This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 71 this year.
Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.
Why, you might ask.
Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne
At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.
I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.
Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them
Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.
I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.
Damn!
So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years
I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.
It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey. Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.
Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.
So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.
Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.
It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there. She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.
And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions. Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.
Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.
But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.
As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life
If only I’d come from such a background!
And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.
I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.
One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.
Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.
It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife. Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.
The Scheherazade Challenge: If My Life (and Your Attention) Depended On It…
Let’s play a dangerous game, shall we?
Imagine, for a fleeting moment, that the weight of an ancient dynasty rests on your shoulders. The Sultan, broken by betrayal and consumed by cynicism, has vowed to take a new bride each night and execute her by dawn. And then, there’s you. A single, fragile life against the tide of his despair, with only one weapon: a story.
Not just any story. A story so compelling, so intricate, so profoundly human, that it can outwit the executioner, melt a frozen heart, and stretch the boundaries of time itself. Your very survival, the fate of all women in the kingdom, hinges on your ability to spin a tale that leaves the Sultan hanging on your every word, desperate for the next sunrise to reveal its continuation.
Now, take a deep breath. We’re not in a dusty, lamp-lit palace, and (thankfully) my head isn’t on a literal chopping block. But as a writer in this wild, wonderful, and wonderfully noisy digital age, there are still stakes. My “Sultan” is you, dear reader, scrolling through an endless bazaar of content. My “dawn” is the moment you might click away, drawn by the siren song of another tab. And my “life” (or at least, my creative soul and my ability to connect with you) depends on telling an amazing story.
So, if I were Scheherazade, faced with that impossible mandate, what tale would I weave?
It wouldn’t be a simple adventure, nor a flat romance. It would need layers, heart, and a message so subtle yet profound that it could soften the hardest of souls.
My Life-Saving Story: “The Loom of Whispers and the Cartographer of Hidden Threads”
My story would begin in a city unlike any other, not built of stone and mortar, but of stories themselves. Let’s call it Aethelgard, the City of Echoes. Its streets are paved with forgotten proverbs, its buildings rise from ancient legends, and the very air hums with the whispers of every life ever lived within its bounds.
Our protagonist would be Elara, not a warrior or a princess, but a reclusive Cartographer of Hidden Threads. Her unique gift (and burden) is that she can see the invisible, iridescent threads that connect every living being in Aethelgard. Each thread represents a shared experience, a glance exchanged, a kindness given, a betrayal suffered, a dream whispered in unison. Most people only see their own thread, a solitary line stretching from their heart. But Elara sees the entirety: a magnificent, terrifying, ever-shifting tapestry of countless lives interwoven.
The story would begin with a creeping malaise. Aethelgard, once vibrant, is losing its color. Its echoes are fading. People are growing isolated, suspicious, convinced their own struggles are unique and paramount. The threads, once brilliantly intertwined, are fraying, even breaking. Elara knows the city is dying because its people are forgetting how deeply they are connected.
Her quest is not to slay a monster, but to mend the tapestry. She must journey not across lands, but through the stories themselves.
Each night, I would begin one of Elara’s “thread-following” expeditions:
Night One: She follows a flickering, almost invisible thread from a lonely old baker who believes no one cares for him. The thread leads her back through generations, revealing how his great-grandmother, a woman he never knew, once saved a merchant’s fortune with a single, anonymous act of kindness, and how that merchant’s lineage later funded the very orphanage where the baker himself found refuge as a child. The baker’s life, he would discover, was built on an ancient, forgotten thread of generosity.
Night Two: Elara traces a taut, angry thread between two feuding families, their hatred centuries old. As she follows it, she uncovers the true origin: not a grand slight, but a misinterpreted joke, a stolen flower, and a series of escalating misunderstandings, each fueled by pride and a refusal to truly listen. But she also finds faint counter-threads – moments of shared joy, unspoken longing for peace, nearly-forgiven transgressions – that still hum beneath the surface.
Night Three: She investigates a vibrant thread of innovation and creativity, discovering it’s not the solitary genius of a famous artist, but the culmination of countless, unacknowledged inspirations: a child’s forgotten drawing, a beggar’s hummed tune, a weaver’s discarded pattern, each contributing a vital, invisible strand to the masterpiece.
Through Elara’s journey, the Sultan (and you, dear reader) would witness the profound irony of human existence: we are all singular, yet inextricably bound. Our greatest joys and deepest pains are rarely our own alone. Every act, every word, every silence sends ripples through the great tapestry.
