Our house is still in chaos, although my wife’s son and his girlfriend move out next week. So, then our office will get set up, and I can stop writing one-fingered on a laptop barely in reach. The flash-drive with my current novel did appear, but revision is postponed until the office makes writing easier.
My health is declining, but we have hopefully found a way to afford care using insurance and a family trust. My brother, who controls the purse strings visiti on Sunday – my 69th birthday – so I’ll have to behave 😉
However, I must reassure the Ninja Captain, Alex J. Cavanaugh that this announcement is not ‘ffarwel’.
Anyway IWSG.Remember, the question is optional!
August 3 question – When you set out to write a story, do you try to be more original, or do you try to give readers what they want?
Initially my stories are original in inspiration, even if there’s a prompt, as with the WEP/IWSG Challenges.
However, there comes a point where the favourable responses mean re-visiting places and characters. That’s why I keep writing my Snowdon Shadows stories set in North Wales and starring Sparkle & Kama.
Do my Ukrainian stories fit this pattern? Originally written to an IWSG Anthology prompt, continued due to the current war, I’m now working on one for the next WEP/IWSG Challenge as readers wanted to know what happens next.
Good question, which real events will decide.
Slava Ukrayini.
+++
Finally, don’t forget to visit more active writers via the IWSG site:
Our move has proved a nightmare with no disabled features to the house like wide doors or wheelchair ramp, a low toilet I have to be transferred onto by a trained carer, plus weeks without internet. My desktop is still in storage as no office imminent, so I’m writing this one-fingered on a laptop barely in reach.
And the new wheelchair keeps dying on me at inconvenient moments.
The flash-drive with my current novel went AWOL during the move, and other backups are proving elusive.
My health is suffering and paying for carers will cripple us… unless my brother acts out of character.
However, I must reassure the Ninja Captain, Alex J. Cavanaugh that this announcement is not ‘ffarwel’.
Anyway IWSG.Remember, the question is optional!
July 6 question – If you could live in any book world, which one would you choose?
A few come to mind from Narnia to Earthsea to a galaxy far, far away. But as Tolkien is my early writing inspiration, I choose Middle Earth… well, a safer region, The Shire.
Is that my yearning for rural England on which The Shire was modelled? Home?
Except my heart is in North Wales, where my Sparkle stories are set. Can I live there, please?
+++
Finally, don’t forget to visit more active writers via the IWSG site:
I feared my entry for this month’s WEP/IWSG Challenge would be too late, but then as I wrote this short piece, I realised I had to post today. The reason might become relevant on reading the last scene. As for the theme, I found a Welsh element to tie elements together for Sparkle and Kama.
This 2021 Year of the Art theme has provoked some interesting thoughts – and trips down rabbit holes.
Although this year’s posts are not another ongoing case for Sparkle Anwyl and Kama Pillai of the North Wales Police, I’ve attempted something else involving them. So, once more I’m going down the stand-alone path with my dynamic Welsh duo.
But this time, I’ve tried a change of genre – well, perhaps. Also, this is a response to my editor pointing out an oversight in my Fevered Fuse novel – the lack of personal growth.
As always, apologies if I’m slow to respond or slow to visit your posts.
Plus, ensure you visit all the other writers in this challenge via:
Uplifted by daffodils, two women affirm their love and pledge to fight for human rights.
MIRRORED PRIDE
2016
Saturday, 10th December
I stare at the unfamiliar reflection and wince. Pain comes with the job,but I can’t go out like this – not to celebrate.
Stupid. Some guys never give up easily – even cuffed.
Does it matter how I look? I purse my lips. Perhaps. I’m not vain, but tonight is special.
I reach for the makeup bag. Should I use some yellow concealer to hide my black eye? The icepack helped, but it’s still obvious. People might jump to the wrong conclusion. Abusive partner.
My fingers touch the slash on my cheek. Is a scar a turn off or a mark of courage?
Will Kama care? My whisper echoes round our bedroom.
“Of course not, cariad.” Kama replies in the doorway. I swivel and smile as she walks over, then kisses me softly. “You’re beautiful whatever happens.”
Then she sits down beside me at the vanity table.She traces the cut, then my nose. “At least, he didn’t break your mischievous feature.” She continues caressing my face.
The perfect excuse for my own daring exploration for hidden pleasure.
“Leave something for later. We need to get dressed up not down. After dinner antics are best.”
