Ray Stone's Blog: A blog for everyone, page 9

Chapter Ten – Crate of Lies – by Ray Stone

Liebermann stood waiting at the pedestrian crossing in Joachimstaler Strasse as a packed pale blue bus drove past slowly, blocking his view of the square beyond. A crowd quickly gathered around him and after the bus passed by, they all surged forward. The Café Kranzler stood on the opposite corner, the edges of its bright red and white canopies fluttering in the light breeze. Customers occupied most of the cream wicker and chromium tube chairs on the pavement. Liebermann looked across to the far side and saw an empty table by some small trees growing from shrubbery boxes on the pavement edge.

He sat next to the trees, thankful for the shade and a cool breeze. Putting his jacket across the other seat, he waved a waitress over and ordered a coffee. He looked at his watch and drummed his fingers on the table top impatiently. The Bosnian was late and he began to worry. Peering through the trees, he watched as Abdul stood on the opposite side of the road under an ornate street lamp reading a copy of Le Figaro. He relaxed, knowing that Abdul wouldn’t lose the contact once the meeting was over.

“Danke sehr.” He smiled tight-lipped and stared into the waitress’s eyes as she placed a cup of coffee in front of him.

Embarrassed, she blushed and moved away from him quickly as his hand moved across the table towards hers. It was a favourite trick of his. Eyes and hands could divert concentration without making any physical contact. They could also deceive or make the subject uncomfortable.

Liebermann’s eyes narrowed and focused on the waitress as she dropped her pad by the next table. Women, he had learned, had a sixth sense that alerted them intuitively to an unwanted or dangerous presence. He continued stirring his coffee, looking at the back of the waitress as she stood. The waitress turned her head and glanced back at him before walking away, yet in that fraction of a second that their eyes met, he saw the fear and his pulse quickened. He sat back, his frustration gone, and sipped the coffee.

Moments later, a dark swarthy looking man in a grey suit attracted his attention. He was standing on the pavement, looking at the people sitting at the tables. Raising his hand, Liebermann caught the man’s eye and waved. The man nodded and walked to the table.

“Guten Tag”. Liebermann shook hands.

The man looked confused.

“Sprechen Sie English?”

“Ah, yes, English.” The man pulled a chair out and sat down.

Liebermann shook hands. “I’m afraid my colleague, Alen Bolonic, couldn’t be here as arranged. You are Risto Prazina and you have a tape for President Mikulic?”

Prazina’s face showed concern. “What happened to Bolonic? You’re German. What have you got to do with this?”

Liebermann sipped his coffee. “My credentials are impeccable.” He took a wallet from his jacket and opened it to reveal a forged Bosnian Security Service card. “Now, Risto, we can waste time while you check me out or you can trust me. Either way, I wouldn’t waste too much time handing the tape over. The President is very anxious; as I’m sure you are aware.”

Prazina sat, hesitant. “I don’t have the tape with me and I would like to make a call. You do understand?”

“Of course. Look, I have an idea. I’m staying at the Alexander Plaza in Rosenstraase, near the National Gallery. Ask for me at reception. Shall we say in one hour?”

Prazina nodded, got up and left. Liebermann looked through the trees at Abdul and watched as he folded his newspaper and then walked toward a man taking a picture as a bus approached. A sudden loud squealing of brakes attracted the attention of pedestrians and diners alike. A German woman sitting on the next table to Liebermann screamed and rose from her chair, hand over her mouth. Liebermann followed her gaze and saw the man who had taken photos lying in the road.

Concerned, Liebermann looked around for Abdul. He caught a glimpse of the man’s back as he strode off down the road in the direction that Prazina had taken. Calmly, Liebermann disregarded the scene around him, waved the waitress over and ordered a Kranzlerschnitte – a house specialty.

***

Robert Lightfoot stood a little way back from the window, looking down at the tourists sitting outside the Kranzler just as he had for the last two weeks. Montgomery’s failure to show again was making it look as though someone in Langley had got it wrong.

Nearly two years’ hard work had culminated in the present operation. The last link in a drug smuggling chain was a go-between American, Richard Montgomery. With his arrest the whole network would be finished. Montgomery was not under observation though.

Word had reached Langley that Montgomery was about to meet an important buyer from Germany at Kranzler’s. According to Langley, Montgomery would show. Lightfoot shared the observation flat with a German drug enforcement officer.

The door opened behind Lightfoot and the obese figure of Gunter Franke entered with a stack of polystyrene boxes and two cups of coffee. He was sweating profusely, the armpits of his white shirt wet, his creased trousers looking as though they were just about to fall around his ankles.

Lightfoot caught a whiff of body odour mixed with hamburger and coffee and switched the fan on next to him without looking around.

“Robert, I got you a cheeseburger, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks,” said Lightfoot. “Listen, Gunter, I’ll go for the food next time, okay? I could do with the exercise.”

Lightfoot took the cheeseburger and returned to the window. Something caught his eye but he was not aware what. Something was different, out of place. He put the cup of coffee and burger down on the chair. Pushing his sunglasses up on the top of his head, he bent over the camera to look through the eyepiece. Swinging the telephoto lens sideways, he focused on a man wearing a grey suit, standing on the pavement looking at the seated diners. The camera clicked.

The man turned sideways. He seemed to recognize somebody. Lightfoot followed the man and watched as he shook hands with someone sitting behind a small tree. The camera clicked again.

“Something happening?” said Gunter with a mouthful of food.

“No idea. Two men have just met and are sitting at a table. I can only see one of them but I don’t recognize him. The other could be your buyer buddy. Why don’t you get down there with a camera and see if you can get a picture? They’re sitting at the end table, right on the corner at the end of the shrubs and trees. One has a grey suit on and the other appears to be in a shirt only.”

“On my way.”

The door closed behind Gunter. Lightfoot waited for two minutes and then watched as the two men across the road rose from their seats. He clicked the camera as the second man appeared from the side of the tree briefly, shaking hands with the other. Lightfoot held his breath and then exclaimed, “Jesus Christ…bloody Liebermann…what the hell are you doing here?”

The two men then parted and Lightfoot traced the man in a grey suit with the lens, taking a final picture as he disappeared into the passing crowd. A bus trundled past and Lightfoot stood up, reaching for the telephone. The embassy would have to know right away.

A squeal of brakes and several screams from the street below made him stop. He turned back and looked down. The bus was stationary and the driver, with head in hands, walked slowly to the back of the bus. Lightfoot looked through the camera and took a picture before he realized he was looking at Gunter.