The “cliffhanger” each night wouldn’t be a sword fight, but a dawning realization. Elara would be on the verge of revealing a crucial, heart-wrenching, or profoundly beautiful connection that implicates seemingly disparate characters, perhaps even hinting at the Sultan’s own lineage, his own perceived isolation, as being a part of this vast, interconnected web.
The story would be a mirror, reflecting the Sultan’s own life back at him – not judging, but revealing. It would show him that just as a breaking thread in the farthest corner of Aethelgard could unravel the entire city, so too did his own actions send tremors through the lives of everyone around him. It would demonstrate that true power comes not from severing connections, but from understanding and honoring them.
By the final night, the Sultan wouldn’t just be entertained; he would be transformed. He would see himself not as an isolated ruler, but as a vital, powerful weaver in the Loom of Whispers. And with that understanding, perhaps, the desire to cut threads would vanish, replaced by a profound respect for the intricate, beautiful, and utterly inescapable tapestry of life.
What about you? If your life depended on it, what story would you tell? And what hidden threads would you uncover?
Is it time to just go back and revisit the premise of the story?
…
The Betrayal Game: When Loyalty Becomes a Weapon
Imagine a world where the shadows hold more than just secrets; they hold grudges, ambitions, and the sharp edge of betrayal. A world where your unwavering loyalty, the very foundation of your existence, can turn you into a target. This isn’t just a hypothetical; it’s the chilling reality for one of the most dedicated operatives in the clandestine intelligence community.
We’re talking about a man whose life has been a silent testament to duty. He’s the gear in the machine, the ghost in the wire, the unseen protector. For years, he’s operated in the grey areas, sacrificing personal life, comfort, and often, safety, all in the name of the agency he serves. His methods are precise, his instincts honed, and his loyalty, seemingly, unshakeable. He is, to put it mildly, indispensable.
But even the most formidable machines can break down, especially when the gears start grinding against each other. Our operative, unknowingly, became a pawn in a much bigger, far more personal game. Behind the hushed corridors and coded messages, a ruthless struggle for the ultimate leadership of the agency was brewing. Ambitious players vied for control, and in their brutal, no-holds-barred Ascent, our man became… collateral damage. A convenient casualty, a loose end, almost erased from existence in a brutal move designed to send a message, or simply to clear the board.
He survived. Barely. Recovering from wounds that went deeper than just flesh and bone, he’s a ghost of his former self, haunted by the very agency he swore to protect. In what seems like a gesture of conciliation, or perhaps a means to keep him out of the way, he’s assigned a new mission. Something “less strenuous,” a chance to heal, to find his footing away from the cutthroat politics. A quiet assignment, perhaps a desk job with a view, a gentle ease back into the fold.
But in the world of espionage, nothing is ever truly quiet.
Upon arrival at his new posting, the cold, hard truth hits him like a physical blow: his cover is blown. Not a mistake, not an accident, but a deliberate act. And the reason? His “less strenuous” mission is a lie. It’s a second task, layered beneath the first, directly connected to the very internecine war that nearly cost him his life. He’s been sent out to the wolves, tasked with a role that will force his hand, make him choose a side, or perhaps, ensure his final, definitive removal.
The choice is stark. Scrub the mission, disappear into the anonymity he never wanted, and try to forget the betrayal. Or stay, walk into the fire, knowing that every step is watched, every move predicted, and every ally a potential enemy. After all he’s been through, after being used and discarded, what would compel him to stay? Perhaps it’s that very loyalty, twisted and battered, refusing to break. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the burning need for answers, for justice, for a reckoning.
He stays.
Meanwhile, the stage is being set for the final act. Across the globe, the orchestrators of this brutal power play are converging. London, usually a city of quiet diplomacy and historic charm, is about to become the epicenter of a clandestine war. The players, the schemers, the puppet masters – they’re all assembling. The stakes couldn’t be higher, and the very future of the agency, perhaps even global stability, hangs in the balance.
What becomes of the loyal operative caught in the crossfire? Can one man, betrayed and broken, navigate a labyrinth of deceit when his very presence is a target? And as the pieces fall into place in London, will our hero be able to influence the outcome, or is he merely destined to be the final, tragic piece in their deadly game?
The game is on, and for our man in the field, there’s no turning back.
Is it time to just go back and revisit the premise of the story?
