Day 56

Writing Exercise

…

When things stopped making sense to him yet again, he started getting nervous.

And that was the problem of having an older brother who was an inveterate liar, master manipulator, and downright rogue.

It took me years to realise what sort of a person he was, and it was still a shock.

…

Growing up we didn’t have a lot, two hard-working parents who brought us up in a modest house, a normal education, one that didn’t extend to university, and when the time came, they provided a ticket to a reasonably good job.

Middle of the road, that was how Howie described it. He wanted more, but the problem was, he did;t have the brain smarts, or rather, he didn’t want to put in the effort. He became what my father called a disappointment.

I did have the brain smarts, but being lumped together with my brother as one of the Travers’ hooligans, I was never given a chance. Every time I tried to pull away and make my own path, somehow Howie would turn up and ruin it.

What I never understood was why? Surely he couldn’t hate me so much that he wanted to ruin my life?

That was when two things happened, randomly.

Beth Taylor told me that my brother was a monster whose only aim in life was to ruin any chance I had of being better than him.

That same morning, in his most earnest tone, Howie told me he was sorry for everything he had done, and was going to leave me alone from now on.

When I asked why, he said he had tried his worst and failed. It was time to give up.

That in itself was a red flag, and the more I thought about it, the more nervous I got.

Of course, the moment I turned up at the dinner where I was supposed to meet Beth and have dinner, I knew exactly what was going to happen.

Beth had always been out of my league but I allowed her to lull me into a false sense of security. She had pretended to like me, and when she was not there, I knew that she was one of Howie’s disciples.

She didn’t turn up, but her brother, Bull because of his physique, and three of his friends were there. As soon as I saw them I turned to leave, only to find another disciple standing in my way.

Something else had happened that morning after Beth spoke to me. Ritchie, another hapless soul who suffered the unwanted attention of Bull, happened to be lurking after Beth left. He asked me what we were talking about and when I told him, he snorted.

He told me I was wasting my time, but I was an optimist.

He said I was a fatalist and simply shrugged. It was, he said, my funeral.

Being herded towards Bull and his friends at the far booth, I had to reluctantly agree with him.

“Woebegone Travers.” Bull said it with a smirk and his friends all laughed.

I would have corrected him, but the broken bones were not worth it.

“Sit down.”

The two opposite Bull moved up to make space.

“I think I’ll stand.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

“I thought it was. Don’t you listen to this fool.”

It was like Bull’s head was on a swivel it turned around so fast, to see who was interrupting his playtime.

Griff, short for Griffin, and the last person who called him by that name spent a week in the hospital.

Quarterback, wrestler, hometown hero, a boy who was as gentle as he could be forceful. The girls loved him. But he did have an enemy.

Bull, wannabe quarterback, rubbish wrestler, despised by all, and simply just a thug.

“This has nothing to do with you, Griff. Walk away.”

“I come for the dinner. Roast turkey and all the trimmings. Dinner with my friend, Wally. He said that Beth would be here, but I guess that’s one of your little tricks, eh, Bull. Tricky little bull.”

He shook his head and tsk-tsked.

Bull’s uncle owned the diner, which is why Bull could get away with what he did. That family were all tarred with the same brush. I saw him come out from the kitchen to see what was happening.

He looked at Bull, then looked at Griff and he looked at me. He knew what was about to happen. “Take it outside.”

Griff looked at Bull, then his uncle, then me, then back to the uncle.

“Of course. Wally, come join me outside while we wait for the tricky little bull.”

I looked at Bull. “It’s not been a pleasure, Terence.”

No one called Bull Terance and lived, so it was only going to add to the excitement. But sadly, there would be no excitement. Bull would leave by the back door. He didn’t fare well when he had to front up to trouble.

“Who sent you,” I asked when we got outside.

“Beth. She had a long think about what she’d done, which you have to admit for her is a first, and then told me. Sensible girl.”

“My brother is just as bad.”

“Howie? He’s just having trouble picking the right side.” He shrugged.

Like me, he saw Bull and his friends leave through the kitchen. “I think we made our point,” he said. “I don’t think he’ll bother you again. I’m disappointed about the turkey dinner though.”

