Tag Archives: Sparkle Anwyl

Fevered Fuse * Serialised * Five

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First Snow on Snowdon ~ Juanita Clarke

At last, I’m posting the next chapter as promised yesterday… the longer chapter today.

Links to previous Fevered Fuse chapters can be found via my updated Snowdon Shadows page on the left-hand sidebar.

Chapter Six (Goth Patrol) should follow in a week or so, possibly in two parts, as it began life as a short story.

Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.

**

FEVERED FUSE

Cregennen Lakes © Ian King – http://snowdonia.info/

Chapter Five

Police Response

Friday 1st April 2016

The llŷn mirrors my splintered mind. But only when my skimming stone fractures the calm reflection. White sheep scatter and chase black jackdaws. Memories jumble, trigger like images.

Ripples from the past.

Did Cadell throw the brick? A brick thrown from the bridge could even kill. The debris in my periphery. Revenge ambush? Why? The choirboy look-alike from Hell who wielded the school bullies like a gang leader.

Or another from Cadell’s bully gang? Like Don Howard and Rod Trendle. The gang tried to drown me. Why not crash my bike?

An accident or assault?

Barriers where there should be answers. Blue and white incident tape flaps in my memory. Was there a police enquiry? Tad must have had questions.

And my response? Evoke the Goth Patrol. Gut reaction.

Or did tad rein me in – focus my anger on a police response?

Yes. His plan – intentional. Ensure the police treated this as more than a traffic accident. Even with his work demand causing my parents to separate. But the incident involved me – their own flesh and blood.

Mam will know – if she will talk.

I jog back to the old restored farmhouse, planning how to uncover the truth.

Did I learn this sneaky approach from tad?

#

I change, then head to the kitchen, drawn by smells of simmering stew. Tea is always a treat, with or without guests. However, there’s an extra place laid at the table.

“The doctor’s coming for tea? What time?”

“Trust you to make that deduction. Did you expect someone else?”

A clue. Deduction is a skill. Am I police material? Did I go that way? Mam and her parents wouldn’t have approved after tad caused problems with his commitment to work.

“Logical conclusion as I’m sick. Plus, you went to ring him. And I’ve had time to think about the old bike accident on my way to college.”

She smiles at me, then hugs me. “What did you deduce?”

The opening. “That it wasn’t an accident. Hence, the police investigation – initiated by tad.”

“Mental games, Meinwen? You’re good at those. An expert even as a kid. You were never one to let an incident stay cold.”

So, nobody was convicted. Did the mind games become a career? Tad needed me to commit to being Heddlu. Did I join the force? Or raise sheep?

No callouses. But a ring mark.

Married off?

No – my pounding heart says my choice.

A car draws up outside. Scrunch on rocky earth drive. Handbrake. Car door.

Doctor Robyn Vaughan has arrived, as warned, at six in time for tea.

His knock is soft but enough. I open the front door.

Familiar. He’s middle-aged with greying hair, once black and now receding, and amber-framed spectacles, brown eyes, well-fed judging by the face and his bulk, 5 feet 10 inches.

A medical man and more. He’s assessing me, as I am him. He has the advantage of knowing me – from my case files and more.

“The memories are coming back. Seems your therapy is working.”

He chuckles. “Fishing for clues? That’s not—“

“Rugby or cricket. But isn’t that the way this works? I need triggers to push around my amnesia. And re-arranging memories has begun. I know who I am, where we are, and what happened. Maybe not why.”

He laughs as mam guides him to a seat. “Withholding information from you is hard. But if your brain is processing memories that is an excellent result.”

Mam produces her variation on lobscows. She would have started preparing the lamb stew yesterday. We are treated to chunks of homemade bread and Welsh cheese on the side.

“A meal to relax us. However, I need to hear what you have recalled, Sparkle.”

The bare facts. I describe my old accident and my thoughts about having been married. Even drop suggestions to close. “The police response made me what I am today – inquisitive for justice and the truth.”

Robyn smiles, then kneads a piece of bread before popping it in his mouth to delay his reply. Outside some sheep bleat their thoughts first.

“You can’t ignore your heritage, Sparkle. Or ask me to betray any secrets. There is more than one way to the truth. You know that and so much more.”

T for Tasty Truths and Tattoos Tingling.

T for Therapy.

The bracer and acronyms. My way.

