you might not even know about yourself.  Make sure you write your name on it because if we don’t have a name, we can’t call you up for the first interview.  When you have finished, please wait in the room next door.  There are beverages and food.”

Another look around the room.  The red-haired girl had looked at her cell phone twice since putting it down.  Her expression was one of fear.

“There’s no time limit, but the sooner you finish, the sooner you can be interviewed.  Thank you.”

I picked up the paper, about 50 pages long, half of which were multiple-choice questions and smiled to myself.  I knew the psychologist who created it.  One of those self absorbed smart asses that I threaten to punch his lights out.  But I hated everyone back then.

I filled in the form and put my name on it.  A name, not my real name.  That had been lost in the mists of time.  Whoever in this room made it to the end, they too would also become a ghost.

My departure elicited several looks, though it was hard to tell if they were of surprise or disgust, including one of amusement from the red-headed girl.

I went next door and waited.  Tea and scones trumped chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches, though not by much.  I resisted the urge to pick a can of Coke.

The candidates didn’t realise that what they ate also counted towards their eligibility.

Over the next hour, the candidates strolled in, looked over the wall of food options and made their choices.  Some sat on their own, most sat in groups, perhaps alliances made outside before filing in.

Alliances wouldn’t help them.

The redhead was among the last, which told me it was too hard, or she was selective with her answers.  Thinking about them wasn’t the answer.  It was designed for instant response, but that wasn’t explicitly stated.

I watched her walk over to the food cabinets and take her time.  It started with sandwiches, cake, scones, salad, and ended with health bars.  She also opted for a protein drink.

Then she circled the room, saw me, and came over.  I didn’t expect that.

“This seat taken?”  She had a hand on the chair opposite me.  Usually, most people tried to avoid me.

“Feel free.”

She sat, putting the voluminous bag under the table in front of her feet.

She carefully unwrapped one of the bars and took a bite.  There was no expression on her face, nor was she deliberately trying to look at me.

“Who do you think they’ll pick?”  Her eyes came back to me.

“I left my crystal ball at home.”  Deliberately gruff.  It was usually enough to send people away.

“What’s your deal?” 

“Why do you keep looking at your cell?”

“Is that going to keep you up at night?”

Sass.

“It could.”

She looked me up and down, trying to look through the facade.

A shrug.  “Ex won’t leave me alone.  Cheats and expects me to forgive and forget.”

“Come here expecting to learn skills to deal with him?”

“Get away from everything.”  She sighed and took another bite of the bar.  There was something in it she didn’t like, a slight wrinkle in the nose.  “OK.  Maybe I’d like to beat the shit out of him.”

“Revenge.  There is a saying, First dig two graves.”

“You know this from experience?”

“My father beat my mother to death in a drunken rage.  I beat him to death over three days.  He begged me to kill him.  Revenge doesn’t give you what you need.”

Her eyes widened, but not in terror as they should.  The thing is, that was the truth.  The bigger question was, why did I tell her?

“The very definition of hell coming to breakfast.  Wow.”

“Sorry.  You don’t need to know.”

I saw Taylor, the man who had been up front at the start of their journey.  She didn’t and jumped in fright when he dragged a chair over and sat. He had her paper in his hand.

“Lolita?”

She smiled.  “I figured if you were any sort of organisation and not a bunch of scammers, you’d know who I was the moment I walked in.”

“Amelia Mack.  Seven parking tickets, three speeding fines and a shoplifting charge that was dismissed.  Waitress, wanna be actress.  How am I doing so far?”

“You haven’t said major loser yet, but it’s on the tip of your tongue.”

It was Taylor’s turn to smile.  He looked at me.

“Sassy.  Playing a role.  Uses truth and embellishes.  Looks you in the eye when she talks to you.  Judging by her manner, I’d say her ex called the police about her after she told him no, and he ignored her.  I’m betting there’s some threatening messages on her phone.”  I looked at her.  “Comment?”

“He is a self entitled little shit trying to score points with his friends.”

Fair enough.  She was not the first to be running away from their problems, but she was one of the few who did something about it.