…
The Betrayal Game: When Loyalty Becomes a Weapon
Imagine a world where the shadows hold more than just secrets; they hold grudges, ambitions, and the sharp edge of betrayal. A world where your unwavering loyalty, the very foundation of your existence, can turn you into a target. This isn’t just a hypothetical; it’s the chilling reality for one of the most dedicated operatives in the clandestine intelligence community.
We’re talking about a man whose life has been a silent testament to duty. He’s the gear in the machine, the ghost in the wire, the unseen protector. For years, he’s operated in the grey areas, sacrificing personal life, comfort, and often, safety, all in the name of the agency he serves. His methods are precise, his instincts honed, and his loyalty, seemingly, unshakeable. He is, to put it mildly, indispensable.
But even the most formidable machines can break down, especially when the gears start grinding against each other. Our operative, unknowingly, became a pawn in a much bigger, far more personal game. Behind the hushed corridors and coded messages, a ruthless struggle for the ultimate leadership of the agency was brewing. Ambitious players vied for control, and in their brutal, no-holds-barred Ascent, our man became… collateral damage. A convenient casualty, a loose end, almost erased from existence in a brutal move designed to send a message, or simply to clear the board.
He survived. Barely. Recovering from wounds that went deeper than just flesh and bone, he’s a ghost of his former self, haunted by the very agency he swore to protect. In what seems like a gesture of conciliation, or perhaps a means to keep him out of the way, he’s assigned a new mission. Something “less strenuous,” a chance to heal, to find his footing away from the cutthroat politics. A quiet assignment, perhaps a desk job with a view, a gentle ease back into the fold.
But in the world of espionage, nothing is ever truly quiet.
Upon arrival at his new posting, the cold, hard truth hits him like a physical blow: his cover is blown. Not a mistake, not an accident, but a deliberate act. And the reason? His “less strenuous” mission is a lie. It’s a second task, layered beneath the first, directly connected to the very internecine war that nearly cost him his life. He’s been sent out to the wolves, tasked with a role that will force his hand, make him choose a side, or perhaps, ensure his final, definitive removal.
The choice is stark. Scrub the mission, disappear into the anonymity he never wanted, and try to forget the betrayal. Or stay, walk into the fire, knowing that every step is watched, every move predicted, and every ally a potential enemy. After all he’s been through, after being used and discarded, what would compel him to stay? Perhaps it’s that very loyalty, twisted and battered, refusing to break. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the burning need for answers, for justice, for a reckoning.
He stays.
Meanwhile, the stage is being set for the final act. Across the globe, the orchestrators of this brutal power play are converging. London, usually a city of quiet diplomacy and historic charm, is about to become the epicenter of a clandestine war. The players, the schemers, the puppet masters – they’re all assembling. The stakes couldn’t be higher, and the very future of the agency, perhaps even global stability, hangs in the balance.
What becomes of the loyal operative caught in the crossfire? Can one man, betrayed and broken, navigate a labyrinth of deceit when his very presence is a target? And as the pieces fall into place in London, will our hero be able to influence the outcome, or is he merely destined to be the final, tragic piece in their deadly game?
The game is on, and for our man in the field, there’s no turning back.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
Taking an existing story at an impasse, write two different directions it could go
…
My space story has reached an impasse. We have what was a prisoner on one planet on board and having convinced the people that we intended to take her back home, after rescuing her from prison, they agreed. It was surprising, given that we were aliens to them and shouldn’t be meddling in their affairs.
But, in the process of taking her back to her home planet, we are ambushed by vessels from her home planet, and the planet she had been a prisoner on, and it transpires that the two planets had been at war for a very long time, and the Princess was a pawn in a larger game.
What to do?
..
Option 1
Deliberate on how we can use the situation to our advantage. The Princess does not want to go back to either planet and much prefers to stay on our ship. No one seriously considers that there might be an ulterior motive for her decision.
Option 2
There is a plan in place by one or other of the alien planets at war, and that we are being used in some manner to further their ends.
…
Option One
Once more, coming out of the elevator onto the Engineering deck, it looked like a shopping mall, the engine a centrepiece, only I’d heard a rumour that the big flashing light thing was all a front, and it had no other purpose except to make people feel good.
My area of expertise was not engines, so I left that to the engineers. The crew could believe what they wanted.
The Chief Engineer was standing in front of a half dozen lower ranked personnel, what I understood to be the group that were on board for training and practical experience before being sent to other vessels being built. They would then become the experienced officer who passed on their knowledge.
As Number One I was supposed to do the same for the trainee officers we had been sent, but that thankfully had been transferred to the new Number One.
