Roland Clarke's Blog, page 29
April 5, 2019
E for Escalation – Azure Spark. Part 5
[
[Background music at the end. This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]
ESCALATION – Wednesday Early Morning
Entwined in each other’s embrace
starts a hectic day, equipping us with the energy to cope with the traumas dug
up at CID. Our Aberdaron assault case is bogged down with confused victims,
inflicting identities, and other cases taking precedence. Most are evaluated –
by money powers – as more ‘exigent’.
Results that use less resources. Austerity 101. Ffyc restraints. My case means my rules.
We have found no addresses in the
Nefyn area for the two men, and their occupations remain vague. Evidence is
elusive.
While Kama rides her Ducati motorbike into Porthmadog, I ride my Ninja to Caernarfon, heading for the address of Göteborg Electric Engineers.
The unit is on an industrial estate that exposes the decline
in UK industry. Rust and decay. Boarded up windows, chained gateways, abandoned
cars, and a few thriving businesses. GEE is not one of them.
The weeds cracking the concrete steps are the healthiest evidence
of life. Yet, the iron mesh gateway is wide open despite the other signs the
business is dead.
Heart sinking, tattoos jangling, I park the bike then try
the front entrance. Nothing – as expected.
I check the windows and side doors. Nothing. My heart ebbs.
I grit my teeth. Another dead end.
I walk back to my bike, intending to report in.
A delivery van pulls up by the unit, and the driver carries
a large box to the front door, then leaves. Does he know the unit is abandoned?
What were his instructions – if any?
I check the package, but there are no indications of what it
is. A 2x 4x 5 shipping box. The only clue are two labels. One shows the
sender’s address – GEE in Sweden, who must know their UK subsidiary’s correct
address. The second is a FRAGILE – FREIGHT label.
My tattoos warn me to leave so I drive to a position from where
I observe the building. Report in as I watch.
“This address for GEE is for an abandoned unit. But a
van has just made a delivery as if it will be collected. Number plate and
details memorized. I’ll wait and see. Smiles.”
Time drags with background traffic noise and seagulls. Beach
noises win. Visions of sand and beautiful shells.
My mobile rings. The PCSO on-duty at the hospital.
“We endeavoured to stop him, but Ellis Evans checked
himself out without giving us a clear idea of where to reach him. Vic Vaughn is
still here and making no sense. If he attempts to leave in similar
circumstances, I will attempt to dissuade him more effectively. I’m sorry I let
you down.”
“You didn’t. Nobody knew that he would do that. I’ll
make sure we locate him.”
“Diolch. I
believe that with your reputation.”
Ellis Evans – the man whose clothes I failed to check. My
stomach tenses – twists. Too late now. Forensics should have done their job
anyway.
I close my eyes. Another fail DI Ffion Baines will struggle
to explain to the Chief Constable.
The sound of a vehicle turning into the unit’s yard pulls me back to my stakeout. It’s a Skoda Octavia Estate 4 x 4 with GEE signage. The driver gets out and retrieves the package. She’s tall, elegant and athletic, 5’11” – fitting the exotic description the diving trainer gave our SWP colleague.
“Package retrieved. Following vehicle and suspect matching SWP description. Will send photo of licence plate. Track me please, cariad.”
The 4 x 4 is unaware of the tail and leads me to an
industrial park on the outskirts. Smarter, newer, flourishing businesses,
including the North Wales offices of GEE. Security is evident everywhere, from
CCTV to guards.
What is being protected? GEE hardly registered in our
checks. No alerts. No criminal records. No evidence of felonious intent. Who
are they?
F for Freight, Felony and Fragile. G for Göteborg. E for
Electronics and Ellis Evans. Plus, Escalation and Evasion. I for Identity and
Instructor. N for Nefyn and Nowhere.
FEIGN. Who is attempting to deceive us? Someone is playing
games and my tattoos say we are not the Home team nor is this Eirias Stadium.
[image error]Caernarfon, North Wales
For further details on this theme visit my Blogging from A to Z Theme Reveal, and on
the evolution of Sparkle Anwyl visit Snowdon Shadows.
Other A to Z Bloggers can be found via the Blogging from A to
Z website’s Master List –
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/2019/03/link-to-view-master-list-and.html
^*^
And now for something completely different.
“Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.”
William Congreve – The Mourning Bride
April 4, 2019
D for Death’s Door – Azure Spark. Part 4
[This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]
DEATH’S DOOR – Tuesday Evening
Diving dangers are numerous and as many as driving too fast along
the curving Welsh roads back to Porthmadog. Most can be avoided with less haste
and with the correct training.
Speed feeds my adrenaline desire. Directed.
Is discipline why the two guys went on a deep-water course
in Cardiff? Which course?
When I reach CID, I report my thoughts.
“If our victims were on a diving course in Cardiff, it
should be possible to discover which centre and when they finished.”
