I nearly forgot to post about St David’s Day being celebrated today, since it is also Juanita’s birthday. We’ve had some of my wife’s family around, so I’m posting a link to a previous post:
Dydd Gŵyl Dewi Sant
Author Archives: Roland Clarke
Ukraine Twelve Years On
Four years ago, on this day, February 24th, in 2022, Russia began its bloody invasion of Ukraine. But it wasn’t the start of the illegal attempt to conquer Ukraine. That was 12 years ago, when their green men occupied Crimea from February to March 2014.
Yet Putin’s so-called ‘special military operation’ failed in its three-day plan to seize Kyiv and impose a puppet government in Ukraine. Even after four years of a costly and genocidal war, especially in terms of lives, Russia occupies at most 20% of Ukraine. Despite Trump saying he would resolve the war in 24 hours, a year of peace negotiations has achieved almost nothing, except the release of prisoners on both sides.
Putin’s maximalist demands for peace, which basically mean the subjugation of Ukraine, have never changed over the years of the bloodiest European war since the Second World War. On January 11th, 2026, the Russians had been fighting the Ukrainians for longer than the Soviet Union’s Red Army fought against Nazi Germany.
Territory is the stumbling block in the negotiations, specifically, the 30% of the Donbas which Ukraine controls. They’re reluctant to give up this area because some of their most hardened defences, their fortress cities, are in that territory. Even acceptable security guarantees, which Russia is unlikely to accept, might not be enough. Past treaties have not saved Ukraine, since Russia has repeatedly broken its word and the West has done nothing. Until 2022, stunning Putin.
Furthermore, millions of Ukrainians live in this territory. Unable to defend themselves, their freedom, their property, their lives, their children, and their belongings. Russian occupation has already proved unspeakable. From loss of identity, through rape and torture, to disappearance and death.
We must not abandon the human angle in the negotiations, in the struggle for a just peace.
Russia’s demands have been impossible for Ukraine to accept, especially over the Donbas. Others have assessed this four-year war far better than I have. Watch or read these contributions. Especially the NATO commemoration speeches and the DW News interviews.
KEY LINKS
NATO commemorates the fourth anniversary of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine 🇺🇦, 24 FEB 2026: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pi51Po8T9rI
Can Russia keep up its war effort indefinitely? | DW News: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O1-MGOaTl_4
How Putin’s 3-day war became 4-year bloodbath | How We Got Here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QhN2RSZPB0https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QhN2RSZPB0
Ukraine Four Years On: What’s Next for European Security?: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4XkQOWE59bg
4 years into Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, a look at the war by the numbers: https://www.pbs.org/newshour/world/4-years-into-russias-invasion-of-ukraine-a-look-at-the-war-by-the-numbers
2022 Russian invasion of Ukraine: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2022_Russian_invasion_of_Ukraine#
**
Slava Ukraini
Heroiam slava!
Serialise or Submit? My Recurring Dilemma.
Apologies for the delay in posting anything. Health issues, so the doctor upped a medicine, and now pain has been replaced by drowsiness. So, posting this has been difficult.
I was intending to post the next part of Fevered Fuse, but I began to wonder what effect that would have on my publishing rights. Although I’m posting on my own website, it seems a publisher is likely to consider that excerpt too long and therefore ‘published’. That means I’ve given up my First Publication Rights.
Or have I?
I’ve already posted 13,000 words, which is about 18% of the novel’s total word count. The percentage some say might be acceptable is 5-10%, which I’ve exceeded already. However, although I have over 900 subscribers, the most ‘Likes’ I’ve received is 8, which is 0.9%. So, surely posting Fevered Fuse chapters has yet to dent future sales.
Nevertheless, before the novel is submitted, it would be advisable to change anything I post online, or instead I could explain in my submission letter that few people read those chapters.
Unless I switch focus onto revising Fates Maelstrom, which follows in chronological order from Fevered Fuse in the Snowdon Shadows series, and which one beta reader felt had a stronger opening in the first three chapters, so far.
I realise I decided to serialise after the responses to my January IWSG post, though I didn’t fully understand the consequences. Does anybody have any further comments?
Do my eight plus faithful readers want me to continue the serialisation of Fevered Fuse? An alternative is that I send a copy of the current draft to anyone as if they were beta readers. If you would like that, post a request with your email address in the Contact section.
The following are the posts I referred to, although opinions vary on the pros and cons:
Posting Writing Online Is Dangerous If You Post Too Much: https://kidlit.com/post-writing-online/
Let’s Address a Common Misunderstanding About Author Websites: https://writerunboxed.com/2016/02/22/author-websites/
Stop Being Afraid of Posting Your Work Online *: http://writerunboxed.com/2010/04/23/stop-being-afraid-of-posting-your-work-online/
What Writers Should Know about Copyright: https://www.copyright.gov/engage/writers/
Is it a Good Idea to Post Chapters of Your Novel On-Line to Build Your Platform?: https://authorkristenlamb.com/2010/04/is-it-a-good-idea-to-post-chapters-of-your-novel-on-line-to-build-a-following/
Should You Post Your Novel Online for Free?: https://www.writersdigest.com/questions-and-quandaries/should-you-post-your-novel-online-for-free
Posting Writing Online: https://www.goodstorycompany.com/blog/posting-writing-online
**
Please note that I continue to follow events in Ukraine daily. I am trying to work on Episode 49 of Freedom Flights, set in September 2025.
Slava Ukraini
Heroiam slava!