Until tomorrow. I was not as optimistic as Griff.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 55

Idioms and hackneyed phrases

There are many opinions on writing, for instance:

Never begin a sentence with a conjunction

Dispense with Literary elegance, erudition and sophistication

and the big one, banish jargon, hackneyed phrases and needless Latin.

WTF – needless Latin? I never went to a posh English Grammar school so I wouldn’t know Latin from a Haggis.

I have to say when I was at school reading books like Billy Bunter’s Adventures, I wanted to go to a boarding school, have a half-day holiday on Wednesday, and sneak off to the nearby village to stuff my face with all manner of cakes.

Can’t say I liked to play ‘Rugger’ though. Sport is not my thing.

But…

It’s not always a good idea to use one, especially if the readers are not familiar with them. It might work with a local readership but when you’re striving for an international audience, don’t confuse them.

Black as the ace of spades might work, but a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush is completely indecipherable.

As for my writing, there is always a possibility one might sneak in, and if it does, you can always find what it means by Googling it.

Day 55

Idioms and hackneyed phrases

There are many opinions on writing, for instance:

Never begin a sentence with a conjunction

Dispense with Literary elegance, erudition and sophistication

and the big one, banish jargon, hackneyed phrases and needless Latin.

WTF – needless Latin? I never went to a posh English Grammar school so I wouldn’t know Latin from a Haggis.

I have to say when I was at school reading books like Billy Bunter’s Adventures, I wanted to go to a boarding school, have a half-day holiday on Wednesday, and sneak off to the nearby village to stuff my face with all manner of cakes.

Can’t say I liked to play ‘Rugger’ though. Sport is not my thing.

But…

It’s not always a good idea to use one, especially if the readers are not familiar with them. It might work with a local readership but when you’re striving for an international audience, don’t confuse them.

Black as the ace of spades might work, but a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush is completely indecipherable.

As for my writing, there is always a possibility one might sneak in, and if it does, you can always find what it means by Googling it.

Days 53 and 54

The weekend writing exercise

We need to write a short story that includes, a shocking surprise, an unreliable narrator, and a nonlinear timeline.

…

There was no point asking Jack.

He was the witness who had fourteen different answers for the same situation, in fact, it changed every time you asked him.

I used to think that he did it deliberately, that it was his way of avoiding responsibility and it worked. No one asked him to do anything or asked his opinion, and that threw all of it on me, the younger and only sibling.

For that reason, I left home as soon as I could. Away from my parents who expected so much, and my brother, who was oblivious to the problems he was causing me.

Of course, there was always going to be something to drag me back to that place.

Very early on a Saturday morning, the one day I got to sleep in, the cell phone rang at the ungodly hour of 5:03 am. I remember the time because I also remembered who was calling.

My bother Jack.

I was not in a good mood. “What?”

“Fine way to talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you. Don’t call me again.” And then I disconnected the call.

I made the fatal mistake of not switching off the phone.

5:07am. Jack. He was going to keep calling. I sighed, got out of bed, picked up the phone and pressed the green answer button.

“Make it quick, I’m missing out on a much-earned sleep-in.”

“OK, if that’s the way you want it. Mum and Dad are dead.”

Jack was the original little boy who cried wolf.

“Of course they are. Are you sure they’re not at the mall shopping?” He had tried this story once before. He had half the town in uproar until they were found having coffee at a small cafe, and somehow made it all my fault. As usual.

“No. They would have told me.”

“They never tell you anything because you never can relay anything correctly. Just hang tight, they’ll be home soon enough.”

“They’ve been gone a week, nearly eight days. I think they’re dead.”

More than likely they’d gone on a holiday, told him, and he’d forgotten or got it jumbled up in that complicated mind of his. “There’s nothing wrong with them. They will be back.”

I hung up, this time switching off the phone, and went back to bed.

…

It was never going to end there. Nothing that involved Jack did, and his calling had brought all the bad memories flooding back, bad enough that it was no point going back to sleep.

I had to wonder, after all these years, my parents finally decided they’d had enough of him and just left. Certainly, the last time I had seen my mother, she was at the end of her tether. They had come to visit me in the big city, as they called it, and I got the impression being away was a relief.