Taylor handed me a sheet of paper with her recent texts.  Confirmed.

“You do realise,” Taylor said, “that she’s your problem.”

She looked at Taylor.  “What?”

“Normally, we don’t take on problems.  You have a choice.  We take you in, but he is your mentor.”

Her eyes came back to me, like watching a tennis game.

“I don’t do training,” I said.

“I’m in if he’s doing it; otherwise, forget it.  I’ll take my chances.”

“They’re not good.  Not against his family.  We can make all of it go away.  But you have to renounce everything.  Before you go through that blue door at the end of the room.  You take nothing with you.  Nothing.  Is that understood?”

“Certainly not the cell.  If you have family, say goodbye.  Friends, none.  When you go through that door, you become a ghost.”  I had no family, and definitely no friends.  It wasn’t hard for me.

Most people had a social media presence, followers, and people who asked questions.  That alone knocked out more than half the applicants.

She looked down in the direction of her bag.  Her whole life was in the bag and on her phone.  She dragged it out and put it on the table.

A minute passed, then she shrugged.

“I’m in if he’s doing the training,” she said, nodding in my direction, and pushed the bag towards Taylor.   “Take it.  Take everything.  The little bastard’s lawyers will do a number on me, so what have I got to lose?”

Put that way, I could see her point of view.  In the corner she was in right then, there wasn’t a way out.  But that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be one in the future.  If she lasted that long.

Taylor looked at me.  “Time to take the leap, Mac.”

I sighed and dragged myself up.  It was not as if I hadn’t thought about it.  They’d given me a year to recover, knowing I couldn’t go back into the field.  But they said I could still be useful.  I didn’t think I had much to offer.

She stood too.  “Are we doing this?”

“You’ve got to the door to change your mind,” I said, not waiting for her.

I could see potential. But I could also see trouble.  She was starting from a point where she didn’t really have a choice, like I had no choice.  People will tell you you always have a choice, but that’s not necessarily true. 

I didn’t look back, and when I reached the door, I went through it.  A hush had come over the room, and there were about a hundred pairs of eyes on me, and they would be on her. That would also be the question on everyone’s mind.  Why her?  It would not be so much about me.

Inside the room behind the door was a table and two chairs.  Usually, it would be for an interview.  Taylor usually asked me to cast an eye over the intake and offer an opinion.  So far, the three I’d recommended had passed through the training.

Five minutes later, she came through the door and, after closing it, leaned on it.

“You really killed your dad?”

“Would you have cut his dick off?”

“Put him in a room and give me a sharp knife.”

I could see the fire in her eyes.  “Perhaps I might make that a test.”

“This is the first time you mentored?”

“Do you understand what you’re getting into?”

“You’re not very good at selling the product, are you?”

“What’s there to sell?  You hand your life over, and we turn you into something you never thought you’d become.  Something worse than anything you could imagine.  Three months down the track, you’ll wake up, disoriented, distressed, and wondering what the hell happened to you.”

“But you’ll be there?”

“Yes.  I’ll be there.  For better or worse.”

“Then lead on.  As the man said, it’s the first day of the rest of my life.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 119

The writing exercise starts with: “It was her first day of class, and she was already really behind.”

…

It was her first day of class, and she was already really behind.

Walking the the archway that dignified in a sense that I was transitioning from one phase of my life to the next, I stopped, eyes almost involuntarily on the girl with red hair, a feature that made her stand out.

Like me, she didn’t belong.  Fumbling in a voluminous handbag, stuff was falling out on the floor, and she was looking both sheepish and apologetic.

It took another single, casual glance over the occupants in the room, a very diverse collection of people that ranged from, in my opinion, Hollywood starlets to maximum security prison inmates, to instantly make the assessment that out of a hundred, perhaps two might make it.

I took a seat at the back, ready to leave.

A man in his 30s perhaps younger, dressed casually to the point where he was the least expected person you would expect to see, given the nature of the advertisement that brought everyone to this hall, stepped up onto the podium, take a look around the collective, tapped twice on the microphone to see if was working, then, when silence had replaced the sound of many conversations, said, “For some, this is the first day of the rest of your life.”