Fevered Fuse * Serialised * Chapters Seven & Eight.
Having posted the conclusion to Chapter Six of Fevered Fuse, there were a few invaluable revelations for Sparkle to move her life forward. The next two chapters lead to another impactful memory, long as originally written as a short story.
Here is a recap of previous events.
RECAP: After a strange text message draws a young woman to a bar, she is knocked off her motorbike as she answers her phone, saying, “Sparkle Anwyl”. A flashback to an earlier motorcycle accident confuses Sparkle when she wakes up at her family’s sheep farm. Amnesia has blotted out her occupation and the identity of her husband. She swims and sleeps to remember. Memories of an old lesbian relationship and an early case as a uniform police officer hint at her realising she had a ‘detective lover’.
If you wish to know more, there are links to the previous Fevered Fuse chapters that can be found via my updated Snowdon Shadows page on the left-hand sidebar.
Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.
#
FEVERED FUSE
Chapter Seven
Detective Anwyl
Saturday 2nd April 2016
Jackdaws caw and sheep bleat.
Blossom scents on the cool breeze. Home cooking tempts me as the jigsaw of shattered images takes form.
I’m a detective. My dying tad said, ‘CID is your logical way forward.’ Our war is against crime.
The visitors are downstairs. The 5 feet 8 inches grey-haired woman speaks Welsh fluently – unlike my English doctor. Fifties and warmly formidable. She must be my boss.
Dressed and head focused, I greet her.
“DCI Baines in person. Whom my tad called ‘the best detective NWP has.’ And I’m allowed to call you Ffion, even on duty in Porthmadog.”
She laughs and touches my shoulder. “Some might disagree and claim another detective is the best. You remember more than you told Robyn. Are you keeping secrets?”
I look at the doctor and motion to the breakfast table. Mam is already producing a full breakfast – eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, cockles, and laver bread, of course. Welsh plus.
“My head still has a few. Sleep helps. And your arrival triggered memories of my tad encouraging me into CID. Joining your team.”
Mam produces Ffion’s mint tea and my black coffee.
Robyn insists on tea diluted with milk. No sugar. Wife or medical sense?
“And no traumatic nightmares?” asks Ffion.
Lurking but not clear. “Convicted. Well, the school bully leader who got arrested – before I stopped being uniform. But I suspect Cadell Pryce is free – his sentence should be up. Or has he re-offended? No. Somehow, I sense he’s out there.”
“And you feel threatened? In reality or your head?”
Reparation paid. Maybe a clue, but no more.
“Revenge is over both ways. I’m moving on. One memory at a time – like a jigsaw puzzle.”
But there are mislaid pieces. A stray number – meaningless. My mind has buried secrets – like my husband. Except my grandparents walk in. Their expressions last night are a warning – don’t go there yet. Outside? Sidestep one issue. Feel for the piece at the centre.
“The most recent accident left me superficially bruised. So, I was wearing protection like motorcycle leathers and a helmet. But still bad enough to cause amnesia.”
I watch for reactions. Clues to the incident. Ffion remains silent, but the doctor has his excuse to display his knowledge.
“Your accident caused structural damage to the brain, a traumatic brain injury like a cricketer being hit by a ball. Your motorcycle helmet protected you from an external force and more serious injury.”
Tick – motorbike accident, hence the echo from my accident in 2011.
“Why the fragments? Isn’t post-traumatic amnesia immediate and concentrated on the incident – and, yes, that’s a blank.”
“I began my evaluation by performing a complete medical history. North Wales Police have detailed files, so your 2011 injuries were recorded. Yes, back then your doctor suspected concussion.”
Ffion and mam glance at each other, then me. I read their minds.
“Repeated concussion could be a factor. Yet my memories are returning. Can the brain reroute its way around damaged areas?”
Robyn hesitates, toying with his food. I give him time to think and eat some cockles, savouring the shellfish.
“I’d be remiss to lie. Studies suggest the brain repairs itself from one concussion, but from multiple concussions, depending on the severity of the injury, you could have mild … impairment, consisting of deficits in memory and concentration later in life. But by all accounts, your mind is unusual.”
“DC Anwyl – Sparkle is talented with brain puzzlers. The holes will vanish. I’m convinced of that.”
Ffion’s belief in me is uplifting and reassuring.
“So, if you all keep jogging my memory by exposing me to significant articles from my past, that should speed the rate of recall. Correct?”
Robyn nods and relaxes by spiking a mushroom.
“Wearing a helmet, both times, was crucial, so I agree that recovery is likely. Plus, I did a physical examination for traumatic brain injury, also known as post-traumatic amnesia, and I ran various diagnostic tests, such as neuroimaging, electroencephalograms and blood tests. Your symptoms tally with retrograde amnesia – the loss of memories that were formed shortly before the injury. Clearly, you have ‘holes’ in your episodic memory activity that match the damage to the hippocampus.”
Hippo as in Africa or as in Horses. The wrong trigger or a clue?
“My older memories seem clearest and more easily accessible than events occurring just prior to the trauma. But there are still gaps. And the events nearest in time to the incident that caused the memory loss may never be recovered.” I hesitate. Shivers of fear about what I have lost – who I’ve lost.
Gwawr signs, “Chill. Focus.” Reassuring. She switches to spoken words – careful and deliberate. “The neural pathways of newer memories are not as strong … as older ones that have been strengthened by years of retrieval and re-consolidation. Are the repressed holes memories?” She looks at me, then the doctor. Someone has been doing her research, as usual.