***

 

“Stay with him,” ordered Liebermann. “Call me in ten minutes unless there’s an emergency. I’ll be with you shortly. When he comes back out, keep close to him. I shall follow.”

“What if he catches a train?” replied Abdul.

“He won’t. The tape is obviously in a luggage locker. Just make sure you keep sight of him and see what he does. This might be a ploy so don’t do anything that would arouse his suspicions.”

“What if he makes a call?”

“Let him. If he finds out I’m an impostor, he’ll be scared. What’s he going to do?”

There was a brief silence as Abdul realized. “Grab the tape and run, of course.”

“Of course. Don’t lose him.”

Ten minutes later, Liebermann walked past the entrance of the U-Bahn in Hardenberg Strasse and looked across the entrance of the Platz to his right at the impressive glass front of the Bahnhof Zoo Station on the next corner. As usual it was busy and would be easy to hide in the crowds of travellers. Crossing over to the concourse, his mobile rang.

“Yes?”

“He’s been on the phone for five minutes and now he’s leaving. You were right. The tape has to be somewhere else.”

“Good. I’m right outside the main entrance. Follow him and wait for me to give you the usual signal. Make it every five minutes.”

There were three signals in all that Liebermann had devised. When a subject was under surveillance by two agents, one of them rang the other every five or ten minutes, depending on whether the subject was easy to see or moving within a crowded area. This would let the other agent know that the subject was in sight. A signal was three rings on a mobile. If he lost sight of the subject, he did not call. The other agent would then signal the first in the same way to reassure him that the quarry remained in his sight, and so on.

The system was far better than talking to each other. Liebermann was a stickler for efficiency.

Liebermann turned to face the plate glass window of the bank and watched the reflections of people passing by. Prazina appeared, walking fast and looking nervously about him. Liebermann kept facing the window. Within a few seconds, Abdul walked past without looking in his direction. Waiting until the Libyan had crossed over into Hardenberg Strasse, Liebermann followed. Then his phone rang three times.

Up ahead, Abdul moved across the pavement as though meaning to cross the road. Prazina was already crossing over and Liebermann saw him. He was making for the Europa Centre.

As Abdul crossed, Liebermann kept to his side of the street and rushed past him, pushing through the crowds until he was opposite Prazina. He ran on a hundred metres ahead of the others before crossing quickly into the Europa Centre. It was an ideal place to get lost in and Liebermann was taking no chances.

The phone rang again. Liebermann watched Prazina come towards him, constantly looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was following. He turned away as Prazina walked into the Platz. The man seemed set on a course and walked briskly in the direction of the World Globe Fountain. Liebermann signalled Abdul and let the phone ring.

“Yes?”

“I’ll get to the other side of the fountain and sit at one of the tables. The tape is near.” Liebermann flicked the phone shut.

Prazina stopped by the fountain and stood amongst a group of tourists, looking about him. Liebermann walked by, behind the group, and sat at a table under the shade of a large colourful parasol. Whatever the man did from then on, there was no escape.

After five minutes, Prazina started walking to the other side of the Platz.

Liebermann tapped the recall button on his phone.

“Yes?”

“Abdul, he may well catch a bus or cab. Get ahead of him and flag down a cab. I’ll follow him. Be ready.”

Abdul veered away from Prazina’s path and walked quickly on to the far end of the Platz. Liebermann followed slowly.

Prazina was taking precautions and the thought crossed Liebermann’s mind that the agent might be waiting for backup. If he were, the issue would have to be forced. Not an ideal solution but necessary under the circumstances.

‘Always be positive and follow the plan through, remaining flexible and ready to change in order to achieve the desired goal.’ Liebermann’s mind clinically sifted through various scenarios and options open to him. His training at ‘The Aquarium,’ the Russian training facility at Khodinka, had been thorough. His Russian superiors were impressed and his report, sent to Stasi headquarters in Normannenstrasse, flagged him as a possible future instructor.

After years of service, he eventually proved his old communist masters right when he became a surveillance instructor at the Stasi headquarters. In September 1989, amid growing fears of what was to come, he retired and disappeared shortly before the Berlin wall fell, re-establishing himself later in North Africa. In 2000, Stephen Wainright and the board had contacted him, making an offer he found hard to refuse.

Liebermann thought quickly. Prazina would be careful and astute enough to leave the tape somewhere near or on an escape route. It would be somewhere near the Kranzler. They had to wait until they were sure he had it, and then take him. Liebermann pressed the recall button on his phone. “Abdul, I think I know where he’s going. When you’ve got a cab, tell the driver you’re going to the station.”

“What if-?”

“Do it.” Liebermann cut him off, to engrossed in second guessing Prazina. Every second counted.

He followed at a distance, watching with interest as the Serb kept cover amidst one group of walkers and smoothly joined another walking at a slower pace as he came abreast of them. Prazina was a professional and well taught. By the time he reached Tauentzien Strasse on the other side of the Platz, Liebermann could see a cab waiting. Ahead of him, Prazina’s arm went up as he reached the edge of the pavement. Another cab swerved in to pick him up. It pulled away and Liebermann walked quickly to the waiting cab. He climbed in and slammed the door.

“Follow the cab in front, driver.” He turned to Abdul. “If he is going to the zoo, and I’m sure he is, keep very close. As soon as he picks the tape up, give me two rings. Do not take him yourself, just cover me but stay out of the way.”

“I thought you said he was going to the station?”

Liebermann grinned. “He will, after he’s got the tape. If it was in the left luggage at the station, he would have picked it up earlier. He knows he has to be away from here within the hour if he is to shake me off. I think the tape is somewhere in the zoo. It’s right next to the station and the escape.”

Five minutes later, the cab turned right and drove past the station, pulling up behind the cab which Prazina had already left. Abdul climbed from the cab and followed him through the Lion’s Gate entrance. Liebermann paid the driver and stood on the pavement. Prazina was walking away from the ticket office, along the central path towards the bear enclosure and the children’s playground with Abdul closely following behind. Liebermann walked slowly to the entrance and bought a ticket.

Reaching the playground, he stood next to the Tropical Bear enclosure and sighted Prazina on the far side, walking to a bench and sitting down. Within seconds he stood again but not before Liebermann saw a hand dart under the side edge of the slated bench.

Two rings confirmed the pick-up. He didn’t wait for Prazina to walk past him. Instead, he moved quickly in the direction of the exit and the station. He wanted to be waiting in the main concourse near the ticket office.

