“Where…? I can’t seem to find… What page is this? Are be on about that silly wagon again?”

The sharply folded note slipped out of the unruly stack and dropped to the marble floor with a sharp ‘clack’.


“Bugger! Oh bloody hell. Now’ve got blood… Stupid paper cuts. Just… Oh my good Lord. He can’t do this! I won’t stand for it! I am the narrator here!”

“I am putting my foot… blerch…”



The notes from the opening refrain to the Moonlight Sonata filled the room and the narrator glanced at his watch. He quickly stood and walked over to the massive wooden desk and grabbed the large bundle of bound pages without sitting and then hurried over to the podium set against the large oil painting with the vintage gold wood frame.

Light was streaming into the room through the large, floor to ceiling window, but the heavy faded red velvet curtains were half drawn so despite the beams of sunlight, the bulk of the room remained shadow-filled and gloomy. The narrator opened the well worn manuscript and quickly turned to the closing pages. Picking a spot just a fingers breadth from the end, he started to flip quickly in reverse, scanning each page quickly and nodding in satisfaction.

Eventually he slowed and finally stopped with his finger crooked at a point about three-quarters of the way down the page. With a satisfied smile he stabbed down with his finger to the obvious break in the story and lifted his eyes from the document just as the piano notes faded away.

He straightened his posture, drew his shoulders back and down and turned his head slightly to the left side, raising his chin almost imperceptibly and inhaled.

The look in his eyes was neither distant nor inviting. It was as if he was a warm and breathing statue that stood to be admired, even worshipped, but unaffected by anything that existed outside his creator’s purpose. Here was a man who’s destiny was known to him and who stood on the brink of the ultimate fulfilment. Here was that mythical creature of song and story who knew beyond any possibility of doubt that he was where he was ordained to be.

As the man drew in a smaller breath and prepared to speak, no observer would be able to prevent themselves from leaning in, ears turned to catch the each and every morsel that would come. No one in his presence, no matter how disinterested would have been able to resist the allure of the this man’s intensity. there would be no hiding from the truths about to be bestowed.

The lips opened slowly and the universe held its breath.




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.


So. Shall we inhale … breathe out … and go on …?

But what of the missing story? What of the parts that exist between the narratives? What of the stories yet untold?

Shall we not delve into these spaces, into the moments between inhalation and exhalation? Because what lies between is often the key to what is to come.

But no. These interstitial spaces shall remain untouched for now; let them reveal themselves in the currents and flows of the existing stories. The pattern will reveal itself in the weave.

What is important is the power behind the story: the engine that drives forth the narrative. And that, dear reader, is the past. What comes before of necessity shapes and forms what will be. Let us the look back and see the beginnings of our tale. Let us peer into the past and reveal the cauldron that has spit forth the life of our story. Yes, let us.



Zzzzzzzzzzzwhat! I … huh? Whatever … ? Well, now, what in heaven’s name is going on here? Let me see. Page, ummmmmm, 423, 424 …

Oh, for goodness sake, can a narrator not take a nap now and then without a plot going to the dogs? Never work with kids and animals, they told me, but did I listen?

Now let’s just set this to rights. First things first: Form 427b. Let see, name, address, case number… Yes, yes, yes. Incident report attached? Ah, Form 65: Incident Report: Non-Binding. Then I shall just file this to …. ? My goodness, this is an old address; it’s such a bother when they change ministries so often. I’ll just requisition a new form … Yes, Form 97b(rev.) and like so …

Ah, that is so satisfying. I do love a well-run office: everything in its place and a place for everything. Step by step I will drag this morass of chaos into linearity and order. None of this sideways nonsense anymore.

So, now we wait. Shan’t be more a than a few days, a week at most, to get the new forms. Then we will fill those out, submit them to the governance department for disposition, wait to see under whose authority this little incident will be adjudicated and be back on track before the new month has barely started.

And all’s well that ends well, I say.

But while we wait, let’s just review… Grilled beaver tail, eh? Hmmmm, I do feel … a bit … peckish …