Kama agrees to contact her former SWP colleagues.
“A friend from the Pontypridd station is now with a
Cardiff division, so will do me a favour.”
A twinge of jealousy. Broken breath. Burning stomach.
But friend means working relationship. Like the demeanour we
display for our colleagues. Do any of them really know or suspect? Unlikely.
We’ve tried to be discreet.
“While you make the call, I’ll check if there any
responses to our public request for information on the photos we released of
the two guys.”
I scan the feed-back. I weed out the helpful-unhelpful
suggestions that we usually receive. Not quite hoaxes but well-meaning time
wasters. However, there are two confirming what I learnt from Guto Thomas, that
the two men were from the Nefyn area. But three others claim that the men were
from Dolgellau.
Were our victims using aliases? Who are they? Were their
reasons for attending a diving course coincidental?
The sea has her moods. She needs to be treated with deference.
Restoring a boat and learning how to dive responsibly are decisive moves.
I shiver. Close my eyes. Death awaits us if we make mistakes
in the wild water. Invigorating yet powerful. Waves break over me as I drive my
path forwards. Thrills. Diving is another step I should embrace more. The deep-sea
depths tempt me. Warm shivers up my spine.
A shared smile.
“My friend received confirmation from one of the South
Wales training centres that Ellis Evans and Vic Vaughn were on their Advanced
Open Water course on Thursday.”
“Before the storm. Did they complete the course?”
“Yes. They had already done a weekend. So, all phases were
completed, including the final deep-water assessment in Saint Bride’s Bay. We
were lucky that the course trainer took the call from my friend and the trainer
said that Evans and Vaughn left with a couple in a 4 x 4 on Friday evening.”
“Any description of the driver?”
“A middle-aged couple. The woman driver was described as
exotic. The 4 x 4 had sign-writing – Göteborg Electric Engineers.”
I squeeze Kama’s hand across our linked desks as she leans
forward and hands me her notepad.
On it are the details from South Wales, including the
company name. Plus, a red heart. Our smiles will have to last us until we are
in bed at home.
Focus.
I enter the search for our lead. Minimal Internet presence, just an address in Caernarfon.
E for Electric and Engineers. A for Aliases and Assault. D
for Diving and Dangers. G for Göteborg.
EGAD for the English. But for us Welsh, GAED. Am I on the
edge of a discovery?
[image error]
For further details on this theme visit my Blogging from A to Z Theme Reveal, and on the evolution of Sparkle Anwyl visit Snowdon Shadows.
Other A to Z Bloggers can be found via the Blogging from A to
Z website’s Master List –
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/2019/03/link-to-view-master-list-and.html
^*^
And now for something completely different.
“Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.”
William Congreve – The Mourning Bride
April 3, 2019
#IWSG – C is also for Confused
C is for Challenge but also for Creator and Captain. As in…
Created and hosted by the Ninja Captain himself, Alex J. Cavanaugh, theInsecure Writer’s Support Groupmonthly blog post is here again – and so am I. Albeit briefly this month.
Anyway, on to this month’s question.
April 3 question: If you could use a wish to help you
write just ONE scene/chapter of your book, which one would it be? (examples:
fight scene / first kiss scene / death scene / chase scene / first chapter /
middle chapter / end chapter, etc.)
The opening where readers first encounter Sparkle Anwyl –
and so does she as she’s lost her memory. I’ll leave you as C for Confused as us.
[image error]
The awesome co-hosts for the April 3 posting of the IWSG are
J.H.
Moncrieff, Natalie
Aguirre, Patsy
Collins, and Chemist Ken!
Purpose of IWSG: 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!
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer
in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a
personal experience or 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.
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 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!
Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!
Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer
in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a
personal experience or 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.
C for Coma – Azure Spark. Part 3
[This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]
COMA – Tuesday Late Afternoon
“Coma complications?” Not what I want to hear.
“Still unconscious?”
The doctor is quick to clarify. “No, they’re awake but
confused. It may not be worth you coming back in – at least not again today. I’ll
tell your uniformed colleague to call you.”
“Can they talk? What have they said?” My tattoos
stab me. I dread his reply.
“Nothing significant. They are rambling and can’t even
remember their names and I would prefer that they are not pressured into
remembering. My preliminary diagnosis is retrograde amnesia. They have both
lost a substantial proportion of their declarative memory, especially their
autobiographical recollections.”
He launches into a detailed description of how the brain
functions. Enough for me to know they have post-traumatic brain injuries from a
blow to the head. Concussion.
Unravelling their identities is my task. Heart beats
quicken. My case, my challenge.
“Keep me informed of their condition, doctor. I’ll ring
if I discover anything. We have created composite images from the photos that
forensics took. Somebody will know who they are.”
Mobile off, I consider the best course. Calm the clamour of
scenarios. Alone is best – or with Kama. She must wait.
