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Another night of tossing and turning in the dark. More of that pounding desire, rooting into the back of his head where it shot down his spine to inject urgent poison into his veins like an angry serpent: weave, weave, WEAVE. Mase twisted onto his front, arching his back to push his belly against his bed, and pulled the sheets hard so they pulled taut against his back. It wasn't fair. It wasn't. Fucking. Fair. He wrenched himself onto his back again with a huff and lay in powerless frustration. Still unable to sleep despite all the recent sleepless nights, he stared at the ceiling, defocusing and focussing on the few dark marks that scattered its surface like a night sky in negative. In-between the nagging demands of his instincts he listened to short snatches of his internal voice. I'm never letting this happen again... How can I make it easier next year?.. Can't afford anti-compulsive tablets... Need to plan ahead... Maybe I should weave after the fever's over for practice... Can't. Won't be any grass left in the fields... But... but he couldn't bring himself to forget the idea. Grasping at the corner of his bed sheet and twisting it restlessly in his hands, he thought on. Keep some grass back. Maybe I can do that... But how?.. Argh, need to work it out. Just write it down, Mase, fucking write it down. xXx So that was what he did. Swinging his legs out of bed and standing up, Mase walked naked through to the kitchen. The unconscious rise of his fur protected him from the worst of the cold: even the wet leather of his nose hardly registered the chill. He hadn't slept, so it hadn't dried and warmed. All that suffered in the night-time chill were his balls and the soles of his feet as he passed through into the plastic floor-tiled kitchen. He moved quickly, eager to get back to bed as soon as he could. Among the array of squeaky-hinged cupboards, the scent of ageing bread, the metallic drip, drip drumming of the cold tap and the motionless dangle of steel utensils, the young chout found a piece of note-paper and a pencil. He returned to the bed where he wriggled almost gratefully back in. His tail, extra thick from where the hackles had risen, slowly smoothed again as he scribbled his thoughts. Fifteen minutes later he'd written out a page of notes, and from inside the jumble of his mind at least, they looked promising: WHAT DO I WANT?: have grass to weave with after fever. Won't make fuck-ups th WHAT'S STOPPING ME? - Can't hold grass back. No chance - Won't be any grass left in fields by end of fever. Have to find a way to keep supplies now. - Don't know anyone who would hold grass back for me WHAT HELPS ME? - Can send self delivery by parcel! Get post service to hold grass for me - Already own a box from grocer

NOW WHAT'S STOPPING ME? - Deliveries are made in two days too soon. - Delivery expensive - Don't have much money for delivery. - If anyone in delivery service a hob, game's up. <---- can't worry too much about REDUCING PROBLEMS...   He wrote more, and as the twin moons Celestiae Prima and Trivia began to sink toward the horizon, he decided on his plan. xXx The sun rose the next morning to find Mase Papertree processing grass again on the floor of his living room, battling to keep from nodding to sleep. But instead of weaving his last thatch, he was rifling through it and snipping at each stem with a pair of blunt, loose and slightly rusty scissors. The light faded into the room slowly. It would be nearly mid-summer before the position of the sun struck a thin band of light across the threadbare blue and the ginger-and-cream hairballs of the carpet. For now, all Mase got was a watery brightening of the room from a grim, night-time blue-grey to its drab daytime hues, most of the strength of the room's colours left untapped by the weak defraction of the sun's light. To one side of him, loosely cupped by the curve of his tail, lay a pile of seed heads. Useless for weaving - and more to the point, heavy. Between his outstretched legs sprawled the grass itself, carefully stacked stem by stem from Mase's painstaking work. He was gutted to think that he was about to send this grass away instead of weave with it, but it had to be done. It had to be done. xXx It wasn't weaving - he understood this obsessively - but the action of cutting and re-shaping the musty, dusty cardboard box he'd dug out from behind his clothes unit still gave Mase a direction for his energy, and that took the edge off his frustration. The hob shuffled around onto his knees, turned the shape that was starting to look like a box again since he'd assaulted it with the scissors, and taped down the third edge. Twisting it about, he pulled another length of tape off the roll, bit into it and licked the sweetness of the glue off his teeth as he smoothed it deftly down over the final corner. He reached