I’d heard it all before.

I scanned the faces I could see, those that wanted to hear what he had to say, and those that didn’t.”

“From this moment onwards, everything is a test.  What you do, what you don’t do, what you say, and what you don’t say.  Every question can be a double-edged sword.  Most of you won’t make it past this first day.  It’s not a reflection on you personally; it’s just that we are looking for particular types of people.  And, even if you do make the first cut, there will be a second and a third and a fourth and so on.”

I watched him look around at the sea of expectant faces and, like myself, stopped on the girl with the red hair, this time with a cell phone in her hand.  Perhaps it was ringing, and she was hesitant about answering.  It went face down on the desk

His eyes moved on.

“There’s a questionnaire on the desk in front of you.  It looks like one of those odious examinations you did at high school.  It is.  Only you can’t fail.  It is designed to tell us about you, things that you might not even know about yourself.  Make sure you write your name on it because if we don’t have a name, we can’t call you up for the first interview.  When you have finished, please wait in the room next door.  There are beverages and food.”

Another look around the room.  The red-haired girl had looked at her cell phone twice since putting it down.  Her expression was one of fear.

“There’s no time limit, but the sooner you finish, the sooner you can be interviewed.  Thank you.”

I picked up the paper, about 50 pages long, half of which were multiple-choice questions and smiled to myself.  I knew the psychologist who created it.  One of those self absorbed smart asses that I threaten to punch his lights out.  But I hated everyone back then.

I filled in the form and put my name on it.  A name, not my real name.  That had been lost in the mists of time.  Whoever in this room made it to the end, they too would also become a ghost.

My departure elicited several looks, though it was hard to tell if they were of surprise or disgust, including one of amusement from the red-headed girl.

I went next door and waited.  Tea and scones trumped chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches, though not by much.  I resisted the urge to pick a can of Coke.

The candidates didn’t realise that what they ate also counted towards their eligibility.

Over the next hour, the candidates strolled in, looked over the wall of food options and made their choices.  Some sat on their own, most sat in groups, perhaps alliances made outside before filing in.

Alliances wouldn’t help them.

The redhead was among the last, which told me it was too hard, or she was selective with her answers.  Thinking about them wasn’t the answer.  It was designed for instant response, but that wasn’t explicitly stated.

I watched her walk over to the food cabinets and take her time.  It started with sandwiches, cake, scones, salad, and ended with health bars.  She also opted for a protein drink.

Then she circled the room, saw me, and came over.  I didn’t expect that.

“This seat taken?”  She had a hand on the chair opposite me.  Usually, most people tried to avoid me.

“Feel free.”

She sat, putting the voluminous bag under the table in front of her feet.

She carefully unwrapped one of the bars and took a bite.  There was no expression on her face, nor was she deliberately trying to look at me.

“Who do you think they’ll pick?”  Her eyes came back to me.

“I left my crystal ball at home.”  Deliberately gruff.  It was usually enough to send people away.

“What’s your deal?” 

“Why do you keep looking at your cell?”

“Is that going to keep you up at night?”

Sass.

“It could.”

She looked me up and down, trying to look through the facade.

A shrug.  “Ex won’t leave me alone.  Cheats and expects me to forgive and forget.”

“Come here expecting to learn skills to deal with him?”

“Get away from everything.”  She sighed and took another bite of the bar.  There was something in it she didn’t like, a slight wrinkle in the nose.  “OK.  Maybe I’d like to beat the shit out of him.”

“Revenge.  There is a saying, First dig two graves.”

“You know this from experience?”

“My father beat my mother to death in a drunken rage.  I beat him to death over three days.  He begged me to kill him.  Revenge doesn’t give you what you need.”

Her eyes widened, but not in terror as they should.  The thing is, that was the truth.  The bigger question was, why did I tell her?

“The very definition of hell coming to breakfast.  Wow.”

“Sorry.  You don’t need to know.”