I waited until he had told them what their next task was, not very welcome given the groans, but if it was what I thought it was, they were going to spend some time in confined spaces.
“For a ship in the middle of a crisis, you seem very calm,” he said.
Appearances could be deceptive. “I guess it will all depend on what answer you give me.”
“Is it difficult, or do I need to bring out the magic wand?”
“Magic wand. I think. Can we create a device to stop those people out there from beaming personnel off the ship? I know we’re averse to sending people by that means.”
“Because it’s unsafe at the moment? Anything gets between the subject and the destination, well, you don’t need me to tell you what would happen.”
“That’s the answer then. A disrupter?”
“Theoretically, yes, but to create something like that ship-wide would be impossible. What you need to consider is how they can target individuals, because there has to be a device that emits a signature specific to you, they can lock onto it.”
“The communicator.” I hadn’t thought they would use something of ours that to them would be so primitive.
“Exactly. What’s bothering is the fact that these people have been to our planet, and I suspect insinuated themselves into our space program so they could monitor our progress, and perhaps not try to hinder our progress, simply make sure we couldn’t use anything against them. Or perhaps push our development in a specific direction.”
“You’ve given this some thought?”
“When I don’t sleep at night, which is a lot. But here’s a thought, why not let them take the Princess back?”
“Which group?”
“Not my bailiwick, Captain. I’ll work on recoding the communicators and let you know.”
Not exactly what I was hoping for, but it was a step in the right direction, particularly when we met another group of potentially hostile aliens.
…
Option Two
I sent a message to Nancy Woolmer the ex-detective, who had regaled me, over man a glass of wine, stories of her interviews with the best and worst of humanity in the course of her previous job, to join me in my day cabin.
One of the reasons why I had insisted on her joining the ship was her ability to look into the soul of a person and see what was in in there. I needed to know that at least one person couldn’t be swayed by lies, half-truths, and potentially bad people.
It had saved us a lot of pain dealing with miscreants.
I was staring out at one of the alien vessels standing off us, a rather interesting light display going on, perhaps just to distract us. I didn’t think it had a practical purpose.
We used Christmas lights for the same reason.
The outer bell chimed, and she came in. Everyone seemed not to wait for me to ask them in.
“You wish to see me?”
“I was thinking about some comic light relief, but as you can see we’re basically between the devil and the deep blue sea.”
“I would call it something else, but what might be an interesting take, why haven’t they blasted us out of the universe?”
A question that hadn’t yet crossed my mind, simply because I believed neither wanted to kill the Princess. It hadn’t occurred to me that something else might be in play.
I called down to the central computer room where a team constantly monitored everything that was controlled by our computer systems. A thought just occurred to me.
“Hershal, Captain, what can I do for you?”
Hershal was secured from deep inside a black hole, a place where he could never touch another computer, a man who was regarded as the worst of the worst hacker villains. An ideal man to be tossed into outer space where he could do no harm because he would only be hurting himself.
He was amused when I visited him on earth, thinking that I was sent to build up his hopes and then shatter them, like ten others before me. Until he woke up, two months out from launch so far out into space he had nowhere to go but a desk and do what I asked of him.
“You monitor every panel on this ship?”
“All three and a half thousands of them, yep.”
“The one in my personal cabin?”
“I try not to aggravate the one person who thinks I’m useful, but if you want me to?”
“Do so. Run whatever it is you run.”
I waited a minute, then he came back. “Someone is trying to run a trojan on your panel.”
“For what reason?”
“I suspect they believe you have access to everything.”
“They would suspect right. Except…” I knew the answer before he told me.
The Princess was not a princess but a very life like robot. I don’t know what it was that put that thought in my mind, other than one time back on earth I had gone to a robotic convention and saw some of the most remarkable robots ever created.
We had several on board, but we knew who they were. There was a convention the insisted that flaws had to be built in. These alien races were not bound by such conventions, and it was remiss of me not to consider the possibility they would have such hardware.
“No wonder the Forio were so glad to let you take her. I’m betting they made you think you were doing them a favour.”
“And the Krulaxl want to get their hands on it, because it has all their secrets.”
“How is she trying to access the data?”
“Cable. I’m not surprised because our systems to them are probably very primitive.”
“Can you run a reverse program and wipe her memory, a hard reset or something?”
“Does a pig have trotters?”
Interesting saying. “Make it so, and let me know when it’s done.”
I looked over at Nancy. “Seems I no longer need your services?”
