Day 260 – Writing to provoke

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If You Can’t Annoy Somebody with What You Write, There’s Little Point in Writing – A Deep Dive into Kingsley Amis’s Provocative Quote

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Table of Contents

1. Who Was Kingsley Amis?
2. The Quote in Context – What Did He Really Mean?
3. Why “Annoying” Can Be a Good Thing in Writing
   • 3.1 The Power of Provocation
   • 3.2 Annoyance vs. Engagement
4. When Annoyance Becomes Counter‑Productive
5. Real‑World Examples: Writers Who Mastered the Art of Annoyance
6. Practical Tips: How to Write That Stirs Without Alienating
7. Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ)
8. Final Takeaway: Embrace the Edge, Not the Offence

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1. Who Was Kingsley Amis?

Kingsley Amis (1922‑1995) was a British novelist, poet, and essayist best known for his razor‑sharp wit and satirical eye. He won the Booker Prize for The Old Devils (1986) and penned the cult classic Lucky Jim (1954). Amis was a self‑described “pessimist” who delighted in challenging literary conventions and poking fun at social pretensions.

“I think a lot of people are trying to be too nice. If you can’t annoy somebody with what you write, I think there’s little point in writing.”

The quote sums up his belief that writing’s purpose isn’t comfort—it’s confrontation.

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2. The Quote in Context – What Did He Really Mean?

Amis made this remark during a 1962 interview for The Spectator while discussing the role of the modern novelist. He wasn’t encouraging petty irritation; he was championing intellectual provocation—the act of shaking readers out of complacency.

Key takeaways from the original context

Aspect	Explanation
Literary Tradition	Amis aligned himself with authors like Oscar Wilde, George Orwell and James Joyce—writers who deliberately sparked debate.
Audience Expectation	He argued that readers expect to be challenged, not lulled.
Creative Courage	A writer must risk criticism to stay authentic.

In short, Amis believed the value of writing lies in its ability to stir thought, even if it ruffles feathers.

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3. Why “Annoying” Can Be a Good Thing in Writing

3.1 The Power of Provocation

Provocation is a deliberate literary technique used to:

1. Highlight contradictions – A provocative statement forces the reader to confront hidden biases.
2. Create memorable moments – Controversial lines stay with readers longer than bland prose.
3. Catalyze cultural conversation – Think of how Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird or Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale sparked nationwide dialogue.

SEO Insight: Articles that explore “how to provoke readers” rank highly for keywords like “provocative writing tips” and “controversial writing examples”.

3.2 Annoyance vs. Engagement

Factor	Annoyance (Negative)	Engagement (Positive)
Reader Reaction	Irritation, dismissal	Curiosity, deeper analysis
Longevity	Forgettable, quickly skimmed	Re‑read, quoted, shared
SEO Impact	High bounce rate	Increased dwell time & backlinks

The sweet spot is controlled annoyance—enough to provoke, but not so much that readers abandon the piece.

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4. When Annoyance Becomes Counter‑Productive

Provocation has limits. Below are red flags that indicate you’ve crossed from “thought‑provoking” into “offensive”:

Red Flag	Why It Hurts	How to Fix It
Sweeping Generalisations	Alienates large audiences; looks lazy.	Ground statements in evidence; add nuance.
Personal Attacks	Turns discussion into a fight.	Focus criticism on ideas, not identities.
Misleading “Shock for Shock’s Sake”	Damages credibility; Google penalises low‑quality content.	Keep the shock tied to a clear argument or purpose.
Ignoring Reader Context	Your audience may lack the background needed to understand the provocation.	Provide brief context or a “quick‑read guide.”

Bottom line: Annoyance that adds value ≠ annoyance that creates noise.

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5. Real‑World Examples: Writers Who Mastered the Art of Annoyance

Writer	Work	How They Annoy (Productively)
George Orwell	1984	Exposes totalitarian absurdities, disturbing readers with a bleak warning.
Toni Morrison	Beloved	Confronts the trauma of slavery, forcing readers to feel uncomfortable truths.
Brett Easton Ellis	American Psycho	Graphic violence pushes readers to question consumerist culture.
Chuck Palahniuk	Fight Club	Subversive narrative undermines conventional masculinity.
Ta-Nehisi Coates	Between the World and Me	Boldly critiques systemic racism, challenging comfortable narratives.

These authors don’t merely “annoy”; they re‑frame the conversation and inspire social reflection.

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6. Practical Tips: How to Write That Stirs Without Alienating

Below is a step‑by‑step cheat sheet you can copy into your writer’s notebook.

6.1 Clarify Your Core Argument

1. Write a one‑sentence thesis that states the controversial point.
2. Ask, “Why does this matter?” If the answer isn’t compelling, revisit the thesis.

6.2 Use “Controlled Shock”

Technique	Description	Example
Unexpected Analogy	Pair two unrelated concepts to jolt the brain.	“Voting is less a right and more a subscription you can’t cancel.”
Statistical Bombshell	Drop a little‑known, striking statistic.	“One in three children will never read a book beyond the first grade.”
Narrative Disruption	Begin with a scene that subverts expectations.	“The city’s mayor announced, ‘We’re raising taxes—because we love you.’”

6.3 Back Up the Provocation

• Cite reputable sources (academic journals, reputable news outlets).
• Add a counter‑argument—show you understand the other side.
• Explain the “why” after each provocative claim.

6.4 Word‑Level Tactics

Tactic	Why It Works	Sample
Rhetorical Questions	Forces readers to answer internally.	“If we accept this, what’s left for the next generation?”
Parallelism	Creates rhythm, making the message stick.	“We’re told to listen, we’re told to obey, we’re told to forget.”
Contrast	Highlights disparity, amplifying irritation.	“The richest 1% own more than the bottom 50%, yet they claim meritocracy.”

6.5 Edit for Balance

1. Read aloud – Does the line sound like a thoughtful jab or a tantrum?
2. Apply the “5‑Second Rule.” If a reader can skip the sentence within five seconds, consider re‑working it.
3. Seek a Beta Reader—preferably someone with an opposing perspective.

6.6 SEO Checklist (For Blog Posts)

• Primary keyword: Kingsley Amis writing quote (use 2–3 times in headings, intro, and conclusion).
• LSI keywords: provocative writing, annoying readers purpose, controversial literature examples, how to write to provoke.
• Meta tags (title ≤ 60 chars; description ≤ 155 chars).
• Alt text for images – e.g., alt="Kingsley Amis portrait, British novelist" for a photo.
• Internal links – Point to related posts: “5 Ways to Write a Strong Argument” and “Why Bad Writing Isn’t Always Bad.”

