12:29
12:29
It had been a real nice night, all those years ago. In retrospect, one couldn’t have asked for a more perfect evening in which to stage one’s triumph. It still made the beaver smirk now and again when he realized how all the stars had aligned so perfectly. “Showed that damn bunny a thing or two,” the Beaver grunted between hacks and blew his nose on the faded red gingham hanky.
Weather had been perfect, the moon full and room full of expectant audience members eager for the finale. Not even the overblown ego of the pestiferous Peter Cottontail managed to break the spell he had cast over the room. Yes, all in all a perfect stage for a perfect ending. “Too bad about that wine, though…” the Beaver murmured, staring at the torn label in the yellowed cardboard box. “Yep, too, too bad…”
12:28
12:28
“Oh for f…!”
“The damn cat’s been at my box again. No respect for history. Bloody barbarians. Always chewing on something…”
12:27
The Beaver rolled over and ran a paw through his grey and grizzled fur. It had been a long time since he’d thought of those days, a long time indeed. Using a well-worn and polished stick he shuffled over to the old box on the shelf by the fireplace.
“Maybe we’ll have a look in the old box… for memory’s sake…”
12:26
Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Rinnnnnngggggggg-rinnnnnngggggggg
12:20-12:25
Xmas Shame. Author Lame. Writing Pain.
Merry merry to all from Edward, Beaver, Gareth Rowan and the drunk guy in the tower!
12:19
12:19
Edward looked at his pocket watch and then shoved it back into his waistcoat with a grunt. “Damn. I’m late!”
12:18
12:18
“A-a-a-hem…”
“Verse most perverse. Let us begin…”
On this day we examine our prize
For at our age we are thus wise
No feathered owls in cages gilt
Will glare at us with eyes atilt
Nor deny us our sagacity
From lofty perch in yonder tree
It seems as though we’ve reached an age
Of chapters full and many a page
But though we see this smallish break
We trust tomorrow new tale we’ll make
The story’s sweet and fun and bold
But there remains so much not told
Thus we begin another new path
And forward we float and flow and waft
With companions true and ever boon
This journey’s end will not be soon
And all together we shall grow
Through each moment we as one shall go
12:17
12:17
“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’.
“What…?”
“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…”
12:16
12:16
The farmer decided in favour of patience. He favoured the room with a bleak glare and settled his gaze on the beaver. A small nod seemed to indicate he was waiting for the beaver to get on with it and contained the suggestion that if he didn’t like what he heard he wouldn’t be here long.
As this little tableau settled into a mutual smirking contest, Gareth had finally processed the last few moments. “Him? My father? What the hell is going on? First the envelope and now you are trying to…”
“I’m not trying to tell anyone anything. I am telling you how it is. So if you could contain your youthful rage for a few minutes more I think I can satisfy your curiosity.” The beaver hadn’t taken his eyes off the tall farmer in the wicker chair, but nonetheless Gareth had a feeling he was being glared at by the heretofore friendly creature.
“Fine. I’ll shut up. This is going to be a hoot.” Gareth grabbed Rowan’s hand and slid back into the couch. “A real hoot,” he mumbled to himself.
12:15
12:15
Mr. Moskevitch was most definitely not a city man. He had that weathered face most often associated with a life spent outdoors and unprotected form the elements. His hands were large and calloused and despite a visible effort on his part to look presentable still were marked with the traces of grease and grime that were the hallmark of his trade.
Even his clothes seemed to betray his rural roots. While he wore jeans and shirt that were not in any way significantly different from the ones that Gareth wore, the boot cut Wranglers seemed to scream country boy while the plaid pattern of his button down had not a pretensions thread in their count.
All of this was crowned by a demeanour that was shaped by years of physical labor and and a sense of responsibility that few who were mere citizens in the vast enterprise of city life would ever cultivate.
And right now, that stolid face and its hard gaze were directed at the beaver, apparently wavering between calmly waiting for what was to come and a desire to hold on firmly to the reins come what may.