Gareth dreamed of blood. It wasn’t much, just a few drops and splashes on the pages. The smell of the ancient tome invaded his nostrils bringing memories of death and dirt, ageless stone walls closing in on him and trapping him beneath the moist, dank earth with only one escape: a tiny hole too small for anything except the stink of fear.

A small mouse stood atop the stacks of leather bound books and turned his head. In his tiny outstretch paw he held a candy nestled carefully in soft leather. As Gareth got closer his nose was suddenly filled with the essence of lemon, driving out the putrid decay that threatened to drive him back to unconsciousness. The mouse’s ochre eyes twinkled as he gestured with his paw, inviting Gareth to take the lemon drop. “Go on, it’s good for what ails you,” those eyes seemed to say.

Gareth retrieved the pale yellow lozenge and stuck it in his mouth. The aroma of fresh lemon and green, growing things swept through his head and washed over his body draining the stink of death and fear, calling up a beautiful hilly park and him watching the sun rise over the lake. The mouse and his cartoon-like woodland friends scampered down off the jumble of rocks and boulders to wards the water.

“Told you,” the tiny creature said over this shoulder. “Come join us.” And with that they all dove beneath the surface of the swirling water.

Gareth stood, brushed the clay and grime from his jeans as best he could and put the battered leather notebook in the inside pocket of his canvas duster. “Not today, little friend. I think I have an appointment.”

Then he climbed the polished aluminum steps into the ancient but well-cared for De Havilland and settled back into the pilot’s seat for the short hop over the lake. He glanced at the registration plate mounted below the yoke: Designed and built by de Havilland Aircraft of Canada, Ser. No. 0000, Date 01-04-00.

“It’s going to be a long flight, isn’t it,” he murmured softly to himself. And then he smiled and slowly pulled back on the yoke, relishing the feeling of the weight of the world pushing him down into the familiar and comfortable seat of the Beaver.



I killed him. He is gone, crossed out, removed from the narrative, erased, dele’d, torn from the book, naught but a forgotten footnote in this, my new edition.

For 11 years I suffered and succeeded in spite of that son of a bitch and now he lives only at the base of my life’s shredder, in a disjointed and flimsy heap of disordered entropy. Screw you. You are nothing now.

Fuck him. Piss on his words. Salt his memory and make sure it never grows, never fucking again rises to spread his poison and putrid bile. Fuck his fucking memory, his fucking life, his fucking soul. And fuck this fucking book. Or what remains of it.

The look in his eyes as I tore each page from it’s binding, randomly crushing this fine linen page and burning it over that cleansing flame, tossing that one aside to ends its usefulness in the pool that was his blood. That, that is a memory that I shall allow to endure: cruelty repaid. The bastard. Cruelly REPAID.

But now, the book. The pages. I think I shall remove them from play, eliminate the distraction, but perhaps, reserve them for some future part. This story is far from done and the world still has a epic saga’s worth to answer for. And, for now, I have the gold, the geld, the numismatical means to do what I want. Later we shall see what we see.

Enough. I must record this days work, erase the past, rewrite the future and begin again. And this time we shall follow my script and no other.



Ahem, there wouldn’t be some scab writing going on around here would there? Some unauthorized babbling and scribbling of the illicit type?

I have not been notified that we had resumed the narrative, and as narrator one would think that would have been item number one on the agenda, wouldn’t one.

So thus, by every logic, it has not resumed and thing still remain in stasis. Yet one cannot deny the momentum exists and time is passing with its accompanying tendrils of action, No one cannot.

There is a reason for things, everything has a place and an order and it isn’t just a big ball of chaos floating in an endless sea of nonsense and rhymes. Shall we not take care and prepare and move forward in an orderly fashion; an order that is predetermined, vetted and correct in every aspect, an order that is controlled and thoughtful and respectful of its place. So, let us begin again at the proper beginning and move forward in the proper order. After all, it is Fibonacci’s world we live in, is it not.

So. Cease, reverse and begin… here.




The girl stared at him like he was an alien. “Did you… Did you… say something?”

The beaver squeezed his eyes closed and tried to clear the sawdust from his brain. He’d spoken without thinking, but now was not the time to be engaging in conversations with strangers. Now was the time to regroup, figure out where Gareth was, confirm that this was indeed his female friend and get everyone the hell out of here.

He opened his eyes again and slowly blinked.

“Umm, hi. Did you… ” The girl paused and waited. “No. No you didn’t, did you. No. No, you shure did not.” She shook her head and pulled the hair back away from her lean face. “Well hi anyway my furry fella. I’m a going to guess that you’all are Gareth’s mysterious beaver friend. So jess you calm down and I’ll take good care of yus.”