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7. Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ)

Q1. Does “annoying” mean being rude or hateful?
No. Amis’s concept is about intellectual irritation—challenging ideas, not attacking individuals.

Q2. Can I apply this principle to non‑fiction, like business copy?
Absolutely. Even a marketing email can use a slight edge: “Most CEOs think they’re unstoppable. The data says otherwise.”

Q3. How do I measure if my provocative writing works?

• Engagement metrics: longer dwell time, comments, social shares.
• Qualitative feedback: readers citing “thought‑provoking” in reviews.

Q4. What if I offend a protected group unintentionally?
Do a quick sensitivity check: research cultural context, use inclusive language, and consider a content warning if needed.

Q5. Should I always aim to annoy?
No. Use annoyance strategically—when the goal is to spark dialogue or highlight injustice. Not every piece needs a shock factor.

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8. Final Takeaway: Embrace the Edge, Not the Offence

Kingsley Amis wasn’t encouraging writers to be jerks. He was reminding us that the purpose of good writing is to make readers think, feel, and sometimes squirm. When you master the art of controlled annoyance, you:

• Break complacency – Readers stop scrolling and start reflecting.
• Boost SEO – Higher dwell time & more backlinks from discussions.
• Leave a cultural imprint – Your words join the conversation that shapes society.

Bottom line: If your prose can’t stir at least one mind, ask yourself why you’re writing at all.

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Ready to Write Something That Pops?

1. Pick a controversial stance that aligns with your niche.
2. Stack it with hard‑data and vivid storytelling.
3. Polish with the editor’s eye for balance.

Your next post could be the one that annoys—in the best, most purposeful way—making you a writer worth remembering.

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“If you can’t annoy somebody with what you write, I think there’s little point in writing.” – Kingsley Amis

Take this as a challenge, not a threat. Start provoking today.

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Day 259 – How to approximate spoken language

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How to Approximate Spoken Language in Fiction – A Practical Guide Using James Kelman’s Novels

Meta Description: Learn to capture the rhythm, tone, and authenticity of real speech in your writing. This step‑by‑step guide uses James Kelman’s groundbreaking novels as a live case study, with SEO‑friendly tips for mastering spoken language on the page.

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Introduction

When a reader opens a novel, the most immediate test of its credibility is the dialogue. Does it sound like a casual conversation you might overhear at a pub, or does it feel like a rehearsed script? Approximating spoken language—the art of making prose sound like real speech—adds immediacy, personality, and cultural texture to fiction.

One author who has turned this technique into a literary trademark is James Kelman, the Scottish Booker‑prize‑winning novelist known for his unapologetically raw, Glaswegian voice. Kelman’s work is a masterclass in how to translate the cadences, slang, and interruptions of everyday talk into page‑bound narrative without sacrificing readability.

In this post we’ll break down:

• The why behind mimicking spoken language.
• The common pitfalls that can turn authentic dialogue into unreadable gibberish.
• Kelman’s toolkit—the specific techniques he uses to make his prose feel like a live conversation.
• A step‑by‑step workflow you can apply to your own manuscript.

By the end, you’ll have a concrete, SEO‑friendly roadmap for writing dialogue that sounds like it’s being spoken right now—just like Kelman’s characters.

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1. Why Approximate Spoken Language?

Benefit	Explanation	SEO Keywords
Authenticity	Readers instantly trust characters whose speech matches the social setting they belong to.	authentic dialogue, realistic speech
Voice & Identity	Dialect, rhythm, and filler words give each character a distinct fingerprint.	character voice, literary dialect
Immersion	Real‑time speech creates an “in‑the‑room” sensation, deepening narrative immersion.	immersive storytelling, natural speech in fiction
Cultural Context	Language is a cultural artifact; capturing it grounds the story in a specific place and time.	regional dialects, Scottish speech

In short, approximating spoken language bridges the gap between reader and character, turning passive consumption into an active, almost conversational experience.

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2. The Challenges of Writing “Real” Speech

Even though we all speak every day, transcribing that experience into text is a delicate balancing act. Here are the three biggest hurdles:

1. Clarity vs. Verisimilitude – Raw speech includes false starts, repetitions, and unfinished thoughts. Too much of this can obscure the plot.
2. Readability – Over‑use of slang or non‑standard spelling can alienate readers unfamiliar with the dialect.
3. Pacing – Dialogue that mimics spoken rhythm can affect the overall pacing of a scene.

Understanding these challenges helps you apply Kelman’s solutions rather than reinventing the wheel.

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3. James Kelman: A Case Study in Spoken‑Language Approximation

3.1. Who is James Kelman?

• Born: 1946, Glasgow, Scotland
• Major Works: How Late It Was, How Late (1994), The Busconductor (1985), A Disappearing Number (1995)
• Accolades: Booker Prize (1994) for How Late It Was, How Late

Kelman grew up speaking Glaswegian, a working‑class Scottish dialect that is often dismissed as “unintelligible” outside its region. Instead of sanitizing it, Kelman preserves its rough edges, using the dialect as a political tool to amplify working‑class voices.

3.2. Core Techniques Kelman Employs

Technique	Description	Example (from How Late It Was, How Late)
Stream‑of‑Consciousness Punctuation	Minimal punctuation, long run‑on sentences that simulate thought flow.	“I’m trying to get them, but I’m badly sorry for being slightly at a loss. I ain’t anything but a brain‑and‑stupid little bit for later.”
Dialect‑Specific Lexicon	Keeps authentic vocabulary, e.g., “wee,” “bairn,” “gonnae.”	“He was a wee lad, aye, and kept sayin’ I’m out o’ work.”
Ellipsis & Pauses	Uses “…” and commas sparingly to hint at breathes and hesitation.	“…and then I… I’m not sure whether you seen him.”
Delete Excess ‘Editing’	No quotation marks in many passages; dialogue bleeds into narration.	He said he was angry, but I could see he was scared too.
Repetition & Stuttering	Mimics common speech patterns (e.g., “I… I don’t know”).	“I’m not— I’m not sure what you’re gettin’ at.”

These choices make the reader hear the speaker’s voice while still being able to follow the narrative thread.