I tried calling my mother’s phone and it rang out. It was charged, and on, not the state I’d expect if something had happened to her. My father didn’t have a phone, he said they were the devil’s toys to seduce us, and there were times when I agreed with him.

An hour later, my cell phone rang again. An unknown number. Usually, I didn’t answer them, but for some odd reason, I did.

“Richard Westly?”

“Yes.”

“Sherriff Jackson, Black Ridge County Sheriff’s Department. I assume you live in the old house at the end of Bridge Street?”

“I did. Haven’t been there for a dozen years or so. Why?”

Earlier this morning the next-door neighbour came over to check on them and found the house broken into, and all three occupants were dead. We believe all three are victims of foul play.”

“All three?”

“Your father, your mother, and your brother Jack.”

“When did they die? When did Jack die? Does anyone know?”

“The medical examiner is here, and the preliminary assessment is that they have been dead between four and seven days.”

“Jack too?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible. I was just speaking to him about an hour ago.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Days 53 and 54

The weekend writing exercise

We need to write a short story that includes, a shocking surprise, an unreliable narrator, and a nonlinear timeline.

…

There was no point asking Jack.

He was the witness who had fourteen different answers for the same situation, in fact, it changed every time you asked him.

I used to think that he did it deliberately, that it was his way of avoiding responsibility and it worked. No one asked him to do anything or asked his opinion, and that threw all of it on me, the younger and only sibling.

For that reason, I left home as soon as I could. Away from my parents who expected so much, and my brother, who was oblivious to the problems he was causing me.

Of course, there was always going to be something to drag me back to that place.

Very early on a Saturday morning, the one day I got to sleep in, the cell phone rang at the ungodly hour of 5:03 am. I remember the time because I also remembered who was calling.

My bother Jack.

I was not in a good mood. “What?”

“Fine way to talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you. Don’t call me again.” And then I disconnected the call.

I made the fatal mistake of not switching off the phone.

5:07am. Jack. He was going to keep calling. I sighed, got out of bed, picked up the phone and pressed the green answer button.

“Make it quick, I’m missing out on a much-earned sleep-in.”

“OK, if that’s the way you want it. Mum and Dad are dead.”

Jack was the original little boy who cried wolf.

“Of course they are. Are you sure they’re not at the mall shopping?” He had tried this story once before. He had half the town in uproar until they were found having coffee at a small cafe, and somehow made it all my fault. As usual.

“No. They would have told me.”

“They never tell you anything because you never can relay anything correctly. Just hang tight, they’ll be home soon enough.”

“They’ve been gone a week, nearly eight days. I think they’re dead.”

More than likely they’d gone on a holiday, told him, and he’d forgotten or got it jumbled up in that complicated mind of his. “There’s nothing wrong with them. They will be back.”

I hung up, this time switching off the phone, and went back to bed.

…

It was never going to end there. Nothing that involved Jack did, and his calling had brought all the bad memories flooding back, bad enough that it was no point going back to sleep.

I had to wonder, after all these years, my parents finally decided they’d had enough of him and just left. Certainly, the last time I had seen my mother, she was at the end of her tether. They had come to visit me in the big city, as they called it, and I got the impression being away was a relief.

I tried calling my mother’s phone and it rang out. It was charged, and on, not the state I’d expect if something had happened to her. My father didn’t have a phone, he said they were the devil’s toys to seduce us, and there were times when I agreed with him.

An hour later, my cell phone rang again. An unknown number. Usually, I didn’t answer them, but for some odd reason, I did.

“Richard Westly?”

“Yes.”

“Sherriff Jackson, Black Ridge County Sheriff’s Department. I assume you live in the old house at the end of Bridge Street?”

“I did. Haven’t been there for a dozen years or so. Why?”

Earlier this morning the next-door neighbour came over to check on them and found the house broken into, and all three occupants were dead. We believe all three are victims of foul play.”

“All three?”

“Your father, your mother, and your brother Jack.”

“When did they die? When did Jack die? Does anyone know?”

“The medical examiner is here, and the preliminary assessment is that they have been dead between four and seven days.”