“Just what did you have in mind?”
“I was going to get you to determine whether she was friend or foe. I don’t think that would have been possible now we know she is not human.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. There would have been a sophisticated program running, and that would have glitches because no one can ever think of everything the human brain is capable of. It’s why our robots are still so limited.
“But then this one might be programmed to harm someone who unmasks it. I’m glad it didn’t come to that. Dinner tomorrow?”
“The crisis will be over?”
“One way or another.”
She smiled. “I’ll bring the wine.”
…
Which one do you prefer? Let me know in the comments…
Taking an existing story at an impasse, write two different directions it could go
…
My space story has reached an impasse. We have what was a prisoner on one planet on board and having convinced the people that we intended to take her back home, after rescuing her from prison, they agreed. It was surprising, given that we were aliens to them and shouldn’t be meddling in their affairs.
But, in the process of taking her back to her home planet, we are ambushed by vessels from her home planet, and the planet she had been a prisoner on, and it transpires that the two planets had been at war for a very long time, and the Princess was a pawn in a larger game.
What to do?
..
Option 1
Deliberate on how we can use the situation to our advantage. The Princess does not want to go back to either planet and much prefers to stay on our ship. No one seriously considers that there might be an ulterior motive for her decision.
Option 2
There is a plan in place by one or other of the alien planets at war, and that we are being used in some manner to further their ends.
…
Option One
Once more, coming out of the elevator onto the Engineering deck, it looked like a shopping mall, the engine a centrepiece, only I’d heard a rumour that the big flashing light thing was all a front, and it had no other purpose except to make people feel good.
My area of expertise was not engines, so I left that to the engineers. The crew could believe what they wanted.
The Chief Engineer was standing in front of a half dozen lower ranked personnel, what I understood to be the group that were on board for training and practical experience before being sent to other vessels being built. They would then become the experienced officer who passed on their knowledge.
As Number One I was supposed to do the same for the trainee officers we had been sent, but that thankfully had been transferred to the new Number One.
I waited until he had told them what their next task was, not very welcome given the groans, but if it was what I thought it was, they were going to spend some time in confined spaces.
“For a ship in the middle of a crisis, you seem very calm,” he said.
Appearances could be deceptive. “I guess it will all depend on what answer you give me.”
“Is it difficult, or do I need to bring out the magic wand?”
“Magic wand. I think. Can we create a device to stop those people out there from beaming personnel off the ship? I know we’re averse to sending people by that means.”
“Because it’s unsafe at the moment? Anything gets between the subject and the destination, well, you don’t need me to tell you what would happen.”
“That’s the answer then. A disrupter?”
“Theoretically, yes, but to create something like that ship-wide would be impossible. What you need to consider is how they can target individuals, because there has to be a device that emits a signature specific to you, they can lock onto it.”
“The communicator.” I hadn’t thought they would use something of ours that to them would be so primitive.
“Exactly. What’s bothering is the fact that these people have been to our planet, and I suspect insinuated themselves into our space program so they could monitor our progress, and perhaps not try to hinder our progress, simply make sure we couldn’t use anything against them. Or perhaps push our development in a specific direction.”
“You’ve given this some thought?”
“When I don’t sleep at night, which is a lot. But here’s a thought, why not let them take the Princess back?”
“Which group?”
“Not my bailiwick, Captain. I’ll work on recoding the communicators and let you know.”
Not exactly what I was hoping for, but it was a step in the right direction, particularly when we met another group of potentially hostile aliens.
…
Option Two
I sent a message to Nancy Woolmer the ex-detective, who had regaled me, over man a glass of wine, stories of her interviews with the best and worst of humanity in the course of her previous job, to join me in my day cabin.
One of the reasons why I had insisted on her joining the ship was her ability to look into the soul of a person and see what was in in there. I needed to know that at least one person couldn’t be swayed by lies, half-truths, and potentially bad people.
It had saved us a lot of pain dealing with miscreants.
I was staring out at one of the alien vessels standing off us, a rather interesting light display going on, perhaps just to distract us. I didn’t think it had a practical purpose.
We used Christmas lights for the same reason.
The outer bell chimed, and she came in. Everyone seemed not to wait for me to ask them in.
“You wish to see me?”
“I was thinking about some comic light relief, but as you can see we’re basically between the devil and the deep blue sea.”
“I would call it something else, but what might be an interesting take, why haven’t they blasted us out of the universe?”