for the thatch on the couch and, gulping to wet his throat, dropped it into the box. The ends didn't quite fit in so he bent the grass into a C shape. It rustled dryly, sending an almost irresistible cloud of sweet hay-scent into his face. Closing the lid-flaps before he had second thoughts, he reached for the tape again. Tttssssszzz-z-ZZ-Z-zz-z... snp... ffFFFFffff. Stage one was complete. He picked up the box and dropped it. Just as he'd planned, it was light. Affordably light. Levering himself to his feet, Mase went to the kitchen to find the savings jar he kept at the back of the cereals cupboard. He pushed a bag of rice aside with one, russet hand and picked the jar up. Unscrewing the lid, he looked inside. The spoils were: a small roll of crumpled valteens and a layer of small change. He pulled the notes out and counted them. Five, ten, twenty... thirty. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty... three, four... four valts and twenty shillings. Enough to send the box to himself, and importantly, enough to bribe the delivery caudal. How they chose to keep the box aside was their own business. Mase didn't give a shit - just so long as they did it. He returned to his crafted box, folded up  a ten valteen note and laid it on top of the sealed flaps. Then he stood up again and trotted through to the hallway, picked through the post from the last few days until he found an old newspaper, came back and wrapped the box in it. A rare flicker of excitement threaded its way through the urgency of his fever and as he tucked the ten valteens under the wrapping, he savoured the feeling. Finally, he went to the kitchen again to look through the utensils draw until he found a thick, black pen. He pulled the cap off even as he returned to the living room and grabbed the box. Pinning it between his knees as he sat on the couch he scrawled on the wrapping, Return to:24 Mammalia Road East Maze City 583 12on +30(SE) Tip under wrapping xXx The queue at the postal depot loitered: a waiting trail of fur, leather and skin, trouser legs, skirts and tails. The luman ahead of Mase leaned from one foot to the other, yawned and folded his arms, his shoulders rising laboriously with the movement and the lay of his shirt creasing. The bioluminescent patches on his arms and tail glowed for a moment, and then darkened again to match the luman's all-over black. Somebody farted and everybody pretended not to notice. Mase struggled to keep his place - it was so tempting just to cut and run. If his plan went wrong... No, he decided. Cut and stay. And he'd already done the cutting bit. He was only too aware of the presence of the grass in the box tucked under his arm. It sent out wafts of warm, dusty chaff-scent, which did fuck-all good for Mase's sense of calm. Is the smell really coming through the box? he wondered. He looked around at the queue behind him in case there were other hobs. And if there were, in case they'd noticed. There weren't any. He held his breath to try and slow his heart beat and closed his eyes for a few seconds. Maybe it's just my imagination. He did his best to ignore it, again and again loosening the tight clench of his jaw, the hardness in his back and legs. Finally he made it to the counter and dropped his box on the scales. The postmistress, an old empress with wrinkled, pale green tarm-leather, tapped at the buttons on her side of the weighing machine. "That'll be eleven valteens and fifty," she said, her voice as grizzled as her face. Clamping down on the desire to grab the box and sprint for the door, Mase slowly and deliberately handed the money over. She glanced at him then and paused, and he wondered just what she saw. Glazed, red-rimmed eyes, he suspected. Cream jaw clenched nearly hard enough to crack his teeth. Tense ears. That was his guess. Probably wondering why I'm not weaving, he thought bitterly. She reached for the box. It took all of Mase's ragged self-control to let her do it, but he watched its progress with a stare so intense it hurt his sleep-deprived eyes. Her bronze eyes flicked to him again, and then down to the message. She stopped. Blinked. Read it. Don't you dare say it won't work, you fucking whore, Mase thought. It'll work. Don't you fucking dare. And then she smiled. Which Mase hadn't expected. Not quite a warm smile but a matronly, knowing one. It deepened the creases at the corners of her eyes and gave Mase a warm feeling deep in his belly which he didn't understand. And without another word she slipped the box into a cubby-hole in the unit to her side and re-settled herself in the service window. Mase left before her oval-pupiled, smiling eyes confused him any more. xXx Mase went home, listening as he walked along the concrete walkway to the slapping of destrier feet on the road by his side and the muted scuff of his boots. He took a detour to the grass fields first. He