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4. Step‑by‑Step Guide: How to Approximate Spoken Language in Your Own Writing

4.1. Listen First – Build an Auditory Archive

1. Eavesdrop (ethically!). Sit in a café, a bus, or a community center and note how people start, stop, and finish sentences.
2. Record & Transcribe. Use a phone recorder for 2‑minute conversations (with permission) and transcribe them verbatim.
3. Identify Patterns. Look for:
   • Common fillers: “uh,” “you know,” “like”
   • Sentence truncations: “I was thinking… maybe we should…”
   • Regionalisms: “y’all,” “aye,” “bairn”

SEO tip: Create a searchable spreadsheet titled “spoken‑language‑archive” and tag each entry with dialect, filler, rhythm—later you can reference this in future blog posts or FAQs.

4.2. Choose the Right Level of Realism

Realism Level	When to Use	How to Implement
High (verbatim speech)	Short scenes, comedic effect, authenticity-critical (e.g., a Glasgow bar).	Keep most fillers, false starts, and dialect.
Medium (filtered speech)	Main narrative scenes where clarity is essential.	Trim excess filler, keep a few dialect words for flavor.
Low (stylized speech)	Exposition or “high‑concept” dialogue where pacing is crucial.	Use clean, concise sentences; sprinkle occasional colloquialism.

4.3. Draft the Dialogue in “Speech‑First” Mode

1. Write as you would speak. Forget about punctuation for a moment; just get the words down.
2. Read aloud. If it feels unnatural, adjust.
3. Mark pauses & interruptions using placeholders: ... for breath, — for abrupt stops.

Example:

Original draft: “I think we should— actually, never mind, you know what I mean, right?”
Speech‑first: “I think we should… actually, never mind—you know what I mean, right?”

4.4. Apply Kelman‑Inspired Formatting

Kelman Technique	How to Use It	When to Tighten
Minimal punctuation	Drop unnecessary commas or hyphens; allow thoughts to run together.	In internal monologues or stream‑of‑consciousness.
No quotation marks	Use italics or simply integrate speech into narration.	When you want a blurred line between thought and speech (e.g., a character’s inner voice).
Dialect spelling sparingly	Spell only the most distinctive words (“wee,” “bairn”). Keep the rest standard to aid readability.	In dialogue tags or descriptive beats.
Ellipsis for hesitation	Use … to replace “um,” “uh,” or thinking pauses.	In moments of uncertainty or tension.

Tip: Run a readability test (Flesch‑Kincaid) after applying these changes. If the score drops dramatically, re‑introduce a few commas or full stops for balance.

4.5. Edit for Clarity—Never for “Correctness”

1. Strip redundant filler that adds no character insight.
2. Preserve purposeful slang that signals class, region, or age.
3. Check for comprehension by reading the scene to someone unfamiliar with the dialect; if they can follow the gist, you’ve succeeded.

4.6. Polish with Narrative Integration

• Blend speech and description to keep the scene moving.
• Show, don’t tell – let a character’s accent reveal their background without explicit exposition.

Example (Kelman‑style):

“Aye, it’s a cold night,” I muttered, fingers digging into the pocket of my tattered coat, the wool biting my skin like a cheap reminder of the factory’s heat.

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5. Practical Exercises (Try Them Now)

Exercise	Goal	Time Commitment
1. “One‑Minute Monologue”	Capture a single character’s voice in 150 words.	10 min
2. “Dialect Swap”	Rewrite a famous literary dialogue (e.g., from Pride and Prejudice) using a modern regional dialect of your choice.	20 min
3. “Ellipsis Audit”	Take a 500‑word scene and replace every um/uh with an ellipsis or dash.	15 min
4. “Kelman‑Style Paraphrase”	Choose a paragraph from a novel and rewrite it using minimal punctuation and no quotation marks, emulating Kelman’s style.	20 min

Document your results in a blog post series titled “Learning Spoken Language with [Your Name]”. Not only does this create shareable content (great for SEO), it also provides a portfolio of your evolving craft.

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6. Common Mistakes & How to Fix Them

Mistake	Why It Happens	Fix
Over‑dialectizing – Every word is spelled phonetically.	Fear of “not sounding authentic enough.”	Keep dialect to key lexical items, leave the rest in standard spelling.
Long, unpunctuated walls of text	Trying too hard to mimic stream‑of‑consciousness.	Insert strategic line breaks and occasional punctuation for breath.
Using slang that dates the text	Relying on trends that may become obsolete.	Favor timeless regional terms (e.g., “wee” vs. “lit”).
Inconsistent voice between characters	Not tracking each character’s unique speech patterns.	Build a voice sheet: list each character’s filler words, dialect markers, and rhythm.

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7. SEO Checklist – Making Your Post Discoverable

Element	Action
Primary Keyword	“approximate spoken language” – use in title, first paragraph, H2, and once in the conclusion.
Secondary Keywords	“James Kelman dialogue,” “realistic speech in fiction,” “dialect in literature,” “writing natural dialogue.”
Meta Description	≤ 155 characters, include primary keyword.
Header Tags	H1 (title), H2 for each major section, H3 for sub‑points.
Internal Links	Link to related posts: “How to Write Authentic Dialect,” “Top 5 Authors Who Use Real Speech.”
External Links	Cite a reputable source on Kelman (e.g., The Booker Prize page) and a linguistic article on spoken‑language transcription.
Images	Add a royalty‑free photo of a Glasgow street scene, alt‑text: “Glasgow backdrop illustrating James Kelman’s dialect.”
Readability	Aim for Flesch‑Kincaid grade 8–10; use short sentences for instructions, longer for analysis.
Social Snippets	Create a tweetable quote: “Kelman’s dialogue reads like a live recording—learn how to make your characters speak like real people.”

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8. Conclusion

Approximating spoken language isn’t about reproducing every “uh” and “like” that crosses our lips. It’s a strategic craft that balances authenticity with narrative clarity. James Kelman shows us that dialect, rhythm, and minimal punctuation can turn ordinary prose into an audible experience that resonates with readers on a visceral level.

By listening first, choosing the right realism level, drafting in speech‑first mode, and polishing with purposeful formatting, you’ll be able to write dialogue that feels as natural as the conversations happening right now—maybe even on the street outside the café where you’re writing.

Ready to let your characters speak? Grab your notebook, hit the streets, and start transcribing the world’s endless chorus of voices. Your readers (and search engines) will thank you.

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Quick Reference: 5‑Step Cheat Sheet

1. Listen & Record – Build an audio archive of real speech.
2. Identify Patterns – Note fillers, pauses, regional words.
3. Draft “Speech‑First” – Write like you talk, then read aloud.
4. Apply Kelman Techniques – Minimal punctuation, selective dialect, ellipsis for hesitation.
5. Edit for Clarity – Trim unnecessary filler, ensure readability, test with an unfamiliar reader.