I saw Taylor, the man who had been up front at the start of their journey.  She didn’t and jumped in fright when he dragged a chair over and sat. He had her paper in his hand.

“Lolita?”

She smiled.  “I figured if you were any sort of organisation and not a bunch of scammers, you’d know who I was the moment I walked in.”

“Amelia Mack.  Seven parking tickets, three speeding fines and a shoplifting charge that was dismissed.  Waitress, wanna be actress.  How am I doing so far?”

“You haven’t said major loser yet, but it’s on the tip of your tongue.”

It was Taylor’s turn to smile.  He looked at me.

“Sassy.  Playing a role.  Uses truth and embellishes.  Looks you in the eye when she talks to you.  Judging by her manner, I’d say her ex called the police about her after she told him no, and he ignored her.  I’m betting there’s some threatening messages on her phone.”  I looked at her.  “Comment?”

“He is a self entitled little shit trying to score points with his friends.”

Fair enough.  She was not the first to be running away from their problems, but she was one of the few who did something about it.

Taylor handed me a sheet of paper with her recent texts.  Confirmed.

“You do realise,” Taylor said, “that she’s your problem.”

She looked at Taylor.  “What?”

“Normally, we don’t take on problems.  You have a choice.  We take you in, but he is your mentor.”

Her eyes came back to me, like watching a tennis game.

“I don’t do training,” I said.

“I’m in if he’s doing it; otherwise, forget it.  I’ll take my chances.”

“They’re not good.  Not against his family.  We can make all of it go away.  But you have to renounce everything.  Before you go through that blue door at the end of the room.  You take nothing with you.  Nothing.  Is that understood?”

“Certainly not the cell.  If you have family, say goodbye.  Friends, none.  When you go through that door, you become a ghost.”  I had no family, and definitely no friends.  It wasn’t hard for me.

Most people had a social media presence, followers, and people who asked questions.  That alone knocked out more than half the applicants.

She looked down in the direction of her bag.  Her whole life was in the bag and on her phone.  She dragged it out and put it on the table.

A minute passed, then she shrugged.

“I’m in if he’s doing the training,” she said, nodding in my direction, and pushed the bag towards Taylor.   “Take it.  Take everything.  The little bastard’s lawyers will do a number on me, so what have I got to lose?”

Put that way, I could see her point of view.  In the corner she was in right then, there wasn’t a way out.  But that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be one in the future.  If she lasted that long.

Taylor looked at me.  “Time to take the leap, Mac.”

I sighed and dragged myself up.  It was not as if I hadn’t thought about it.  They’d given me a year to recover, knowing I couldn’t go back into the field.  But they said I could still be useful.  I didn’t think I had much to offer.

She stood too.  “Are we doing this?”

“You’ve got to the door to change your mind,” I said, not waiting for her.

I could see potential. But I could also see trouble.  She was starting from a point where she didn’t really have a choice, like I had no choice.  People will tell you you always have a choice, but that’s not necessarily true. 

I didn’t look back, and when I reached the door, I went through it.  A hush had come over the room, and there were about a hundred pairs of eyes on me, and they would be on her. That would also be the question on everyone’s mind.  Why her?  It would not be so much about me.

Inside the room behind the door was a table and two chairs.  Usually, it would be for an interview.  Taylor usually asked me to cast an eye over the intake and offer an opinion.  So far, the three I’d recommended had passed through the training.

Five minutes later, she came through the door and, after closing it, leaned on it.

“You really killed your dad?”

“Would you have cut his dick off?”

“Put him in a room and give me a sharp knife.”

I could see the fire in her eyes.  “Perhaps I might make that a test.”

“This is the first time you mentored?”

“Do you understand what you’re getting into?”

“You’re not very good at selling the product, are you?”

“What’s there to sell?  You hand your life over, and we turn you into something you never thought you’d become.  Something worse than anything you could imagine.  Three months down the track, you’ll wake up, disoriented, distressed, and wondering what the hell happened to you.”

“But you’ll be there?”