“Okay, you all are teasing me towards more triggers. For now, the sheep are part of therapy. But they are the past – before I was married. This isn’t where my heart is – just my roots.”

Chilling with my sister by the lake proved that.

I play with the mark on my finger. Watch everyone. Mam and Gwawr smile and nod. Robyn strokes his chin. Nain and taid are ignoring the gesture – or are oblivious.

Was my partner a secret?

 Nerys promised me a ring, but did we take that step? Or I have – had a husband. Widowed by 22?

“If this isn’t where you live, where’s home?” My doctor stares and demands answers. Insists I play the game – even if he’s not providing a trigger; not until I say more.

“Doesn’t amnesia vary? A motorcycle crash can cause concussion – as can a rugby injury or a fall from a horse. Has my brain connected two incidents that occurred years apart? Five years, if I deduce correctly from the calendar on the wall there and the date of my first crash.”

My Aprilia smash was not the last accident. A stray thought. Let the doctor reply.

“Correct but I’m reserving judgement, although I have my suspicions. First, give us details of the most recent incident you can remember, even if it’s not the cause.”

“Concussion can create a hole – post-traumatic amnesia. Or is this something else? Will I regain all my memories?”

If post-traumatic, how bad was the recent incident? An incident that only left bruises to my body but holes in my memory.

“Sometimes recovery is merely days, but 45% of those affected experienced amnesia for longer than a month. But all the signs are that you are processing information faster than I would expect. However, let’s hold on the jargon until you give us more. Let’s enjoy your mother’s food instead.”

Pressure off. Well, his anyway. I can observe others in peace. Play with theories. Like I had a husband, but not one that everyone knew about. And the incident was traumatic. So, not kicked by a sheep or hit by a tractor.

When Robyn leaves at nine, I have too many theories.

“I’ll drop round tomorrow, Sparkle. I’ll bring a friend who might be interested in your progress. Sleep well. Dreams, yes, as they can help. But don’t feed the nightmares. You must leave those for others. A team needs to delegate. Goodnight.”

“Nos da. Drive safely – and don’t work late. The bags under your eyes are the clue.”

We grin at each other before he saunters to his Vauxhall Corsa. A fleet car or his?

T for Team not Therapy. I’m part of a Team. Police? Paramedic? But not Fire like my brother Owen.

My fingers tap rivets. S for Sibling. R for Rivalry and Revenge.

I didn’t join the Fire Brigade as my rival brother, Owen, did. No. The crash created another Route for my Revenge.

A for Accident and Assessment.

RATS. Full circle to Cadell and his Cronies.

Am I still living with my past? Did I cause the new Incident?

Investigation? Police like tad?

Never too young, but wrong lifestyle.

Except there’s no evidence.

Just a ring mark and a secret marriage.

H for Hidden not Heddlu.

TRASH?

I mouth goodnight farewells, then wander upstairs to my room. I’m confused. Want to be Heddlu, but worry I’m trapped. My hidden marriage was trash.

Why is the Cadell case relevant? Where is the ring? Lost or thrown away?

I stare at my mirror. Do I want to remember who Sparkle Anwyl really is? Why she lost her husband?

The reflection is whole, but my head isn’t.

Focus. Try to sleep. Can dreams trigger memories? Or just fantasies?

What’s real enough to follow into the Rabbit Hole.

Change into my night clothes. Slip into red sheets. Red for Romance.

Nerys. No.

B for Bran Blevins. He was real too. Or was he a fantasy?

E for Evidence. The mark on my finger. The Reactions and Evasions.

BATHERS.

Swimming is the reality. Despite Cadell and his gang, I’m still plunging into our lake. And into seawater. No Trauma there. Nor with Riding bikes, if my stray memory holds true.

And there’s another bather, not Gwawr. A bather who rides a bike.

Focus on that. A figure shrouded but real. My husband. Sleep and dream.

#

The shadowy figure helps me sleep until fingers of sunlight wake me. Dawn brings clearer images – of a once familiar room. My past settling into reality. Is the figure lost forever? Why can’t I see them clearly?

Outside, sheep bleat, jackdaws chatter, and a tractor chugs.

And another engine. Familiar but not family. Who? A car arriving. Robyn and his friend – their car.

Rapping. Louder – not Robyn.

Persistent thuds. In my head – in my memories.

