macblaze.ca

4:26

Now let’s see. We started on the 29th of December, 2012 and have so far have contrived a hundred or so continuous daily posts.

The stats so far:
37000 words
113 posts
20+ characters
A half dozen plot lines
6 comments from the interwebs
5 poems (and I use that word lightly)
4 drawings
3 missed days (but I managed to write a few spares to cover them)

Hmmmm, not bad. Only 250 more to go… Oh. Fuck.

4:25

The beaver glanced down at a loose sheet that seemed to have been torn from a notebook.

Sunday, June the second, nineteen hundred and eighty-five

Fuck. Fuck. She’s not fucking here. The stupid fucking slut isn’t fucking here. Fuck.

Isn’t it just like a fucking woman to screw with a simple plan. I should have known, never, ever trust a fucking woman: whores or incompetents and usually both. It was going to be so simple. I’ve got her keys, her car, all the fucking data and account lists and even her god-damned passport. It was going to be easy street from now on. Suck the stupid bitch dry, spit out the remains and I’d be on an island by summer. All I needed was a tiny bit of cooperation from the silly cow, but no, she’s gotta fuck off to town on the one day this month I could make this work.

Now I have to put up with this shit hole for another month, smile at that smarmy cow’s chatter and worst of all, keep up this ridiculous dance with that ugly dog of a bank teller and her moron the manager.

Fuck. Twenty-eight fucking days. Fuck.

Ordo ab chaos
Barnabas

 

4:24

Rowan finished off the last of the dark ale Gareth had handed her an hour before. It was warm and had a bitter taste, but she supposed that was fitting given the day’s events.

“I gotta go, dude. Y’all gonna be ok? I kin come back later if’n that’s what needs to be dun. Easy-breezy, that’s me.”

Gareth smiled but shook his head and then brushed the hair back from his eyes. “No. But thanks,” he said a bit too quickly. “I guess I gotta deal sometime, huh. But I appreciate it. Christ, I appreciate all of it. I never really expected this much hassle and drama.” Gareth closed his eyes as just how much drama was yet to come started to add up in the back of his mind.

“Say, how about we hook up tomorrow after lunch and I can give you a progress report or something.”

“Sure thing, cowboy,” Rowan said brightly. “I’d like that.” She put down the empty bottle, and as she walked to the door she stretched her arms way above her head and let out a long contented noise. At the door she turned and let the smile drop from her face. “You call, right? You damn well call if’n this all started to skitter sideways. Ah mean it!”

Gareth nodded. “I’ll call. Promise. But it’s going be ok now. It’s all gonna be ok.”

A quick, sharp nod and she was gone. And Gareth stood, alone in his apartment, staring at the closed door and wishing she hadn’t left.

 

4:23

As Meredith stepped out of the cafe back in to the rain, she gave her head a little shake and felt a rueful smile crawl up her lips. Well, that was an experience, she thought. I swear old Crowley was just itching to make a beaver joke. I could see it in his eyes.

She took a quick look back at the truck and stepped off the landing and onto the wet sidewalk as she scanned the street. Nothing. Where could the beaver had gotten to? Was he gone for good? Why leave here, in the middle of town, when he could have wandered off anytime back at her place, close to the lake?

Meredith crossed the street and peered at the shrubs that lined the base of the old post office, then moved along the sidewalk towards the edge of town. I wonder if it was something I did? It was nice having someone around, even if he didn’t talk much.

She looked up the lane that ran to the alley along the east side of Main Street. God, what am I doing out here in the rain? I should have just stayed in the cafe and traded tales with Crowley and Esther. Given the little a guy some time to finish his business and then see if he was coming home or calling it quits. She looked up the street at the door of the cafe and snorted. But I guess that’s out now unless I want to make the front page this week. Like as not, the rumors of my sanity taking a hike are already halfway around town.

Meredith took a big step back as a tan-on-tan Chevy zoomed by, oblivious to the puddles, and it occurred to her that it was a hell of a lot drier in her own truck than it was standing out here in the wet. Mind made up, she crossed back onto the street and walked up the centre  to the old, ugly temple, her eyes sweeping both sides of the street as she splashed through the puddles.

As she slid behind the wheel she glanced up just in time to see the honourable Mayor of Magrath making a beeline right for her. “Great,” she muttered to herself. “I suppose he’s already heard and is coming to see if I’m all right.” Meredith briefly pondered the reaction to her locking the doors and pretending she couldn’t hear him before deciding that would most definitely make things worse.

She slumped down in her seat and waited for the inevitable.

 

4:22

Time and space are such delicate things: easily torn asunder by the forces of fate, susceptible to shifting and wavering by the slightest touch of both great and small. What is true is determined more often by the tiniest decisions of the most insignificant creature than by the supposedly insurmountable pillars of when and where.

This is not philosophy. This is not the result of fasting and flagellation in the search for truths or guidance. This is not a common belief system held together by a community of any sort. This is such a truth as to be commonly held by things spiritual and corporeal. It is a principle that exists above all disputes and below all knowledge.

And yet time is always immutable to those who cannot see, and space is the wall of that fortress that preserves for all who seek safety. All inhabitants of perception must abide by these caveats or be lost to the unordered and chaotic sea that lies beyond our perception. Except, perhaps, for those few. Those whose connection lies not within but without and whose paths have not beginnings and ending but are endless webs folded back on themselves again and again in innumerable layers. Except those whose bodies and organs and cells and whose tiny ineffable life sparks are the true definition of fantastic. Except those.