“Yes.  I’ll be there.  For better or worse.”

“Then lead on.  As the man said, it’s the first day of the rest of my life.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 118

Easy reading/Hard writing

…

I often wondered when reading other authors’ works if it was as hard for them to write the story as it is for me.

I mean it’s not that hard to get that initial first draft down on paper, what is hard is honing that messy, often shapeless story into the finished product, which often is an easy read for the reader.

I used to devour a book in a night, sometimes a day or two, but the reading never reflected the blood, sweat and tears the author put into it.

And I doubt the reader gets that.

Everything takes time to create.  A car, a house, a factory, an apartment block.  You can cut corners, and the object will fall to pieces or fail in some other manner.

If you cut corners when polishing a story, making it easy for the reader to devour, when it is not, no one will buy your books.

So, creating that polished book is no easy task.  It’s not simply a matter of getting the words on paper and sending them off to the publisher.

It doesn’t work that way.

I’m sure after writing that first draft, and when you pick it up some months later to start the editing process, that first read will be like climbing a sheer mountain without climbing gear.

It certainly will not read the way a reader expects it to.  In fact, you will probably not recognise what it is you wrote, or if you did, you don’t remember writing it that way.

That’s why you have beta readers.

That’s why you have an editor.

Just hope they realise perfection takes time. 

Day 118

Easy reading/Hard writing

…

I often wondered when reading other authors’ works if it was as hard for them to write the story as it is for me.

I mean it’s not that hard to get that initial first draft down on paper, what is hard is honing that messy, often shapeless story into the finished product, which often is an easy read for the reader.

I used to devour a book in a night, sometimes a day or two, but the reading never reflected the blood, sweat and tears the author put into it.

And I doubt the reader gets that.

Everything takes time to create.  A car, a house, a factory, an apartment block.  You can cut corners, and the object will fall to pieces or fail in some other manner.

If you cut corners when polishing a story, making it easy for the reader to devour, when it is not, no one will buy your books.

So, creating that polished book is no easy task.  It’s not simply a matter of getting the words on paper and sending them off to the publisher.

It doesn’t work that way.

I’m sure after writing that first draft, and when you pick it up some months later to start the editing process, that first read will be like climbing a sheer mountain without climbing gear.

It certainly will not read the way a reader expects it to.  In fact, you will probably not recognise what it is you wrote, or if you did, you don’t remember writing it that way.

That’s why you have beta readers.

That’s why you have an editor.

Just hope they realise perfection takes time. 

Days 116 and 117

Secondary characters – Writing exercise

Relation to protagonist, are they trusted, dialogue differences, what is their purpose, one thing to remember them…

…

There were a few years of animosity between Alan and Jay.  And a healthy dose of resentment.

Alan was the eldest son and, as such, should have commanded some respect and, to be fair, had been treated very well.

Until Jay was born.

It didn’t matter that Mary had popped up in between them, except that she would always be their mother’s favourite.

But from the moment Jay arrived, he had commanded all the oxygen in any room he walked into.  He could do no wrong, not even when he was deliberately bad.  And no matter what Alan did, he was always wrong, or jealous, or worse, very childish.

Alan suffered it until he could leave, which was the day after he turned 18.  He simply put what he needed into his backpack, and left for work as he did every Thursday evening, went to the bus station and took the night express to anywhere that far away from what had ceased to be his home.

Over the next five or so years, Alan kept his head down and kept himself to himself, having learned the hard way that he could not rely on anyone other than himself.

He was largely a product of his experiences, and if or when anyone asked him anything about his life, he simply said he had been orphaned in his teens, bounced around the system until he was old enough to leave and make his own way.

He finished high school.  There was no possibility of going to college. His grades and finances precluded both.  He’d initially worked as a busboy and worked his way up to waiter.  He had applied to the police academy, but they had not even deigned to write back one way or another.

Perhaps it was not in his destiny.

As for home, he had only a passing interest.  There had not been one word about his departure, and endless news about the golden boy Jay.  Basketball champ, football champ, swimming champ, Prom King, and graduated top of the class.