Reaching the concourse, he half turned and watched Prazina walk to the ticket office. The man was definitely in a hurry, looking at his watch and talking excitedly to the clerk. Abdul, standing behind him in the queue, raised a hand and scratched the side of his face with two fingers as Prazina paid for his ticket. Liebermann looked up at the schedule board. Platform two read Potsdam 13.05. He looked at his watch, 13.01. Abdul was at the ticket office and Prazina was on his way to platform two, pushing through a crowd of passengers coming in the opposite direction.

Liebermann walked after Prazina, watching the back of his head as it bobbed in amongst the sea of faces. A minute later, as he neared the platform, Abdul’s hand pushed a ticket into his pocket. Without any acknowledgement, he followed Prazina onto the train, knowing that Abdul would be close. He waited just inside the door and watched his quarry walk between the seats toward the next carriage.

Prazina opened the first of the two interconnecting doors. Liebermann covered the distance in a couple of seconds, grabbing the door before it had closed. Prazina turned, his hand making a grab for the second door. The look of amazement on his face and the second that it took his mind to assimilate the situation gave Liebermann all the time he needed. In one second he grabbed the Serb and pushed him into the small toilet. Swiftly, a hand went over Prazina’s mouth and a foot kicked the door shut.

Liebermann looked into frightened eyes while his free hand pushed a stiletto effortlessly through Prazina’s heart. Before the Serb slumped to the toilet seat, fingers were going through his pockets while the train jolted, slowly accelerating out of the station. The tape was inside a plastic holder.

Wiping the stiletto on Prazina’s shirt collar, Liebermann put it back in its scabbard under his jacket and the tape into a pocket. The train took a few minutes to reach Charlottenburg. He waited for several minutes until the train began to slow again. Cracking the door open, he saw Abdul’s back to him. The train came to a halt and as Abdul walked forward to join other passengers Liebermann left the toilet, carefully closing the door behind him.

***

Liebermann sat, tight-lipped listening to the digital recorder. He picked up his phone, dialled a Manhattan number, and waited patiently until Wainright’s voice answered.

“Yes, Hienrich, you have news?”

“Yes. The Americans and the Israeli’s are connecting the Serbs and the smuggling operation together. Nothing but speculation at the moment of course. Their biggest headache is the suppliers. They haven’t got a clue. I’m sure you are safe but it might be wise to leave the pipeline empty for a couple of months.”

“And the Amber Room?”

“It would appear they have some evidence but I’m on to that. Don’t worry, Stephen, if they get close to it, you’ll be the first to know. In the meantime, Abdul will deliver the tape to you tomorrow and I will send an edited version to our beloved General in the Kremlin.” He flipped the phone shut.

“And if I get close to you, Harry, you’ll be the first to know too.”

Write the last first and the first in the middle – Easy

10 Tips for Writing | WritersDigest.com

10 Tips for Writing
By: Chuck Sambuchino | August 7, 2015
     
 1. Don’t write linearly: Don’t set out to write something from beginning to end. A story is meant to be read from front to back, but not necessarily created that way. If you have an idea for writing the sixth chapter first, then start there. The epilogue can even be the first thing you put down on paper, then work your way back. Scattered chapters will eventually be filled in, and it will force you to look at the story from different angles, which may present different ideas or new approaches. You’d be surprised how well this works when a whole book starts coming together. It’s also great for getting around writer’s block.

GIVEAWAY: J. Kent is excited to give away a free copy of his novel to a random commenter. Comment within 2 weeks; winners must live in Canada/US to receive the book by mail. You can win a blog contest even if you’ve won before. (Please note that comments may take a little while to appear; this is normal).

Column by J. Kent Messum, author of 2015 novel HUSK (July 2015, Penguin UK).

HUSK was recently optioned for an international TV show by Warp Films in the

UK. Messum is an author who always bets on the underdog.  He lives in Toronto

with his wife, dog, and trio of cats. His first novel BAIT won the 2014 Arthur Ellis

Award for ‘Best First Novel.’ Connect with him on Twitter or Facebook.

2. Have two or more projects on the go: Speaking of writer’s block, having more than one project on the go is never a bad idea. Although focus and dedication are paramount to completing a work, sometimes you inevitably get stuck. It’s good to be able to move on to something else instead of feeling frustrated and stagnant. You don’t have to have a few big projects happening either … maybe you’re penning a novel, but also some short stories and an article or two.

3. Be your own editor: There are days where I have difficulty writing altogether, so I’ll switch to editing my stories rather than trying to create them. Never assume it is someone else’s job to fix your mistakes. Find all the errors first, and deal with them yourself. The more polished and refined your work is, the more favorably it will be received when you’re finally ready to present it.

(Should you mention self-published books when querying an agent?)

4. Ask for (and take lots of) punishment: It is well worth finding yourself a professional writer or editor and asking/paying them to look at your work. Tell them to give you highly critical feedback with no sugarcoating. Let them go so far as to be cruel too, just so you really get the point. There is a lot of rejection and criticism involved in the publishing industry. Getting accustomed to it sooner than later is advantageous. If you want to be serious about your writing, then you’ll need to know everything wrong with your writing. Accepting and understanding the harsh realities of your shortcomings is a most important step to getting better.

5. Disconnect: Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pintrest, the Internet in general … we know how invasive social media and technology is in our lives these days. We also know that it can be good for promotion, building a brand, and having an online presence. But you know what else social media and technology is really good for? Procrastination, distraction, and countless wasted hours. Being able to unplug for long periods of time is more important than you may think. All those tweets you’ve posted might have added up the word-count of half a novel by now…

Want to build your visibility and sell more books?

Create Your Writer Platform shows you how to

promote yourself and your books through social

media, public speaking, article writing, branding,

and more.  Order the book from WD at a discount.

6. Learn what good writing is: Honestly, there’s so much terrific writing out there, but there is also considerably more garbage as well. I’m constantly surprised by how many people don’t know the difference between the good and the bad. Art is subjective, true, but it isn’t that subjective when you remove ignorance and replace it with education. Duke Ellington said it best: “There are two kinds of music. Good music, and the other kind”. The same applies to writing.

7. Have your own workspace: It’s trendy nowadays to take your laptop to coffee shop or bar and write in public. I even advocate a change of environment/atmosphere when writing feels stifled. But I believe it’s more important to have and maintain your own private workspace, a spot you can call your own with a desk and preferably a door you can close when you need to shut out the world in order to create your own.

(Can your query be longer than one page?)

