First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.
…
The month is up, the hard work is done and the numbers are in.
I finished the first draft, as awful as it might be, with a total of 65,265
And this is the winner’s certificate:
That’s it for another April NaNoWriMo. Now I can rest!
…
This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while traveling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.
But, there’s more to come. Those were long flights…
And sadly when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start.
There were eleven stormtroopers and Wallace, eighteen in Johansson and Jackerby’s group. One of those would be in the communications center, leaving, at worst, twenty-nine men out looking for me.
I also assumed that Jackerby would approach the search in much the same manner as I would, the men in pairs, as singly, he knew that I would have an advantage.
Eight pairs would be inside, doing a room to room search, from the top down.
Five pairs would be outside, one group in the center, one group at each of the corners, all working the perimeter, all in constant communication with each other.
In normal circumstances, I would be caught.
These were not normal circumstances.
Jack padded his way just ahead of me, stopping every few yards and both sniffing and listening. At a junction he would stop, waiting, then make a decision which way to go.
I had to trust his instincts.
Just ahead of me there was a cracking sound followed by falling rocks and a shaft of light.
An opening in the roof where it was too close to the surface.
Jack went quite still. Voices.
“Be careful.” German.
Followed immediately by “Speak in English you fool. You were saying,”
The man switched to careful English, “Be careful, or you’ll fall down that hole. They should have told us the ground around here is on top of an old mineshaft.”
“Better, Corporal. Remember. English at all times.”
“Could be where they buried the bodies hastily before they left.”
The man was referring to the story the previous custodians of the castle had killed about a hundred of the nearby villagers and buried them in a mass grave near the castle. No one had been able to verify the account, nor had anyone found any skeletal evidence.
Yet.
“Let’s get out of here. The last thing I want to see is a ghost.”
© Charles Heath 2019
The process of writing is rewriting editing and more rewriting.
The other day l wrote some words. I didn’t like them. But it had laid the groundwork for a second draft.
Here it is:
Growing up I did not believe l had one of those lovable faces.
My brother, known in school as the best looking boy of his graduating class, said it was a face only a mother could love.
He was mean.
Simone, a girl who was a friend, not a girlfriend, said my face had character.
She was charming and polite.
Looking now, in the mirror, l decided I’d aged gracefully.
I could truthfully say my brother had not, but that was as far as the comparison went.
My overachieving brother was the epitome of success in business, a veritable god zillionaire. Everything he touched turned to gold.
My ultra successful sister, Penelope, had married into the right family perhaps by chance, but she was also a very learned scholar whose life was divided between her chair and the university and her social life with the rich and famous.
Then there was me.
I gave up on my chance at university because l was not the scholarly sort and didn’t last long. Sadly l was the first of my family to be sent down from Oxford.
Instead, l took on a series of professions such as seasonal laborer, farmhand, factory worker, and lastly, night watchman. At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.
It would not be enough for my parents who every year didn’t say it out loud but the disappointment was always there in their expressions.
My brother in his usual blunt manner said l was a loser and would never change.
My sister was not quite so blunt. She simply said it was disappointing so much potential was going to waste. I only asked her once what she meant and lost me after the first four-syllable word.
Finally, I’d taken their comments to heart and decided l would not be going home to the family Christmas holiday reunion.
I told my boss l was available to work the night shift over the holidays, the shift no one else wanted.
It was he said the time for reflection. He hated his family as much as I did so we would be able to lament our bad luck though the long cold hours from dusk till dawn.
It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the North Pole. I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.
The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.
It was going to be a white Christmas, all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.
As I approached my car, the light went on in an SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was climbing down from the driver’s seat.
She closed the door and leaned against the side of the car. “Graham?”
It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time, my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. From what I could see, she didn’t look too well.
“What do you want?”
“Help.”
My help, I was the last person to help her or anyone for that matter. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”
“Because my husband is trying to kill me.”
The instant the last word left her lips I saw her jerk back into the car, and then start sliding down to the ground. There was no mistaking the red streak following her as she fell.