Of course he would.

He was everything that Alan wasn’t.  He was the pride and joy of his parents.  And in that whole article about him, there was not one word about the other son.  It was like he didn’t exist.

On the seventh anniversary of Alan’s departure, the family sat around the table as they did every Sunday.  The morning visit to the church for another of Pastor Bill’s illuminating sermons, then back home for lunch.

Those occasions after Alan left were introspective, where everyone had an opinion as to why he left.  Only Mary knew why he had gone, and where, a secret she shared with the Sheriff when her parents had requested his assistance in finding out what happened to him.

Oddly, no one believed he had become a victim of foul play, but equally oddly, no one but Mary could see that their treatment of him was going to always lead to only one eventuality.

Three times, Alan’s mother secretly hired a private detective to find him.  Three times, the detective came back to tell them he had disappeared without a trace.  Only Mary knew that on the last occasion, after telling him what she knew, he found her brother, and in accordance with her wishes, he told them one thing but gave Mary a slip of paper with her brother’s address.

That had been three days ago.

Now, sitting at the table, looking at the feast, waiting for her father to say grace.  He was at one end, her mother at the opposite end, and Jay was sitting opposite her.

It had taken every one of those seven years to hate him as much as her older brother, but for different reasons.  Jay was evil.  It was as simple as that, a boy without a conscience and no scruples whatsoever.

She, too, would have left before now, but her mother was ailing, and she couldn’t leave her, not with Jay, who wouldn’t care about her, and a father who doted more on his son than his wife.

She looked over towards her and could see she was unwell.  The latest visit to the doctor wasn’t good news.  Not knowing where Alan was only made matters worse.

“I want Alan to come home,” she said suddenly, in a tone that had more fire in it than usual.  The latest report from the detective had reduced her to tears.

“Why?” Jay muttered.  “He was a spineless moron, and showed his true colours when he left, without so much as a by your leave.”

“You think?”  Mary said, glaring at him.

“What’s your beef?”

His smug look annoyed her.  She had discovered he did nothing but trash his brother’s name to anyone who would listen.

“Tell us why Bonny went to the sheriff’s office, Jay?”

Wendy, a friend of Sally, who was a friend of Ada who worked in the sherries office, had confided that Bonny, Jay’s latest girlfriend, or if the rumours were right, ex-girlfriend, had complained that he had assaulted her.  Mary suspected it was more than just ‘assault’.

Their mother switched her glare from Jay to her husband.  “What have you two done now?”

Exactly the result Mary wanted.  Jay was looking very guilty.

“It’s just a misunderstanding,” Jay muttered, suddenly standing up, sending his chair crashing backwards.  “If this is going to be another bitch session, I’ve got better things to do.  He’s gone, get over it.”

With that said, he stomped out, slamming the door behind him.

“Now look what you’ve done,” her father said. 

“No, Jack.  This is all your fault.  If you had disciplined him years ago, we wouldn’t be here.  Whatever he’s done this time, you’re not going to smooth it over.”

He simply shook his head and followed his son out the door.

Mary reached over and took her mother’s hand in hers.  She could see the tears welling in her eyes.  Jay had finally torn their family apart.

“We’re going on a road trip.  We need to spend time together away from this place.  They can fend for themselves for a few days.”

“Where?”

“It’ll be our secret.  Go throw a few things in a bag, enough for a week or so.  We’re going now.”

“What about…”

“They can clean it up or wallow in it.  You’ve done enough for the ungrateful pigs.  It’s time they did something for you.”

It took Mary a day on the road to finally coax the truth out of her mother.  A secret so devastating that she cried all night. Cancer.  Inoperable.  And six months, perhaps a year.  Mary knew it was bad, just not this bad.

The next morning, after getting back on the road and then stopping at a diner for coffee and apple pie, Mary told her where they were going.

The change in her mother was instant and brought her back to life, the slow descent into despair suddenly arrested.