“Jack too?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible. I was just speaking to him about an hour ago.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 53a

More about the story I’m writing

…

So, we have gotten past waking up in a strange place, the fact it is hot, and the effect of looking at the slow-moving blades of the fan swirling that hot regurgitated air, and momentarily panicking when there’s a knock on the door (yes, even I was hoping it was a genie with an air conditioner) we can move on.

Where are we? Somewhere in Africa, where there seemed to be a predominance of French, Belgian and English colonies, each speaking the language of its conqueror, and each still with a lasting reminder of those people who had been vanquished in that period after the Second World War when granting independence seemed the right thing to do.

In place of High Commissioners and District Officers, came the propped-up dictators who swore allegiance to the former coloniser in return for large sums of money and lots of guns and uniforms for their military.

Nothing much changed, the wealth was still in the few hands and the people still had nothing. Well, in those days of transition to the dictatorship they had plenty, but what could be given in abundance could quite easily be taken away. The Conlonisers army was replaced by police, and something more insidious, the secret police. The Coloniser tended to loan the police service senior officers to train and supervise.

Until of course, if the military decided it no longer liked the dictator there was a military coup.

Not yet, for this little country.

Increasingly accused of human rights abuses and secret activities against its citizens by the secret police, and negotiations for the next tranche of financial and other support, the country is, well, let’s call it what it is, blackmailed into holding a Human Rights Conference.

Let’s also throw into the mix a leader of the rebels, or no, freedom fighters, who is as slippery as an eel. He reminds me of the Scarlet Pimpernel, hiding in plain sight. Let’s add a world-class Human Rights activist as the keynote speaker, someone respected everywhere but inside this country, and dangle a red rag in front of the bull.

We have our world-weary recovering fix-it man, and now we know why he’s there.

He’s the ‘invisible’ bodyguard.

But, like the proverbial steak knives, there’s more. Twenty years and a name change, his instructions are to watch over the keynote speaker, but doesn’t realise it is the same woman he almost married, and had he, his life would be so very different.

That’s going to be some reunion.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 53a

More about the story I’m writing

…

So, we have gotten past waking up in a strange place, the fact it is hot, and the effect of looking at the slow-moving blades of the fan swirling that hot regurgitated air, and momentarily panicking when there’s a knock on the door (yes, even I was hoping it was a genie with an air conditioner) we can move on.

Where are we? Somewhere in Africa, where there seemed to be a predominance of French, Belgian and English colonies, each speaking the language of its conqueror, and each still with a lasting reminder of those people who had been vanquished in that period after the Second World War when granting independence seemed the right thing to do.

In place of High Commissioners and District Officers, came the propped-up dictators who swore allegiance to the former coloniser in return for large sums of money and lots of guns and uniforms for their military.

Nothing much changed, the wealth was still in the few hands and the people still had nothing. Well, in those days of transition to the dictatorship they had plenty, but what could be given in abundance could quite easily be taken away. The Conlonisers army was replaced by police, and something more insidious, the secret police. The Coloniser tended to loan the police service senior officers to train and supervise.

Until of course, if the military decided it no longer liked the dictator there was a military coup.

Not yet, for this little country.

Increasingly accused of human rights abuses and secret activities against its citizens by the secret police, and negotiations for the next tranche of financial and other support, the country is, well, let’s call it what it is, blackmailed into holding a Human Rights Conference.

Let’s also throw into the mix a leader of the rebels, or no, freedom fighters, who is as slippery as an eel. He reminds me of the Scarlet Pimpernel, hiding in plain sight. Let’s add a world-class Human Rights activist as the keynote speaker, someone respected everywhere but inside this country, and dangle a red rag in front of the bull.

We have our world-weary recovering fix-it man, and now we know why he’s there.

He’s the ‘invisible’ bodyguard.

But, like the proverbial steak knives, there’s more. Twenty years and a name change, his instructions are to watch over the keynote speaker, but doesn’t realise it is the same woman he almost married, and had he, his life would be so very different.

That’s going to be some reunion.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 52

Where does inspiration come from – 1

…

A particular author who wrote a book on writing, one of many it seems, opined that the main source of inspiration is … you!