Aberdaron is a small village although tourists swell the
numbers, but someone might recognise our two men.
The church sits just above the beach and opposite are the
pubs. One seems more frequented by the locals and I approach the bar.
“Myrica Gale,” I say in Welsh, hoping they stock
the seasonal stout. I’m on-duty but who is going to report me.
The barman smiles and pours me a pint. “Perfect Welsh
but not local. Nor a tourist. Journalist?”
I laugh. “Heddlu.”
His brows lift. “Not your average copper, more like a
biker chick. Investigating the assaults?”
“I’m impressed, but publicans are a sharp lot. First, I
need to identify them.” I call up the photos on my smart phone and show
him. “Do you know them? Either of them?”
He shakes his head. “Never seen them before, and nobody
seemed to know them when the bodies were found. I don’t think they were even
tourists.”
Not what I want to hear, but there are no easy cases. That’s
the challenge – the charge to my life.
“I also need to find a local boat builder – clinker
boats.”
“Our Aberdaron beach boats, not many of those left.
Even fewer builders. You’re best asking at the Porth y Swnt Visitor Centre –
they have one of the boats there. And they might have a list of builders.”
With his directions, I find the centre and the clinker-built
exhibit.
A guide approaches me.
“Beautiful boat,” she says in English.
I detect her lilt and reply in our mutual tongue.
“Clinker built. She must be old. Are there many builders left?” I
show her my warrant card.
Relief floods her face. “I expected you to be a
tourist. Sorry. I’ve never met a police woman like you.” Her blushing face
appeals, but it’s not attraction. “Over 100 years old and there are very
few builders. Most of the boats are restored in Porth Meudwy, but this exhibit was
restored at Felin Uchaf Educational Centre in Rhoshirwaun near Pwllheli.”
Stay focused. “And are the restoration techniques unchanged?
I’m following a lead into boat building.” Attractions are dangerous. But one
risk was worthwhile.
“Pretty much traditional. Best to ask the builders
themselves, starting with Guto Thomas at Meudwy.”
*
[image error]https://www.ukholidayguide.co.uk/porth-meudwy—near-aberdaron—gwynedd—north-wales-47-p.asp
The National Trust track to the cove is closed to the public
vehicles but not to me or my motorbike. Clinker built lobster boats on trailers
line one side near a single stone cottage. Beyond beside the sea are a couple
of old Land Rovers and the tractors for launching the boats including the ferry
to Bardsey Island.
I find a man working on a boat – he’s about forty, five foot
six, black hair and wiry. Clean Celtic blue coveralls.
“Guto Thomas? I’m DC Anwyl,” My Welsh relaxes him. “The
Visitors Centre said you might be able to help. I’m investigating the Aberdaron assaults and I
need to learn about the Aberdaron boats. One of the men may have been building
one.”
A long shot but my instinct – my tattoos – have never lied.
Maybe they’re misleading if I misread them. Caution is for colleagues. But my
head says careless kills.
His dark eyes read me. “Well. our traditional Aberdaron beach
boat was clinker built, transom sterned and single masted, and under 15 feet in
length so they could be handled by two men.” He pauses but I don’t curb his
enthusiasm. “Each one was slightly different as they were built specifically
for the individual fisherman who would be using them. We only restore them now…although
there a few replicas. Not the real boat.”
Memorise the details. My tattoos cry ‘continue’.
“Do you all use traditional materials in the restoration?
Pitch or tar for instance.”
“Most do, but some take short cuts – not that a layman would
notice. I still use pitch over the caulking. Others use the modern
alternatives. You suspect a builder was involved?”
“One of the victims might have been in contact with pitch.” I
hand him my smartphone with the photos.
Guto studies the two guys. “These guys asked my advice as they
wanted to rebuild an old lobster boat, one of them had bought.”
“Did they give their names or where they were from.”
“Not local but from the Llŷn – Nefyn area. They said they
were… Ellis Evans and Vic Vaughn.”
Fairly common names but a valuable step forward.
“Did they come here more than once? When did you last see
them?”
He glances at a chandler’s calendar. “Last week, on Monday.
I showed them how to seal the hull with caulking and pitch.”
A sigh. Relief my tattoo hunch works.
P for Pitch. But no motive for the A for Assault – or A for
Accident. Minimal evidence and confused victims. E for Evidence. C for
Confusion.
PACE. Never waver. Dig deeper.
“Were they far enough advanced with the boat to try to launch
at the weekend – before the storm?”
Guto shakes his head. “Impossible. They were slow workers.
Enthusiastic but amateurs who might have ignored the storm warnings. But they
said they had to go to Cardiff for a midweek deep-water diving course.”
Cardiff is almost 200 miles from Aberdaron. Did they go on
the course?
As a wild swimmer, I know about the dangers of diving. Decompression?