Use this cheat sheet whenever you start a new dialogue‑heavy scene, and watch your characters come alive with the authentic, spoken timbre that only a few modern writers dare to master.

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Happy writing, and may your prose always sound as if it’s being spoken in the moment!

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Day 258 – Writing exercise

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I could hear the thumping sound of the helicopter long before it arrived, a sound I was very familiar with, one that haunted my dreams.  Years fighting a senseless war with an almost invisible enemy had taken its toll. 

So many of those I served with had died, during and since the war ended, ignominiously, and part of me had died with them.

As it got closer, it struck fear into my heart, just as it had them.  We had treated every trip out a one-way ticket to hell, and on return, the fervent wish that the politicians and diplomats would make it so we didn’t have to go again.

If wishes were water…

It hovered, blowing everything around, until it hit the ground.

A woman in a navy jumpsuit hopped out, ran bent over towards me, then out from under the rotors, and waved it back into the sky.

Eleanor Brickneal.

Three days into the search for Rodney Brickneal, nearly two hundred deputies, national guardsmen, town folk, and family hadn’t found a sign of him.

I was not surprised.  His father, a retired Admiral, said he knew the mountain like the back of his hand, and if he wanted to disappear, he would.  I was sure he was actively trying to help his son disappear; after all, there was no direct evidence linking him to the murder of his wife, and even if there was, he would dismiss it as manufactured.

But it would have been useful if Richard had hung around long enough to give us his side of the story.  Instead, my boss put out an APB labelling him armed and dangerous, and the chances of us getting him off that mountain alive dropped to zero.

“Billy.”

“Eleanor.”  Rodney’s sister.  My nemesis.

We knew each other; that is to say, I had briefly dated her in high school, and sort of stayed together until she joined the Navy, and I followed my father into law enforcement.  We just wanted different things, and Richard had spent a lifetime keeping us apart.

“You should have asked for me earlier,” she shouted in my ear as the helicopter lifted off.  Seconds later, it was gone, leaving the thudding sounds ringing in my ears.

“Your father vetoed it.  I don’t know what he’s thinking, but it isn’t helping us find him.”

“Your boss doesn’t like him.  Old running mates for Mayor.  My Dad doesn’t take losing well.”

“No one does, apparently.  You need a few minutes to prepare?  I prepared a backpack.”

“Still hike the hill?”

“Still looking for the gold.”

She smiled.  “Both of us were kidding, you know.”  It was a long-standing joke between Eleanor, Richard, and I.  He spun a very good tale, but I always believed he was telling the truth, especially when she backed it up.

I looked at her, putting on my serious expression.  “You never kid.”

“Elly.”  The Admiral caught sight of her and barked her name, enough to make her almost flinch.  They were not on the best of terms, not after she brought back my son’s body from the war zone.

“Dad.”

He glared at her.  Dad was a title she was only allowed to use in private.  Or at least that was his idea of family respect.  It was not hers.

“You didn’t need to come.  We’ve got this under control.”

“He should be here, telling the sheriff he’s innocent and why, instead of running away.  Only guilty people do that.”

“Look at what he’s up against, a corrupt Mayor and a sheriff with a personal vendetta.  Would you?”

“You’ve got no evidence, no proof.  If you convinced him to run away, then his blood will be on your hands.  Unless we can get him back.  Just remember, every day we wait while he plays this game, it gets worse for him.  His enemies are already talking about a reward.  That’ll bring out the gun-happy fortune hunters.  We need to end this now.  Why aren’t you out there looking for him?”

“Someone has to run this circus.”

I thought I was supposed to be doing that.  I shrugged.  “Then I’ll leave it in your capable hands, sir.  Eleanor and I are going to find him and bring him back alive.”

…

The sounds of the camp disappeared, and the natural sound of the forest took over.  The wind rustling through the leaves of the canopy, the aroma of the undergrowth, the trees, the rotting floor, still damp from the overnight storm that had washed away any chance of the dogs picking up a trail.

There was a special kind of silence once you were inside the forest, except for the occasional rustling, birds above, animals on the floor searching for food, the sound of your breathing as you picked up a path that had been recently used by something larger than a rabbit. 

There were bears, but this was not the time of the year they were out.  There were rumours of cats, big cats, but one hadn’t been sighted for decades.  Hunters had killed them all.  Hunters killed everything, including the deer, though recently I had been up here and seen a mother with her foal.

Eleanor was in front, where she always preferred to be.  In charge.  Even back when we were children, she had that manner and ability to manage, to assign, to be a leader and make decisions.  She had always been more mature than her age suggested.

She stopped and waited until I caught up.

“I hear you’re retiring?”

“Had enough.”

She gave me that meaningful look of hers, the one where you felt like it was a full-length body scan, searching for faults.

“What happened to that never say die attitude?”

“Goodness and light are out of vogue.  That last sheriff election, it was little more than a smear campaign.”

“Why didn’t you quit then?”

“People asked me not to.  Not everyone believed Samson would be the best choice.”

“Yet he still won?”

“You know how it works.  I couldn’t find any proof that they cheated, but finding that box of 532 votes that put him over the line, that didn’t seem right.  Same ballot box that got the mayor over the line too.”

“Dad has been muttering about that too.  Times have changed.  Staying or leaving when you’re done?”

“Leaving.  Nothing for me here now.”

Nothing but painful memories.  A son killed in another senseless war, a death Emma, my companion for more years than I could remember, succumbing to the grief she could never recover from.  The cancer the doctors said they had removed came back, and a year later she was gone.

Eleanor had come back for the funeral, the first time in a few years, and she had changed too.  I could see it, even though from the outside she seemed the same.  War did that to a soul, slowly bleeding the goodness out of you.

She took a drink from the bottle, then put it back.

“Onwards and upwards”

It was her favourite line, and often she would strike out and leave us laggers behind.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Her expression sometimes gave away what she was thinking.  Rarely, but it was there if you knew what to look for.  We both knew Richard better than anyone else.  He had a special place, up on the mountain, one he told us about but never showed us.  We both tried to follow him, but his skill in the forest was legendary.  But we had an idea where it might be, even though we had looked for it.

The thing is, we may have seen it and walked right past it.

“We’re starting at the last time either of us saw him.”  Then her expression changed.  Surprise, or something else.  “You were waiting.”

“For what?”

“Me.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t want to find him without me.  You know he’s innocent.”

“I know he couldn’t have done it.  It doesn’t mean he’s entirely innocent, but it’s a tick in a box.  He hasn’t exactly been a good boy, you know.  And Zelda, she was always courting trouble, snuggling up to the mayor.”

