Charles Heath's writing blog

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to 'walking the plank'; a dive into uncharted waters? For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful. Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.   Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered. A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his. But can love

Here’s the thing... Every time I close my eyes, I see something different. I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox. But these dreams are nothing to laugh about. Once again there's a new instalment of an old feature, and back on the treasure hunt. I’d kept out of Nadia’s way since then, and the few occasions our paths had crossed, she had studiously ignored me.  After graduating she disappeared, and seeing here with Alex, just now, was the first time in years. She had grown into the sort of woman you’d see in the social pages of the newspapers and magazines, sometimes for all the wrong reasons, and I wondered if that was how Alex had leveraged her co-operation. But, there were bigger problems to overcome before I had a chance or find out her back-story. Alex was going after Rico for the map, a map he didn’t have, a map that Rico was going to need and Boggs was going to suffer the con

Our hero knows he's in serious trouble. The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy if it was the enemy, simply because it didn't look or sound or act like the enemy. Now it looks like he's been renditioned by his own people. Seeing Colonel Bamfield made my blood run cold. This wasn’t an old commanding officer coming to see one of his protégés after being almost killed in a bad accident. This was a man checking up on me, and whether or not I had relayed any of the details of my incarceration at the mystery camp in the desert. The thing is, he didn’t have to come calling if I had said anything Breeman would have reported it directly to her superiors. No, he was here for another reason, and one I had no doubt I was not going to like. Firstly, it was apparent the feelings of dislike and mistrust ran deep between the two, and I could see, on first sight, there had bee

This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I'm not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver. But, there's more to come. Those were long flights... And sadly when I read what I'd written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start. I knelt down to Jack’s level and whispered in his ear, “Time to go, mate.   Things are about to get a little sticky here, and one of us should get away.” I’m not sure he understood what I was saying. I pointed towards the trees that ran along the wall.   “Go, now.” He walked slowing in the pointed direction, then turned to look at me. “Go.” Another hesitation, he headed towards and then disappeared into the trees. Behind I could hear the sound of boots on the rock floor of the tunnel.   The men had broken through and cut off m

A picture paints ... well, as many words as you like.  For instance: And, then, the words: It was just a door to a lift. That's what Joe told himself, over and over, and there was no denying the truth. After all, he had stepped through that door more than once, in fact, it had been several times each time he stayed at the hotel, and nothing had happened. The elevator had gone up to his room, on whatever floor it was on, and back down to the ground floor.  Up and down, sometimes stopping in between for other guests staying at the hotel. It was just a door to a lift. A lift that went up and down, servicing each of the seven floors in the hotel. Except... This morning he checked in after talking the train, and walking up from the station, just like he did every other day.  He called the lift, waited a few minutes, and it arrived, the door slowly opening. Slower than usual, but it was not the first time it had happened. He stepped in, pressed the button f

A picture paints ... well, as many words as you like.  For instance: And, then, the words: I had seen that view of the railway station every morning for the last 23 days, and it was still as far away from me, as it was the first time I saw it. I used to catch the train into the city, every morning, sit at a desk in an office, sometimes staring out the window, dreaming of bigger, better things to do with my life. Just a short six months ago. Just before everything changed. You see, coming home one night, later than usual after stopping off to have a few drinks and dinner with a woman whom I discovered was as interested in me as I was in her, I went to cross the road, for just a second forgetting to look both ways, and got hit by a car. I'd always joked about getting hit by a bus. There were not enough fingers and toes to count the broken bones, or fingers on one hand to count the times the surgeons had to try to put me back together again.  No one had ever sa

A picture paints ... well, as many words as you like.  For instance: And, then, the words: "So you thought coming to an out of season resort was a good idea?" "It fitted our budget.  You said you needed to get away, it was the best I could do under the circumstances." I remembered that conversation, and the stark phrase that stood out, 'get me away from this place, now, before something bad happens'. I hadn't understood what she had meant by that, not then, but the morning we left, a text message had arrived on her phone when she had gone to the bathroom, and not normally the sort of person who would snoop, for some reason that morning I did. "You can't just leave.  It's not an option.  Call me or there will be consequences." Gillian had been getting more and more irritated over the preceding two weeks, and I put it down to a looming deadline at her workplace for an advertising campaign that would, as she had

Our hero knows he's in serious trouble. The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is a foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because that enemy doesn't look or sound or act like the enemy. But, it seems our hero has 'escaped', and has now found his way back home. Except not quite how he expected it would be. Rest was impossible while so many thoughts about my recent experiences were swirling around in the back of my head.   Now, when thinking it through, it made sense that they make sure I was found alive, but in very bad shape. Two reasons, one, to remind me that they could do whatever they liked to me, and the second, to appease Breeman, who, no doubt realizing a helicopter was missing would send out search teams, a no-fly zone or not. But it was a calculated risk assuming I would not tell Breeman, or someone else, about what had happened to me, whether t

Here’s the thing. Every time I close my eyes, I see something different. I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox. But these dreams are nothing to laugh about. Once again there's a new installment of an old feature, and back on the treasure hunt. Nadia Cossatino was the one girl Alex Benderby couldn’t have for obvious reasons.  The Cossatinos and the Benderby’s were sworn enemies, each running the more nefarious activities in their parts of the city. Of the two, it was widely known if you crossed a Cossatino, then you were dead, or worse.  Nadia’s older brother Vince was the most feared kid in school, and people like Boggs and I kept well out of his way. That being said, there was one occasion when we had been caught in the crossfire, and present, accidentally, at a showdown between Alex and Vince, over Nadia.  Alex, as he was wont to do, pushed his luck too far, and found himself on the

This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while traveling on a plane, though I'm not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver. But, there's more to come. Those were long flights... And sadly when I read what I'd written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start. Another fifty or so feet along, I stopped at an overhead grill.  The metal was showing on the tunnel side, but on the other, I could see bushes. I think I knew where we were.  This was where the road crossed a small bridge and headed towards the castle entrance.  It was on the northeastern side of the old battlements, and going straight under the road would take us to the eastern wall. Whether we could get out of the castle there remained to be seen. I took a step and saw Jack stop and turn around to look back the way we had come.  A moment

Here’s the thing. Every time I close my eyes, I see something different. I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox. But these dreams are nothing to laugh about. Once again there's a new installment of an old feature, and back on the treasure hunt. I lasted the week in the warehouse, and, surprising myself, I actually liked it. And, had I been like all the other workers employed there, keeping their heads down and getting on with the job, everything would have remained the same. My problem, it seemed, was Alex Benderby.  He had been a bully at school, and he was a bully in the workplace, hiding behind his father’s name and reputation, not that his father was much better, just a little more discreet. Day 2, Alex discovered I was working in the warehouse, his domain.  For some reason it amused him that I should be there, working for the Benderby’s, something I’d been very vocal about it not w

This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while traveling on a plane, though I'm not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver. But, there's more to come. Those were long flights... And sadly when I read what I'd written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start. There were eleven stormtroopers and Wallace, eighteen in Johansson and Jackerby’s group. One of those would be in the communications center, leaving, at worst, twenty-nine men out looking for me. I also assumed that Jackerby would approach the search in much the same manner as I would, the men in pairs, as singly, he knew that I would have an advantage. Eight pairs would be inside, doing a room to room search, from the top down. Five pairs would be outside, one group in the center, one group at each of the corners, all working the perimeter,