8. Dedicate to the craft: Serious writing is not something you merely do if or when you can find the time. It’s not just for Sunday afternoons, or the occasional evening, or a few hours a week when you can give it some attention. Make the time, and make lots of it. Tackle the craft daily and dedicate a generous portion of your existence to honing your skills. You’re only going to get out of it what you put into it, and serious writing requires a lot of investment.

9. Time management: When it comes to the hours or days you’ve reserved for writing, make sure you stick to your guns. Consider it sacred. To most other people, your ‘writing time’ is merely ‘flexible time’. They will invariably think that you can cancel, minimize or postpone working when it suits you (or them). Tell these people that your personal work time is not negotiable; much like theirs isn’t at their day jobs. You don’t need a regimented schedule, but you do need to clock in the hours.

10. Remember the Three “P’s”: I’ll admit there’s still a hell of a lot more to say on the topic of writing tips, but what it all comes down to in the end are three things I believe writers need to remember above all else: Patience, Perseverance, and maintaining your sense of Purpose.

GIVEAWAY: J. Kent is excited to give away a free copy of his novel to a random commenter. Comment within 2 weeks; winners must live in Canada/US to receive the book by mail. You can win a blog contest even if you’ve won before. (Please note that comments may take a little while to appear; this is normal).

ISIA’S SECRET OUT TODAY

http://www.amazon.co.uk/…/B0

13MFK…/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top…

IT’S OUT TODAY!!

I do hope you enjoy a good read www.raystoneauthor.co.uk

http://www.amazon.com/…/B013MFKOH8/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top…

Kevin McLeod’s excellent blog on Twitter Tip

How to grow your twitter following in a few simple steps

Firstly, has it really been seven months since I wrote a blog post? What have I been doing! Let me apologise for that straight away.

The Viking’s Apprentice has continued to do very well and during a recent free promo day (23rd of March) it was downloaded 23700 times. This was amazing and made it the most downloaded children’s book in the world that day and the 4th most downloaded book on Amazon. This was also the day that audible version came out. I’m running a competition on my website to win the audible version for free. This will run through April for all of you that are interested. There are 5 copies up for grabs and it is a simple competition to enter with just one click. Follow this link to my competitions page where you’ll also find a free signed paperback giveaway being hosted by goodreads.com Here is the link My Competitions page. It’s always worth checking back as more competitions will be coming up. If you just want to go ahead and buy a copy of the audiobook you can here Audio version

Enough about me now on to twitter and how to build that following. Interesting content and the best book in the world will not guarantee you success on twitter. If no one sees it then no one reads its right? I’ve begun to really build my following and I’m doing this using two simple techniques that anyone can do and costs nothing. My twitter following used to consist of my wife and two fake followers. It’s now up to just over 6000 and grows about 100 to 200 a day with very little effort.

The first technique is called the 6 minute technique. Go on twitter and find someone who is in your area of interest with a large following (don’t start that clock yet). Once you’ve found the perfect person on twitter follow them (it’s only polite) and then have a look at their followers. What you’re looking for is people with roughly the same amount of followers as people they are following. So for example they are following 5000 and are followed by 4900 then this person is ideal! Start your clock. Go through the followers and follow everyone who fits into the above category. Once that clock hits six minutes stop. Why? Well for one you don’t want to spend your whole day on twitter trying to follow people and you don’t want to fall foul of any of twitter’s rules on following people.

If you had completed this step you’ve probably followed between 50 and 100 people. Of those it’s a sure fire thing that most will follow you back. It’s what they do and you can tell that by the followers to following ratio.

The second technique is similar to the first but it uses a software that’s twitter approved so don’t worry. It used to be called justunfollow but it is now called crowdfire. It’s free and simple to use. It loads up your twitter and shows you who doesn’t follow you back. This is important especially if you are below 2000 followers as twitter won’t let you follow above that until you have 2000 followers.

Crowdfire allows you to see who on your following list hasn’t tweeted in a long time and is effectively dormant. This allows you to remove them and frees up room to follow more active accounts. You can look at who you are following and again go back to the six minute technique and bring up their followers. Crowdfire goes one step better as it shows you when the person last sent a tweet so you get an idea how active they are. Crowdfire also allows you to send out an automated thank you message to everyone who follows you. This is important as you can provide a link to your book or website or facebook page etc in this message. The free version has limitations but none that will stop you doing any of the above. The paid version just lets you do a bit more. Click the link to go to their website.  Crowdfire

Once you start to build up that following get interacting, and keep tweeting out your great content. The more you get retweeted the more reach you’ll gain and the more the world will see you. Here’s a link to my twitter account. Be great for you to join me there. My Twitter

A story from India by Tamal Dutta

The Forgotten Letter
Written by: Tamal Dutta

It is raining heavily. Dark clouds roar and scar every creature on the earth. Water covers the farms and ponds overflow.

Daniel struggles to cross the muddy path beside the farms, with a bottle of whisky in his left hand. He is repeatedly falling, drinking from the bottle, falling over, and again getting up to cross the fields. His torn shirt flaps in strips around his drenched body and the loose cotton pants only just cover his private parts. His long hair, beard and face are covered with mud. He somehow crosses the farm to reach higher land with a huge tree on it. He lies down near the thick roots of the tree.

Daniel is almost thirty and lives his life as a tramp. He has no dreams, no ambitions. He never works for longer than a week and it is always the fault of his employer when he tells Daniel there is no work for him anymore.

The rain slows down and the place slowly becomes brighter. After lying unconscious in the mud for a few hours, Daniel wakes up and looks around. He finds a small pond just behind the tree and washes his face to get rid of the drowsiness. He sits near the water for some time. When he finally fully wakes, he is shocked. He knows this place. He runs to the tree and looks more closely. He once visited this place with his father when he was a teenager. He turns to the roots of the tree.

There is a mark made on one of the branches near the root. He picks up a stone and digs in the ground beneath the marked branch. He finds a small bottle. He removes the cork fitted to the neck of the bottle and takes out the paper inside. He finds the note his father wrote, “Whenever I fail in life, I will not stop till I succeed.”

He holds the letter near his heart and starts crying loudly, leaning against the tree to keep himself from falling in the pond.  It starts raining again and thunder roars.

Daniel sadly puts the letter back in the bottle and buries it near the root of the old Banyan tree. He moves to the pond in the rain and jumps in. He holds his breath and remains under the water for a full two minutes. He comes out and sits near the pond but still cries over the mistakes he made in his life. All through that long moment, he remembers his father’s words. He knows his father wants him to live to his fullest potential. An urge to dream once more about living a life that is full of promise and hope fills him again. He remembers the promise he made his father that he will never quit.