The beaver let his eyes close and he worked on controlling his breathing. He’d come to consciousness fresh from a vivid, panic-filled dream and he needed to start processing quickly because he was running out of time. The last thing he remembered was slipping in the front door of the apartment building. He must of made it upstairs and somehow attracted the attention of this young lady.

It looked like he was partially swaddled in an old blanket, that must of been he suffocating part. As a rule, the beaver didn’t like much being trapped; probably a result of his genetic place on the old food chain. But now that he recognized his predicament he just settled back and focused on taking in his surroundings.

There was a lot of blood in his fur and even more soaking into the coarse weave of the blanket. That would account for this annoying light-headedness and likely the lack of memory of that last little bit. Speaking of that, just how long had it been since he arrived at the building? How much time had he lost?

The beaver frantically thrashed his head around trying to spot a clock and the girl’s face started to look alarmed again. Taking a deep breath, the beaver slowed his movements and tried again. There was a glowing digital display on the stove; after a few tries, he finally made his eyes focus and sank back into the blankets in relief. It had been less that an hour. Too long, not not a disaster. Yet.

He had to find Gareth, and quickly.



Oh my head. Where the hell am I? Gah, I can’t get my eyes open. I can’t… I…

The armoured dirigible poured fire on his position. The trenches through what was once a manicured urban park made running for it impossible and the only route open to safety led down hill toward the heaviest explosions. But there was open water there and hope.

He raised his head again and shrapnel from exploding trees whizzed past his ears. A sharp stinging sensation in his shoulder made him realize he’d been hit. From a bleeding gash in his arm he could smell better days, the addictive scent of citrus wood and fabric softener. It was time to make a run for it.

Leaping out of the concrete bunker he raced down the steep hill. The incline increased as he moved towards the massive crump holes that separated him from the placid lake and he moved faster and faster, soon hurtling out of control towards the looming wooden wall made from logs and twigs and mud. He wasn’t going to make it over and he wasn’t going to be able to stop. The pain in shoulder flared hotter and hotter and was joined by a searing burning across his stomach as the raging fire on the hillside engulfed him and hid the cool water, that last glimpse of safety, from his view. The headlong charge turned into a tumble and soon he was careening off his feet towards the haphazard palisade that soared hundreds of feet up in the air.

Just before he struck he bounced off the massive bundle of rabbit and beaver skins, all baled up for shipment and he was swallowed whole into their stifling and suffocating softness. No matter how he struggled he couldn’t escape and the burning pain threatened to send him into oblivion. He was trapped, bleeding and close to death and he couldn’t move, couldn’t help himself, couldn’t change the outcome.

He smashed his tail against the glassy surface of the water as one last final warning and turned to face his doom. He’d protected the others as much as he could. It was time to end it. With one last burst of strength he threw the web of hides aside and surged to his feet. The unbearable pain flared and he opened his eyes…

To see a very concerned and slightly frightened young face peering down at him.



“Then the beaver sprang up and…” No. He’s injured. He can’t spring.

“The beaver moaned and rolled over leaking like a jelly doughnut…” No, wrong colour . Although if it was a burnt… no.

“Rowan reached down and tenderly caressed the silky beaver and used her finger to…” Whoa! Porn alert! Okay, no more beaver. How about…

“Edward pooped. Like a bunny…” Aw crap, did that. Still it was a lot of chapters ago; maybe everyone has forgotten by now. Jeez this hard.

“Edward stood atop the hill, while the cold wind whistled through his fur. He shivered, and scanned the field below him. Today the battle would be met and triumph would be within his grasp. Today he would conquer his foes and crush all who stood in his way. Today he, Edward the…” Holy fucknoodles, what, did the damn bunny watch Patton 12 times while I had my back turned. Sounds like Napoleon at Waterloo getting psyched to lead his army to a spectacular defeat.

And where the hell is that damn rabbit anyway. I thought I left him in Alberta. I guess that would make it more of a General Custer moment… snicker… I guess the old lagomorph would look pretty good as a ‘scalp’.

Maybe it’s time for a new character. That’s always worked before.

“Barry was not exactly ashamed of his long legs and angular torso but he always thought it made him look more feminine that strictly necessary. The nose made up for that though; there was nothing feminine about that honker. Still and all, it was part and parcel of being a moose and in the melting pot of San Francisco’s waterfront, he didn’t stand out more than anyone else…”

Hmmmmm, I think I have something there. A moose who loves fresh seafood. Maybe he’s Edward’s bon vivant cousin or… or… the beaver’s love child? Or a complete innocent soon to be possessed by the evil spirit disturbed by an ancient curse. That might explain the bundle of papers: they’re a prehistorical manuscript from alien sun worshippers waiting for the The One to return and become the second coming of the…

Huh. An evil moose. Maybe I should rethink this.