“Haven’t we always eaten first.” I slow my teasing hands, then add, “We never break the rules.”
“Except speeding on our bikes. That’s an unbroken addiction.”
Motorbikes brought us together nearly five years earlier – as did crime and our first case together.
I let our lips meet, and I enjoy the taste of minty cardamom. Long and lingering, and then I ask, “Do you ever regret the life we lead?”
“Never. I’m proud to be your partner. Both as a wife and a cop. You have doubts?”
“No longer, chellam. I admit my heart has wavered – doubt can be a mischievous trickster – was once. But we’ve proved ourselves as women, as lovers, and as crime busters.”
Kama clasps my hands. “Now we can be open with our pride, despite the risks.”
“Risk is our adrenaline and will be forever. And there are tests ahead, but we have each other. Still, I’m covering up these blemishes before we go out.”
“The table is booked for eight so I can pamper myself too. And then I’ve a present for us downstairs. Seasonal light for the cottage.”
A floral feast fills our front room. Dozens of displays of daffodils, not yellow but white blooms.
Kama beams with the flowers. “It may be eleven weeks until St David’s Day on March 1st, but why wait until our Welsh National Holiday?”
“Paperwhites – I love these daffodils. Perfect Christmas light bringers.”
“And I bought some bulbs to plant for the Spring as well. Plus, I added some which might flower on New Year’s Day. Those bring good fortune according to Chinese legend.”
“A bonus – even if having each other is our valuable destiny already.”
“I’ll echo that sentiment, cariad.”
***
We arrive on time at the Italian trattoria to celebrate and ‘Stand up for someone’s rights’ on a day when we are lucky to be in Wales.
When our cocktails arrive, I toast all those who fight for justice. “Not just on Human Rights Day but at every moment, chellam.”
“And together, we can take a stand for more humanity.”
On the wall behind, the face of Caravaggio’s Narcissus looks down through his pool of water at us and the vase of paperwhites on our table.
My apologies for the late appearance of Post IV in this year’s WEP/IWSG challenge – the Year of the Art. My first Covid-19 vaccine knocked me sideways and I’m still recovering – and dreading the second one.
Although this year’s posts are not another ongoing case for Sparkle Anwyl and Kama Pillai of the North Wales Police, I’ve attempted something else involving them.
So, once more I’m going down the stand-alone path with my dynamic Welsh duo.
As always, apologies if I’m slow to respond or slow to visit your posts.
Plus, ensure you visit all the other writers in this challenge via:
This shadow is ideal. Perfect for surveillance without drawing attention to ourselves.
Jeans, sweatshirts, and suede jackets ensure Kama and I merge into the crowd gathered in the hall.
The debate has been civil, although the candidates have all made it clear where they stand on Europe.
In versus out. Vocal arguments with tinges of indecision.
But no sign of the anticipated public order threats – yet.
A smartly dressed man in a pale suit smiles at the gathering, pleads with weaving gestures. “We’re British, we’re not European. One language ensures we remain the United Kingdom. Do you want to be ruled by other nations? Forced to speak other languages? We must reject their unjust directives.”
The Green candidate appeals for calm as several people shout from the audience, pointing at the outspoken man.
I turn to Kama. “He’s deliberately provoking us – the Welsh.”
“He’s the intended target – supposedly. Watch for trouble. He’s setting himself up for attacks.”
Two young women leap up, dressed in our norm of black leathers, and shout – in Welsh. “You’re the invader forcing us to accept your rule – talk your language.”
“Speak English, please, not your foreign gibberish. Nobody can understand you. We don’t have translators here like the European Parliament.”
Another candidate, the woman from Plaid Cymru stands and asks first in Welsh. “Stand if you understood these sisters.” Then as almost everyone stands, she adds in English. “Our Brexit colleague has the right of free speech…” She pauses, then continues, “But not the right to claim his language should dominate us. Cenedl heb iaith, cenedl heb galon.”
“My apologies. However, isn’t the law upheld in English. What do my seated friends say?”
Before Kama or I can correct his legal presumption as officers who caution bi-lingually, some seated guys leap to their feet.
They mask their faces as they throw projectiles at the dais and into the crowd.
Flour bombs explode.
“Not just flour.” I choke as Kama shoves a scarf on my mouth.
“Tear gas. We need to protect the bigot.”