A look of disgust crossed her face.

“Not like that, but someone else.  I suspect she was recruited.  Information is the equivalent of gold these days.  And reneging, well, that can be bad for your health.  Maybe she accidentally found something that she was not supposed to.  I don’t know all the facts.”

“I thought you were not allowed to investigate?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Does Conway know what you’ve been up to?”

“He knows I have a rapport with this town, and my reputation, and he’s not stupid.”

“Then that adds a level of complexity.”  She looked around carefully, a complete 360-degree scan.  Sounds in the forest were going to take on a different meaning.

“Eyes and ears peeled, Billy.”

…

Trudging through the forest was not easy, especially where you had to forge your own trail.  Both our cell phones had GPS and kept us going in the right direction, though if we were being observed, it was not exactly straight.

I realised after half an hour that she was not continuously walking directly to a particular point, so if anyone was tracking us, they would hardly make sense of it.  Aside from the fact that once we left the bottom of the hill area, just off the camp side and car park, we started climbing, and the path was littered with rocks, fallen branches, and trees blocking the way.

It was slow progress.  We crossed trails, one rather fresh, that looked like dirt bikers made them, even though dirt bikes were banned.

After an hour, we reached a clearing which showed signs of recent activity: in the centre a fire pit, and around the edges, flattened grass indicating tents.  What was particularly annoying was that whoever was there just left their rubbish lying around.

“A month, two at the most,” she said.  “A long way to come just to make camp.”

“Maybe not.”

There had been rumours the mayor was courting a mining company to come up and do a survey for rare minerals that he believed were in the vicinity.  He had discovered some old prospecting notes in the city archives going back a hundred years, at a time when the rare minerals were not useful for anything.  Not like these days with mobile phones and computers needing resources that other countries were buying in order to monopolise the global market.

“The mayor is trying to sell off the wilderness as a mining bonanza.  For him and his cronies, of course, not for the betterment of the town.  Rare earth minerals, I’m told.”

“They’d be still here if they found any.”

I shrugged.  “We’ll never know until it’s too late.”

There were trails leading off the clearing, and we ventured along several, but they didn’t lead to anything other than what looked like scrapings for samples and holes dug to varying depths.

“Perhaps,” I said, after finding a rather deep hole at the edge of a ravine, “they actually found that gold Richard kept referring to.”

She simply shook her head, and we set off again, once again disappearing into the undergrowth.

Time passed slowly, or it seemed like it did.  We were this way, then that, then found a break in the undergrowth making progress easier.  Then, through the sounds of the wind in the trees, there was another sound, like rushing water. 

I knew there were several waterfalls and small lakes, and a river that snaked through the valley between two mountains, but I thought it was further away.  Perhaps it was not.

We headed towards the sound, and all of a sudden came out onto a small lake and on one side, a waterfall.  We were close to it, so close we could feel the drops of water being blown towards us.  It was a magnificent sight; one few would get to see.

“I don’t remember seeing this before,” she said.

“True.  I haven’t either, but then this was never part of the trail I took.  We always took a more roundabout way, which I always thought was Richard’s way of disorientating us.”

I took several photographs.  She noted the coordinates on her GPS.

We both saw what looked like a rough path leading towards the waterfall itself.

“Is that a path?”

“Only one way to find out.”

It was hazardous going because the rocks we wet and some mossy.  The noise got louder, and the spray denser, and water was running down the inside of my jacket.  It was cold, very cold.

“I can see a cave,” she said, then moved towards a gap between the rockface and the water.

Seconds later she disappeared.

I followed.

All of a sudden we were behind the wall of water, the sound of it thunderous, so loud I couldn’t hear what she said.  She motioned to follow, and we went along a few yards, when she turned right and headed into the rockface.

It was a cave.

We pulled out the torches and switched them on.  Behind the waterfall was a large cavern, and as we moved into it, the sound of the waterfall lessened.  Once inside, it was like a foyer, with tunnels leading off in several directions.

I looked down at the floor and notice footprints.  Several sets of tracks made by similar boots.

“This might be the secret hideaway,” I said, aiming the torchlight at the ground.

“They head into that cave.” she pointed her torch, and the beam only went so far.

I shrugged.  “Curious?”

She started walking, stopped, then switched off her torch.  “Kill it,” she whispered.

I did.  It was not total darkness; we still had light coming from behind the waterfall, but dark enough to blend into the shadows.

“What?”

“Voices.”

…

We waited.  I wanted to continue, with lights out, to see who or what was at the end, but she thought it was best to wait.

In the end, we did.  For half an hour.  Nothing.

“Now?”

“They might be waiting for us.  They had to see the light from the torches.”

“Who do you think ‘they’ might be.  Richard?”

“There were at least two voices.”

Richard and a friend, or accomplice?  “If it is him, I don’t think he’s going to kill his favourite sister.”

“Not so much a favourite these days.”

There wasn’t a scenario where I thought that could be possible.  “Then I’ll go, and you can wait here.  I’m sure he’ll hesitate long enough before shooting me.  Even he should realise I’m not his enemy.”

“He might not be in a rational state of mind.”

He might not, but then, if it was the Richard I knew, he was never irrational, just downright irritating.  There was a difference.

“Give me a few minutes, then follow.  Slowly.”

She put a hand on my shoulder.  “You don’t have to do this to impress me.”

“I tried that once, Eleanor, and it didn’t work then.  It’s my job.”

With that, and the fact my eyes had adjusted to the low-level light, it made it easier to see a lot further.  It was just one foot in front of the other, one hand on the wall, which was wet, and in places the water was trickling down to the floor. 

And the surface water was moving slowly in the direction I was heading which meant I was heading downwards.  Ten steps, then another ten.  The floor was uneven, but it seemed like someone had hewn the sides and the floor to make them flatter.  A hundred steps, give or take, I reached a wall, and the tunnel reached a T-intersection.

A choice of going left or right.

I carefully peered to the left and could see light at the end, perhaps another entrance.  There was the slight noise of the waterfall coming from that direction.  I could see nothing to the right, which meant it went further into the mountain.

Looking behind me, I could not see whether Eleanor was behind me, or even if she had followed me.

I turned the corner and started walking towards the light.  Ten steps, another five; I found myself counting them, I heard a noise behind me.  I thought it was Eleanor.

“Hello, Billy.”

It was Richard.  He switched on his torch but kept it facing down so it didn’t blind me.  It was a sign.

“Richard.  I guess you aren’t going to tell me this is your special place.”