The rain does not stop that night. Daniel sits near the root of that huge tree. He keeps thinking about the life he left behind. He decides to go find that life and to live again.

 

Le Cafe Man by Suraya Dewing

Short story







Submitted by Suraya Dewing on Wednesday 15 July 2015



LE CAFE MAN

LE CAFE MAN

 

It was very unusual for Silver to be so skittish. Carly tightly gripped his reins and calmed him by softly rubbing his velvety nose. She put her arm around his neck and he settled for a short time. A twig suddenly snapped and Silver jerked his head away from Carly, lifting her from the leaf-covered ground his hind leg muscles knotting and rippling. Under the trees at Woodhill Forest his coat was dappled by moving shadows. With every jerk of his body, Silver’s polished leather bridle with shining studs rattled. His brightly shining stirrups swung like pendulums beside his freshly washed white coat.

Carly shortened the reins and tugged Silver so that he stood beside her. Feeling his familiar closeness, she leaned against him and until his anxious breathing relaxed. She had ridden to many pony club events and won many prizes. For the moment she flicked to a memory of them at the nationals she sitting triumphantly on him, as she received her prize. Carly ran her hand gently down his side and soothingly said, “There, there Silver…no need to be jumpy. You’re used to these.”

 

Her blue eyes wandered around the film set and settled on the man sitting on a tree trunk, nonchalantly smoking. She bit the inside of her tanned and freckled cheek and her short brown pony-tail bobbed. Although he was her father, she had not agreed to this film shoot but Wayne, her father had over-ruled her. This made her very angry.

 

“He can earn his keep for a change,” her father had rumbled when she objected to her father exploiting her beloved horse for commercial gain.

Just a short distance away, marketing executive for Angles Advertising Agency, Shelly stood beside Jen, the director and they were intently examining the script. Although they were in the middle of Woodhill Forest Jen wore black high heels, tights and a very short skirt, a frilly, white blouse and her long blonde hair loose. The wind kept whipping it across her face and she kept pushing it away from her hazel eyes with slender fingers. Shelly was more sensibly dressed with snugly fitting jeans, boots, tee shirt and jacket.

“See, it says it here, ‘Le Café man has to be sitting beside a real camp fire,” Shelly said, stabbing the word with her forefinger. “Real,” she repeated emaphatically.

Jen looked across to Wayne, who pretended he knew absolutely nothing of the dilemma presented by shooting an advertisement in a forest using a real fire.

 

Earlier that week Mack, the sound man had said they would never be allowed to shoot the commercial and Wayne had airily replied, dismissively waving his hand, “Let the girls work it out. I pay them to sort my problems out.”

Mack had shot him a sly grin because he knew that sorting out locations was not all he paid Jen for. She was also the recipient of expensive wine and piquant dinners at high-class venues. Wayne had responded with a chuckle and a wink.

“I bet Mum would never agree to you using her horse in your advertisement.”

Jen looked up sharply and shot a quick glance to Wayne who shook his head slightly to tell her she had nothing to worry about. She was, without doubt the most important woman in his life.

“You leave your mother out of this,” Wayne growled. “He might be her horse but I pay his damned bills and cart him around the country every weekend.”

 

And he was right the girls, Jen mainly, had sorted the location problem out by calling up a favour with the local Council’s protection agency. They had a man with a back pack of water on standby should anything get out of control. They had emphasised the fire had to be very small and Jen had been adamant in her fervent assurance that she would make sure it was.

 

So with all the permissions in place they had trooped out to Woodhill Forest. Wayne was looking forward to a day away from the office and to getting back to the craft that got him into the business – acting. That he was also saving on budget was a plus. So there he was, reminiscing about his glory days and wearing fashionable jeans, tasselled jacket over a red and white checked shirt and black hair smoothed in shiny waves away from his tanned forehead. He languidly rested his well toned body on a raised trunk of a tree and waited for someone to build. His job was to drink Le Café Coffee as only Le Café Man would….coolly oozing testosterone.

 

He lazily lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings into the air. As he leaned back he watched the smoke rings curl and break up through half closed amused eyes. From the corners of his brown eyes he could see Jen observing him.  She gestured for him to put out the cigarette. He took one last puff then stubbed it out in the sandy soil. He leaned back against the tree trunk and crossed his jean clad legs at the ankles.

Shelly gave a dramatic shudder. ‘I don’t know what you see in him,’ she said. “He just thinks he’s god’s gift…”

Jen smiled as she let her eyes rest on Wayne, long and lovingly. “He’s great.”

“And married.”

Jen carelessly tossed her head making her blonde hair fly about her face. She plucked a few thin strands from her lips where they had stuck to her bright red lipstick.

“He’s leaving her.”

“They all say that. He’s also twice your age. He’ll be hobbling about with a walking frame and picking you up from night clubs.”

Jen laughed out loud and cuffed Shelly, who pretended she had hurt her by rubbing the spot vigorously. “He will. You wait.”

 

Carly intercepted an intimate look between Wayne and Jen. At ten she was old enough to understand what that look meant and she groaned out loud.

“Not again Dad.”

Wayne raised his shoulders innocently. “What?”

“You know what I mean. Mum will be really mad.”

Jen looked up sharply from the form she was filling in. Wayne stood with his hands on his hips. “There is nothing for her to be mad at.”

Jen marched over to him and stood in front of him with hands firmly on her hips. “And what do you mean by that comment…she deserves to know about us, especially since you’re moving in.”

“No Dad, you can’t.”

“Yes, he can,” Jen retorted.

“Shut up the lot of you!” Wayne shouted. He held his hands out to his daughter then to his lover, pleading. “I truly can explain.”

“I don’t think so,” Carly stormed as she gathered up Silver’s reins. “Find your own stupid horse,” she yelled behind her as she urged Silver on with a kick from her leather riding boots.

“Dammit!” he helplessly watched their main prop disappear over a hill covered in purple lupins.

Wayne pulled out his mobile phone and stabbed at the keyboard with his big knuckled fingers.

His wife answered.

“Your daughter’s behaving like a spoilt brat. When she gets home tell her to get back here immediately.” He took a deep breath “And don’t believe anything she says. She’s imagining things.”

 

Shelly sidled up to Mack and whispered. “This’d make a great radio play. Hope you’re recording it.”

They giggled.

Wayne slumped down on his trunk and sat with his chin in his cupped hands.

“Why did you have to say that?” he asked Jen.

“Well, it’s true,” she said huffily. “She had to know at some point.”