A question that hadn’t yet crossed my mind, simply because I believed neither wanted to kill the Princess. It hadn’t occurred to me that something else might be in play.
I called down to the central computer room where a team constantly monitored everything that was controlled by our computer systems. A thought just occurred to me.
“Hershal, Captain, what can I do for you?”
Hershal was secured from deep inside a black hole, a place where he could never touch another computer, a man who was regarded as the worst of the worst hacker villains. An ideal man to be tossed into outer space where he could do no harm because he would only be hurting himself.
He was amused when I visited him on earth, thinking that I was sent to build up his hopes and then shatter them, like ten others before me. Until he woke up, two months out from launch so far out into space he had nowhere to go but a desk and do what I asked of him.
“You monitor every panel on this ship?”
“All three and a half thousands of them, yep.”
“The one in my personal cabin?”
“I try not to aggravate the one person who thinks I’m useful, but if you want me to?”
“Do so. Run whatever it is you run.”
I waited a minute, then he came back. “Someone is trying to run a trojan on your panel.”
“For what reason?”
“I suspect they believe you have access to everything.”
“They would suspect right. Except…” I knew the answer before he told me.
The Princess was not a princess but a very life like robot. I don’t know what it was that put that thought in my mind, other than one time back on earth I had gone to a robotic convention and saw some of the most remarkable robots ever created.
We had several on board, but we knew who they were. There was a convention the insisted that flaws had to be built in. These alien races were not bound by such conventions, and it was remiss of me not to consider the possibility they would have such hardware.
“No wonder the Forio were so glad to let you take her. I’m betting they made you think you were doing them a favour.”
“And the Krulaxl want to get their hands on it, because it has all their secrets.”
“How is she trying to access the data?”
“Cable. I’m not surprised because our systems to them are probably very primitive.”
“Can you run a reverse program and wipe her memory, a hard reset or something?”
“Does a pig have trotters?”
Interesting saying. “Make it so, and let me know when it’s done.”
I looked over at Nancy. “Seems I no longer need your services?”
“Just what did you have in mind?”
“I was going to get you to determine whether she was friend or foe. I don’t think that would have been possible now we know she is not human.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. There would have been a sophisticated program running, and that would have glitches because no one can ever think of everything the human brain is capable of. It’s why our robots are still so limited.
“But then this one might be programmed to harm someone who unmasks it. I’m glad it didn’t come to that. Dinner tomorrow?”
“The crisis will be over?”
“One way or another.”
She smiled. “I’ll bring the wine.”
…
Which one do you prefer? Let me know in the comments…
The Pondering Paradox: Why Getting Stuck Might Be Your Story’s Best Friend
You know the feeling. You’ve poured your heart onto the page, crafted compelling characters, and set a scene. But now? Now you’re staring at a blinking cursor, a blank notebook page, or perhaps just the ceiling, utterly, hopelessly, gloriously stuck.
You’re not writing. You’re pondering.
And in that pondering, you feel the sticky tendrils of vacillation wrap around you. Is this procrastination? Is it writer’s block disguised as deep thought? Are you just plain wasting time when you should be producing?
It’s a common self-flagellation among creatives. We valorize output, word counts, and finished manuscripts. So when we find ourselves lost in the nebulous, unquantifiable space of “thinking about the next bit,” it feels wrong. It feels like inefficiency. It feels like a roadblock.
And sometimes, yes, it truly is. Sometimes, pondering crosses the line into analysis paralysis, where the fear of making the “wrong” choice paralyzes us from making any choice at all. We spin our wheels, overthinking every possibility, and the story gathers dust while our self-doubt grows.
But here’s the paradox: That very same deep dive into the unknown, that uncomfortable period of wrestling with narrative possibilities, character motivations, or thematic nuances – that, my friends, is often where the real magic happens.
Because what feels like vacillation on the surface is often, underneath, incubation.
Think of it like this:
Your subconscious is working overtime. While your conscious mind is pacing, muttering, and hitting refresh on social media, your brain is quietly, tirelessly, making connections you didn’t even know were there. It’s pulling threads from disparate ideas, assembling jigsaw pieces in the background.
You’re digging deeper than the obvious. The first answer, the easiest plot twist, the most predictable character beat – those are often discarded during true pondering. This is where you search for the richer, more surprising, more truthful path.
You’re building hidden layers. That moment you finally “get it” – that character’s true motivation, that perfect metaphor, the subtle shift in tone that elevates a scene – those don’t often arrive from brute-force writing. They emerge from the fertile ground of extended thought.