***

1,537 words

Ducati Monster

Fevered Fuse * Serialised * Four

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First Snow on Snowdon ~ Juanita Clarke

After a few delays, I’m posting the next two chapters on consecutive days, as together they’re over 2,000 words… short chapter today.

I’m still juggling life problems, so it’s been tough writing my next Freedom Flights episode. I’m aiming to post it by the end of the month.

Now enjoy another Fevered Fuse chapter. Links to previous chapters can be found via my updated Snowdon Shadows page on the left-hand sidebar.

*Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.

FEVERED FUSE

A Snowdon Shadows Mystery

by

Roland Clarke

(Police Procedural Fiction)

***

Chapter Four

Revenge

Friday 1st April 2016

Images, memories flicker on the edge of my mind as I skim stones.

The smell of musk and jasmine.

A name hovers out of reach as warmth floods my chest, and invisible fingers tease my body.

Someone I loved. I stare at a white mark on my finger. From a ring? Am I married?

My first love?

I tap my bracer, and letters tumble out.

Gwawr had signed ‘Enigma Code’. A nudge – a clue.

C for Cryptology – my Cryptograph. My weird juggling of the initial letters of clues to get an acronym.

But who hovers in my past?

B for Bran Blevins – my secondary school’s star rugby player.

Sunlight scatters across the llŷn.

Bran was not the first. Not musk and jasmine.

N for Nerys.

Nerys Jernigan kissed me – another girl. We fell in love. Shared lips and secret fondles.

Faced our fears and the taunts. Who realised? I knew how to stay low-key – as a Goth. My identity – at first.

Nobody discovered my first tattoo – or even the second. Except Nerys.

But we were outed by the bullies. C for Cadell.

Cadell Pryce, the choirboy-look-alike from Hell with the manic smile. He wielded the school bullies like a gang leader. They called us ‘dykes.’ D for Dykes and Degenerates.

A threat we thwarted. O for Outsiders and Organised.

My defiant words echo in my head.

“We have to stand up to them, resist—”

R for Resist and Rebels.

Nerys persuaded me to teach our friends Jiu-Jitsu.

At first, the situation didn’t escalate.

The bullies were suspicious. They sensed the change. We stuck together whenever we could – deterrence. Created a Goth patrol. Stalemate for a few weeks.

Our black garb spread, as did our concealed thorny-rose tattoos.

Mine is visible now on my naked ankle. I caress my rose, remembering fingers tracing its leaves. My caresses climb up my legs, between my thighs – until I shiver.

A chill wind stirs the lake, fractures the peace, shatters the calm. It disturbs my lonely urges. I tremble and glance around.

Can’t I have such drives? What do I need?

Water calms me – cools my confused feelings. Another swim.

Swimming in a lake is safe – safer than a pool.

The stink of chlorine makes me shudder and remember.

Bodies bomb me, hands grab me, push me underwater. That acrid taste fills my mouth. I lash out. Wriggle free – but no escape.

Dive deeper and away.

They follow. Trapping me with their bodies and arms. I can’t breathe. Water engulfs me. My vision glazes – after I see a leering face.

A black arrow darts past – grapples with an attacker. Then another arrow shoots past.

Hands pull me onto the side. Lips reviving me.

Is that a tongue?

Focus through the fog. Musk and jasmine disperse chlorine. The tongue is teasing and tasty. I want more.

We made time for more – three weeks of passion on the beach. Secret and forbidden.

Forbidden in the Welsh chapel eyes of my nain and taid.

Something, someone, forced us apart. Changed us.

I shudder and clutch my body, pressing my left breast to calm my pounding heart. Through tears, I remember my taid’s words. ‘In the eyes of the Lord, we can’t be the judges. But our reputation in the community.’ I perjured myself in the eyes of God. I pretended to like a guy.

Did one weakness destroy another? The shakes don’t settle. My pounding blood floods my head.

 The ‘C-O-R-D-O-N’ I let divide us. C for Convert. O for Organised. R for Resistance. D for Degenerate. O for Outsiders. N for Nerys.

Was my enforced ‘change of heart’ so easy? Did I conform? Get married?

B for Bran Blevins. The perfect match in my family’s and God’s eyes. Leaving Nerys as a doomed first love. A schoolgirl crush – betrayed.

But R is for Revenge. Whose? Nerys? C for Cadell?

I stare across the llŷn needing answers.