“Unless he planned this evening.” Blinded by flour and tears,we stumble towards the platform.
No sign of the candidate. Abducted or scarpered?
We keep searching amidst the confusion. No sign of him or the masked bombers.
Image: Bert Kaufmann/Adam Walker
Monday, 12th May
A bolt hole for a scared politician? Or for a devious one?
But the campaign office echoes others I’ve seen. Diligent drones. Harassed helpers. Flyers and posters everywhere. Clicking keyboards.
“Morning officer. Have you arrested those protesters? The ones trying to challenge my freedom of speech?” The instigator ignores my initial attempt to reply and ploughs on. “Flour bombs and tear gas are offensive weapons—”
“We have a couple of protestors in custody.”
He smiles, continuing to ignore the plain clothes officer beside me – Kama. Did he see us at the meeting – together? And standing with the other Welsh speakers? Obviously not.
“Is this one of them? Come to apologise?”
Kama produces her warrant card. “I was hoping you could answer a few questions as I’m leading the investigation. Provoking unlawful violence is a serious offence under the 1986 Public Order Act. A person guilty of such an offence could face imprisonment for six months or a hefty fine. Shall we talk here or have you a separate office, please?”
His demeanour and voice waver. “Well, um… You’d better follow me…officers. Anything to help…resolve any misunderstanding.”
His office is spacious and uncluttered, except for the electoral material promoting his attempt at election in ten days.
He sits behind his desk, waving us to the seats on the other side.
The desk is meant to be formidable and intimidating. But Kama has dented his defences already.
“Those hooligans misunderstood. I have the right to say what I believe – as do they. But throwing an offensive missile must be a crime—”
“As is orchestrating this event. The statements from your supporters make it clear what you intended—”
“My supporters? You must be mistaken. Those were Welsh Nationalists – they deliberately attacked me. My human rights were violated, as they have been throughout this campaign. Abuse, slander, and lies.”
Kama smiles, then turns to me. “Did the flour bombers speak any Welsh, PC Anwyl?”
“Only a few badly constructed and pronounced curses. But they declared their allegiance to a British nationalist cause – like yours, sir.” Then, I give him the statutory caution and warning against further incitement to violence and electoral fraud, adding, “Or we will be obliged to report you to the relevant European authorities.”
He leans forward, but his threatening gesture is empty. “I don’t recognise that authority, but I will prove the people are on my side at the polls. Trust me. Thank you, ladies.”
Dismissed, we stand, satisfied the press coverage of the incident will undermine his chances.
As we leave his bolt hole, I notice a framed print on his wall. Norman Rockwell’s famous “Freedom of Speech” painting. I point at the print, then turn back towards our English fanatic.
“Free Speech – a right none of us should abuse. And to close the debate, I’ll add, Cenedl heb iaith, cenedl heb galon – meaning, ‘A nation without language is a nation without heart’. Remember that.”
The ‘Freedom of Speech’ prompt triggered thoughts about political hustings in England and Wales as I was involved on the fringes of politics for decades.
As I said in my last WEP/IWSG Challenge post, conservation and environmental threats have concerned me for decades – peace issues included. I was a member of the Green Party for years, involved in various elections – once as a candidate – and worked with Green politicians in other countries, including some elected members of parliaments (Mps and MEPs).
In this fictional scenario, I envisaged the provocative right-wing candidate losing – and in reality, the most extreme candidates did lose. But sadly, in my opinion, Britain later left the European Union. Although green in my beliefs, I voted in 2014 for the Plaid candidate, Jill Evans as she was an effective MEP and an active member of the Green / European Free Alliance (EFA) Group.
This year’s WEP/IWSG challenge theme, the Year of the Art, ties in to my novella for last year’s challenges, the six-part story called ‘Custody Chain’.
I was wary of attempting another ongoing case for Sparkle Anwyl and Kama Pillai of the North Wales Police, but I sensed many of you would expect something else involving them.
However, another Snowdon Shadows novella was too daunting – and a commitment too far. Although I managed to get there, I had to eke out the end of ‘Custody Chain’ sentence by sentence – sometimes one each day.
So, I’m going down the stand-alone path, although there will be a few links – beyond my dynamic duo.
Apologies, the word count is over the limit – but let’s move on.
If you wish, please comment, or suggest what links are ongoing.
Many thanks for reading.
As always, apologies if I’m slow to respond or slow to visit your posts.