“It was.  Seems every one knows about it.  Why are you here?”

“I thought that would be obvious.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Running away says otherwise.  The mayor and sheriff have half the town looking for you.”

“I know.”

“Who were you talking to, just before?”

He sighed.  “You don’t need to know.  Just like you didn’t see me.  Things would have been different if you had remained sheriff.”

“Times have changed.  Out with the old, in with the new.  That was his catchcry and won with it.”

“He cheated.  They both cheated.”

“Can you prove it?”

“My assistant told them how to.  I went to Samson with the evidence, and he told me if I didn’t keep my mouth closed there would be repercussions.  I told the mayor he had a corrupt sheriff, and next thing I knew, Zelda was dead, and Samson was looking for me.  I just learned he has three men out in the woods.  The moment I show my face I’m dead.”

“How did you assistant know how to fix the result?”  Eleanor had come silently up behind us.

“Elly.  What are you doing here?”

“Billy thought you would need someone around to tell you how to save yourself.  I suspect now we know what you know; none of us are.  Fixing elections, Rich.  Is there no limit to your perfidy?”

“It was a theoretical scenario.  Samson asked us to formulate ways the election might be fixed, and it was just one of a half dozen.  I refused the commission; my assistant saw a way of making some quick money.  He left the day after the election.  Now I know why.”

“Is there another way out of this place?”  Other than the one in front of us, or going back the way we came.  If anyone was following us…

“Back into the mountain for about a hundred yards.  There’s about a half dozen tunnels, mostly man-made, old workings.  There was gold in these hills, but not enough to make money.  Nowadays with the price of gold, who knows.”

“We stumbled on a clearing not far from here.”

“Prospectors.  Rare earth minerals, all the rage.  Conway believes it’s here.  They found traces of gold instead.  He’s trying to get the land rezoned for mining.  I’m fighting to prevent that.”

“We’d better go.”  Eleanor was not one to stand still.

He turned, stepped up to her.  “It’s good to see you.  I’m surprised the Navy could let you go.”

“Family.  Or what’s left of it.”

He the lead, she followed and I brought up the rear.

We got twenty yards before a strong blinding light flared in front of us, and we had to stop. 

“You are not going anywhere.”

It was a voice I didn’t recognise.  The owner stepped out from behind and armed his rifle as he stepped towards us.  I suspect he could shoot all three of us before we could get close enough to disarm him.  The extra sounds from behind him told me there was more than one.

I took a step closer to stand beside Eleanor.  “You do know I’m the Deputy Sheriff, and beside me is a Captain in the US Navy.”

“You could be the king and queen of England for all I care.  No one will ever find you, so I hardly think I have anything to worry about.  Now, the boss would like to have words, so let’s take things real slow and easy and no one will get hurt.”

Two more men came from behind the light, and each one came over to check whether we were armed.  Or at least that was the plan.

“Brace,” Eleanor screamed

A second later the tunnel we had come from the waterfall exploded with a huge fire flash and rocks going everywhere.  The sound of the explosion in the confined space was deafening, but prepared, it gave us the seconds we needed to overcome the three men.

They were on the ground and unconscious before the dust and rocks from the blast had settled.

“You found the explosive?” I said.

“You and your toys.”

“Just in case.  All part of being a Boy Scout in another lifetime.”

“Let’s go,” Richard said.  “We should shoot them, but there’s no point adding to the problems.  Follow me.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 258 – Writing exercise

…

I could hear the thumping sound of the helicopter long before it arrived, a sound I was very familiar with, one that haunted my dreams.  Years fighting a senseless war with an almost invisible enemy had taken its toll. 

So many of those I served with had died, during and since the war ended, ignominiously, and part of me had died with them.

As it got closer, it struck fear into my heart, just as it had them.  We had treated every trip out a one-way ticket to hell, and on return, the fervent wish that the politicians and diplomats would make it so we didn’t have to go again.

If wishes were water…

It hovered, blowing everything around, until it hit the ground.

A woman in a navy jumpsuit hopped out, ran bent over towards me, then out from under the rotors, and waved it back into the sky.

Eleanor Brickneal.

Three days into the search for Rodney Brickneal, nearly two hundred deputies, national guardsmen, town folk, and family hadn’t found a sign of him.

I was not surprised.  His father, a retired Admiral, said he knew the mountain like the back of his hand, and if he wanted to disappear, he would.  I was sure he was actively trying to help his son disappear; after all, there was no direct evidence linking him to the murder of his wife, and even if there was, he would dismiss it as manufactured.

But it would have been useful if Richard had hung around long enough to give us his side of the story.  Instead, my boss put out an APB labelling him armed and dangerous, and the chances of us getting him off that mountain alive dropped to zero.

“Billy.”

“Eleanor.”  Rodney’s sister.  My nemesis.

We knew each other; that is to say, I had briefly dated her in high school, and sort of stayed together until she joined the Navy, and I followed my father into law enforcement.  We just wanted different things, and Richard had spent a lifetime keeping us apart.

“You should have asked for me earlier,” she shouted in my ear as the helicopter lifted off.  Seconds later, it was gone, leaving the thudding sounds ringing in my ears.

“Your father vetoed it.  I don’t know what he’s thinking, but it isn’t helping us find him.”

“Your boss doesn’t like him.  Old running mates for Mayor.  My Dad doesn’t take losing well.”

“No one does, apparently.  You need a few minutes to prepare?  I prepared a backpack.”

“Still hike the hill?”

“Still looking for the gold.”

She smiled.  “Both of us were kidding, you know.”  It was a long-standing joke between Eleanor, Richard, and I.  He spun a very good tale, but I always believed he was telling the truth, especially when she backed it up.

I looked at her, putting on my serious expression.  “You never kid.”

“Elly.”  The Admiral caught sight of her and barked her name, enough to make her almost flinch.  They were not on the best of terms, not after she brought back my son’s body from the war zone.

“Dad.”

He glared at her.  Dad was a title she was only allowed to use in private.  Or at least that was his idea of family respect.  It was not hers.

“You didn’t need to come.  We’ve got this under control.”

“He should be here, telling the sheriff he’s innocent and why, instead of running away.  Only guilty people do that.”

“Look at what he’s up against, a corrupt Mayor and a sheriff with a personal vendetta.  Would you?”

“You’ve got no evidence, no proof.  If you convinced him to run away, then his blood will be on your hands.  Unless we can get him back.  Just remember, every day we wait while he plays this game, it gets worse for him.  His enemies are already talking about a reward.  That’ll bring out the gun-happy fortune hunters.  We need to end this now.  Why aren’t you out there looking for him?”