***

657 words

Cregennen Lakes © Ian King – http://snowdonia.info/

Fevered Fuse * Serialised * Chapters Two & Three

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First Snow on Snowdon ~ Juanita Clarke

Apologies for the delay in posting the next two chapters. I’ve been juggling life problems and writing my latest Freedom Flights episode. Once that was posted on Thursday, I could schedule this post.

In Chapter One, Sparkle thinks about creating a ‘mnemonic’, which I am changing to an ‘acronym’ to be more accurate, although an acronym is a type of mnemonic

I would like to know how often you would like me to post, for instance, three times a week? I realise daily might be too much, whereas weekly breaks the flow.

That is more of a problem if I post short segments. So, second question: what’s the best length? Under 300 words? Around 1,000 words? This time, Chapter Two is 264 words – similar to Chapter One. Chapter Three is 1,706 words, which might be too long. However, there are longer chapters that I’ll have to post in parts to make them more readable.

Your feedback will be much appreciated. Many thanks.

Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.

*

FEVERED FUSE

A Snowdon Shadows Mystery

by

Roland Clarke

(Police Procedural Fiction)

**

Chapter Two

Speed Kills

Monday 11th July 2011

Lime-green is not cool. I’m resolute. Well, I try to be.

I wanted a Kawasaki Ninja, even if it wasn’t black. My scooter bored me. Will this blood-red Aprilia motorbike satisfy me instead?

B for Blood not Black. OK.

Speed is the addiction to drive away my frustrations.

But my tad says speed’s another killer he must curb. It’s his job.

I soar around a bend, then open the Aprilia’s throttle down the last straight towards Tremadog. The distinctive blue and yellow markings lurking behind a stone wall warn me and I slow – Heddlu.

I can’t have Sergeant Anwyl’s North Wales Police colleagues reporting his daughter for speeding. Seventeen is never an excuse. I must evade a first offence. Bad career move.

The town is busy, although not heaving like nearby Porthmadog which draws the tourists now the warmth of summer has banished the rain for a few days. Reason to avoid going that way and getting held up. I have a better way to save time. No marks for getting to college late.

The main road north is busy, and I wait for my chance to dive across the roundabout, then cut through to the coastal road along the Llyn Peninsula.

Control the speed. Other adrenaline boosts will come. Time to negotiate traffic.

The shadow of the railway bridge looms. As I slow for the roundabout beyond, a brick dislodges.

It falls. I swerve – into the ditch.

Instinct causes me to smash my bike. Tumbling. Alive.

A second brick. Duck.

Pain and darkness envelop me.

 (264 words)

**

Chapter Three

Identity Crisis

Cregennen Lakes © Ian King – http://snowdonia.info/

Friday 1st April 2016

The blackness lifts like a fog.

Sounds first. Crows cawing – no, jackdaws.

Sheep bleating. Ewes and lambs. Whistles. Commands to dogs.

A distant tractor.

A farm. Familiar and hovering at the edge of my mind.

Smells are an elusive clue. Blossom scents drift in on the cool breeze. Baking bread tempts my nostrils and stirs my stomach. Clean laundry spoilt by sweat – mine.

So hungry. How long have I been unconscious? Or asleep?

Finally, vision. Shafts of sunlight creeping across a wooden floor. Towards the bed with its blood red sheets – wrinkled and tossed off. Embossed bracer undisturbed on my wrist. Black nightdress not hiding the bruises. Superficial. So, something protected me. Motorcycle leathers and a helmet.

As I stir, the nightdress rides up revealing a spiral seashell tattoo on my right hip. Hidden, unlike the red briar roses on my right arm and ankle.

When did I get so many?

But facts fragment like a mirror crashing without end. Like my motorbike tumbling in pieces.

Use that last memory. Bad move as my head throbs. But the accident is an anchor in a storm of memories.

I shuffle the sounds and smells into order.

Home. Well, at the family farm in Snowdonia. Mam must be cooking.

What meal?

The light on the floor suggests middle of the day – lunch?

Once she’s finished home schooling my chwaer. Lack of hearing hasn’t dulled my sister’s mind, and Gwawr has ambitions. Sign language and lip-reading have taught the family to adjust to her world without sound – to understand more.

My problems dissolve to nothing in comparison.

Was the accident connected?

I’ve been confused for years about who I am. My identity as a girl. Is that why I was attacked? If it was targeted bricks on the edge of my vision – edge of my memory?