Robyn ensures that he faces her, so his lips are visible. “Impressive question. Yes, that is possible as dissociative amnesia is selective. It can be temporary, and memory may return once the stressors are removed. Sparkle, your sister is correct. If memories have been buried in the past, then those repressed memories will take time to emerge.”
Buried by what? Who was my secret lover? Not Bran, so who? My ring finger is a clue. I’m married or was. My memory of Nerys and Bran’s affair threw up suggestions that stirred thoughts about ‘my detective lover.’ One that tad didn’t suspect. Did Ffion ever know?
Why is it buried? Not just concussion.
I push my seat back and stand. “Sorry, I need to swim. It cools my mind – helps. Then we can continue – outside.”
##
Chapter Seven = 967 words
Chapter Eight
Voice of Reason
Saturday 2nd April 2016
Ffion and Robyn are sitting on a rock with Gwawr, waiting for me to re-engage with reality after my swim. My boss is dabbling a hand in the lake.
My sister slips into the water as I climb out, then signs. “Knew you wanted to be alone with your memories.”
“Usually, but you help. Enjoy your swim.”
It is harder than I expected to face the truth. The jigsaw is still fractured. I mustn’t jump to conclusions. But Bran was my cover. How much did my family know?
Ffion hands me my towel. “Any clearer after diving into this cold water?”
What does she know?
“More like questions that could be progress. Questions about – relationships. I suspect keeping them apart from work might have locked some of that away.”
“Any clue what? Interacting with colleagues has never been a problem, most of the time. Although you’re a valuable team player.”
But her face says, not always. And it reminds me of nain and taid ignoring me. Except in my memory, my grandparents warned me away from same-sex relationships.
“There was an incident at school – before I joined the police. Nothing illegal, except in some people’s eyes.”
Realisation floods her face and Robyn’s. He intervenes.
“I’ve seen nothing that would affect your job. Even your tattoos are more strictly regulated. So, it’s unlikely that your relationship is connected to the accident.”
I twine my fingers together.
Ffion touches my arm. “Do you disagree? Have you remembered what your current case was? Or who you were assigned with?”
I close my eyes. Attempt to focus. Fleeting faces and names. Concussion has blocked their relevance and roles.
I shake my head. “I need another trigger – a recent case perhaps.” My bare ring finger tingles, as do my tattoos.
“Maybe if I were home.”
“Home isn’t here? Then where?” Ffion squeezes my hand. “What do you remember?”
“Black Rock Sands seems relevant – not just from an old uniform case. Swimming in the sea. And a relationship with another detective. Who? From my ring finger, I’d conclude we were engaged or married.”
“Correct deduction. Any names?”
Ffion smiles. She knows but won’t say. Male or female? Dead or alive?
“Only the ones of those it isn’t. They may not be police anymore. He may have been … killed in the line of duty.”
Robyn winces. What does he know? Was my husband a corpse he examined?
Not Robyn’s role. He’s a neurologist, not a coroner.
“Whatever happened, you made the right decisions, so don’t blame yourself.”
Does that mean I rejected ‘my leanings’ and conformed? Or that an investigation had consequences. Have I rejected what others called ‘strange tastes?’ Why can’t I remember?
Because the name is ‘locked in my heart’, and the concussion has sealed my mind tight.
“Until I remember more, I can’t blame anyone. I must find a trigger.”
The stray number in my head must be our phone – our landline.
“Ffion, I need to ring a number – now. Can I use your mobile, please?”
“As long as you don’t cheat and check anything else.” A wink reassures me.
“Copper’s honour I won’t. You can dial, and we can listen on speaker phone.”
I give her the numbers. “I think home must be this telephone number.”
The phone rings three times, and then we hear the recorded message.
“A is for Arson. C is for Cold Crimes. E is for Evidence. All these reasons are why we’re not here. So, use your intelligence.”
That voice – female, South Wales, the tone dark and sensual.
Shivers up my spine – warm and thrilling. My tattoos tingle.
The Voice of Reason – my partner.
I close my eyes. The dawn of our love returns.
##
https://www.giftswithheart.co.uk/product/cariad-triquetra-necklace-rose-gold
Cariad meaning: https://wtname.com/cariad/
Chapter Eight = 624 words
###
Chapter Seven & Eight = 1,591 words
Episode 48. Illegal Land Swaps.
Episode 48 of Freedom Flights is set in August 2025. Some events foreshadowed in this episode will take a few months to play out, while others may be resolved in the next episode. Some like the Alaska meeting between Trump & Putin are still making headlines. I have also continued to try writing each scene in 3rd-person limited POV.
I’m trying to foreshadow future incidents without making my characters react as if they know what will happen later in 2025… although they might fear what could happen. Also, I want each episode to focus on just a few RL incidents from a specific month, along with character and squadron development.
Therefore, until a just and lasting peace for Ukraine is achieved and rebuilding begins, I will continue writing more episodes. Perhaps after that, I can finish writing the pre-2022 growth of the Chayka Family and Chayka Air, their aviation business based in Canada.
We must never forget the brave people fighting for freedom, with too many losing their lives. Let’s pray Western aid and weapons continue to reach Ukraine, despite unexpected interruptions. Assistance must arrive on time to change their fortunes and prepare for the genuine peace that must come soon.
Links to the previous episodes can be found on my Freedom Flights page via the left-hand sidebar.
**
Episode 48. Illegal Land Swaps.