Plus, ensure you visit all the other writers in this challenge via:
Surf crashes onto the beach, churning the sand and tossing seashells aside. Rollers rush the rocks bordering the bay.
Perfect for thrill-seeking surfers, but treacherous for casual swimmers. Deceptive currents.
Another challenge for Kama and me. Nothing deflects us from our dawn swim.
We race into the roiling sea, limbs driving us out until Morfa Bychan disappears.
Then we turn for shore and breakfast.
A familiar figure waits for us. A brunette in uniform, with sparkling eyes – and a worried expression.
PCSO Lleilu Dace, the police community support officer, who proved so invaluable on an art theft case the previous year.
She waves as we walk ashore.
“I knew you’d both be here, so wanted to catch you off-duty. Sorry for the intrusion—”
“—anytime. What’s the problem?” Kama’s tone is calm and encouraging.
I find myself reading Lleilu’s lips. The case had involved Tesni Szarka, a deaf painter.
“Don’t take this wrong. I’m not proper uniform and certainly not a detective—”
“But you’re part of the team with vital input. What’s happened? Sexism?”
“Too often – some of your colleagues expect me to make their tea, even when they are capable. No, it’s the paperwork. It has to stop.”
I share her frustration. Time sheets, surveys, assessments, as well as our regular case reports.
“We do depend on non-police staff to type up our Smartphone notes.” Kama shakes her head. “But only if we’re stretched and we shouldn’t expect PCSOs to do that. You have key support roles – and you’ve proved invaluable. You should talk to DCI Baines – she’d understand.”
Lleilu shakes her head. “It’s just my observation, not an official complaint. That would require triplicate form-filling. Paperwork will be the kiss of death for real policing. Anyway, I’m going for a swim.”
She slips out of her uniform, down to a swimsuit and a lithe body. Warmth spreads up to my face and I glance at Kama. Resist, her face says.
Lleilu plunges into the sea and begins to carve her way through the turbulent water.
Pounding. My chest. She’s disappeared. Undertow.
Kama and I dash in, diving underwater. Searching.
I find Lleilu fighting to surface. Fighting to breathe. Choking.
As I reach her, she collapses. Remain calm. Slow my racing heart.
I slip hands under her armpits, then kick to the surface, swimming parallel to the shore – out of the undertow.
Kama is beside us, guiding us back to the beach once we’re out of the undertow.
We lay Lleilu on the sand. Her pulse is weak. Not breathing. Kama presses her lips to another. I shiver. No. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Kiss of life.
Kama continues the methodical airway-breathing-circulation then chest compressions. Lleilu’s eyes flutter. No gasp for air.
My partner motions for me to take over. I press my mouth to Lleilu’s, pinching her nose – and praying.
She chokes up seawater, then forces a smile.
***
Sunday 25th January
Kama and I kiss, lips soft as tongues tease. Then we zip up our leathers over evening glad rags.
The front-door bell rings.
Lleilu – with a large package.
“Dydd Santes Dwynwen Hapus. I have a gift for you both – for saving me.”
She kisses us on both cheeks, then hands us the wrapped gift.
We undo the protective cloth, revealing a painting we will cherish.
“Tesni Szarka painted this replica. Dropped everything to finish it for—”
“St Dwynwen’s Day. Our own version of St Valentine’s Day – which we’re about to celebrate—”
“Join us – unless there’s someone—”
“Not yet, but he’s out there.”
I place the replica of Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss on our mantelpiece.
1077 wordsFCA
For more on the theme of art, check out the amazing WEP/IWSG Challenges Calendar for 2021 with designs by Olga Godim:
Despite the disturbing world situation, I’ve found bits of time to devise more Sparkle Anwyl mind games as we continue the six-part story called ‘Custody Chain’. Meanwhile, the revision of my first Sparkle Anwyl novel, Fevered Fuse progresses in sporadic spurts too.
She said, “Sparkle’s character is so strong and is so appealing, esp. to the younger generation who also love anime and comics, I wondered if you have considered getting an illustrator to have a look at your book and possibly create a comic book character out of her as well?…”
After the feedback on the original image, the illustrator made some changes based on comments. My beta readers should spot the imagined scene from Fevered Fuse – with artistic licence.
Please note there may be minor oversights/errors/omissions which editing of the final story into a novella will address. Writing new chapters throws up new clues to fathom.