Concussion causes memory loss, but enough remains.

Revenge. Mine or theirs? I’m presuming it was an attack. Wasn’t it?

Who by? Names taunt out of reach.

Get dressed. Food might trigger clarity.

I open my wardrobe and clues tumble out. Black clothes – tick. Long sleeve wetsuit –  tick. Doc Martens – tick. Scuffed motorcycle leathers.

Why aren’t I in hospital? I should have been taken to one.

Why am I hearing lambs in mid-summer? Spring?

How many months have I skipped?

A wall calendar tells me. Five years.

What have I lost? Missed?

I want answers even if my mind won’t co-operate.

Who gave me the extra tattoos? The spiral seashell on my hip makes my heart race. Why?

Choosing the right gear is not hard. Bomber jacket the final touch over a T-shirt. Doc Martens setting off the jeans and studded belt. All black. They trigger a reaction. I tap my bracer. A for Assault. B for Bike. R for Revenge.

A knock at my door derails the thought process.

I respond in Welsh. “Dewch i mewn.”

Nothing happens, even when I repeat “Come in” in English.

I open it. Stare at Gwawr. Or is it? She’s older. Not the pre-teen in my head, but a beautiful teenager. No longer our childhood protégé, but an attractive woman.

Bury the confusion.

Too late. She reads me so well.

I sign, “Head spin moment.”

“We were worried about you, cariad.”

Embrace her. Tears.

My last memory is not who I am. I’m not that speed-obsessed seventeen-year-old.

The gap in my head is a chasm of years.

Hide this turmoil. The holes will vanish.

“I sensed you were awake.” Her smile betrays concern. “Everyone will be pleased. We feared the worst. But we aren’t meant to give clues. Doctor’s orders.”

Standard procedure for amnesia.

How do I know that?

“Mam’s food always inspires me.” My observation impels Gwawr to link arms and lead me down the stairs, saying.

“Always my inquisitive sister.”

Mam is carrying a steaming pot to the wooden table by the kitchen. More names – more memories. Mam’s parents, my nain and taid, sit at either end of the farmhouse table.

Everyone looks at me and cries out.

“We prayed for you to wake.”

 “We missed you.”

 “Welcome back.”

Hugs and kisses for the resurrected.

“Let’s eat. I’m starving.” Mam’s vegetable soup is superb – thick and hearty. The bread, fresh and memory laden. “I can’t remember the last time I ate properly. Before I left for college?”

Years have passed, but I want a reaction – information.

 “Is that your last memory?” Mam struggles to hold back her tears. “Anything else?”

I ensure I’m facing Gwawr as I speak. She’s mastered reading lips, if we enunciate clearly.

“I remember where I am. The family farm, Tyn-y-llyn. Tick – who you all are. And who I am. Yes, crashing my bike on the way to college is the most vivid image, even if some of the details have gone.”

Mam stands up. “I need to call Doctor Vaughan.”

“Is he the one treating my amnesia? If that helps us. I realise the accident must have been years ago. But it’s where my mind returns to.”

And there are fragments demanding attention as they drift on my periphery.

Why? The doctor might clarify – if he wants to.

Childhood memories. Another home.

Before the divorce. Did I cause the break-up? For the same reason I was attacked?

My identity.

But the speeding teenager on the bike isn’t me now.

“Did I smash up another bike?” Searching faces is better – sometimes – than asking simple questions. “That bridge over the A498 was the perfect spot for an assailant. I always slow there. Position myself for the roundabout—”

I’ve been there since. On another bike – a black Ninja.

“Taught by the best.”Gwawr signs the clue.

Who is the best? Motorcycle cops. Tad’s colleagues.

So, the accident had positive consequences – their help. Or was their involvement in place already?

More questions. More rabbit holes for my mind.

Nain and taid grasp each other’s hands – glance at me then each other. Shaking more than old age brings.

“Please, give me time. Everything is there.”

I stand. Touch my toes, then my nose.

Tap my bracer as my tattoos tingle a thought.

S for Siblings.

“Time to walk down to the lake. I have to swim.”

“Not in those clothes, cariad. You have—”

“A wetsuit upstairs. Thanks, nain.”

#

My skin remembers the fabric – warm, protective, close-fitting. Neoprene. Perfect for wild swimming in any weather.

I change, keeping the bracer on as usual.