[image error]http://www.rhiw.com/y_pentra/holiday_cottages/tir_glyn/tir_glyn.htm
For further details on this theme visit my Blogging from A to Z Theme Reveal, and on the evolution of Sparkle Anwyl visit Snowdon Shadows.
Other A to Z Bloggers can be found via the Blogging from A to
Z website’s Master List –
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/2019/03/link-to-view-master-list-and.html
^*^
And now for something completely different.
“Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.”
William Congreve – The Mourning Bride
April 2, 2019
B for Blood – Azure Spark. Part 2
[This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]
BLOOD – Tuesday Afternoon
Beautiful beaches have two facades. One under an azure sky
invites tourists and recreation. The other wild and electrifying like the
storm.
Was that when the victims were both tossed up here? The sea was
turbulent over the weekend, and waves battered the shoreline. In local harbours
numerous boats were damaged, and a few were sunk.
Eyes closed, I see our beach, the beach where we met. Heart
pounds. Blood races. Our beach – where we first challenged biased beliefs. Ffyc prejudice.
Focus. The case calls. Two victims need resolution.
The injuries are violent. But were the two men washed
overboard from a ship or attacked on the beach. There was no blood visible at
the scene. Washed away? Waves and rocks might have done more damage if the
victims had been swept in by the storm.
Steady steps along the shoreline, thinking and looking. Do
forensics have everything? Ring them.
“What do we know so far, Liam? I’m at the beach
now.”
“Still early, DC Anwyl. Too many cases – and we are constantly
short-staffed. All we know is that the bodies and clothes were wet from salt
water. But we don’t know how the injuries occurred.”
My tattoos tingle. Something is missing. We can’t wait. I need
answers.
“The bodies can’t have been in the water for too long
in that storm or they would’ve drowned. Agree?”
“That’s likely, especially since the medical report
doesn’t show any signs such as hypothermia. But they had been in contact with
seawater and the weatherproof gear that we took was saturated.”
W for Weather. B for Blood. S for Seawater.
“What sort of gear?”
“Fishing or sailing clothes. So, the men could’ve been
swept off a pier somewhere, although our evidence doesn’t support them being in
the sea long.”
Unidentified and not reported missing – yet. Or whoever
attacked them was attempting to keep their identities hidden. But without
killing them. To gain time for something? Or robbery?
“You left some clothes – jeans and a T-shirt. Why? I
detected some dark substance. Tar?”
“We removed the weatherproof gear covering the men and
we took fabric samples from their other clothes. Including that substance.
Possibly bitumen or some derivative. I’ll let you know. Is that all, detective?”
I let him go and continue my slow pacing along the
shoreline. Does the tar mean that the second man was a mechanic or road worker?
Or is it from somewhere else? Is it even relevant?
I failed to check the other man’s clothes. Slipping. My
throat constricts. Why did I miss that? Who will know? A serious oversight I can
rectify.
A family is playing cricket on the beach. I stop and watch.
My motorcycling leathers are out of place against their summer seaside attire.
Out of place alongside most of my colleagues who dress more formally – except
Kama in her Indo-Western pant suits. But her Tamil heritage is an excuse.
“Unusual to see a biker here.” The father smiles
at me. “And female ones are even rarer. Do you play cricket?”
“I’m Welsh so I know rugby. But I spend more time in
the water.”
“Oh, so you’re a sailor. We try not to miss the local
regatta in August. Do you sail in that one?”
I’ve forgotten the Aberdaron Regatta next week. A clue? Like
the weatherproof gear our two victims were wearing?
“More of a wild water swimmer. But I might give the
regatta some thought.”
W for Wild and Weather. S for Swimming and Sailing. A for Aberdaron.
L for Llŷn.
The Llŷn Peninsula has some unique boats that may well use
tar or pitch.
C for Clinker-built Craft. C for Caulking,
CLAWS. Like the strange injuries?
[image error]Photo by
Cai Williams – Aberdaron Sailing Club
http://www.hwylio-llyn.co.uk/home.htm
For further details on this theme visit my Blogging from A to Z Theme Reveal, and on the evolution of Sparkle Anwyl visit Snowdon Shadows.
Other A to Z Bloggers can be found via the Blogging from A to
Z website’s Master List –
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/2019/03/link-to-view-master-list-and.html
^*^
And now for something completely different.
“Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.”
William Congreve – The Mourning Bride
April 1, 2019
A for Assault – Azure Spark. Part 1
[image error]
[This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]
ASSAULT – Tuesday Midday
Appalling abrasions are more than I expected from the
headlines – Another Aberdaron Assault.
But not from our photos.
I wince. Muscles clench. Concentrate.
The victim’s face shows signs of deep scratches like claws as
well as multiple angry bruises as if he was beaten up. More than the two
bloodied and black eyes. Arms. Shoulders. Legs. Aggravated assault.
He is asleep. Or worse. Breathe.
Has he regained consciousness, doctor?”