2025
Sunday, August 3rd – Zvenigora Restaurant, Dęblin, Lublin Voivodeship, Poland
Glancing around, Adelita Palomo realised she was arriving early with Joëlle Vanaga, her co-pilot, at the Zvenigora for the special gathering.
Agnieszka Shevchuk greeted them and led them to the long table at the back.
“Good to see you, Adelita. Must have been at least 6 months since you flew to Ukraine. Hope my niece is keeping up the family tradition.”
“Mariyka and Sergei look after the Witches at Chayka Field in true Zvenigora style. It’s good, though, to be back here… and see new faces.”
“It’s amazing how quickly the University’s new cadets make this home. However, your squadron is the other regular client… especially tonight. As the first to arrive, you can choose your seats. Just leave the head.
As they sat, two more guests joined them…. the journalists, Jane Wetherby and Carita Forsström.
“We thought we’d be the last,” said Jane, choosing two chairs opposite, as Carita added, “The train from Warsaw was held up by some terrorist scare.”
“Were you both covering Friday’s UN meeting in New York?” asked Joëlle.
“That’s where we met up,” replied Jane. “Then together we flew into Warsaw Chopin Airport overnight.”
The other participants began to arrive. With so many cadets and recruits in the restaurant, the arrival of Commandant Raphaëlle Balode and other officers prompted many of the younger and newer students to leap to attention and salute.
“We appreciate the display of respect,” said Raphaëlle. “But we’re all off duty this evening, so sit back down and enjoy your meal.”
Once the Witches were seated and had ordered food, Raphaëlle glanced around the group, then invited Jane to report on the U.N. meeting.
“As we all expected, Ukraine called for an unconditional ceasefire to save the lives of civilians and the nation’s sovereignty. However, although most of the Council members deplored the growing violence, and the US, plus our European allies, pushed for a binding resolution that both sides end the conflict and a ceasefire be decreed by August 8th—”
“The undisputed aggressor’s delegates blocked the attempt,” added Carita. “They shifted the blame onto Ukraine, claiming Russia was fighting a war of national defence against us.”
“Demonstrating the flaw in trying to resolve a war when a permanent member is directly involved,” said Lidka Andrysiak. “And my own country… If I’m still a US citizen… is also a permanent member, but stands alongside Ukraine, for now.”
“When the same afternoon, Trump says he ordered ‘nuclear subs to be positioned in the appropriate regions’, after he’s provoked,” added her partner, Natalie Kuzmenko. “That’s provocation, not diplomacy. I wonder if he wants peace or a business deal?”
Mutterings of ‘dollars’, ‘resources’ and ‘art of the deal’ echoed around the table.
Raphaëlle agreed but needed to change emphasis.
“We can’t influence negotiations, although as a unique squadron of various nationalities, we can persuade others in our countries to support our fight.”
“As Conchita’s husband does,” said Adelita. “Although, as a journalist, he has the means. But we have a story to share, too.”
“And as fellow reporters, Jane and I can make suggestions,” said Carita.
Raphaëlle realised where this could lead.
“What we’re creating here is worth talking about… with care. Your effort goes to provide the means to stay ahead of Russia. Innovations that will need foreign investors to develop for use beyond this war.”
“Like the investor I talked with at the ‘Land of Engineers’ meeting in Uzhhorod yesterday,” said Cateline Ivanova. “He was interested in the Tryzub 90 trials and further developments.”
**
Sunday, August 10th – Revetments, Dęblin Military Air Base, Lublin Voivodeship, Poland
Chief maintainer Adjudant Léana Melnik and her diverse team of Québécois, French, Polish and Ukrainian mechanics were servicing the jets that had returned from their morning exercise.
Despite their different languages, they had found a way to communicate in pidgin Ukrainian, using words from their own languages and gestures. Except where a single language could be spoken, this had become the norm within the squadron.
Léana noticed that Dasha Isakova was understanding as they worked on the liberated Sukhoi Su-30SM.
“Are we bastardising Ukrainian or inventing a new language?” asked Léana. “At least my Quebec French evolved alongside your French.”
“Somewhat like the Ukrainian spoken by some of your Canadian colleagues,” replied Dasha, noticing the arrival of the Echeverría twins. “I expect our Colombian sisters speak a variation of Spanish… if we ask them.”
When Tamya and Killa were in earshot, Léana asked them.
“Is Colombian Spanish easily understood by Spaniards?”
The twins chuckled.
“Depends on which dialect,’ replied Tamya. “Some say Colombia has eleven.”
“So, not all of us speak the same way,” added Killa. “We speak the Paisa dialect, which is spoken in the Colombian coffee production areas.”
“Some say it’s an archaic form of Castilian Spanish, so more Spaniards can comprehend us,” said Tamya. “The six in the squadron all understand our dialect well.”
Léana gestured to the other mechanics, indicating a mug and saying, “café”. Ready for a break, the group headed off to the canteen, joined by Tamya’s friend Illya Borysov and Killa’s partner, Alojzy Ryba, with his daughter Dżesika.
*
When Léana heard the twins talking Spanish to their three Polish friends, she turned to Dasha.
“I’m impressed that those Poles understand and speak Spanish. Have any of our hosts tried to force their language on us?”
“Not in our squadron, but I have heard of some international brigades having problems,” replied Dasha. “Not all of them. But some Ukrainians treat them with disdain, accusing them of fighting for the money. Calling them mercenaries, not fighters for freedom.”
“I’ve even heard a few called intruders,” said Léana. “Yet they’re here fighting for Ukraine, and the people are grateful if the intentions are genuine.”