Gwawr joins me in her suit. She brings towels in case the sun fails us.

We jog to the shimmering water, the llyn that gives our home its name. Generations of Pughs have worked these mountain pastures above the lake.

We lay the towels on rocks warming in the sun. I climb another rock and dive in. It was always safe here. Embraced by the water, the moorland, and the sky.

I dive deep, feet propelling and arms pulling. Breath retained, released slowly. Push for the far bank. It’s possible. Determination.

Fingers touching the bottom.

Rising up, I break surface, goal reached. Gwawr emerges beside me, grinning.

“You remember our llyn.”

“Every ripple.”

But something feels wrong. This isn’t the water I crave. No waves pounding the beach. I grab for a fleeting image, but it shatters leaving just a taste – sea salt.

Why?

The coast road to college in Pwllheli by the sea. Except I’m no longer that teenager.

I dive back into the freshwater. My sister a rippling shadow beside me.

My mind knows but teases me. Sidestep the jagged edges. Lateral game-play. The childhood quirk. Gwawr looks the same age as I was when I crashed. Seventeen with my life unclear. College awaiting a real vocation. Indecisive. Torn between parents. Sheep in my blood but an urge to help people.

C for Crafty and Curveball and Clues.

Gwawr will play by my rules. Not the doctor’s orders.

Back on the home shore, the chance to probe.

“How’s college? Better than mine was?”

She dries herself, humming melodically, then signs.

“My sneaky sister. Research will get me to Uni – history probably. I’m tempted by law. But potential clash. Any suggestions? Advice?”

Law sounds like tad’s calling – law keeper. Heddlu.

“Not farming then.” I glance at my hands. Not calloused enough to be a true Pugh. “None of us had Alwyn’s gift with machinery, except Uncle Ivor tinkering with the tractors.”

“And Owen serves by fighting fires. Uniforms don’t appeal to me. And you always were a fighter. The teenage champion outsmarting law and order. Age has never stopped you – or troublemakers.”

Encouragement to delve. Have I got time? Time is different for a historian than for police like tad. A fighter for justice. What do I believe is worth fighting for? Did I challenge tad? Or did I heed his example?

“For truth and justice – and the Welsh way of life. From sheep to streets. Never a dead end then.”

“Can I leave you, Sparkle? Until your doctor comes. I have an essay to write on the Enigma Code.”

I gesture back to the farmhouse and smile my agreement. Her clues have been enough triggers for my mind.

C for Cryptology as in the Enigma Code.

A for Assault. B for Bike. R for Revenge. S for Siblings.

CRABS

Acronyms – my mind triggers. The rivets on my wet bracer help. And the tattoos tingle with new thoughts.

A number tumbles through my brain. For what? Evidence 101.

BRACERS if E is for Evidence and a second R is for Risks and Riding.

Could tad have persuaded me to join the police? At 18? Could I stand the discipline? I’ve never conformed, even if chapel keeps me from straying too far. But I’ve taken risks – risked the censure of others.

Where did those risks take me? Was the accident the price I paid? Did someone attempt to stop me? Even try to kill me? I had enemies even then and earlier.

But murder seems extreme. Or did I deserve it? I was a target. I took risks and stood up for the underdog. Do I still? Or was that my lesson? A lesson that decided my fate and career.

I skim stones across the llŷn and shift focus, unleashing my mind.

(1,706 words)

***

landscape-nature-wilderness-mountain-cloud-meadow-801513-pxhere.com_.jpg

Fevered Fuse * Serialised * One

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4

In my 7th January IWSG post, I discussed what I was considering doing with ‘Fevered Fuse’, the first of my Snowdon Shadows novels, featuring Sparkle Anwyl. Having pulled back from the traditional publishing route after a few reactions/comments to the first rejection, I began looking at serialising it on Substack, but I only have four followers. Here I have 980, even if the number drops for most posts.

Therefore, I have decided to post ‘Fevered Fuse’ on Writing Wings in serial form, starting today with Chapter One. However, as soon as I realise fewer people are interested than the numbers reading Freedom Flights, then I’ll no longer bore you. The next episode of Freedom Flights has been delayed due to personal issues.

Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.

FEVERED FUSE

A Snowdon Shadows Mystery

by

Roland Clarke

(Police Procedural Fiction)

Chapter One

Shadow Assailant

Friday 25th March 2016

Was the text a trick?