She’d been shot from what could be a sniper rifle, which meant …
It still needs work but I’ve got the gist of where I want to go.
The idea is not to make a character so loathsome no one would want to read about him.
This will evolve and you can if you like come along for the ride!
© Charles Heath 2020
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 back on the treasure hunt.
…
“Do you remember Nadia?”
Boggs was out the back on the veranda, sitting in an old lounge chair that had seen better days, eating tacos, or at least I think they were tacos. He offered me one but I didn’t like the look of it. Aside from the fact I wasn’t a fan of Mexican food.
“One of the Cossatino’s, Vince’s sister, tall, shorts skirts and big, well you know what I mean.”
Statuesque, Amazonian, yes I did. We all coveted what we couldn’t have.
“The same. She’s back in town.”
“And this means what to us if anything. As I recall, the one time we tried talking to her, Vince had his friends rough us up.”
“I saw her with Alex today, in the warehouse.”
I had his attention. I knew what he was thinking.
“Doing what, as if I couldn’t guess?”
“Alex wouldn’t be that stupid.”
“And we also said that when he fucked Annie in front of the class in the sports hall, not that we knew then what he was doing.”
Good point. “No. He told her to get the map from Rico. Has Rico and her…”
“Dated? Like Rico would be in her league. He’d be little more than trash in her eyes. But, no, not that I’m aware of. But, if she was to throw herself at him, I’m sure he would react like any other dumb bastard who thinks with his dick and not his head. But he hasn’t got the map.”
“Yet.”
“I still think I should try to sell it to Alex.”
“And I think if you are looking for a reason for a long hospital stay, that would be it. You need to be careful where Rico is concerned. Maybe we should check him out tomorrow.”
“I thought you had a job, and couldn’t get away.”
“My shift has changed to the afternoon, so I’ll be available in the mornings. Do you know where Rico lives?”
“On his boat. He has a small cruiser at the docks. Uses if for, he says, fishing trips for businessmen, but I think he does the drug run from the shipping lanes to a quiet cove.”
“For the Benderby’s?”
“No idea, and don’t care. But you’re right. We should check him out. Tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you at Al’s fishing shop at about 9:00.”
He’d finished the tacos, and clearly had something else to do, something that didn’t involve me. I felt a little disappointed.
…
© Charles Heath 2019-2021
First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.
…
So, what happened really happened to Worthington?
Did John get reunited with his mother in the hospital?
What of Rupert and Isobel? Did she get to meet the elusive and enigmatic Tsar?
These are all questions that will be answered in due course.
There is also the matter of what happens when John and Zoe/Irina finally meet up after he learns that she regarded him as expendable, and knowing her as he did, didn’t doubt for a minute she meant it.
Is it the folly of falling in love with an assassin?
Once again we end up at the grandmother’s residence in Sorrento, languishing sans Zoe, contemplating the future, a future that might not have Zoe in it.
His idea of setting up an investigation bureau is alive and well, run by Rupert, staffed by people who have the skills but not the confidence of others who had employed them. Rupert is the master of picking lame ducks and turning them into swans.
Isobel, on the other hand, does not improve with age or being in a somewhat iffy, long-range, possible romance, thing.
Does Zoe return, does she call, can she drag herself away from her recently rediscovered father?
Again, you’ll have to read the book.
…
There’s no word count at the moment because everything is in outline awaiting writing. That will happen, I hope, tomorrow.
This is one of those images that could be anywhere.
So, here’s the problem:
Ethan was reluctant to agree to go to the stag night, knowing firstly, that the others going were a bit too unruly when they had too many drinks, secondly, that they had to agree to not know where they were being taken by the bus, and thirdly, anything they saw or did had to remain completely confidential.
That was particularly the case when it came to the ‘stag’.
In that case, Ethan knew exactly what this night was going to be, hours of unrelenting debauchery.
And, since Ethan was the stag’s brother, and he was the best man, there was no way he could wriggle his way out of this one.
On top of that, Ethan had to promise the bride to be that he would not let her husband to be go too far. That statement, of course, was like a box full of hand grenades. He didn’t ask for a definition of too far.
