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Apple Wine in Autumn

By: BeaverReturn

"Pertaining to romance, death, and seasonal changes. As expected. What is..." -BeaverReturn

It was three years ago on the last day of autumn when the headlines first told of Mr. and Mrs. Williams death. When it had originally happened I think I was too young to really understand, too concerned with my own matters, trivial as they were, to really care. I remembered reading how millionaire Mr. Scott Williams, owner of The Williams Apples Orchard and his wife Mrs. Barbara Williams were found dead in a car crash and not thinking much of it. Even as the scandal began to roll in, like how they may have been driving drunk that night, or how Mr. Williams may have wrecked the car in a crazed moment of murder/suicide, I never could pay it much interest. To me it was just gossip, a prompt to use during tea time conversations and, by the third week of nothing but that story being reported, I think I had even begun to feel annoyed by any mention of it. I just could not find any reason to care for a pair of dead rich philanthropists.

My parents, of course, were a different story. Naturally they were upset, as was our entire town. With their orchard just down the street from us, the Wiliams' success story had become quite the inspiring icon for our local community. Although we were just a community of seemingly slack-jawed laborers and farmer types, we tended to think that as long as our town had the Williams Apples Orchard in its name then we'd all be special, or at least better than we were.

In truth nobody knew much about the Williams family. It was most likely because of this low profile that they were able to become such a phenomenal symbol of hope. Collectively, our total lack of knowledge only served to generate a frenzied desire to know more. Eventually we would later quench this need with whatever we could fabricate in folk lore. Eventually it would be believed within our community that the Williams family were nothing but the utmost in grace, prestige, and ultimate benevolence. Yet, loved as they were, there was so much about them that we just did not know.

For example, nobody knew that Mr. and Mrs. Williams had a son.

Years before their death it was rumoured through town gossip that Mrs. Williams had been pregnant. As big of news as this was, nobody had ever known for certain, and somehow, after awhile, our town had come to believe that Mrs. Williams had miscarried. Perhaps the town just assumed that if she had indeed been pregnant, and had indeed given birth to a son, then somehow, sooner or later we'd know. We didn't know however, nobody knew, nobody had any idea that the Williams' had an heir.

Nobody that is, except for me.

It was during the summer when we first met. I was working outside in the garden wearing nothing but overalls with the top unlatched as the swelter of that day was particularly cruel.I was eighteen and had recently been grounded by my parents on account of getting caught underage drinking by the police at a local party. I wasn't charged or anything, as the local officer was a family friend, but was forced to tell my parents of my deeds. My father I like to believe was proud, while my mom pretended to be mortified by my behaviour while actually worrying more about what the neighbors would think. As punishment I was stuck at home for a week, forced to help out with the yard work. Mostly the yard work involved me working in our various gardens, both flower and vegetable, which we had many of. We're foxes you see, and most foxes like gardens because gardens provide foxes with what is supposed to be our two most favourite things: eating and digging. I may be a fan of eating, but of gardening and digging, of all that work that one has to do, not so much.

That day I was trimming the roses along the front of the house while Mom and Dad sat in a pair of rocking chairs underneath the canopy of our front balcony. At the time I was growing quite irate at my parents who were enjoying the shade tremendously.

"What a handsome boy we have," Mom said, turning to address Dad.

"All this hard work has sure been good for his physique!" commented back dad as he looked over his newspaper, the sun glinting off of his reading glasses. It was true, at the time I was quite physically fit, although it was not from just yard work alone. All through-out school I ran competitively, and as of that year, had just started using weights at the gym.

As my parents teased me, I found that I was drawing close to losing my temper and my parents, in knowing this, found themselves quite amused. Panting heavy, I brought an arm across my brow.

"I think I'm about finished with the rose bushes."

"Oh then you can start on my petunia's round side!" Mom gleefully responded, looking directly at me. Her sadistic (to me) joy did not stick however as both her and my dad's eyes rose simultaneously to look behind me. Eventually, I too turned to look where they were gazing.