‘Urgnt meet @ SA. Plz. CU1900. C’

My tattoos tingle, so I tap on a random rivet fastening my leather wristband. My mind imagines the initial letters of clues to get a anagram. One tap for each letter. My Cryptograph habit is as constant as my wrist bracer.

T for Text and Talsarnau. C for Cadell or Carys?

Neither come inside the Ship Aground. Not Cadell the manic offender, nor Carys the disarming importer. Both need me sometimes. Why here in Talsarnau?

But nobody approaches me as I remain drinking and watching. Listening to Welsh gossip. Reading lips slurring our language.

Do people know what I am?

Tattoos tingle and fingers tap out letter clues on my black biker bracer.

N for No-show. M for Mystery. O for Offender and I for Importer.

Are these clues I should pursue?

S for Ship and Secrets. A for Aground and Absent. C for Cadell and Carys. R for Reason and Ruse.

I leave.

Nobody follows as I trudge to my motorbike in the shadow of a tree. Moonlight glints on metallic black, and I mount, easing on my helmet.

NARCOTICS.

C for Cryptology – my Cryptograph. Are my weird acronym mind-games misleading me? But the childhood quirk has kept me ahead and alive – and some say indispensable.

Who sent the text?

Cadell, who bullied and stole, but never touched drugs.

Carys, whose brother dealt in replica art. She has a way with everyone – especially us girls.

ROMANTICS

My phone rings.

I answer on my earpiece. ‘Sparkle Anwyl.’

A moving shadow makes me duck. But the blow smashes me off the bike.

Darkness engulfs me as the words lime-green is not cool swamp my throbbing brain.

**

2013 Kawasaki Ninja 250r

295 Words

#IWSG – Retrospect

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9

Although I knew January’s Insecure Writer’s Support Group post was moving closer, I needed to give this month’s question more thought. That meant reassessing my writing intentions.

Although I’ve stopped submitting my Snowdon Shadows police procedural, Fevered Fuse, to publishers, I haven’t abandoned it. Too much went into it, from my time and inspiration to my editor’s input over the years, and to the beta readers’ and other readers’ encouragement.

Although Substack was an option, I must increase my Substack followers before I post any of ‘Fevered Fuse’ there. Otherwise, I could release it in serial form to Sparkle Anwyl’s fans, but only after another novel featuring the quirky lesbian detective is finished. Another option is to submit the shorts covering Sparkle’s early cases, which are the origin of ‘Fevered Fuse’.

Three draft Snowdon Shadows novels exist: Fates Maelstrom, Seeking a Knife, and Ruined Retreat, offering years of work.

Naturally, my heart is still in Wales, although I remain 100% behind the brave people of Ukraine.

As for my Ukraine saga, Freedom Flights, our Ninja Captain was correct in saying, “I know you are passionate about Ukraine. Keep after that story. Don’t let people forget”. The people of Ukraine are why I keep writing. I’m still attempting to write enough episodes to cover two earlier months every current month. Except in December, I only covered events that took place between June 1st and early July 2025. I will eventually post the second part of the July episode.

Slava Ukraini

Heroiam slava!

**

Every month, IWSG announces a question that members can answer in their IWSG posts. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience, or a story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say. 

Remember, the question is optional!

January 7 question – Is there anything in your writing plans for 2026 that you are going to do that you couldn’t get done in 2025?

For a few hours, I was unsure which unfinished opus needed to come out of the vault, after I ignored it in 2025. However, I spent New Year’s Day working on ‘Fates Maelstrom’ after my number one reader, Rebecca Douglass, gave the opening three chapters her seal of approval. One day of writing became four, as I was convinced this had to be completed… well, draft six became my 2026 priority, alongside Freedom Flights.

Sparkle & Kama
Graphics by Jonathan Temples –
http://jonathantemples.co.uk/

I started ‘Fates Maelstrom’ back in 2012 as a psychological mystery set on Dartmoor in Southwest England. However, when the plot was relocated to North Wales, I added a new character – Welsh detective, Sparkle Anwyl. This was planned as the first of the Snowdon Shadows series, until various Sparkle shorts evolved into ‘Fevered Fuse’. So, Fates Maelstrom v6 is set after the Fevered Fuse events and features some of the same characters, like Kama, which creates interesting backstory challenges. Also, the plotlines have developed since v5, and the POVs, which were 3rd person, are now just Sparkle’s 1st-person POV.