“I thought…”

“I spoke to the detective this time and told him what I knew.  I figured that Alan never wanted any of us to know where he went, but there were clues which I kept to myself, and he did tell me why he left, and swore me to secrecy.  I don’t think I need to tell you, you’re smart enough to realise what drove him away.  I heard from him a few weeks after he left to tell me he was safe, that it was best not to try and find him, and he was not coming home.”

“Were you going to tell me?  Us?”

“Not Dad or Jay.  They can live in blissful ignorance.  Besides, they’re about to find themselves in a whole world of pain.  But in your case, I had decided on a road trip later, but seeing you yesterday, I realised that I couldn’t wait.  And knowing what we know, I’m glad we’re doing it now.”

“Are you sure he will be where the detective said?  Or that he will want to see me, or you?”

“That’s why I have to initially go by myself.  I know he will be surprised to see me, and when I explain the circumstances, he will agree to see you.”

“Perhaps he might be annoyed with me not trying to reach out earlier than this?”

“I think if he wanted to see you, he knew where you lived.  It might not be you personally that kept him away, but to be fair, you didn’t stop Jay.”

“No.  You’re right.  I didn’t.  For a long time, I didn’t have the courage, and now that I have, I hope it’s not too late to right that wrong.  I’ve decided I’m not going back. I don’t want to spend my last days on God’s earth with either of them.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Days 116 and 117

Secondary characters – Writing exercise

Relation to protagonist, are they trusted, dialogue differences, what is their purpose, one thing to remember them…

…

There were a few years of animosity between Alan and Jay.  And a healthy dose of resentment.

Alan was the eldest son and, as such, should have commanded some respect and, to be fair, had been treated very well.

Until Jay was born.

It didn’t matter that Mary had popped up in between them, except that she would always be their mother’s favourite.

But from the moment Jay arrived, he had commanded all the oxygen in any room he walked into.  He could do no wrong, not even when he was deliberately bad.  And no matter what Alan did, he was always wrong, or jealous, or worse, very childish.

Alan suffered it until he could leave, which was the day after he turned 18.  He simply put what he needed into his backpack, and left for work as he did every Thursday evening, went to the bus station and took the night express to anywhere that far away from what had ceased to be his home.

Over the next five or so years, Alan kept his head down and kept himself to himself, having learned the hard way that he could not rely on anyone other than himself.

He was largely a product of his experiences, and if or when anyone asked him anything about his life, he simply said he had been orphaned in his teens, bounced around the system until he was old enough to leave and make his own way.

He finished high school.  There was no possibility of going to college. His grades and finances precluded both.  He’d initially worked as a busboy and worked his way up to waiter.  He had applied to the police academy, but they had not even deigned to write back one way or another.

Perhaps it was not in his destiny.

As for home, he had only a passing interest.  There had not been one word about his departure, and endless news about the golden boy Jay.  Basketball champ, football champ, swimming champ, Prom King, and graduated top of the class.

Of course he would.

He was everything that Alan wasn’t.  He was the pride and joy of his parents.  And in that whole article about him, there was not one word about the other son.  It was like he didn’t exist.

On the seventh anniversary of Alan’s departure, the family sat around the table as they did every Sunday.  The morning visit to the church for another of Pastor Bill’s illuminating sermons, then back home for lunch.

Those occasions after Alan left were introspective, where everyone had an opinion as to why he left.  Only Mary knew why he had gone, and where, a secret she shared with the Sheriff when her parents had requested his assistance in finding out what happened to him.

Oddly, no one believed he had become a victim of foul play, but equally oddly, no one but Mary could see that their treatment of him was going to always lead to only one eventuality.

Three times, Alan’s mother secretly hired a private detective to find him.  Three times, the detective came back to tell them he had disappeared without a trace.  Only Mary knew that on the last occasion, after telling him what she knew, he found her brother, and in accordance with her wishes, he told them one thing but gave Mary a slip of paper with her brother’s address.

That had been three days ago.

Now, sitting at the table, looking at the feast, waiting for her father to say grace.  He was at one end, her mother at the opposite end, and Jay was sitting opposite her.