Dasha asked the group a question.
“Have any of you been discriminated against for fighting on behalf of Ukraine?”
Everyone shook their heads.
“Only by the Russians,” said Adelita, coming into the canteen for Dasha’s question. “I presume you don’t mean Russians who are working with us.”
She earned laughter and a round of applause.
“Raphaëlle Balode asked me to gauge your reaction to Trump’s suggestion that a potential peace deal could involve ‘some swapping of territories’. Do you agree Zelenskyy was right to reject Trump’s territory-swap peace deal with Russia?”
The vocal response was clearly in favour of Zelenskyy’s response.
“Ukraine will never give up its land,” said a Ukrainian maintainer. “Not when so many people have sacrificed their lives for it. And the Donbas has some of our most valuable fortress cities.”
“As one of Ukraine’s neighbours, I believe we all must do everything we can to help those fighting for freedom,” said Alojzy Ryba. Especially those with the power to act like President Trump. He could make Putin pay severe financial penalties for his illegal war, with secondary sanctions and by seizing Russia’s $5 billion assets at the Federal Reserve and send that to Ukraine. That wouldn’t even cost U.S. taxpayers anything.”
“Yet while foreign fighters join the struggle for no gain other than integrity,” said Killa. “Trump’s treating this as a business opportunity.”
“If he really cared about the dead, injured, and dying,” added Tamya. “He could do more. How much longer will he waver, letting Putin devastate Ukraine?”
Léana feared the Colombian pilots were correct.
“That’s probably why Zelensky has dismissed the scheduled Trump-Putin summit on August 15th in Alaska,” she concluded. “He rightly believes the talks must include Kyiv. Otherwise, any decisions will never work.”
**
Thursday, August 21st – Mukachevo, Zakarpattia Oblast, Ukraine
Sergeant Corynn Amsel and the SARM 2 team watched the dark smoke clear from the Flextronics factory as the firefighters finished extinguishing the flames from the Russian missile attack.
“Let’s finish the search for survivors,” said Corynn, as a fire officer waved them forward. “I’m hoping the fire crews got everyone out who was threatened by the blaze.”
“Not easy given this factory’s size,” added Daniela Stasiuk, as her Dutch Shepherd, Rihi, began to search. “This US firm supposedly employs thousands.”
“Luckily, SARM 1 are starting further around the building,” said Aitana Salcedo, SARM 2’s medic. “And if there are serious injuries, Golf Griffin stayed to medevac them out.”
Corynn’s GSP, Rikke, and Daniella’s Rihi scoured the wrecked storage facility for access points. The ground was scattered with debris, but fortunately, every K9 now had protective boots. They soon found a safe entrance, so the team began their steady interior sweep.
A few hours later, the two teams had loaded three injured survivors onto the Griffon for medevac to the nearest hospital. Corynn and SARM 1’s leader, Aldona Jagoda, reported to the senior State Emergency Service officer and to Zakarpattia Oblast’s governor, Myroslav Biletskyi.
“Our medics were able to assist the SES medics with some of the injured. We’re flying the three most serious out for treatment.”
“I’m relieved that remarkably there were only fifteen injured,” said the SES officer, shaking his head. “And nobody from such a large workforce was killed. I suspect the Russians knew this was an American-owned manufacturer.”
“Which they’ll claim was a justified military target,” added Aldona.
“Except the plant was producing consumer electronics,” said the governor.
**
Thursday, August 28th – Squadron Command Centre, Chayka Field, Volyn Oblast, Ukraine
Just after midnight, Majors Kalyna & Vasy Chayka had scrambled sixteen fighter jets to join the squadrons tackling the drones targeting the far-western regions of Ukraine, including Ternopil, Lviv, and Ivano-Frankivsk Oblasts.
“It’s going to be a long night,” said Vasy. “The Russians are sending wave after wave mixed with decoys.”
Captains Nadia Lysenko and Conchita Garcia had divided the helicopter battalion to assist the jets and respond to SAR emergencies, primarily in Kyiv.
“Our three Tigers are already assisting the three MiG-29 flights,” said Nadia. “Let’s hope our mobile maintainer teams can keep everything refuelled and rearmed.”
“Is the laser-armed KAI LAH-1 Miron helping?” asked Kalyna. “Presumably, you dispatched the Griffon and the Black Hawk to Kyiv.”
“The Miron is assisting Red Flight’s two F-16s in this sector,” replied Conchita. “We also asked Dęblin to send Sierra, their NH90, to Kyiv-”
“-Where this massive attack is centred,” said Kalyna. “Green Flight has already reported that their four Mirages are encountering drones and missiles. It’s the civilian being ruthlessly targeted, as usual.”
*
Darnytskyi Oblast, Kyiv, Ukraine
Havryil Tkachenko had never seen such devastation so close to home. Kyiv was being turned into rubble night by night. Tonight, there were hundreds of rescuers attempting to find survivors beneath the remains of a five-storey residential building. A direct hit had brought down all five levels of flats.
At least Havryil and his Springer Spaniel, Zorro, were part of a professional team within the massive rescue operation. SARM 4 and their Night Owl colleagues were methodical in their approach, backed up by a skilful support crew.
Zorro edged through a narrow gap in the rubble, which Isla Clacher’s German Shepherd, Kenina, had indicated, but was too large to investigate. When Zorro stopped and barked, Havryil waved over the rescuers to remove the debris.
“My K9 is behaving as if we have another survivor.”