So, seven sober, respectable, hard-working junior executives in suits that were worth more than Ethan’s annual salary boarded the bus.
What happened from that moment the bus drove off, until Ethan’s brother’s body was found floating face down in the river behind the resort, handcuffed to a naked girl in a rubber dinghy, barely alive from an overdose, was anyone’s guess, and Ethan’s worst nightmare.
Especially when he was the last one to see his brother, and the girl, alive.
And, no, this is not based on a real-life experience, though in recurring nightmares I’m the one floating fase down in the river.
This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while traveling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.
But, there’s more to come. Those were long flights…
And sadly when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start.
There were eleven stormtroopers and Wallace, eighteen in Johansson and Jackerby’s group. One of those would be in the communications center, leaving, at worst, twenty-nine men out looking for me.
I also assumed that Jackerby would approach the search in much the same manner as I would, the men in pairs, as singly, he knew that I would have an advantage.
Eight pairs would be inside, doing a room to room search, from the top down.
Five pairs would be outside, one group in the center, one group at each of the corners, all working the perimeter, all in constant communication with each other.
In normal circumstances, I would be caught.
These were not normal circumstances.
Jack padded his way just ahead of me, stopping every few yards and both sniffing and listening. At a junction he would stop, waiting, then make a decision which way to go.
I had to trust his instincts.
Just ahead of me there was a cracking sound followed by falling rocks and a shaft of light.
An opening in the roof where it was too close to the surface.
Jack went quite still. Voices.
“Be careful.” German.
Followed immediately by “Speak in English you fool. You were saying,”
The man switched to careful English, “Be careful, or you’ll fall down that hole. They should have told us the ground around here is on top of an old mineshaft.”
“Better, Corporal. Remember. English at all times.”
“Could be where they buried the bodies hastily before they left.”
The man was referring to the story the previous custodians of the castle had killed about a hundred of the nearby villagers and buried them in a mass grave near the castle. No one had been able to verify the account, nor had anyone found any skeletal evidence.
Yet.
“Let’s get out of here. The last thing I want to see is a ghost.”
© Charles Heath 2019
The process of writing is rewriting editing and more rewriting.
The other day l wrote some words. I didn’t like them. But it had laid the groundwork for a second draft.
Here it is:
Growing up I did not believe l had one of those lovable faces.
My brother, known in school as the best looking boy of his graduating class, said it was a face only a mother could love.
He was mean.
Simone, a girl who was a friend, not a girlfriend, said my face had character.
She was charming and polite.
Looking now, in the mirror, l decided I’d aged gracefully.
I could truthfully say my brother had not, but that was as far as the comparison went.
My overachieving brother was the epitome of success in business, a veritable god zillionaire. Everything he touched turned to gold.
My ultra successful sister, Penelope, had married into the right family perhaps by chance, but she was also a very learned scholar whose life was divided between her chair and the university and her social life with the rich and famous.
Then there was me.
I gave up on my chance at university because l was not the scholarly sort and didn’t last long. Sadly l was the first of my family to be sent down from Oxford.
Instead, l took on a series of professions such as seasonal laborer, farmhand, factory worker, and lastly, night watchman. At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.
It would not be enough for my parents who every year didn’t say it out loud but the disappointment was always there in their expressions.
My brother in his usual blunt manner said l was a loser and would never change.
My sister was not quite so blunt. She simply said it was disappointing so much potential was going to waste. I only asked her once what she meant and lost me after the first four-syllable word.
Finally, I’d taken their comments to heart and decided l would not be going home to the family Christmas holiday reunion.
I told my boss l was available to work the night shift over the holidays, the shift no one else wanted.
It was he said the time for reflection. He hated his family as much as I did so we would be able to lament our bad luck though the long cold hours from dusk till dawn.
It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the North Pole. I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.
The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.
It was going to be a white Christmas, all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.
As I approached my car, the light went on in an SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was climbing down from the driver’s seat.
She closed the door and leaned against the side of the car. “Graham?”