On my April Challenge post, some people again commented that Sparkle’s mnemonic usage needed to be explained better – comments echoed by my beta readers for Fevered Few. I have attempted to introduce an explanation in this episode, which I intend to use and evolve elsewhere – if the idea works.
Anyway, enjoy this new chapter, and if you wish, please comment, or suggest what happens next. Many thanks for reading.
Plus, ensure you visit all the other writers in this challenge via:
Kama and I interview Urien Cadwallader in his private hospital room. Will he allay our suspicions?
“I don’t remember much. Didn’t your colleagues discover more?”
“Anything you can add helps. Did you see anything before you were attacked?”
I flip open my notebook as Kama probes. The CSI report and Tesni’s statement pose questions.
Urien shakes his head. “I’m usually alone – since my wife died. I have my art collection. Comfort—”
He falters. Tears streak his cheeks.
Seated beside his bed, Kama pats his arm.
“Take your time, sir. Your wife must have been special.”
“For 35 years – until…” He shudders. “I prayed Csilla would survive the treatment but— too invasive. I could do nothing so lost her—”
As he starts to cough, I reach for his glass of water, passing it when he stops shaking.
“Lungs – damaged from her childhood back in Miskolc.”
“Hungary?” The names slots together – Aranka, Miskolc, Csilla, Szarka.
He stares at me. “You know already? I thought those records lost decades ago.”
“A deduction. Please, apologies if I’m wrong.”
He shakes his head, then leans back, head lolling. “So, nobody told you. How?”
“Sparkle thinks laterally. Give her clues and she finds new angles.”
Urien gestures at me. “Your personal cryptograph?”
I laugh. “Fancy word for my mind games – but worth adopting. I juggle the initial letters of clues to get a mnemonic so I remember them—”
“And the new angle?”
“Triggered by the mnemonic. Like say M for Miskolc, A for Art, G for Generosity, Y for Yearn, A for Analysis, R for Replica, S for Stars. Spelling M A G Y A R S – as in Hungary where Aranka is from. Plus, Csilla sounds Hungarian as does Szarka. Correct?”
Urien palms his hands and nods. “Impressive.” He closes his eyes. “We met in 1988 when I travelled to Hungary as a mineralogist – my initial career. I was looking for the Herman Ottó Museum and Csilla helped me. A nineteen-year-old engineering student, Csilla captivated me, so I helped her flee the country when it broke from the Soviet bloc.”
M for Minerals, E for Engineer, T for Travel.
M E T
“You married in Hungary?” Kama reaches a shared conclusion. “The missing records. And your child?”
Urien confirms our suspicions. “Born in 1994 – talented and special – our joy in turbulent days. We named her ‘warmth from the sun’ in Welsh. She’s worth everything I spend.”
T for Turbulent Talent. S for Sky Sigil.
METS?
“Does Tesni know she’s your daughter? Or only that her mother was Csilla Szarka?”
Tears return to streak his cheeks. “I’ve failed to confess my relationship, although I’ve always felt she senses all that matters. Her art is everything in her world. Yet Tesni visits often.”
“That’s why her DNA was all over your house. And why she pressed your panic pendant. Did you or Tesni switch off the security you’ve installed? We must identify your attacker.”
“Tesni would never leave me unprotected. The attacker must have disabled the CCTV so he remained invisible. Didn’t Tesni see him before summoning help?”
Kama scrolls on her phone. “Her statement reads, ‘The figure was in black and masked. When I cracked the vase on the masked head, the figure fled…’ Then she helped you and rescued the urn pieces.”
“With her mam’s ashes – Csilla helping still. Did Tesni repair the urn?”
I smile and bow my head. “An invisible repair. The painting is secure too.” U for Urn, P for Protection, I for Invisible. “A mistaken theft that triggered our investigation.”
METSUPI = IMPETUS
“Your case must be closed then. I’m anxious to return home, where my daughter has Csilla and our painting.”
“My cryptograph raises concerns. What compelled your wife to flee Hungary? Her health? Yet she left family behind. Aranka?”
He collapses into the pillows, eyes closed.
“Yes, Csilla was suffering. Her father worked in the steelworks, coming home covered in toxic dust. Love offered a route out of her urban nightmare. Economic recession was sweeping those industrial heartlands behind the Iron Curtain. Her sister, Aranka stayed with her profiteering husband.”
Writing Wings 