However, a crane was needed to remove the heavy beam underneath the surface wreckage. Underneath was a cavity in which a woman crouched, clutching a young girl.
“My son is somewhere… close by.” Through her tears, she added, “Please find him. He’s just celebrated his fifth birthday.”
She refused to leave but allowed SARM 4’s medic, Alicja Dubicka, and another paramedic to treat her and her daughter’s injuries as she waited, praying.
Havryil feared the worst by Zorro’s inactive demeanour.
Eventually, the lifeless body of the distraught woman’s son was carried out of the wreckage. Her sorrow turned to anger.
“I curse the cowardly Russians who bomb our cities.” Her tears fell on her son’s face. Then, she held her daughter tighter, choking out, “We will never surrender.”
“Too many children have given their lives,” said Havryil, putting a comforting arm around the woman’s trembling body. “Trump and his so-called negotiators tell us to give away land for peace. Never.”
Zorro placed his muzzle against the girl.
*
Hours passed, and more missiles fell before daylight exposed the extent of the destruction to Kyiv.
Havryil was relieved that more survivors had been freed from the rubble, although many were injured and some were hospitalised. Chief Paramedic Osinniy ensured those assessed as critical by the Night Owls medics were medevaced out by helicopter.
Havryil heard that the city’s authorities reported at least 25 people were killed in the attack on the capital, including four children. The other three were aged 2, 14, and 17. More wasted lives for Putin’s greed.
Although the K9S, including Zorro, were exhausted, along with their handlers, the two vets hadn’t treated any serious injuries. Taisiya Martynyuk and Danylo Karpenko declared them all fit to fly back to base after a demanding SAR operation.
As he led Zorro to the waiting Black Hawk, Havryil recalled some words from President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, posted around midnight on X.
“…People may still be trapped under the rubble. Dozens are wounded. These Russian missiles and attack drones today are a clear response to everyone in the world who, for weeks and months, has been calling for a ceasefire and for real diplomacy. Russia chooses ballistics instead of the negotiating table. It chooses to continue killing instead of ending the war. And this means that Russia still does not fear the consequences. Russia still takes advantage of the fact that at least part of the world turns a blind eye to murdered children and seeks excuses for Putin…”
***
MPA – 2,275 words
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Slava Ukraini
Heroiam slava!
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HEADLINES
As Russian Federation Continues Brutal Attacks against Ukraine, Senior Official, Briefing Security Council, Urges Dialogue, Immediate Ceasefire. https://press.un.org/en/2025/sc16134.doc.htm
Why Colombian volunteers are joining war in Ukraine (January 28, 2026 7:11 pm): https://kyivindependent.com/why-colombian-volunteers-are-joining-war-in-ukraine/
Languages of Colombia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Languages_of_Colombia
Russian strikes kill one, wound 18 people in largest aerial attack of August. https://www.jpost.com/international/article-864880
‘Moscow’s true answer to peace efforts’ — Russian mass attack on Kyiv kills 19, including children (Updated: August 29, 2025 8:07 pm): https://kyivindependent.com/russia-drones-target-kyiv-ukrainian-cities-in-large-scale-attack/?mc_cid=dba4c96291&mc_eid=a6eae6af19
President Volodymyr Zelenskyy’s post on X, August 27, 2025: https://x.com/ZelenskyyUa/status/1960934028321685907?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw%7Ctwcamp%5Etweetembed%7Ctwterm%5E1960934028321685907%7Ctwgr%5Edb2b6391c8dc2828f20ad5224ecc69518a16e21f%7Ctwcon%5Es1_&ref_url=https%3A%2F%2Fkyivindependent.com%2Frussia-drones-target-kyiv-ukrainian-cities-in-large-scale-attack%2F
Fevered Fuse * Serialised * Chapter Six. Part 3.
Apologies for the delay in posting this conclusion to Chapter Six of Fevered Fuse. Here is a recap of previous events. To make sense of the characters mentioned in this chapter finale, please read at least Parts One & Two.
RECAP: After a strange text message draws a young woman to a bar, she is knocked off her motorbike as she answers her phone, saying, “Sparkle Anwyl”. A flashback to an earlier motorcycle accident confuses Sparkle when she wakes up at her family’s sheep farm. Amnesia has blotted out her occupation and the identity of her husband. She swims and sleeps to remember, waking to “persistent thuds” in her head… back in her memories of a past relationship.
If you wish to know more, there are links to the previous Fevered Fuse chapters that can be found via my updated Snowdon Shadows page on the left-hand sidebar.
Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.
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FEVERED FUSE
Chapter Six
Goth Patrol
PART 3
Sunday 22nd February 2015
As I sit at home waiting for Bran, my confusion grows.
Cadell wanted revenge. Lies feed that – even after the crime is solved.
What was Nerys’s alibi? What was her motive for helping me? Love?
A bell rings. The front door. Bran by the key turning in the lock. He steps in, grinning and carrying the tell-tale roses, champagne and chocolates. Still acting as the boyfriend even when he’s not the one. So, why the guilty act?
He hugs me, caressing my shoulders gently, fingers kneading my neck. His kiss is lingering, his tongue teasing. But it never means anything. It never has. Play-acting – the friend who wants more.
My mind lingers on the stupid gifts. Alarm bells.
“Put the roses in a vase, annwyl – the bubbly and chocs in the fridge. First, we celebrate my release—”
“A meal at our favourite restaurant?”
“Not yet.”