The crucial issue is allocating writing time over 2026. My intention is to commit to writing per month, Freedom Flights for three weeks, and Fates Maelstrom for one week.

Please note that the Snowdon Shadows page on this site is not totally up to date… yet.

*

The awesome co-hosts for the January 7 posting of the IWSG are Shannon Lawrence, Olga Godim, Jean Davis, and Jacqui Murray!

Finally, don’t forget to visit other writers via the IWSG site for their invaluable insights on writing:

Insecure Writer’s Support Group

Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!

Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG, and our hashtag is #IWSG.

Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!


Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group Day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer – aim for a dozen new people each time – and return comments. This group is all about connecting!

***

#IWSG – Floored

by

6

Although I knew December’s Insecure Writer’s Support Group post was speeding closer, I forced myself to focus on completing November’s priorities first. So, this month’s question had me stumped… out with no runs. But I’ve jumped ahead and need to back up to address my writing intentions.

Last month, I said my Snowdon Shadows police procedural, Fevered Fuse, was shelved, but some kind writers offered to critique a few chapters for me, as that decision was preying on my mind. They helped me devise a strategy for the series… well, for the first two books, in chronological order. Naturally, my heart is still in Wales.

  1.  ‘Fevered Fuse’ needs work before it is publishable, unless I release it in serial form to fans of Sparkle Anwyl, its quirky lesbian detective. One issue could be that the novel attempted to incorporate Sparkle’s early cases and her earlier teenage conflicts.
  2. ‘Fates Maelstrom’, the second book in the series, is my priority and a better use of my final time here, if I avoid all the pitfalls that plague ‘Fevered Fuse’.
  3. The two other titles, No. 3, Seeking a Knife, and No.4, ‘Ruined Retreat’, will remain as drafts to revise if an earlier title encourages readers to demand more of Sparkle.

As for my Ukraine saga, Freedom Flights, our Ninja Captain was correct in saying, “I know you are passionate about Ukraine. Keep after that story. Don’t let people forget”. The people of Ukraine are why I keep writing. I’m now attempting to write enough episodes to cover two earlier months every current month. Hence, in November, I covered events that took place between April 1st and May 30th, 2025.

Slava Ukraini

Heroiam slava!

**

Every month, IWSG announces a question that members can answer in their IWSG posts. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience, or a story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say. 

Remember, the question is optional!

December 3 question – As a writer, what was one of the coolest/best gifts you ever received?

My first thought was, “I’m stumped, or I’m floored”, since nothing came to mind.

Then, like last month, I remembered “A Sailor’s Life for me”. Aged about eleven, I wrote an essay on ‘A Day in the Life of a Navy Helicopter pilot’, which was among the winners of a memorable three days with the Royal Navy. All the prize-winners went to Portsmouth, toured HMS Victory, visited the Fleet Air Arm’s HMS Ariel, went inside a docked submarine at HMS Dolphin, and travelled on the guided missile destroyer, HMS Devonshire, along the South Coast from Portsmouth to Devonport. Of course, I didn’t join the Royal Navy, as my career took a different path, as I covered last month.

HMS Victory in drydock at Portsmouth Historic Dockyard. Date: 9 May 2008 (according to Exif data). Source/Author: Ballista

However, prizes aren’t gifts, and that means thinking of one that gets me off the floor…

Maybe a tape recorder. Recently, my wife, Juanita, bought me a recorder so I could tape crazy thoughts at night or when my laptop was asleep. Great gift and better than the high-tech digital one that was too small for my fingers in the dark. The only problem is when Juanita asks who I’m talking to. Perhaps creating an acronym, as my detective Sparkle Anwyl does, is my most accessible mnemonic device.

Looking at my desk reminds me of other cool gifts: the decorated notebooks that friends and family have given me over the years… some too attractive for my scrawl.

There are sure to be cooler gifts, but they’ve evaded recall.

**

The awesome co-hosts for the December 3 posting of the IWSG are Tara Tyler, Ronel Janse van Vuuren, Pat Garcia, Liza, and Natalie Aguirre!

Finally, don’t forget to visit other writers via the IWSG site for their invaluable insights on writing:

Insecure Writer’s Support Group

Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!

Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG, and our hashtag is #IWSG.

Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!


Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group Day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer – aim for a dozen new people each time – and return comments. This group is all about connecting!