 

4:21

It was, in every sense of the word, a tableau. The beaver and the rat poised on the precipice of action; the old and faded papers hanging perilously on the edge of the box, moments away from being scattered into a disorganized heap; Meredith outside searching, just seconds from bursting in on this oh-so-secret scene; the mayor wandering stunned through the wet, muddy streets, in danger of imminent flattening by the speeding International and its horrifying harrows; the waitress poised on the knifed edge of indecision about whether to tell her boss about the spilled Warfarin; the aged and crippled squirrel whose very life was at this moment a hair’s width from leaving our mortal realm. All of these tiny insignificant events unfolded slowly, one upon another in gossamer layers of fate and destiny as the rat and beaver’s eyes met.

And so the beaver, in a hopeless attempt to shrug off the seemingly weightless yet suffocating wrappings that seemed preordained to smother the very building blocks of his soul, stepped back and deliberately to the side, freeing a path for the rat’s escape.

And the rat, free of any destiny, left the beaver to his own fortune.

 

4:20

The first thought the beaver had as his head cleared after the collision was, “Oh gross, I’ve got a rat up my ass!” The second thought was, “Oh gross, I’ve got a rat up my ass!” As a result of these two very similar thoughts, the beaver jumped — in as much as a short-legged beaver with a rat up his ass can jump — almost straight up and swiveled in an ungainly heel turn to settle between the slightly flattened rat and the stairs.

“Gaagh!” the beaver spat, “I hate rats.” He backed away slowly through the once-more scattered papers and continued to mutter. “Stupid, ugly … can’t stand the smell … all over my ass for hell’s sake … Not coming off I bet …”

The rat for its part lay where it was, its sole movement a slight downward turn of its cheeks and whiskers producing a look that could only be described as pathetic — if one chose to have sympathy for a rat, that is. And predictably enough, very few people did; the beaver certainly had zero sympathy, empathy, affinity, harmony or anything smacking of fraternity for the bedraggled and flattened rodent. In fact the beaver tended toward outrage, affront, aggrievement, and offence.

The spiders on the ceiling were of course neutral.

 

4:19

From beneath the low-growing juniper directly in front of him Edward heard a slight rustle.

“Oh, do you need a moment alone?” the beaver’s voice mocked in a sarcastic tone. “I wouldn’t want want to disturb you and your… Well, bless my soul, I actually have no idea what you are doing to that poor little tree.” Edward watched through droopy eyelids as the beaver stepped into the small clearing. “Please,” the beaver seemed to purr, “enlighten me.”

Edward abruptly stood up and shook his head vigorously, ears making loud thwacks as they flapped back and forth. “Now, now. No need to take that tone. I can only assume from your presence and the lemon’s that you are no more immune to its charms than I appear to be. Most peculiar. I wouldn’t have thought I would be susceptible to something so … visceral.

“But now that we are all gathered, shall we continue our sadly interrupted conversation?”

The only response from the beaver was a slight tilt of his head and a faint noise that sounded remarkably like a snicker.

Edward moved around the lemon tree toward the smug beaver and visibly ignored the sweet citrus scent that tempted him backward. The beaver watched him approach, the mocking smile on his lips growing tenser. “Do you really think this is appropriate place for a discussion of such great import?” The beaver’s tone was awash with snideness. “Really, I thought you had more of a sense of decorum than to air your dirty little secrets in a dirty little copse. For shame, Sir Bunny, for shame…”

The biting tone was just the thing to dispel the last of the lemon’s allure, and Edward’s head quickly cleared itself of all distractions. He locked his gaze on the pestiferous beaver’s grinning face and replied. “I suppose you must grasp at your straws like like one of the Titanic’s survivors, but you didn’t abandon ship soon enough, my little buck-toothed friend. Not nearly soon enough. And I am not going to rescue your soggy little ass until you cough up a few facts. Believe me, you want me to be the rescuer, not those others I’ve noticed sniffing around your little mess.”

The beaver’s ears, such as they were, perked up. “Oh, are there new players, then?”

“No, not new players. But then you’ve never recognized that this isn’t all about you, have you?”

“Pwah! No one else is equipped to deal with matters on my level, and so no one else is entitled to an opinion. Including you. And who the hell are you to be throwing out ‘buck-toothed’ as a epithet? Looked in a mirror lately, you dentally challenged varmint?”

“Ah, taking refuge once more in insults. Things never change, do they?” Edward sat back, not taking his eyes off the beaver. “Now, shall we begin? Again?”

 

4:18

Edward took a step toward the lemon tree and inhaled. “That is really a lovely odor, it is,” he said to the tree. “Quite a lovely fragrance. I do think it’s one of the best things I’ve smelled in a long long while. Heavenly.”

Edward crowded in a little closer to the tree and slowly moved around to the other side like an overly friendly cat attempting to trip up a human not smart enough to give him his due. The leaves and branches of the tiny tree dragged along his spine, and Edward emitted a sound not unlike a purr before settling down on his hind legs, chin resting on the edge of the pot.

“Such a fine smell,” Edward said dreamily, “a fine smell on a fine, fine day.“ And then inhaled once more and slowly closed his eyes. “Just for a moment…”