He scoops me up and carries me into the bedroom. I protest. My heart thumps against my chest. Mind flips. Unexpected. Wrong. It’s not this easy. It will never be with him. I have a lover.
He lays me on the bed, hands caressing me. Lifting my tee. Kisses like butterfly wings on my exposed stomach. Hunger is forgotten. Betrayed by desire.
This isn’t what I want. Bran has always tried too hard – ignoring my leanings. This man tries slow seduction. No frantic fumbling to remove my jeans. Hands find places he’d missed before. Tremors tempt my resolve. This is all wrong. Bran knows I won’t do this.
The wave of pleasure feels wonderful. My hands dance on his chest.
No. Wrong person. This can’t happen.
A feather-touch on my lips. Fingers exploring my face. Down, searching for hidden nipples.
I clutch my head. Blood pounding. Gasping for breath. My body wants this – needs him. Betraying me. Pull him closer. He smiles. Grins? Why?
He slips off my jeans. My body screams for him as fingers move down, drawing out buried secrets.
This must stop. My boundaries are being invaded. Why, when we had an agreement?
Don’t let him. He doesn’t stop. Just continues his fluttering exploration of my semi-naked body. Fingers tracing the edge of my sports bra.
My body betrays my resolve. Shivering. Squirming. Aroused.
My mind wants to fight – call this rape. But Bran is my mask. I can’t accuse him. I’ve encouraged him – want him. This feels wrong.
Thumbs massage my thighs – float teasingly together. Hovering touch of my damp knickers. Gentle, yet firm. Spiralling to the centre where—
Where only one person has the right to go.
But not the first.
Nerys Jernigan. She aroused me this way.
The shivers and tattoos tingling return. The out-of-tune violin screeches. I break away. Reality hits me. I perch on the bed.
Bran slinks beside me, kisses me again – lightly. Another passion-starved lover. And traces of an ashtray.
Adrenaline becomes Anger.
“What’s wrong, annwyl? You were enjoying that. We’ve pretended for too long. This time, I made all the right moves—”
“Ones that Nerys taught you. You slept with her – last night. And then you both seduce me. Why?”
He looks at me as if I’ve hurt him. He gapes innocently. “That’s crazy. I just realised I needed to be gentler – more responsive. Isn’t that why you have strange tastes?”
His eyes contradict the excuses.
“No. You mimic her caresses. The slut plotted with you. Her alibi. You left work early and rang me late. Pric pwdin. You stink of her. I’ve been so stupid. Why her?”
“You ask why, when you work 24/7, or your mind does.” He stands and points at the bed. “You want me to cover for you. What do I get? Nothing. I want sex too. This is the twenty-first century. Jeez, eff cripes. You’re such a hypocrite. You get sex when you want it. You fucked Nerys and then left her – and I covered for your betrayal. Payback is a bitch.”
I close my eyes and try to remember the real passion. It is there – but only with the right partner. Bran can never replace my real love. It’s impossible – despite my compromised resolve.
“You and Nerys deceived me. Did she set this up?”
“Not exactly. We slept together, twice, maybe three times. And it felt good. Isn’t that why you were lovers?”
Yes, I nearly let her seduce me today. But nothing happened.
“Yes, and we had to part. But I didn’t break a commitment to my partner – even if you both tried. Why?”
“Nerys was there when you weren’t. She had time for me and laughed with me. She proved my innocence. Yes, she was my alibi. But she dealt with Cadell. You just did your damn duty. Without Nerys, you would be tramping streets – or dead in the water.”
I fume at his naivety – and mine. And at the betrayal. They played me. But it ends here. I don’t need a fake boyfriend to threaten my life.
“It’s been…interesting…knowing you. I can’t judge all men by your deviousness, Bran – nor all women by Nerys’s lies. Yes. I slept with her, not you. But I’m glad our deception is over. We can’t trust you with our secret. Get out now – and leave the spare key and any copies you made.”
No scene. Bran grabs his clothes – plus the cheap champagne and chocolates for Nerys. He slinks out – no doubt to her.
Then the silence, broken by body-shaking tears. Frustration and confusion. My resolve was broken. I am the betrayer.
Where have I gone wrong? What clues did I miss? I recall the events that led to the empty room – the upended life. The deceptions that were forced on us.
The crime. Too focused on Crime.
Deaf – metaphorically. Gwawr is physically registered as deaf. Yet she hears with a deeper sense – a talent that I’ve yet to learn. A gifted person who hears more clearly than anyone else, using her heightened awareness and appreciation. Why haven’t I learnt to read the signs?
Meaningless letters jumble.
Blinkered by the crime.
Distracted by a simple burglary. By the spiteful bully and the false friend.
C was for Cadell and Crime.
And for Cheats. All the letters were there, but my mind games failed.
C for Cadell, H for Habits. E for Evidence. A for Accomplice. T for Timing. S for Suspect. CHEATS.
And N for Nerys. Ffwc. Crime. Answers. Evidence. Reasons. The big C—
The blow constricts my breath.
I must ring my tad. Is he working? Unlikely. He needs me. I call his mobile.
“Marc Anwyl.”
Bleary. Tired. I’ve woken him.
“Tad, I’ve been so wrong.” Choke back tears. “Please, I need to talk. I’ll come—”
“No. I’m on my way to your flat. Stay there, Meinwen.”
This flood is not me – the cool cop.
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I’m still crying when the doorbell rings. Tad.
I hug him and stroke his bald head.