already knew deep down there wouldn't be any left, but it was still worth a try now that he had no grass at all... The truth was depressing. At first it looked like there was a sprig here, a thatch there. But every single one he checked turned out to be useless: one clump that looked tall from a distance turned out to be short and growing on a hump of earth. Further away, a few loose strands that just looked a bit bent turned out to be broken and brittle. Again, useless. The other local hobs had all gone too, except for some sad fuck who arrived just as Mase was leaving. "Nothing left, mate," he snapped as he stepped onto the concrete pathway to leave. The other chout, eyes haunted and fingers curling and uncurling by his sides, looked dubiously at him and then with tortured hope at the same patches of grass Mase'd just checked. He jogged out into the grass stubble and Mase rolled his eyes. If the cunt wanted to mess with himself, he could. It wasn't like Mase didn't understand  why. Now all he had to deal with was two or three weeks' grassless frustration. xXx Nearly a month later, +30(SE) dawned. Mase got up early just to be ready. He ate breakfast, enjoying it properly for the first time in weeks now that his instincts had shut up. Then he brushed his teeth and started some laundry in the kitchen sink, looking out at the tangle of old grass on the rear chainlink of the garden as he dunked four tshirts into the soap-scum. Summer had come on full-strength in the past week and the pale concrete base outside glared fiercely. Drying wouldn't be a problem. But then, that wasn't what Mase really had in mind. Today, with luck, he'd spend most of the day weaving out there. As he squeezed and rubbed and swished his clothes around in the lukewarm water he listened for a knock at the door. And then it happened: Thump, thump, thump. Mase grabbed a towel to dry his hands and scrambled for the door, waving his tail to keep balance. "Yeah?" he asked, squinting again at the outdoor glare. Then he stopped dead. It was the postmistress. With the same wrinkled grin and glittering, mellow eyes. And the box. "I think it's time to give you this," she said, and held it out to him. Mase let his breath out slowly, the sound of the slightly-nasal hiss giving him time to think. "Thanks," he said at last. He took it and marvelled at the fact that it had come back to him just the way he'd planned. Then he realised something was wrong. It was still wrapped in old newspaper and on the top was a message - in his own handwriting. The postmistress hadn't taken the money. He looked at her, shocked, and her smile broadened. "That was a clever idea," she said, her voice warm and strong. And not unfriendly. "Happy weaving." She turned and walked back down his front garden, one pale green wing lower than the other and her tail waving gently with the sway of her hips. Mase watched her go, feeling strangely exposed by her friendliness, and then pushed the door closed. xXx The slanted angles of diamond-shaped holes appeared as he folded one stem, after another, after another, after another. Unhurried russet fingers created a relaxed weave. The fence rattled. Smooth hay shone with glossy, dead health. The sun came far enough overhead to shine into the alley beyond and a practising hob sweated. Mase twisted the stems one final time and stood back to see the overall look. The flat of the shelf, although wonky from the inexperience of its maker, showed a pleasing general even-ness. There wasn't a great deal of grass for him to use, but he'd learned a lot from this small exercise. He picked up another few stems and tied one to the left-most anchor point. Just enough to reinforce the structure, he thought, the idea calm instead of the stabbing frantic demand he knew from Weaver Fever. Grass over grass, twists around junctions, double-strands. Double support. The last of the grass used up, Mase stood again looking at his woven shelf, arms folded with pride. The contact made him too hot so he dropped his arms and swallowed. His saliva was nothing but froth. I need a drink, he decided, surprised by how thirsty he'd got without noticing. He went inside to the kitchen and rummaged around in the cupboard for a glass. The indoor cool soothed the heat-sore tips of his ears and he frowned as he realised how fuzzy his mind had become. But it was worth it, he thought and smiled. He picked a glass up... and then thought again. Still smiling to himself, he put it back. Instead he reached for the handle of the base unit and picked out a light, plastic measuring jug. Mase filled it and took it outside. Standing with calm and pride he put one hand on his hip and sipped. The water soothed his thirst and he tipped his head back to finish. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and put the jug on the shelf. It held its weight perfectly. THE END. Copyright © Hayley Deakin.