“Not since he was brought in, Detective Anwyl. We
treated his injuries as best we could, but he remains in this coma. I will
inform NWP when he regains consciousness.”
Another Aberdaron
Assault. Those attention-grabbing
headlines missed that detail. The reporter ran with ‘second man found assaulted
on the beach at Aberdaron’. But even the North Wales Police has minimal
information. Two unidentified athletic men in their twenties sprawled comatose
on Aberdaron beach.
“And the other victim?”
The doctor gestures across the corridor where a Police
Community Support Officer is stationed.
“The same. They’ve both received serious blows to the
head.”
I nod. Amnesia when they regain consciousness is my fear.
“Where are their clothes?”
He points to a neat pile on the shelf. “Your forensic
team examined them, I believe. Removed some. Ask the senior nurse if you need additional
medical information. I have more patients requiring my attention.”
The doctor leaves. Little I can do here until the two men
regain consciousness. My tattoos are tingling.
A for Aggravated Assault and Attire.
Clothes. Nothing unusual. Except the jeans have a dark
stain. Blood? Darker – the colour of my biking leathers. Black. Tar? Although
forensics will have removed any evidence, I need to visit the crime scene at Aberdaron.
Bike across to the end of the Llŷn Peninsula. Find what I can. This was
aggravated assault and my tattoos confirm my suspicions. What connects these
two men?
I finger my bracer, tapping on its studs. A for Assault. C
for Coma. F for Forensics. E for Evidence. T for Tar. FACET or FATE.
Clench my teeth. I must control my future – my life.
The PCSO relaxes as I approach. “I was hoping another female
officer would be assigned to the case. Some of our male colleagues demand too
much.”
“Agree. I just need you to watch both victims while I
investigate – and report anything suspicious to me.” I hand her my card. “Or my
partner – her number is on the back.”
Outside Bangor hospital, I check-in with the case’s supervisory
officer, Detective Sergeant V Kamatchi Pillai.
Breathe slowly. Deep. Remain professional – like she does so
well.
“Both victims are still unconscious. The doctor will
inform us when they are awake.”
A sigh. Perhaps a smile.
“But you have a hunch, Sparkle. Your tattoos
again?”
I smile. Kama knows me so well. Her voice is as dark and
sultry as her looks. My blood races. I close my eyes. Focus on the case not my
lover.
“Yes. I’m going to Aberdaron. To the crime scene – to
the beach.”
Not our special Morfa Bychan beach. But later.
[image error]
Aberdaron Beach, Gwynedd, looking towards Porth Meudwy – author: Skinsmoke https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Skinsmoke
For further details on this theme visit my Blogging from A to Z Theme Reveal, and on the evolution of Sparkle Anwyl visit Snowdon Shadows.
Other A to Z Bloggers can be found via the Blogging from A to Z website’s Master List –
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/2019/03/link-to-view-master-list-and.html
^*^
And now for something completely different.
“Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.”
William Congreve – The Mourning Bride
March 28, 2019
Equestrian Author Spotlight
Last year, I was interviewed by Carly Kade for her Equestrian Author Spotlight series.
Here is a link to that interview, published today:
https://www.carlykadecreative.com/blog/equestrian-author-spotlight-meet-roland-clarke?fbclid=IwAR0r0jy9ZCLNMiep-IC7OQV3TVIBPajPuSf_7tgUAL0x3_S-qdEPhpJCFro
I have made an update on the post in the comments as my Work in Progress – well, my novel WIP – has changed. Story of my life.
March 18, 2019
A to Z Challenge Theme Reveal – Azure Spark
A to Z Challenge Theme Reveal – #AtoZChallenge
#ThemeReveal
This year, I am better prepared for today’s A to Z Challenge Theme Reveal day than I have been in recent years.
Initially, my thoughts had been drifting around the thoughts
I scribbled down after 2017’s Challenge and kept adding to after last year’s
Challenge. One ongoing possibility was to work with the list of places in North
Wales that were linked to my Welsh detective series.
As many of you must know, I’ve been working on various
aspects of Sparkle Anwyl’s career from the revision of her case, Fates Maelstrom, to short flash posts
for WEP/IWSG. I have also been deliberating over what to do with my writing. Do
I just blog more Sparkle posts? Do I focus on my Sparkle novel, Fevered Few?
Well, for the 2019 Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, I will be releasing a new Sparkle Anwyl short story, called Azure Spark.
[image error]
Aberdaron Beach, Gwynedd, looking towards Porth Meudwy – author: Skinsmoke https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Skinsmoke
Each day’s post will move the story forwards with the
appropriate letter playing a prominent role. For instance, the letter A is for
Assault as in the incident that triggers the story. This plays well with
Sparkle’s idiosyncrasy of using mnemonics to help her tackle crime. You’ll have
to wait to see how that ‘spells’ out.
I may add a little extra with a daily musical offering.