You’re creating a wellspring, not just a bucket. When you rush through a story, you might fill a bucket. But when you allow yourself the messy, uncomfortable, ponderous luxury of truly exploring the terrain, you’re not just finding the next step; you’re discovering entire underground rivers.
This is the process that leads to a trove of story. Not just a few chapters, but an entire universe. Not just a plot, but layers of meaning. Not just characters, but complex, breathing beings with histories and futures beyond the page. The scenes you haven’t written yet, the dialogue you haven’t heard, the twists you haven’t conceived – they are all waiting in that liminal space of pondering.
So, the next time you find yourself stuck, don’t automatically judge it as failure or procrastination. Acknowledge the potential for vacillation, yes, but also embrace the possibility that you’re not stuck at all. You’re just in the deep end of the creative pool, swimming through possibilities, allowing the next great wave of your story to gather momentum beneath the surface.
Trust the process. Trust the pause. Your trove awaits.
The Pondering Paradox: Why Getting Stuck Might Be Your Story’s Best Friend
You know the feeling. You’ve poured your heart onto the page, crafted compelling characters, and set a scene. But now? Now you’re staring at a blinking cursor, a blank notebook page, or perhaps just the ceiling, utterly, hopelessly, gloriously stuck.
You’re not writing. You’re pondering.
And in that pondering, you feel the sticky tendrils of vacillation wrap around you. Is this procrastination? Is it writer’s block disguised as deep thought? Are you just plain wasting time when you should be producing?
It’s a common self-flagellation among creatives. We valorize output, word counts, and finished manuscripts. So when we find ourselves lost in the nebulous, unquantifiable space of “thinking about the next bit,” it feels wrong. It feels like inefficiency. It feels like a roadblock.
And sometimes, yes, it truly is. Sometimes, pondering crosses the line into analysis paralysis, where the fear of making the “wrong” choice paralyzes us from making any choice at all. We spin our wheels, overthinking every possibility, and the story gathers dust while our self-doubt grows.
But here’s the paradox: That very same deep dive into the unknown, that uncomfortable period of wrestling with narrative possibilities, character motivations, or thematic nuances – that, my friends, is often where the real magic happens.
Because what feels like vacillation on the surface is often, underneath, incubation.
Think of it like this:
Your subconscious is working overtime. While your conscious mind is pacing, muttering, and hitting refresh on social media, your brain is quietly, tirelessly, making connections you didn’t even know were there. It’s pulling threads from disparate ideas, assembling jigsaw pieces in the background.
You’re digging deeper than the obvious. The first answer, the easiest plot twist, the most predictable character beat – those are often discarded during true pondering. This is where you search for the richer, more surprising, more truthful path.
You’re building hidden layers. That moment you finally “get it” – that character’s true motivation, that perfect metaphor, the subtle shift in tone that elevates a scene – those don’t often arrive from brute-force writing. They emerge from the fertile ground of extended thought.
You’re creating a wellspring, not just a bucket. When you rush through a story, you might fill a bucket. But when you allow yourself the messy, uncomfortable, ponderous luxury of truly exploring the terrain, you’re not just finding the next step; you’re discovering entire underground rivers.
This is the process that leads to a trove of story. Not just a few chapters, but an entire universe. Not just a plot, but layers of meaning. Not just characters, but complex, breathing beings with histories and futures beyond the page. The scenes you haven’t written yet, the dialogue you haven’t heard, the twists you haven’t conceived – they are all waiting in that liminal space of pondering.
So, the next time you find yourself stuck, don’t automatically judge it as failure or procrastination. Acknowledge the potential for vacillation, yes, but also embrace the possibility that you’re not stuck at all. You’re just in the deep end of the creative pool, swimming through possibilities, allowing the next great wave of your story to gather momentum beneath the surface.
Trust the process. Trust the pause. Your trove awaits.
The Writer’s Secret Weapon: Why Your Notebook is Your Best Friend (and When Truth Gets Tricky)
As writers, we are, by nature, magpies. We collect shiny bits of conversation, interesting peculiarities, and fleeting moments of human experience. We squirrel them away, not just for personal memory, but for the grand, glorious, and often messy act of creation.
This isn’t just a hobby; it’s a fundamental part of the craft.
Your Life as Your Lab: The Power of Observation
Think of your life as a vast, unfolding laboratory, and your notebook (whether physical or digital) as your ever-present logbook. What you see, what you hear, what you feel – it’s all potential.