Crap. This is harder than I thought.



Zarko, Castor & Zarko
Barristers and Solicitors

Re: Breach of Contract and Fiduciary Recklessness

To whom it may concern,

We have been engaged by a group interested parties — heretofore know as The Characters — that are currently suffering egregious harm due to certain actions and lack of performance by the person or persons generically known as the author — to be referred to forthwith as The Author — and to hereby assert our intention to pursue legal action on behalf of The Characters to force compliance from The Author in respect to its moral, contractual and fiduciary responsibilities in view of the rights of The Characters to continue to exist in compliance with their established minimal standards of living.

This document serves notice that on a date to be determined — to be not more that 7 (seven) days and not less than 2 (two) days — that our firm, on behalf and behest of The Characters, do intend to file a suit against The Author claiming recompense for losses and harm that includes, but is not limited to, lost wages, mental anguish, diminished ability to earn a living, medical expenses, interest payed to financial institutions and recompense for deteriorated investment holdings that include wine cellars, wooden art and gold stocks.

If The Author or a duly appointed representative of The Author — to be known as The Duly-Appointed Representative of The Author — have not contacted Zarko, Castor and Zarko before September 26 (twenty-sixth), 2013 (two thousand and thirteen) at close of business day (5 [five] p.m.), The Characters have instructed us to pursue this matter with vigour and intent to not only seek restitution, but also impose harsh punitive penalties for the damages and losses that are ongoing as a result of The Author’s negligent and remorseless vendetta against our clients.

We look forward to your response and anticipate a swift, and mutually satisfactory, solution to this issue.


Thomas Richardsonii Zarko QC, LLD, MBA, BSc, OC
Attorney at Law
Zarko, Castor & Zarko


cc: CC



The Sun
September 23, 2013

Dear Editor,

Are we a city or a zoo? There is something to the pride we take in being a ‘green’ city but I and my fellow citizens feel that allowing animals to run rampant through the streets has always been an issue that needs addressing — see the coyote controversy of a few months ago — but now that we are having to put up with drunken abusive beavers and rabbits on our streets we feel it has gone to far.

Something needs to be done!

Just yesterday I was enjoying a latte on a lovely little patio downtown when this offensive rodent approached me and started to berate me for being a scum sucking capitalist. I replied that calling me ‘scum-sucking’ was perhaps a bit of a pot and kettle moment. He (I am assuming it was a he from his bad breath and BO) then threw an empty bottle of scotch at me and collapsed in a heap muttering ‘it wasn’t his fault’ and ‘don’t blame the victim’.

And, after all that, as I stood up to leave, he raised his filthy face from the gutter and had the audacity to ask me for some spare change because he “was out of work.”

This is insupportable. We need to send this beaver and all the other wildlife littering our streets back where they belong. They’ll be happier there among their own kind and away from decent, tax-paying citizens who want no truck with four-legged vermin.

I call on my fellow citizens to rise up in protest and demand that something is done. The city needs to act now. The city needs to act decisively.

Pete d’Leo
Concerned Citzen



September 21 is the 264th day of the year (265th in leap years) in the Gregorian calendar. There are 101 days remaining until the end of the year.

Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/September_21



As the malaise and ineffectualness of his existence grinds down on our author’s head, things seem to be even worse for his characters. There have been frequent sightings of a rabbit at the main Service Canada branch and reports of a violent beaver/security guard confrontation at the small satellite branch in the shadier part of town. No injuries were reported and the paperwork substantiating these sightings seems to have gone missing.

On the corner of Jasper Avenue and 124st a new, and very despondent drunk has started making a regular appearance. For the first few days he seemed to be drinking predominately French red wines of good vintage but last report has him adding rubbing alcohol to Pabst Blue Ribbon and accosting members of the pipe fitters guild.

A young duo has set up on Whyte Avenue busking by playing the tambourine to folksy country rhythms and ‘shaking it’ for all their worth. Every time the police have attempted to interfere they seem to vanish until the young man and woman pop up again a few meters down the street.

Most bizarre of all is the last minute entry into the civic election of a very loud and very opinionated candidate who insists that he narrate all events and brooks no interference from any of the media or organizers. At least three events have had to shut down after this strange character appeared due to the organizers inability to follow the set agendas.

Local citizen groups are starting to organize and it is very likely an intervention will be staged at the north side home of the author in the coming days.

Stay tuned for more…