Shelly’s eyes narrowed as she saw the denial flicker in Wayne’s eyes. He was never going to leave his wife, she decided.

“Look,” Wayne said changing the subject abruptly. “Let’s just do the shoot and get a horse added using computer graphics.”

“Oh we might as well do the same for the fire,” Jen added sulkily.

“Yes, let’s.”

Smiling Shelly added, “And why not add the Le Café man using computer graphics as well.”

Mack laughed and Jen allowed a smile to flicker over her lips.

Wayne scowled.

“Get on with it,” he said adopting the pose of Le Café man holding the mug of coffee.

The pose showed off his broad shoulders beneath the black and checked shirt reminding her of Clint Eastwood. He lit another cigarette and winced as the smoked curled into his brooding eyes.

The sound of hooves beating on the loamy ground made them all look up. Carly was returning with Silver. When they stopped, she slouched in the saddle and pouted.

“Mum said I had to come back.”

Shelly was, by now becoming impatient with the delays. “We are going to get this photoshoot out of the way before the sun goes down if it kills me.”

The air was already chilly, despite the sun flickering variable patches of light through the shifting trees.

Le Café Man took up his pose. The props person set up a small fire and then poured some coffee from a flask into a mug then handed it to Wayne, who took it.

“Get of the horse, Carly,” Jen snapped, every muscle tense and full of resentment toward the bearer of a truth she wanted to ignore but knew she could not.

There was no doubting the way Wayne’s eyes kept sliding away from hers whenever she looked to him for reassurance their relationship continued to be strong.

The little fire added a cheerfulness that no-one felt as they stonily went about their work.

The props person put the stand over the fire then looped the billy handle over the arm that rested in the two upright forks.

He stood back and admired his work, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Looks pretty good.” He looked at Jen who was talking to the camera operator. “I thought we could have saved ourselves this bother by adding it in post.”

“No, I was after authenticity here,” Jen snapped sending Wayne a sharp angry look…. “Make up for the lack of it in other places.”

 

Overhearing, Wayne laughed and leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees so that the tassels of his cowboy jacket draped over his legs. He took a long drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt in the direction of Silver. The horse jumped away, his hindquarters rising in small buck.

Carly yelled. “Dad, you can’t do that to Silver.” She soothed the animal with strokes along his neck. Silver pulled away, his nostrils flaring and his hooves kicking up the sandy ground.

Smoke rose from where the butt had landed.

“You better watch or you’ll set the forest on fire,” Shelly stamped at the flames with her Birkenstocks.

 

Shelly shot a quick look at Jen whose eyes had lowered in a quick scowl. Shelly felt a pang of pity and put an arm around her.

“He’s not worth it Jen. Truly.”

Quick tears filled Jen’s eyes. “Maybe,” she sniffed.

Silver’s nostrils flared as he blew out of them, sending out a grumbly riff. To hide her tears, Jen ran her hands over the black blaze between Silver’s eyes. As if sensing she needed comforting Silver muzzled into Jen, his eyes half closing and head nodding. Shelly glowered at Wayne.

 

As if sensing Jen’s eyes on him, Wayne looked up and was shocked by their chilliness. He looked away, pinching his lips together and lighting a cigarette.

Shelly gently stroked Jen’s arm. She had tried to warn her. However, Wayne had waved his credit card and that was all it took to get her where he wanted her.

Shelly shook her finger at Wayne.

“You know smoking is forbidden in here, Wayne.” As if he had not heard her, Wayne sucked on his cigarette and blew the smoke out towards her. Shelly turned to Jen. “I don’t know how you could stand being kissed by that breath, anyway.”

“I won’t be any more.”

She hugged herself miserably.

Shelly patted Jen on the shoulder.

“He’s not worth it.”

Jen covered her face with her hand and looked away. He might not be worth it but her heart was still breaking. She just wanted to get away.

 

Mack stood and stretched, groaning.

He loudly sucked in air and blew it out, “My dad died of lung cancer,” he announced.

“God,” Wayne snorted as he impatiently flicked his butt into the sand and screwed it in with the heel of his boot.

“Yeah, well it sounded pretty awful when he was gasping for air too.”

He carefully hooked the microphone under Wayne’s shirt.

“Sound of Dad’s rattling lungs…never forget that…bloody terrible,” he said.

Wayne’s handsome face tightly screwed up and a curl fell over his forehead.

“You sound like the some dark prophet of doom. Shut up!” Wayne shouted.

The breeze gently tugged at Max’s denim three quarter pants and goose bumps formed on the skin that showed. His Nike’s made little dust storms as he shifted in the dirt and held the microphone to Wayne’s chest. As if in terrible pain, he scrunched his body up. ‘I can hear your lungs begging, please, fresh air….give me more fresh air.”

“Who the hell is this guy?”

“The best in the business.”

“Yep, I know but he’s also a preachy little bugger.”

His sarcasm churned the air.

 

Wayne settled into position against the tree.

Jen pointed to Paul, the camera operator. ‘Frame up on a close up of the fire then widen out to a two shot, horse and Wayne.’

Wayne lazily stretched.

‘You know what Shelly it’d be great if I could drink real coffee,’ he looked at the jar set beside the fire. ‘Not that instant muck. Give me the real thing any day.’

A set assistant added some dry grass to the fire and dark smoke spiralled up through the trees.

“It is the real thing,” Shelly retorted. “The Le Café real thing so ham it up…you’re the actor.” Silver tossed his head and snorted. Wayne shot the horse a venomous glare. ‘And I hate him….’ Silver stomped his foot as if he understood. ‘Smelly bloody thing.’

Silver neighed loudly, shook his mane and stamped his hoof again.

“Hey you, shut up about Silver,” Carly shouted stroking the horse’s neck and resting her head on it. “He’s handsomer than you.”

Wayne shook his finger at her. “You watch it young lady.”

“I think she’s right,” Shelly said.

Jen had drifted off with her phone to her ear. She was in an intense conversation with someone.

It was some time before she came back.

“You do know who pays your salary?” he growled.

Jen shrugged. “At the moment, I couldn’t care less.”

She took up her position beside the camera operator. Wayne scowled at her back. Curls of smoke drifted upward. The breeze caught the smoke and fanned it over Wayne who started to cough.

“Bring Silver over,” Jen called.

Carly positioned Silver just behind Wayne.

Wayne screwed up his nose.

‘Yep, perfect,’ Jen said. ‘Hold him there.’

Silver shook his mane and his bridled jangled. Wayne flinched away as if afraid he could be hit by a loose piece of leather or metal.