It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time, my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. From what I could see, she didn’t look too well.
“What do you want?”
“Help.”
My help, I was the last person to help her or anyone for that matter. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”
“Because my husband is trying to kill me.”
The instant the last word left her lips I saw her jerk back into the car, and then start sliding down to the ground. There was no mistaking the red streak following her as she fell.
She’d been shot from what could be a sniper rifle, which meant …
It still needs work but I’ve got the gist of where I want to go.
The idea is not to make a character so loathsome no one would want to read about him.
This will evolve and you can if you like come along for the ride!
© Charles Heath 2020
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 back on the treasure hunt.
…
“Do you remember Nadia?”
Boggs was out the back on the veranda, sitting in an old lounge chair that had seen better days, eating tacos, or at least I think they were tacos. He offered me one but I didn’t like the look of it. Aside from the fact I wasn’t a fan of Mexican food.
“One of the Cossatino’s, Vince’s sister, tall, shorts skirts and big, well you know what I mean.”
Statuesque, Amazonian, yes I did. We all coveted what we couldn’t have.
“The same. She’s back in town.”
“And this means what to us if anything. As I recall, the one time we tried talking to her, Vince had his friends rough us up.”
“I saw her with Alex today, in the warehouse.”
I had his attention. I knew what he was thinking.
“Doing what, as if I couldn’t guess?”
“Alex wouldn’t be that stupid.”
“And we also said that when he fucked Annie in front of the class in the sports hall, not that we knew then what he was doing.”
Good point. “No. He told her to get the map from Rico. Has Rico and her…”
“Dated? Like Rico would be in her league. He’d be little more than trash in her eyes. But, no, not that I’m aware of. But, if she was to throw herself at him, I’m sure he would react like any other dumb bastard who thinks with his dick and not his head. But he hasn’t got the map.”
“Yet.”
“I still think I should try to sell it to Alex.”
“And I think if you are looking for a reason for a long hospital stay, that would be it. You need to be careful where Rico is concerned. Maybe we should check him out tomorrow.”
“I thought you had a job, and couldn’t get away.”
“My shift has changed to the afternoon, so I’ll be available in the mornings. Do you know where Rico lives?”
“On his boat. He has a small cruiser at the docks. Uses if for, he says, fishing trips for businessmen, but I think he does the drug run from the shipping lanes to a quiet cove.”
“For the Benderby’s?”
“No idea, and don’t care. But you’re right. We should check him out. Tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you at Al’s fishing shop at about 9:00.”
He’d finished the tacos, and clearly had something else to do, something that didn’t involve me. I felt a little disappointed.
…
© Charles Heath 2019-2021
First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.
…
In a day of going over old ground and making it new again, I have revisited Zoe’s residence in Paris at the time John called, and found it empty, except for some kid who was all ‘get lost or suffer the consequences.’
Who is he? We flesh that story out, and how it relates to Zoe and those early days in the story.
Similarly, I’m not happy still with how Worthington discovers Zoe, and this is going to need some more work, and definitely a rewrite.
In fact, I might have to revisit his whole appearance in the story and make it a little less bombastic and a little more subdued seething anger.
The whole Marseilles episode is good, it’s just the end and this discovery of who is behind Zoe’s abduction that needs a little work. This is where we sow the enigmatic sees of Romanov and his purpose for wanting Zoe if it is not revenge like it is assumed.
Similarly, that whole thing with the Russian Minister and Anton needs a lot more work because there appears to be a connection between him and Romanov, but there’s not. This is just Olga leaning on her connections to get a result.
Then Zoe takes off to find Romanov, or is it those seeking revenge, it’s not quite clear, and leaves John to contemplate his future. Perhaps a piece here between them that sets the tone for the relationship over the coming months would be good, and the trigger that sets John off on a quest to find her.
His excuses at the moment are wishy-washy at best.
Phew!!! Never knew self-criticism could be so harsh!
…
Today’s writing, with Zoe languishing in a dungeon waiting for a white knight, 0 words, for a total of 8,871.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 