After last year’s A to Z challenge, I began collating a musical list for this
year, so at least it might survive in some form. For a taster, here – if this
works – is the soundtrack for one of the games that I play. Also, an echo of my
2018 gaming theme. This is one of the pieces of music playing as I work.
That’s all for this reveal. I’m off to work on Sparkle’s current
case. There are quite a few alphabetical threads left – blame it on my health
not my devious mind.
March 13, 2019
Survival of the Fittest – Blog Hop
Today I am joining the Blog Hop for my writer friend, Jacqui Murray’s latest novel, Survival of the Fittest. So, first what is the story?
Short Summary:
Chased by a ruthless and powerful enemy, Xhosa flees with her People, leaving behind a certain life in her African homeland to search for an unknown future. She leads her People on a grueling journey through unknown and dangerous lands but an escape path laid out years before by her father as a final desperate means to survival. She is joined by other homeless tribes–from Indonesia, China, South Africa, East Africa, and the Levant—all similarly forced by timeless events to find new lives. As they struggle to overcome treachery, lies, danger, tragedy, hidden secrets, and Nature herself, Xhosa must face the reality that this enemy doesn’t want her People’s land. He wants to destroy her.
One question among many fascinated me as I agree with Xhosa’s choice of companion:
Could Xhosa
(the main character of Survival of the Fittest) really have
traveled with a wolf companion?
Dogs weren’t
domesticated until about 10-15,000 years ago, long after Xhosa lived 850,000
years ago. But her understanding of man and animal were not what ours is. To
Xhosa, the line between man and animal was blurry. She didn’t think of animals
as lesser creatures. Why would she? As far as she knew, like her, they could
plan, think, problem-solve, and display emotions just as she did.
So, for Xhosa to partner with a wolf made perfect sense.
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Book information:
Title
and author:
Survival of the Fittest
Series:
Book 1 in the
Crossroads
series,
part of the
Man vs. Nature
saga
Genre: Prehistoric
fiction
Cover
by:
Damonza
Available at: Kindle US Kindle UK Kindle CA Kindle AU
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Author bio:
Jacqui Murray is the author of the popular Building a Midshipman , the story of her daughter’s journey from high school to United States Naval Academy, the Rowe-Delamagente thrillers , and the Man vs. Nature saga . She is also the author/editor of over a hundred books on integrating tech into education, adjunct professor of technology in education, blog webmaster, an Amazon Vine Voice , a columnist for TeachHUB and NEA Today , and a freelance journalist on tech ed topics. Look for her next prehistoric fiction, Quest for Home, Summer 2019. You can find her tech ed books at her publisher’s website, Structured Learning
Social Media contacts:
http://pinterest.com/askatechteacher
http://linkedin.com/in/jacquimurray
https://worddreams.wordpress.com
https://jacquimurray.nethttps://jacquimurray.net
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Sample:
Chapter 1
Her foot throbbed. Blood dripped from
a deep gash in her leg. At some point, Xhosa had scraped her palms raw while
sliding across gravel but didn’t remember when, nor did it matter. Arms
pumping, heart thundering, she flew forward. When her breath went from pants to
wheezing gasps, she lunged to a stop, hands pressed against her damp legs,
waiting for her chest to stop heaving. She should rest but that was nothing but
a passing thought, discarded as quickly as it arrived. Her mission was greater
than exhaustion or pain or personal comfort.
She started again, sprinting as
though chased, aching fingers wrapped around her spear. The bellows of the
imaginary enemy—Big Heads this time—filled the air like an acrid stench. She
flung her spear over her shoulder, aiming from memory. A thunk and
it hit the tree, a stand-in for the enemy. With a growl, she pivoted to defend
her People.
Which would
never happen. Females weren’t warriors.
Feet spread, mouth set in a tight
line, she launched her last spear, skewering an imaginary assailant, and was
off again, feet light, her abundance of ebony hair streaming behind her like
smoke. A scorpion crunched beneath her hardened foot. Something moved in the
corner of her vision and she hurled a throwing stone, smiling as a hare toppled
over. Nightshade called her reactions those of Leopard.
But that didn’t matter. Females
didn’t become hunters either.
With a lurch, she gulped in the
parched air. The lush green grass had long since given way to brittle stalks
and desiccated scrub. Sun’s heat drove everything alive underground,
underwater, or over the horizon. The males caught her attention across the
field, each with a spear and warclub. Today’s hunt would be the last until
the rain—and the herds—returned.
“Why haven’t they left?”
She kicked a rock and winced as pain
shot through her foot. Head down, eyes shut against the memories. Even after
all this time, the chilling screams still rang in her ears…
The People’s warriors had been away
hunting when the assault occurred. Xhosa’s mother pushed her young daughter
into a reed bed and stormed toward the invaders but too late to save the life
of her young son. The killer, an Other, laughed at the enraged female armed
only with a cutter. When she sliced his cheek open, the gash so deep his black
teeth showed, his laughter became fury. He swung his club with such force her
mother crumpled instantly, her head a shattered melon.