“Dad you’re such a whimp.” Carly mocked.

The camera operator settled his eye over the view finder and waited…

‘Come on Wayne get into character.’

Silver’s tail whipped across Wayne’s face. “Jesus, that hurt.”

The make up artist raced over with her kit and smeared foundation over his cheek where premature red veins had begun to show his age.

Silver turned and settled with his back hoof up, resting.

Carly gave a derisive laugh. ‘You know Silver never kicks.’

A frown perched on Jen’s forehead, sending tracks from one eyebrow to the other and she tugged at her pony tail so that it bounced of her shoulders.

She pointed at the fire with its flickering flames. ‘That’ll be out before we’ve got a thing done. Grow up Wayne and bloody behave like an adult.”

Jen was furious. Over the last hour she had begun to realise what a fool Wayne had her for. She wanted to go up and kick him but knew that was unwise.

Subdued by her tone everyone settled into place. Carly led Silver back to position and the props manager handed Wayne a cup of coffee. He took a sip in exaggerated slow motion, then cupping his hands around the mug looked into the camera.

“Silence.” Everything became still. ‘Roll camera and cue action,’ Jen called

“When a man is out in the rough country, bringing in the sheep…”

The sound of Silver rattling his bridle drowned out Wayne’s next words.

“Carly, shut that animal up will you.”

“Cut,” Jen shouted, exasperated.

The lash of Silver’s tail flicking at a fly rode under Jen’s mumbling.

Of his own volition Silver moved into shot and rested his muzzle on Wayne’s shoulder.

Wayne jerked away spilling coffee over his front and making him leap to his feet holding his jeans away from him. Silver bounded away sending cascades of mud flying through the air. “Dad, he’s an expensive horse you know,’ she screamed racing after the disappearing Silver.

‘So are my family jewels,’ Wayne snapped.

Shelly was desperate.

‘Can’t you guys get it together,’ she screamed.

The fire had gone out and the props assistant was re-setting it. Carly returned, holding Silver by his reins and stroking his neck. Silver’s nostrils flared as she led him back into position. Carly gave Silver a handful of feed.

“Put a sedative in it,” Wayne suggested.

“Dad, Carly admonished.

Shelly whispered to Jen. “I think he needs the sedative.”

As he got closer to Wayne, Silver planted his hooves in the ground.

‘Come on Silver.’

Carly’s voice was strained and impatient as she hauled the horse into place. Wayne tightened his belt around his clean jeans and sat again. After much coaxing Carly settled Silver and it looked as though shooting could resume.

 

Wayne nursed a mug of coffee and the billy was on the fire just in front of him. A cloud came over the sun and the camera operators ran about adjusting lights. Behind them the generator hummed. But Silver was still jittery. So was Wayne. Every time the horse got closer he tensed and if he twitched the horse leapt away, eyes wild. Wayne became very still. The set became still. The fire cracked into the silence., little spats of sound.

‘Roll camera,’ Jen called.

Wayne looked off to the side, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful.

‘When a man is out in rough country, bringing in the cattle after a long hard winter….’

A wind machine howled and hoses poured rain. Wayne took a long drink from his tin mug.

“….a man needs a great cup of coffee.’

‘Cut.’

‘Thank God,’ Shelly cried, her frustration coming out in one spurting expletive.

Wayne spat the coffee out onto the ground. At the sound of the liquid hitting the soil, Silver leapt away.

“Jesus, get that animal out of my sight,” Wayne growled.

Shelly kicked the fire dead with her boots and the firemen ensured no sparks remained.

With coldly deliberate strides Jen walked up to Wayne and flung a piece of paper at him.

“This is my resignation, to take effect from today. I’ve been offered a job with Hutchins Films and I’ve accepted it.”

Wayne’s mouth dropped open.

 

The sun was out again but the wind was buffeting the trees, making them cast odd shadows over the set. As they packed up a woman’s form ducked around the trees, first shadow, then an outline then a recognisable form. Carly leaned into Silver and watched her progress. Shelly was replacing her birkenstocks with high heels. Jen was making sure the area was as they had found it.

Wayne, still sitting on the tree trunk, fixed alarmed eyes on the woman as if she was an apparition. The bulging black bag she carried added to the impression. Her blonde streaked black hair flew wildly from under the hood of her black jacket.

Wayne started to stand.

“No, you just stay right there,” she ordered. Her eyes wildly taking in the scene. Wayne obediently sat, his eyes fixed on her.

She lifted the bag. Horse dung tumbled over him leaving behind bits clinging to his hair and clothes. Wayne brushed at his jacket, his face screwed up in disgust,

“I know all about your various horses.” She faced Jen and sneered. “You think I don’t know.” She flung a piece of dung at Jen who dodged the missile. “You’re welcome to him.”

“I don’t want him,” Jen replied.

“Well, that’s sensible,’ the woman muttered then sneered at Wayne. “Looks like you’re on your own buddy.” She gave a half smile then caught Shelly’s eye. They gave each other the thumbs up.

Wayne saw. “Hey, what’s going on?” he demanded.

No-one answered. Silver flicked his head.

 

 

 

 

 

A silent word in your ear as you write

Lessons we learn as we write | The Story Mint

Lessons we learn as we write

 

Submitted by Suraya Dewing on Wednesday 5 August 2015

I am enjoying working with our writers from India. There are many reasons for this. I remember how I was when I started…when I thought writing was easy, until I tried to give it to other people to read and they told me truthfully, what they thought of it.

I recall some very painful moments throughout that process. But they were turning points. They made me work on my writing until I feel confident that what I write is worth reading.

There is only one-way to describe the way I feel about my novel that is about to come out….incredibly proud. My description of the process that got me to this point is dogged determination. I refused to allow myself to give up when people sneered at what I wrote or when they ignored it. In fact, the silences were worse than the sneering because few of us like to be told something is not good. However, silence is worse because you imagine what people are not saying. It might be way off base but I can assure you the imagination knows how to magnify the worst many times over.

So now, we are preparing to send ‘Bend with the Wind’ out to reviewers. I know there will be some who disagree with my argument, with the thesis I present. That will not trouble me at all. While I have a perspective, it won’t necessarily be other people’s. However, I know I have worked hard to get the facts right and to tell the story in a compelling way. I know there will be critics out there and that is fine. What matters is how I feel about the work and I am very comfortable with it.

That is what separates this experience from past times. I have always known in my heart of hearts, I could have done a better job, that my writing was stilted and that my proof reading left a lot to be desired.