It had taken every one of those seven years to hate him as much as her older brother, but for different reasons.  Jay was evil.  It was as simple as that, a boy without a conscience and no scruples whatsoever.

She, too, would have left before now, but her mother was ailing, and she couldn’t leave her, not with Jay, who wouldn’t care about her, and a father who doted more on his son than his wife.

She looked over towards her and could see she was unwell.  The latest visit to the doctor wasn’t good news.  Not knowing where Alan was only made matters worse.

“I want Alan to come home,” she said suddenly, in a tone that had more fire in it than usual.  The latest report from the detective had reduced her to tears.

“Why?” Jay muttered.  “He was a spineless moron, and showed his true colours when he left, without so much as a by your leave.”

“You think?”  Mary said, glaring at him.

“What’s your beef?”

His smug look annoyed her.  She had discovered he did nothing but trash his brother’s name to anyone who would listen.

“Tell us why Bonny went to the sheriff’s office, Jay?”

Wendy, a friend of Sally, who was a friend of Ada who worked in the sherries office, had confided that Bonny, Jay’s latest girlfriend, or if the rumours were right, ex-girlfriend, had complained that he had assaulted her.  Mary suspected it was more than just ‘assault’.

Their mother switched her glare from Jay to her husband.  “What have you two done now?”

Exactly the result Mary wanted.  Jay was looking very guilty.

“It’s just a misunderstanding,” Jay muttered, suddenly standing up, sending his chair crashing backwards.  “If this is going to be another bitch session, I’ve got better things to do.  He’s gone, get over it.”

With that said, he stomped out, slamming the door behind him.

“Now look what you’ve done,” her father said. 

“No, Jack.  This is all your fault.  If you had disciplined him years ago, we wouldn’t be here.  Whatever he’s done this time, you’re not going to smooth it over.”

He simply shook his head and followed his son out the door.

Mary reached over and took her mother’s hand in hers.  She could see the tears welling in her eyes.  Jay had finally torn their family apart.

“We’re going on a road trip.  We need to spend time together away from this place.  They can fend for themselves for a few days.”

“Where?”

“It’ll be our secret.  Go throw a few things in a bag, enough for a week or so.  We’re going now.”

“What about…”

“They can clean it up or wallow in it.  You’ve done enough for the ungrateful pigs.  It’s time they did something for you.”

It took Mary a day on the road to finally coax the truth out of her mother.  A secret so devastating that she cried all night. Cancer.  Inoperable.  And six months, perhaps a year.  Mary knew it was bad, just not this bad.

The next morning, after getting back on the road and then stopping at a diner for coffee and apple pie, Mary told her where they were going.

The change in her mother was instant and brought her back to life, the slow descent into despair suddenly arrested.

“I thought…”

“I spoke to the detective this time and told him what I knew.  I figured that Alan never wanted any of us to know where he went, but there were clues which I kept to myself, and he did tell me why he left, and swore me to secrecy.  I don’t think I need to tell you, you’re smart enough to realise what drove him away.  I heard from him a few weeks after he left to tell me he was safe, that it was best not to try and find him, and he was not coming home.”

“Were you going to tell me?  Us?”

“Not Dad or Jay.  They can live in blissful ignorance.  Besides, they’re about to find themselves in a whole world of pain.  But in your case, I had decided on a road trip later, but seeing you yesterday, I realised that I couldn’t wait.  And knowing what we know, I’m glad we’re doing it now.”

“Are you sure he will be where the detective said?  Or that he will want to see me, or you?”

“That’s why I have to initially go by myself.  I know he will be surprised to see me, and when I explain the circumstances, he will agree to see you.”

“Perhaps he might be annoyed with me not trying to reach out earlier than this?”

“I think if he wanted to see you, he knew where you lived.  It might not be you personally that kept him away, but to be fair, you didn’t stop Jay.”

“No.  You’re right.  I didn’t.  For a long time, I didn’t have the courage, and now that I have, I hope it’s not too late to right that wrong.  I’ve decided I’m not going back. I don’t want to spend my last days on God’s earth with either of them.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025