Charles Heath's writing blog

 A picture paints ... well, as many words as you like.  For instance: And, then, the words: I was about to tell Emily not to open the door but for some reason, I simply stood there unable to do anything.  It was not a shock or fear, but a hesitation. Emily looked at me, perhaps for approval, then looked through the peephole in the door. “Who is it,” I asked, finally finding a voice. “I can’t see him clearly but it looks like the man in the pin-striped suit, that chap who got in the elevator with us.” Why wasn’t I surprised? “What should I do?” she asked when I hadn’t said anything. I was not sure what to think, but from first appearances, he didn’t look like an assassin, or very dangerous, but what did I know about assassins?  Or dangerous people?  “Let me answer the door.  You stand just out of sight until we find out his intentions.” “You don’t think...” “I’m trying not to think right now, but please, just stand out of sight of the door, and have your pho...

 A picture paints ... well, as many words as you like.  For instance: And, then, the words: When you have secrets, sometimes it's very hard to hide them from others. It was something Henry had to do since the day he could speak.  The fact that his parents had been murdered because of their profession, something his grandfather told him was akin to 'working for the government'.  The fact that he was from a very wealthy and influential family.  The fact he was heir to a fortune.  The fact he was anything other than just another boy, who grew up to be just another man. His whole life, to this point, had been 'managed' so that no one, other than a selected few chosen by his grandfather, knew who he was, or what he represented.  And more to the point, he had been told to just live his life like any other of his age. Yes, he went to a private school, but it wasn't an exclusive one, yes he went to university, but he had got into Oxford on his own merit, and, ...

I'm back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written. The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I'm not very good at prioritizing. But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn't take long to get back into the groove. Chasing leads, maybe Sometimes the best-laid plans worked out, but today it was as if the Gods were trying to ruin my day.  Earlier days this week had been getting darkish between three and four, but today it was a little later. It meant we had to spend a little more quality time together before we embarked on some breaking and entering. Of course, it might have helped if I’d told her what I was intending to do before I brought her along for the ride, but it was exactly for that reason I did because if she didn’t like the idea, there would be little option to change he mind. But the initial displeasure was expected. “Breaking and entering is not exactly how I envisioned my...

 A picture paints ... well, as many words as you like.  For instance: And, then, the words: The few moments I had to formulate a reply gave me some time to think, albeit quickly.  Of course, that first thought was what it would be like back in the room overlooking the hotel driveway, not exactly the best view, but it was better than the dungeon below. Then it was gone and I was back to the reality of my predicament. There was no doubt a problem in either using the phone to talk to Madeleine’s father, or they had tried using Madelaine to communicate with her parents.  Perhaps ransom demands rarely hit the mark the first time around, and I was playing second base for them. I'm sure, if it came down to it, Madeleine would be anything but hysterical, but she might be slightly reluctant to talk to him given the circumstances.  And getting me to talk to him might cause trouble in the future if he thought I was involved in it. So, naturally, the question to ask was, "W...

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 we’re back on the treasure hunt. “A hundred square miles, that must have run up the coast close to Patterson’s Reach?” I asked. Patterson’s reach was about five miles to the north, a small town, where there was little fishing done and allegedly a lot of ferrying drugs being dropped off by large ships coming along the offshore shipping lanes.  No one could prove it, and every trap set by the coast guard had failed to find any evidence.  That meant that someone was tipping them off. It was also the domain of the Cossatino’s who discouraged anyone else from living there.  It was said that Cossatino owned all of the lands the town sat on and the people who lived there worked for h...

I'm back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written. The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I'm not very good at prioritizing. But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn't take long to get back into the groove. Chasing leads, maybe I’d expected more questions from her, but the ride in the train to Wimbledon, and then to the car, she had very little to say.  There was no doubt she was intrigued by the offer, but there was some trepidation too. But it didn’t auger well for her longevity if she trusted people this easily.  I had expected a lot more questions if only to find out what the job was.   Then, by the time we reached my car, it seemed she had time enough to think about everything. “How do I know you’re not going to kill me too?” She was standing on the other side of the car, yet to open the door.  I was about to get in. I looked at her across the roof. “I could ...