Just look at your family … there’s a definite gold mine of characters right there, and mine is no exception. I could write a story for each of them, and what might happen if they all came together at a reunion. Yes, perhaps that’s not a good idea.

Who’s been to a wedding, or funeral, and …

Then there are your friends. You know the saying, you can pick your friends and not your relatives. Yes true, but sometimes they pick themselves. These friends are from school, though I no longer have any from that time, work, as you transition through your work life these change, and for me, the earlier characters were just that, characters, and a lot of them turn up in stories.

There is where you live, the city, the country, places you;ve been on holiday, the people you meet, the regions.

I know when I go on holiday it is another source of information and experiences and I take lots of photos and make copious notes of everything, people, food, sights, events, and experiences.

What happens to you in those first years, from primary school to graduation, then perhaps university or trade school, to where you start working, the changes in vocations for many different reasons, the partners you find, stay, leave, forget, or pine over, all these emotions are grist to the mill.

Later in life, those experiences are not quite as poignant or perhaps as memorable, but that’s most likely because you are more settled and less adventurous. I found that with the coming of grandchildren and reading to them as young children, it was a time when I started inventing my own stories for them, and then for them to read the stories back to me.

Now I have a three-volume princess story that was written over time for them, about their growing up, and exploration of the world around them becoming a vast source of material.

Inspiration is, quite literally, all around you.

Day 52

Where does inspiration come from – 1

…

A particular author who wrote a book on writing, one of many it seems, opined that the main source of inspiration is … you!

Just look at your family … there’s a definite gold mine of characters right there, and mine is no exception. I could write a story for each of them, and what might happen if they all came together at a reunion. Yes, perhaps that’s not a good idea.

Who’s been to a wedding, or funeral, and …

Then there are your friends. You know the saying, you can pick your friends and not your relatives. Yes true, but sometimes they pick themselves. These friends are from school, though I no longer have any from that time, work, as you transition through your work life these change, and for me, the earlier characters were just that, characters, and a lot of them turn up in stories.

There is where you live, the city, the country, places you;ve been on holiday, the people you meet, the regions.

I know when I go on holiday it is another source of information and experiences and I take lots of photos and make copious notes of everything, people, food, sights, events, and experiences.

What happens to you in those first years, from primary school to graduation, then perhaps university or trade school, to where you start working, the changes in vocations for many different reasons, the partners you find, stay, leave, forget, or pine over, all these emotions are grist to the mill.

Later in life, those experiences are not quite as poignant or perhaps as memorable, but that’s most likely because you are more settled and less adventurous. I found that with the coming of grandchildren and reading to them as young children, it was a time when I started inventing my own stories for them, and then for them to read the stories back to me.

Now I have a three-volume princess story that was written over time for them, about their growing up, and exploration of the world around them becoming a vast source of material.

Inspiration is, quite literally, all around you.

Day 51

Why do we write?

…

It seems everyone has a reason, and for all of those whom I have talked to, mostly say they do it for the love of writing.

If we were writing to make our fortune, I’d say none of us would last longer than a year. For some of us, myself included, I never gave up my day job until I retired and then could devote myself to it with more effectiveness.

That idea of doing a 10-hour day and then going home to do another was never possible. Writing took a back seat and was done when I could. I kept writing to keep the creative e juices flowing but my heart was not in it.

Yes, I finished a few stories, and a book or two, but the non-exciting part of the exercise, editing and marketing never was my strong point, and it wasn’t until I retired that it all came together, and five books were published and another twenty in various stages of completion.

I do not write with the intention of becoming an international bestselling author. It’s a nice thought, but it’s a field where there are millions of others toiling away, and some will get that break, while others may never. My stories sell, people read them, and the reviews are satisfying. That’s enough for me.

Still, one day it might happen. We can never predict the future. I might write a story that some editor might read and think it’s worthy of being published. That would be nice. But, in the meantime, I will keep creating my quirky characters who inhabit a strange world, meet others like them, and who are equally as different, and sometimes combine to create a little magic.

And as the purveyor of happy endings, and in these perilous times where we all need a little cheering up more than we realise, perhaps after the story is over, they can look back over that short period of getting to know those people that it was time well spent.