From the safety of the pond, Xhosa
memorized the killer—nose hooked awkwardly from some earlier injury, eyes dark
pools of cruelty. It was then, at least in spirit, she became a warrior.
Nothing like this must ever happen again.
When her father, the People’s Leader,
arrived that night with his warriors, he was greeted by the devastating scene
of blood-soaked ground covered by mangled bodies, already chewed by scavengers.
A dry-eyed Xhosa told him how marauders had massacred every subadult, female,
and child they could find, including her father’s pairmate. Xhosa
communicated this with the usual grunts, guttural sounds, hand signals, facial
expressions, hisses, and chirps. The only vocalizations were
call signs to identify the group members.
“If I knew how to fight, Father,
Mother would be alive.” Her voice held no anger, just determination.
The tribe she described had arrived a
Moon ago, drawn by the area’s rich fruit trees, large ponds, lush grazing, and
bluffs with a view as far as could be traveled in a day. No other area offered
such a wealth of resources. The People’s scouts had seen these Others but
allowed them to forage, not knowing their goal was to destroy the People.
Her father’s body raged but his
hands, when they moved, were calm. “We will avenge our losses, daughter.”
The next morning, Xhosa’s father
ordered the hunters to stay behind, protect the People. He and the warriors
snuck into the enemy camp before Sun awoke and slaughtered the females and
children before anyone could launch a defense. The males were pinned to the
ground with stakes driven through their thighs and hands. The People cut deep
wounds into their bodies and left, the blood scent calling all scavengers.
When Xhosa asked if the one with the
slashed cheek had died, her father motioned, “He escaped, alone. He will not
survive.”
Word spread of the savagery and no
one ever again attacked the People, not their camp, their warriors, or their
hunters.
While peace prevailed, Xhosa grew
into a powerful but odd-looking female. Her hair was too shiny, hips too round,
waist too narrow beneath breasts bigger than necessary to feed babies. Her legs
were slender rather than sturdy and so long, they made her taller than every
male. The fact that she could outrun even the
hunters while heaving her spear and hitting whatever she aimed for didn’t
matter. Females weren’t required to run that fast. Nightshade, though, didn’t
care about any of that. He claimed they would pairmate, as her
father wished, when he became the People’s Leader.
Until then, all of her time was spent
practicing the warrior skills no one would allow her to use.
One day, she confronted her father.
“I can wield a warclub one-handed and throw a spear hard enough to kill. If I
were male, you would make me a warrior.”
He smiled. “You are like a son to me,
Daughter. I see your confidence and boldness. If I don’t teach you, I fear I
will lose you.”
He looked away, the smile long gone
from his lips. “Either you or Nightshade must lead when I can’t.”
Under her father’s tutelage, she and
Nightshade learned the nuances of sparring, battling, chasing, defending, and
assaulting with the shared goal that never would the People succumb to an
enemy. Every one of Xhosa’s spear throws destroyed the one who killed her
mother. Every swing of her warclub smashed his head as he had her mother’s.
Never again would she stand by, impotent, while her world collapsed. She
perfected the skills of knapping cutters and sharpening spears, and became
expert at finding animal trace in bent twigs, crushed grass, and by
listening to their subtle calls. She could walk without leaving tracks and
match nature’s sounds well enough to be invisible.
A Moon ago, as Xhosa practiced her
scouting, she came upon a lone warrior kneeling by a waterhole. His back was to
her, skeletal and gaunt, his warclub chipped, but menace oozed from him
like stench from dung. She melted into the redolent sedge grasses,
feet sinking into the squishy mud, and observed.
His head hair was sprinkled with
grey. A hooked nose canted precariously, poorly healed from a fracas he won but
his nose lost. His curled lips revealed cracked and missing teeth. A cut on his
upper arm festered with pus and maggots. Fever dimpled his forehead with sweat.
He crouched to drink but no amount of water would appease that thirst.
What gave him away was the wide
ragged scar left from the slash of her mother’s cutter.
Xhosa trembled with rage, fearing he
would see the reeds shake, biting her lip until it bled to stop from howling.
It hardly seemed fair to slay a dying male but fairness was not part of her
plan today.
Only revenge.
A check of her surroundings indicated
he traveled alone. Not that it mattered. If she must trade her life for his, so
be it.
But she didn’t intend to die.
The exhausted warrior splashed muddy
water on his grimy head, hands slow, shoulders round with fatigue, oblivious to
his impending death. After a quiet breath, she stepped from the sedge, spear in
one hand and a large rock in the other. Exposed, arms ready but hanging, she
approached. If he turned, he would see her. She tested for dry twigs and
brittle grass before committing each foot. It surprised her he ignored the
silence of the insects. His wounds must distract him. By the time hair raised
on his neck, it was too late. He pivoted as she swung, powered by fury over her
mother’s death, her father’s agony, and her own loss. Her warclub smashed into
his temple with a soggy thud. Recognition flared moments before life left.