“Someone has to run this circus.”

I thought I was supposed to be doing that.  I shrugged.  “Then I’ll leave it in your capable hands, sir.  Eleanor and I are going to find him and bring him back alive.”

…

The sounds of the camp disappeared, and the natural sound of the forest took over.  The wind rustling through the leaves of the canopy, the aroma of the undergrowth, the trees, the rotting floor, still damp from the overnight storm that had washed away any chance of the dogs picking up a trail.

There was a special kind of silence once you were inside the forest, except for the occasional rustling, birds above, animals on the floor searching for food, the sound of your breathing as you picked up a path that had been recently used by something larger than a rabbit. 

There were bears, but this was not the time of the year they were out.  There were rumours of cats, big cats, but one hadn’t been sighted for decades.  Hunters had killed them all.  Hunters killed everything, including the deer, though recently I had been up here and seen a mother with her foal.

Eleanor was in front, where she always preferred to be.  In charge.  Even back when we were children, she had that manner and ability to manage, to assign, to be a leader and make decisions.  She had always been more mature than her age suggested.

She stopped and waited until I caught up.

“I hear you’re retiring?”

“Had enough.”

She gave me that meaningful look of hers, the one where you felt like it was a full-length body scan, searching for faults.

“What happened to that never say die attitude?”

“Goodness and light are out of vogue.  That last sheriff election, it was little more than a smear campaign.”

“Why didn’t you quit then?”

“People asked me not to.  Not everyone believed Samson would be the best choice.”

“Yet he still won?”

“You know how it works.  I couldn’t find any proof that they cheated, but finding that box of 532 votes that put him over the line, that didn’t seem right.  Same ballot box that got the mayor over the line too.”

“Dad has been muttering about that too.  Times have changed.  Staying or leaving when you’re done?”

“Leaving.  Nothing for me here now.”

Nothing but painful memories.  A son killed in another senseless war, a death Emma, my companion for more years than I could remember, succumbing to the grief she could never recover from.  The cancer the doctors said they had removed came back, and a year later she was gone.

Eleanor had come back for the funeral, the first time in a few years, and she had changed too.  I could see it, even though from the outside she seemed the same.  War did that to a soul, slowly bleeding the goodness out of you.

She took a drink from the bottle, then put it back.

“Onwards and upwards”

It was her favourite line, and often she would strike out and leave us laggers behind.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Her expression sometimes gave away what she was thinking.  Rarely, but it was there if you knew what to look for.  We both knew Richard better than anyone else.  He had a special place, up on the mountain, one he told us about but never showed us.  We both tried to follow him, but his skill in the forest was legendary.  But we had an idea where it might be, even though we had looked for it.

The thing is, we may have seen it and walked right past it.

“We’re starting at the last time either of us saw him.”  Then her expression changed.  Surprise, or something else.  “You were waiting.”

“For what?”

“Me.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t want to find him without me.  You know he’s innocent.”

“I know he couldn’t have done it.  It doesn’t mean he’s entirely innocent, but it’s a tick in a box.  He hasn’t exactly been a good boy, you know.  And Zelda, she was always courting trouble, snuggling up to the mayor.”

A look of disgust crossed her face.

“Not like that, but someone else.  I suspect she was recruited.  Information is the equivalent of gold these days.  And reneging, well, that can be bad for your health.  Maybe she accidentally found something that she was not supposed to.  I don’t know all the facts.”

“I thought you were not allowed to investigate?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Does Conway know what you’ve been up to?”

“He knows I have a rapport with this town, and my reputation, and he’s not stupid.”

“Then that adds a level of complexity.”  She looked around carefully, a complete 360-degree scan.  Sounds in the forest were going to take on a different meaning.

“Eyes and ears peeled, Billy.”

…

Trudging through the forest was not easy, especially where you had to forge your own trail.  Both our cell phones had GPS and kept us going in the right direction, though if we were being observed, it was not exactly straight.

I realised after half an hour that she was not continuously walking directly to a particular point, so if anyone was tracking us, they would hardly make sense of it.  Aside from the fact that once we left the bottom of the hill area, just off the camp side and car park, we started climbing, and the path was littered with rocks, fallen branches, and trees blocking the way.

It was slow progress.  We crossed trails, one rather fresh, that looked like dirt bikers made them, even though dirt bikes were banned.

After an hour, we reached a clearing which showed signs of recent activity: in the centre a fire pit, and around the edges, flattened grass indicating tents.  What was particularly annoying was that whoever was there just left their rubbish lying around.

“A month, two at the most,” she said.  “A long way to come just to make camp.”

“Maybe not.”

There had been rumours the mayor was courting a mining company to come up and do a survey for rare minerals that he believed were in the vicinity.  He had discovered some old prospecting notes in the city archives going back a hundred years, at a time when the rare minerals were not useful for anything.  Not like these days with mobile phones and computers needing resources that other countries were buying in order to monopolise the global market.

“The mayor is trying to sell off the wilderness as a mining bonanza.  For him and his cronies, of course, not for the betterment of the town.  Rare earth minerals, I’m told.”

“They’d be still here if they found any.”

I shrugged.  “We’ll never know until it’s too late.”

There were trails leading off the clearing, and we ventured along several, but they didn’t lead to anything other than what looked like scrapings for samples and holes dug to varying depths.

“Perhaps,” I said, after finding a rather deep hole at the edge of a ravine, “they actually found that gold Richard kept referring to.”

She simply shook her head, and we set off again, once again disappearing into the undergrowth.

Time passed slowly, or it seemed like it did.  We were this way, then that, then found a break in the undergrowth making progress easier.  Then, through the sounds of the wind in the trees, there was another sound, like rushing water. 

I knew there were several waterfalls and small lakes, and a river that snaked through the valley between two mountains, but I thought it was further away.  Perhaps it was not.

We headed towards the sound, and all of a sudden came out onto a small lake and on one side, a waterfall.  We were close to it, so close we could feel the drops of water being blown towards us.  It was a magnificent sight; one few would get to see.

“I don’t remember seeing this before,” she said.

“True.  I haven’t either, but then this was never part of the trail I took.  We always took a more roundabout way, which I always thought was Richard’s way of disorientating us.”

I took several photographs.  She noted the coordinates on her GPS.

We both saw what looked like a rough path leading towards the waterfall itself.

“Is that a path?”

“Only one way to find out.”