Dialogue Snippets: Overheard a unique turn of phrase on the bus? Jot it down. A peculiar way someone emphasized a verb, or a perfectly mundane conversation that suddenly turned profound? Capture it. These are the building blocks of authentic voice and character.
Mannerisms & Quirks: The way a stranger sips their coffee, the peculiar cadence of a regional accent, a nervous habit noticed during a meeting. These seemingly minor details can imbue your characters with an undeniable sense of reality, making them leap off the page.
Sensory Details: What does that old antique shop smell like? What’s the specific echo in an abandoned building? The texture of a worn wooden banister? The exact shade of twilight on a specific street corner? Capturing these sensory inputs can transform a bland description into an immersive experience.
Emotional Reactions: How did you feel when you heard that news? What was the atmosphere in the room when a difficult conversation unfolded? Logging your own emotional responses, or those you observe in others, becomes a rich wellspring for character motivation and scene tension.
Oddities & Coincidences: Sometimes, truth is stranger than fiction. The bizarre incident at the grocery store, the uncanny synchronicity that made you pause, the surprising fact you stumbled upon in an article. These are often the seeds of truly original plotlines.
The goal isn’t just to transcribe, but to absorb. To understand the underlying dynamics, the unspoken subtext, the human element.
Weaving the Threads: From Life to Lore
The magic happens when these scattered observations are ready to be woven into your plot or storyline. That nervous habit you noted becomes your protagonist’s tell when they’re lying. That overheard argument gives you the emotional core for a conflict between two lovers. That unique smell triggers a memory for a character, propelling them into a flashback.
Your notes become the raw, unfiltered material that you then refine, re-shape, and reimagine. It’s not just about copying reality; it’s about using reality as a springboard for invention. You’re taking the ordinary (or extraordinary) moments of life and distilling them into the essence of compelling narrative.
The Treacherous Path of Truth: When Reality Bites Back
And here’s where we hit a crucial caveat: sometimes, truth can cause problems.
While life is an endless well of inspiration, it’s not always a safe one to drink directly from.
Legal Ramifications: Directly transcribing a real person’s life, especially if it’s unflattering or involves private matters, can lead to defamation lawsuits, privacy violations, or intellectual property disputes. Even if you change names, if the person is recognizable, you’re on thin ice.
Ethical Quagmires: Is it fair to exploit a friend’s personal tragedy for your plot? Is it right to expose a family secret, even if it makes for a dramatic story? While all art draws from life, using someone else’s pain or private life without their consent (or adequate disguise) can be a profound betrayal.
Personal Betrayals: Friends, family, colleagues – they might recognize themselves, their quirks, their arguments, even if you’ve changed the names. This can lead to hurt feelings, destroyed relationships, and a sense of being used.
Creative Constraints: Paradoxically, sometimes truth is too specific, too bizarre, or too unbelievable for fiction. Real life doesn’t always follow narrative arcs, and copying it verbatim can make your story feel clunky, disjointed, or simply not credible. “But it really happened!” is a poor defense when a reader stops suspending their disbelief.
The Alchemist’s Touch: Transforming Truth into Timeless Fiction
So, how do you harness the power of observation without stepping into these pitfalls? You become an alchemist, transmuting raw truth into fictional gold.
Disguise and Amalgamate: Never use one person directly. Instead, take elements from three different people and create one new character. Blend two different real-life situations into a third, entirely new plot point. Change genders, ages, settings, and motivations.
Focus on the Essence: Instead of the exact details of an argument, capture the feeling of frustration, misunderstanding, or power imbalance. Instead of a specific event, consider the consequences or emotions it evoked.
Ask “What If?”: You saw a specific interaction. Now, what if one small detail changed? What if the stakes were higher? What if the characters were different people entirely?
Use as a Springboard, Not a Blueprint: Your notes are starting points, not finished maps. Let them spark your imagination, then allow your creativity to take over and build something new and unique.
Prioritize Story Over Strict Accuracy: Your primary responsibility is to your story and your reader. If a real-life detail doesn’t serve the narrative, or actively hampers it, change it.
Embrace the magpie within you. Observe, collect, and fill your notebooks with the vibrant tapestry of life. But when it comes time to weave those threads, remember the art of transformation. It’s in the balance between rigorous observation and imaginative alchemy that truly compelling stories are born – stories that resonate with truth, without causing real-world problems.
What’s the most unusual thing you’ve ever jotted down for future story inspiration? Share your note-taking wisdom in the comments below!
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 