“You die too quickly!” she screamed
and hit him over and over, collapsing his skull and spewing gore over her body.
“I wanted you to suffer as I did!”
Her body was numb as she kicked him
into the pond, feeling not joy for his death, relief that her mother was
avenged, or upset at the execution of an unarmed Other. She cleaned the gore
from her warclub and left. No one would know she had been blooded but the truth
filled her with power.
She was now a warrior.
When she returned to homebase,
Nightshade waited. Something flashed through his eyes as though for the first
time, he saw her as a warrior. His chiseled face, outlined by dense blue-black
hair, lit up. The corners of his full lips twitched under the broad flat nose.
The finger-thick white scar emblazoned against his smooth forehead, a symbol of
his courage surviving Sabertooth’s claws, pulsed. Female eyes watched him,
wishing he would look at them as he did Xhosa but he barely noticed.
The next day, odd Others with long
legs, skinny chests, and oversized heads arrived. The People’s scouts
confronted them but they simply watched the scouts, spears down, and then
trotted away, backs to the scouts. That night, for the first time, Xhosa’s
father taught her and Nightshade the lessons of leading.
“Managing the lives of the People is
more than winning battles. You must match individual skills to the People’s
requirements be it as a warrior, hunter, scout, forager, child minder,
Primary Female, or another. All can do all jobs but one best suits each.
The Leader must decide,” her father motioned.
As they finished, she asked the
question she’d been thinking about all night. “Father, where do they come
from?”
“They are called Big Heads,” which
didn’t answer Xhosa’s question.
Nightshade motioned, “Do they want to
trade females? Or children?”
Her father stared into the distance
as though lost in some memory. His teeth ground together and his hands shook
until he clamped them together.
He finally took a breath and
motioned, “No, they don’t want mates. They want conflict.” He tilted his head
forward. “Soon, we will be forced to stop them.”
Nightshade clenched his spear and his
eyes glittered at the prospect of battle. It had been a long time since the
People fought.
But the Big Heads vanished. Many of
the People were relieved but Xhosa couldn’t shake the feeling that danger
lurked only a long spear throw away. She found herself staring at the same spot
her father had, thoughts blank, senses burning. At times, there was a movement
or the glint of Sun off eyes, but mostly there was only the unnerving feeling
of being watched. Each day felt one day closer to when the People’s time would
end.
“When it does, I will confess to killing the Other. Anyone blooded must be allowed to be a warrior.”
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March 6, 2019
#IWSG – Hero or Villain POV?
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Created and hosted by the Ninja Captain himself, Alex J. Cavanaugh, the Insecure
Writer’s Support Group monthly blog post is here again – and so am I.
It’s been another bad month and my plans to develop and
focus on Fevered
Few, my NaNoWriMo novel were derailed so I am no longer sure
about the track to publication. I am wondering if attempting to find a
publisher for my second novel is realistic or whether I would be better to
merely blog my scenes over an indefinite period.
I will be posting the
opening to another Sparkle Anwyl mystery for the WEP/IWSG Challenge next month
as well as a separate Sparkle Anwyl case during the Blogging from A to Z
Challenge in April. Perhaps that is the way forward for my fiction writing rather
than attempting to edit a novel – like Fevered
Few – for submission to a small press.
What would you suggest that I do? Blog posts or publication?
Much of my writing problems are due to my health. During the
last few weeks, it has become harder to type as my left hand is cramping up –
like forming a claw. One of my solutions is training a dragon – Dragon
Naturally Speaking. This post is my first using the dictation software.
Apologies therefore for any errors in this trial run which the dogs are
constantly interrupting.
Bark-bark. Woof-woof.
Anyway, on to this month’s question.
March 6 question –
Whose perspective do you like to write from best, the hero (protagonist) or the
villain (antagonist)? And why?
Most of my writing is from the hero’s point of view but I
have written from the villain’s perspective a few times.
My current WIP is from the POV of Sparkle Anwyl, my Welsh
detective protagonist. However, some of the chapters within other draft novels
have been written either from the villain’s perspective or from the POV of a
shadowy and unclear character. I haven’t yet had to get inside the mind of a
darker antagonist as these characters have been more misguided or conned by
their own self-belief.
What about your favourite
perspective? Hero or villain?
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The Welsh Dragon, Mametz Wood Memorial
**
The awesome co-hosts for the March 6 posting of the IWSG
are Fundy Blue, Beverly Stowe
McClure, Erika Beebe, and Lisa
Buie-Collard!
Purpose of IWSG: 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!
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer
in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a
personal experience or 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.
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 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!
Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!
Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer
in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a
personal experience or 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!
