Charles Heath's writing blog

A picture paints ... well, as many words as you like.  For instance: And, then, the words: Mary wasn’t her name as much as he didn’t think it was Marion either, and Henry thought to himself he’d probably never get that close. She was the perfect enigma, the sort of woman you saw in the movies, completely self-sufficient, with no flaws and definitely no requirement for a man in her life, well, not a permanent one. But, then, for a moment, he had to wonder why he was thinking like that.  This was just a job, and she was just a partner in, what, crime? "So," Henry asked, "What's the job?" "I have to pick up a computer." "That doesn't sound like something you would need help with."  In fact, if he was right in his assessment of her, he was the last person she needed, if at all.  She looked to him as if she could handle anything. "It's one of those just in case situations." They walked a circuitous route back to Park Lane and cro

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 dark look crossed Boggs’ face telling me the name Ormiston wasn’t associated with anything good.  I was still wondering how I had never heard anything about the family. “How did you stumble across Fredrich Ormiston?” “I told you I was keeping an eye on Alex.  He and some chap who was, coincidentally, one of the guards we saw at the mall yesterday, they were talking about Ormiston.  I’ve never heard of him.” “That’s because the Ormiston’s disappeared from around here before the second world war.  What did Alex have to say about him?” “From what I overheard, he owned a large tract of land near Patterson’s Reach, that it stretched back to something called

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 Darkness fell in a noticeably short time, and we left the pub at about six. In the hour so we have been there I’d been keeping a close eye on the comings and goings, and in particular, if O’Connell came in, or someone else that might look like him. He hadn’t, nor had any mythical family members.  Well, it had been a long shot. Jennifer hadn’t volunteered anything more to the conversation and sat working her way through a piece of fried fish and a bowl of chips.  Neither had looked appetizing.  I would have bet she’d have the chicken, but I was wrong, and probably it wasn’t going to be the first time. “Do you have a gun?” It was after ten minutes of sil

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way. Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war. And, so, it continues... It didn’t surprise Johannesen there were about twenty prisoners down in the dungeons, though he was surprised to find that the dungeon area was quite large, and in several sections.  The fact they smelled of wine told him that once, the cells were used at storage areas for bottles of wine. Several of the cells that were furthest from the downstairs entrance, and recently boarded over caused several overzealous resistance fighters of Leonardo’s to start smashing walls looking for it. Johannsen tr

A picture paints ... well, as many words as you like.  For instance: And, then, the words: I never did take advice very seriously.  Especially when they were issued by old man Taggard, a man of some mystery that we all, adults and children alike wanted to know about. Everyone in the street knew him as he had lived in the almost derelict mansion at the end of the cul-de-sac forever, way longer than anyone else in the neighborhood had.  In fact, it was rumored he had owned all the land around and sold it off bit by bit over time, the reason why there were so many houses of varying age in the estate. Ours was one of the older houses, a few doors up from it.  We were close enough to observe Taggard's habit, like sitting gon the porch on an old swing chair in the afternoons, to the late-night wanderings in the street.  Some said he was accompanied by the ghost of his long-dead wife, which led to stories being told of the house he lived in being haunted. As children, we had been brought

 F or a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way. Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war. And, so, it continues...   Johannsen hadn’t signed up for this.  He’d been in the room when Leonardo reported to Wallace, to tell him that the villagers had been neutralized, and he brought the ring leaders of the so-called resistance to the castle. By his reckoning, Leonardo and his men had killed probably 20 or so people who had nothing to do with the war, other than try to live around the war going on in their backyard. In fact, when he had arrived at the castle, the intention was to work with the locals and

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. Here’s the thing.  Should I tell Boggs about the Ormiston’s? Should I tell him that there was more than one lake? Should I wait until I’d looked at the information that had been stored away?  From the way Gwen was talking, no one had looked at Ormiston’s papers since the day they were deposited in the library, except perhaps Gwen herself. And it helped that Gwen would not give any meaningful assistance to Alex Benderby or any of his cohorts.  It seemed all she had given them was the briefest outline of the Ormiston story.  She obviously didn’t mention that Ormiston had left anything behind. Two tasks that I added to a list were, firstly, to start looking

A picture paints ... well, as many words as you like.  For instance: And, then, the words: There was a moment when I had at least a dozen thoughts, most leading to murder. Perhaps it was good that I was not a violent person, and, given that one of the adulterous parties was the woman I had loved for many years, I guess, in the end, I was just going to struggle with the why.  Why now, or had it been going on all this time? The front door closing, and the car departing, woke me out of a reverie.  I got up and looked out, expecting to see an empty foyer, but instead saw Janine, in a dressing gown, still holding the front door handle, as if transfixed.  A beautiful memory of what had just happened, or a tinge of regret, and another secret to be kept in her head, one I knew now, held so many others. I decided to make myself known, now rather than later. "Do you come home often during the day," I said, standing in the doorway where she could see me. She jumped, perhaps in fright, o