It was hazardous going because the rocks we wet and some mossy.  The noise got louder, and the spray denser, and water was running down the inside of my jacket.  It was cold, very cold.

“I can see a cave,” she said, then moved towards a gap between the rockface and the water.

Seconds later she disappeared.

I followed.

All of a sudden we were behind the wall of water, the sound of it thunderous, so loud I couldn’t hear what she said.  She motioned to follow, and we went along a few yards, when she turned right and headed into the rockface.

It was a cave.

We pulled out the torches and switched them on.  Behind the waterfall was a large cavern, and as we moved into it, the sound of the waterfall lessened.  Once inside, it was like a foyer, with tunnels leading off in several directions.

I looked down at the floor and notice footprints.  Several sets of tracks made by similar boots.

“This might be the secret hideaway,” I said, aiming the torchlight at the ground.

“They head into that cave.” she pointed her torch, and the beam only went so far.

I shrugged.  “Curious?”

She started walking, stopped, then switched off her torch.  “Kill it,” she whispered.

I did.  It was not total darkness; we still had light coming from behind the waterfall, but dark enough to blend into the shadows.

“What?”

“Voices.”

…

We waited.  I wanted to continue, with lights out, to see who or what was at the end, but she thought it was best to wait.

In the end, we did.  For half an hour.  Nothing.

“Now?”

“They might be waiting for us.  They had to see the light from the torches.”

“Who do you think ‘they’ might be.  Richard?”

“There were at least two voices.”

Richard and a friend, or accomplice?  “If it is him, I don’t think he’s going to kill his favourite sister.”

“Not so much a favourite these days.”

There wasn’t a scenario where I thought that could be possible.  “Then I’ll go, and you can wait here.  I’m sure he’ll hesitate long enough before shooting me.  Even he should realise I’m not his enemy.”

“He might not be in a rational state of mind.”

He might not, but then, if it was the Richard I knew, he was never irrational, just downright irritating.  There was a difference.

“Give me a few minutes, then follow.  Slowly.”

She put a hand on my shoulder.  “You don’t have to do this to impress me.”

“I tried that once, Eleanor, and it didn’t work then.  It’s my job.”

With that, and the fact my eyes had adjusted to the low-level light, it made it easier to see a lot further.  It was just one foot in front of the other, one hand on the wall, which was wet, and in places the water was trickling down to the floor. 

And the surface water was moving slowly in the direction I was heading which meant I was heading downwards.  Ten steps, then another ten.  The floor was uneven, but it seemed like someone had hewn the sides and the floor to make them flatter.  A hundred steps, give or take, I reached a wall, and the tunnel reached a T-intersection.

A choice of going left or right.

I carefully peered to the left and could see light at the end, perhaps another entrance.  There was the slight noise of the waterfall coming from that direction.  I could see nothing to the right, which meant it went further into the mountain.

Looking behind me, I could not see whether Eleanor was behind me, or even if she had followed me.

I turned the corner and started walking towards the light.  Ten steps, another five; I found myself counting them, I heard a noise behind me.  I thought it was Eleanor.

“Hello, Billy.”

It was Richard.  He switched on his torch but kept it facing down so it didn’t blind me.  It was a sign.

“Richard.  I guess you aren’t going to tell me this is your special place.”

“It was.  Seems every one knows about it.  Why are you here?”

“I thought that would be obvious.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Running away says otherwise.  The mayor and sheriff have half the town looking for you.”

“I know.”

“Who were you talking to, just before?”

He sighed.  “You don’t need to know.  Just like you didn’t see me.  Things would have been different if you had remained sheriff.”

“Times have changed.  Out with the old, in with the new.  That was his catchcry and won with it.”

“He cheated.  They both cheated.”

“Can you prove it?”

“My assistant told them how to.  I went to Samson with the evidence, and he told me if I didn’t keep my mouth closed there would be repercussions.  I told the mayor he had a corrupt sheriff, and next thing I knew, Zelda was dead, and Samson was looking for me.  I just learned he has three men out in the woods.  The moment I show my face I’m dead.”

“How did you assistant know how to fix the result?”  Eleanor had come silently up behind us.

“Elly.  What are you doing here?”

“Billy thought you would need someone around to tell you how to save yourself.  I suspect now we know what you know; none of us are.  Fixing elections, Rich.  Is there no limit to your perfidy?”

“It was a theoretical scenario.  Samson asked us to formulate ways the election might be fixed, and it was just one of a half dozen.  I refused the commission; my assistant saw a way of making some quick money.  He left the day after the election.  Now I know why.”

“Is there another way out of this place?”  Other than the one in front of us, or going back the way we came.  If anyone was following us…

“Back into the mountain for about a hundred yards.  There’s about a half dozen tunnels, mostly man-made, old workings.  There was gold in these hills, but not enough to make money.  Nowadays with the price of gold, who knows.”

“We stumbled on a clearing not far from here.”

“Prospectors.  Rare earth minerals, all the rage.  Conway believes it’s here.  They found traces of gold instead.  He’s trying to get the land rezoned for mining.  I’m fighting to prevent that.”

“We’d better go.”  Eleanor was not one to stand still.

He turned, stepped up to her.  “It’s good to see you.  I’m surprised the Navy could let you go.”

“Family.  Or what’s left of it.”

He the lead, she followed and I brought up the rear.

We got twenty yards before a strong blinding light flared in front of us, and we had to stop. 

“You are not going anywhere.”

It was a voice I didn’t recognise.  The owner stepped out from behind and armed his rifle as he stepped towards us.  I suspect he could shoot all three of us before we could get close enough to disarm him.  The extra sounds from behind him told me there was more than one.

I took a step closer to stand beside Eleanor.  “You do know I’m the Deputy Sheriff, and beside me is a Captain in the US Navy.”

“You could be the king and queen of England for all I care.  No one will ever find you, so I hardly think I have anything to worry about.  Now, the boss would like to have words, so let’s take things real slow and easy and no one will get hurt.”

Two more men came from behind the light, and each one came over to check whether we were armed.  Or at least that was the plan.

“Brace,” Eleanor screamed

A second later the tunnel we had come from the waterfall exploded with a huge fire flash and rocks going everywhere.  The sound of the explosion in the confined space was deafening, but prepared, it gave us the seconds we needed to overcome the three men.

They were on the ground and unconscious before the dust and rocks from the blast had settled.

“You found the explosive?” I said.

“You and your toys.”

“Just in case.  All part of being a Boy Scout in another lifetime.”

“Let’s go,” Richard said.  “We should shoot them, but there’s no point adding to the problems.  Follow me.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026