So why am I enjoying working with our new writers so much? I love their commitment and determination to keep working at their craft and I feel honoured to be part of that process. It also reminds me of how far I have come and that doesn’t hurt.

Here are some tips I am getting to discover as I work with them.

The names we give our characters tells the reader something about them. What do we think a person with the name Scarlet might be like? How about Sarah?
The other thing I often do is give people a list of questions to ask themselves as they write. These questions are my five ‘w’ questions and one ‘h’ question:

What?
Why?
Who?
When?
Where?
How?

I often use these when I get stuck in a story.

If a character has done something, like drink himself into a stupor, telling the story of how he got to that point and where he might go from there is resolved as the writer answers these questions. ‘What’ also prompts the writer to answer various questions around appearance and actions. ‘Who’ also should prompt the writer to dig deeper into the character’s personality and bring out characteristics that explain his or her behaviour. It should also mean that the people around this main character also have believable and recognisable qualities.

At every point in our lives, we have a back-story. This back-story shapes us as we move through life. So every writer can hint at that story without giving vast amounts of detail. That back-story will explain the kinds of relationships the character forms and the kinds of things he or she does.

Mastery of story is all about giving a character a full, three-dimensional personality and presence on the page, one that is believable and can even explain why someone has drunk himself into a stupor and lies passed out on the street. It did not just happen. Things occurred that led to that moment and at any time, that same character can have an epiphany and change direction.

It happens all the time.

 

I wish all our writers the very best. They are wonderful people. They write well and they are discovering that the skills they master as storytellers also will prove invaluable whenever they write non-fiction. Writing well is all about detail, anticipating the reader’s questions and answering them.

Isia re-published

California Times Publishing have re-published Isia’s Secret. It will be available next week on their Amazon page. Thank you for your support.

She said – or is that Carrots

New post on Rosie Amber


















Wednesday Wing…..Dialogue, he said she said #wwwblogs #WriterTips

by Rosie Amber

Welcome to my new feature called Wednesday Wing where I’ll be passing on

observations, tips and information to readers I’ve made a note of.

Today I’m passing on a basic tip about dialogue.

For many of you I’ll be talking to the converted BUT with self-publishing there are many books for sale which DO have areas which need improving.

Years ago when I read a book, the dialogue style never bothered me. NOW IT DOES, because I read a book with a different mind-set. Now I’m reading it for it’s entertainment value for myself and others. Writing is always evolving and is now a very competitive marketplace. Rules many adults learnt in school as children have changed and serious writers need to be aware of how dialogue can affect the flow of their storyline.

Dialogue followed by he/she said or he/she asked or the character’s name said/ asked etc for me labels the book as a “NOVICE or EARLY STAGE” piece of writing. A book may be the result of many drafts but if it still contains these basic words in excess, then I feel the book would benefit from more work before publication.

Along with the words mentioned above I’m likely to see several others which will rob me of a great read. Rayne Hall has a much larger comprehensive list of “Novice Beginner words” which she talks about in her books The Word Loss Diet and Why does My book Not sell

If your book has he/she turned to look at…

He / she nodded slowly

SIGH, whisper, really or nice

Then you are letting down the reader and letting yourself down. There is a whole wealth of wonderful words and ways of expressing them to make your writing come alive for all the senses of the reader.

So what can you be using instead? Here is an easy example.

“I’ll have a pound of carrots,” said Mary, jabbing her finger at the pile on display.

This could easily be; “I’ll have a pound of carrots.” Mary jabbed her finger at the mountain of orange vegetables.

Which one do you prefer and why?

Have a go yourself, try improving on the example above or open a book, choose a sentence and re-write it to improve it.

Rosie Amber | August 5, 2015 at 8:03 am | Tags: Wednesday Wing | Categories: Fun things | URL: http://wp.me/p2Eu3u-87T

Changing Places

Chapter One

 

Written by: Vatsal Shah

As I sat idly at the Muriwai beach watching the sunset, with waves gently caressing my feet, I drifted into a reverie. By the way, I am Sarah. I guess I haven’t mentioned that before. I gazed at the sea, the tumbling waves bringing in memories. In my mind’s eye, I saw the large fruit orchards at Cromwell. My father had fruit farms there, and I spent my childhood in that lovely panoramic area, cycling around the scenic Lake Dunstan. The countryside was all clouds above and the endlessly lonely highway below.

I had heard my grandfather had a flourishing wool export business, which he set up in the boom of 1950’s. He was later duped by his partner, causing him loss of money, confidence and early retirement. My father courageously diversified into fruit farming.

——

To avenge my family’s ill-fate, I decided to study hard and become something, but ended up becoming a professional hacker. I keep this a secret for my own security. The Intelligence Bureau usually employed me to hack accounts belonging to terrorist organizations around the world. A tough job but extremely well paid. I told people that I worked for a Global IT company solving encryption codes and data storage problems.

I was just a little bit apprehensive when Mario offered me such an easy job, way below my Linked In profile which was put up as a front. I suspiciously mused he knew my hacker identity in some way and this could be very risky.

Anyway, I met Mario at his office in the Central Business District of Auckland. Mario was drop dead gorgeous with sharp striking features, a strong, dimpled chin, glowing skin. I thought I could fall in love all over again and could do anything for this man with deep brown eyes and easy smile. He was also very polite. I like a man with manners.

My work started. I kept it part-time, three days a week, it being far from my residence. Things seemed to be getting on well. It paid well compared to the hours I had to put in at my other job. It was nearing a month. I was working late in the office that day, around 8:30 pm, when Mario came up behind me and put his hands on the back of my chair.

“Care for a drink at the CBD? They serve excellent Pina Colada.” Mario asked me casually. I was not one to easily let go of this opportunity to get to know him better.

We had a couple of drinks at the pub. It was then Mario whispered in a low husky voice, “Sarah, you must be wondering how I searched you out and why I gave you this job. I am the grandson of your grand-father’s ex-partner.”

It was precisely at that moment my mobile rang. The screen flashed “Private Number”. I excused myself and moved out of ear-shot. A voice at the other end said, “Mario knows your identity. Beware!”

Comments

Submitted by Ray Stone on Tue, 2015-08-04 12:55

Now this is an excellent piece Vatsal. I love the opening casual introduction to the narrator – so natural. Then the slow build up description that lets us see the girl and what she is about. Finally we get to the introduction of the bad boy? (maybe) and the cliffhanger at the end. Lovely, lovely solid build up. This will be a hard act to follow and has my vote already as a great chapter. Well written, Vatsal. More please.

 

Want to start at the beginning?  http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/changing-places