“I didn’t realise. It’s cancer – the treatment. You didn’t want to tell me – anyone. I understand. But I’m here, and I love you.”
I pull him closer. Too late?
He holds me. Weeps with me, although his grip is as firm as ever. Never willingly weak.
“I don’t blame you. I hide behind a tough facade every day. Always have done.” He strides into the front room and eases into the sofa. Wipes some tears away. “Was I too tough as a father?”
I stand beside him. Hold his naked head and caress it. Precious. What is too tough?
“Strict, yes. Never harsh. You made me what I am – as did mam. Gave me rules – a code to honour.” Tested me every day. Today. He’d wanted me to investigate. “Pushed me to be—”
“The best, Meinwen. That’s what you are becoming. As a child, you were inquisitive… needing to solve everything.”
“Except I missed all the signs – your baldness, Bran’s cheating, Nerys’s lies. And I forgot the rules. I don’t even know what I want anymore.” I look at him, into his soul. “I want you back with mam. I want our family whole again. I will convince her, as I know she still loves you in her heart.”
He drops his head in his hands. Our tears become gasping sobs.
I drop to my knees – grab him. Trembling as he cries. Eventually, he settles, while my heart breaks.
“I don’t have much time. Maybe four months. I was diagnosed too late with stage four prostate cancer. I kept missing check-ups.” He shakes himself – smiles. “But, if you want, I’ll come home with you. Learn to be a family. I can do that, at least, although I dreamt of more.”
More? What do fathers want? Love. I crave that affection and fear the outcomes. Like losing him again. Torrent of tears. And confusion.
“I have a confession, tad. The relationship is over. Bran was sleeping with my best friend.” He nods. Don’t stop there.
Not yet. Too much shit to handle. Not everything – some things must remain hidden.
“Inevitable, even without my concerns. The warning signs were there. Your sister sensed those—”
I start, then stare. And I didn’t see them. “Gwawr told you? When?”
Tad closes his eyes and smiles. She has that effect.
“When we all lived in Garndolbenmaen, and you first started dating Bran. Even back then, she sensed something was troubling you. She was frightened for you… all the bullying … the Goth Patrol.”
My sensitive sister frightened for me – unaware of how deep I had gone. Of what I was becoming – a vigilante. Or did she suspect? Had she tried to talk to me? Blinkered to her love. So, Gwawr talked to tad. Our precious role model.
“So, that was why you dropped suggestions that my class do a project on Heddlu Gogledd Cymru and their operation in Porthmadog.” I laugh at the blatant but clever move. “Kept me off the wrong streets but on the right ones.”
“It worked. Although I had to let you solve the Bran issue.”
I gesture to the kitchen. Make us our favourite fresh black coffee. Delay my hardest confession. When do I admit my mistake? If it is one.
Settled in the front room, I sip the black motivator. The thoughts escape.
“Nerys Jernigan helped me. Today … as before. But the reasons were false. She used me to get Bran.” Pause. Breathe. Heart beating. Tattoos tingling – encouraging. Half-truths are bubbling. “Confession – I slept with her a few years ago. Bran was the … rebound. Relationships like that must be wrong. The chapel condemns it. Taid Pugh would cane me.”
Will my Heddlu colleagues call me ‘dyke’ as the bullies did? Ignore that. My decision is made as I continue. “A mess. I’m confused, tad.”
His tears begin again. He shakes his head. Why didn’t I remain quiet? His rejection is next. Found then lost.
He takes my hands and smiles.
“I knew about your ‘affair’ with Nerys. You need to discover yourself, and that’s not a sin, whatever preachy chapel folk say. You’ll find the right person – maybe a woman, maybe a better guy than me. Who cares if you truly love each other? That’s all I want.”
He isn’t angry. I’m not being thrown out on my arse. He doesn’t suspect. The right person lives with me.
“You knew? How?”
“Clues. Concern about the Goth Patrol. You and Nerys were so close. Teachers talked but didn’t know. Life gets complicated. Crime can be complex. Cops sense things. You’re learning that. Gut feelings, or in your case, tattoos tingling, and lateral thinking. You started young, and that helps.”
I laugh. Tad even sees my weird quirks. What next?
“This time, I don’t have the time to waste edging you on to the next step. I’ll be blunt. As I suggested last year, CID is your logical way forward.”
Alarm, even with hints. “But aren’t I too young? Maybe in a few years—”
“As I said, you learnt to read the signs growing up, even if you took a strange path. You’ve had three feverish years on the street. Your mind is your gift. CID needs your wiles. Never forget my tad was eighteen when he landed at Normandy.” He reaches into his jacket and removes a folded form. “Anyway, applications are open. This will get you started, although there’s a lot of studying and learning ahead.”
“I’m already learning – from you, tad. And from others.”
Does he realise how close one detective is to me? Same flat. Same bed. Same quirks.
“Keep learning from the best. I even made a recommendation that you post here in Porthmadog, which might fast-track the process. You know DCI Ffion Baines from various cases, even from before you did your initial training. She’s the best detective NWP has had for a few decades, and she’s understanding.”
I glance at the form. Mind racing. Is there time?
“Once I’m accepted, it’ll mean seventeen weeks away perhaps. Will you be here when—?”
“For you, Meinwen Sparkle Anwyl, I will be down here for that day… and then forever.” From around his neck, he shows me a dove on a chain. “My mam gave me this emblem of Saint David … so I never lost her.”
Forever in my heart and actions. We embrace. Homecoming beckons.
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2,214 words
Writing Wings 