He had seemingly come from nowhere. One minute, the lane behind me was empty and the next, there he was, strolling down our roadway as if by a whim. He, a badger, wore a clean, white suit, and a panama hat of a matching colour. He was broad across his shoulders, tall too, and when he walked, he did not seem to do so with any clear intention, but rather seemed to stroll only so that he may stroll, and stroll alone. In silence, we three foxes watched him as he came up the road, his gaze transfixed on the world around him as though in his life before he had been a prisoner and in now seeing the trees had found his world to be completely new.

I suppose we recognized him right away. That is to say if it looks like a badger, and walks like a badger, then it must be a badger, and since there wasn't another family of badgers in our town, it wouldn't take a genius to see that he was a Williams. Even with the suit he wore he had a striking resemblance to his father. Still, as recognizable as he was, believable he was not. To see him then, to see him so suddenly, was to see a ghost, an image of a man 20 years younger than from when he had originally died.

"Hello," he waved once close enough.

"Hello yourself," replied my father, standing up and placing his newspaper under his arm, "what can I do you for stranger?"

"Not much I suppose, just passing by. Seeing the world..." He put a paw in his pocket and flashed me a quick smile in greeting. His eyes were dark, almost pure black and yet when he smirked, they seemed to glimmer in a way that emulated polished pearls. In just that single smile alone, I felt comforted, gently soothed by a presence of pure gentleman. I was dumbfounded by him, feeling both aware to how dirty I was in comparison to his suit so clean, and yet unaware to how boldly I was displaying my own half nudity. Of this I'm sure he did not mind as he quickly eyed me over, my strained physique from the day's work evidently easy to catch in a quick glimpse.

In his other paw he held a bottle of cider, a bow wrapped around it. Noticing it, my mother quickly commented,

"Who's the cider for? Is that Williams cider? I absolutely adore Williams' cider! You know their orchard is just down the street! You really must go see it. It was run by a couple of badgers. Do you know them? Bit of a terrible business with those two a while back if I'm being honest. I really won't get into it though," Mom blabbered on before adding, "I'm sure you've got somewhere to be, with that bottle and all, but just in case would you like to stay for the while?"

"Well no ma'am, I wouldn't mind a bit. I really don't have anywhere to go, I suppose." The badger gazed towards the bottle as though just then he had suddenly become aware of what he had been carrying. "I would gladly share my cider with you, if you'd like."

"Oh that would be absolutely wonderful!" Mom then turned her attention towards me. "Stuart, go inside and fetch us a pitcher with some ice and some glasses for Mr...."

"Davies," the badger responded, turning his head towards me. "You can call me Davies." I would not acknowledge it at the time, for I was still somewhat grouchy and feeling quite fatigued, but when I heard his name, heard it spoken by the impossible lightness that was his voice, I had become struck by a deeply penetrating infatuation. It was not just his charm, nor his handsomeness that first drew me in. Rather, it was the sense of mystery embodied within that allured me. Mystery must have had been his family flame, and he, the one to now carry it. In a flash I suddenly understood our town's obsession concerning the Williams family. Towards everyone else's desire to know everything about that family I came to empathize.

I was excused from my work that afternoon so that I could join my family in welcoming this new stranger. He did not say much about himself and seemed more interested in hearing about us as a family. Mom was happy to oblige and had for him a thousand stories. In return, he listened to each story eagerly. As mom talked, dad would often interject with corrections whenever he could. All the while I stayed quiet feeling both shy and embarrassed by Mom's stories, and yet under those outward emotions, I too knew that I had become spellbound as well, truly captivated. I could not help but notice the badger beside me who listened on, smiling quaintly, while ever so often nodding slightly. Sometimes I'd catch myself staring, and then other times, I'd swear I was catching him glancing back.

"So, tell me about the Williams family," he said when we were halfway through the pitcher.

Mom was reluctant to speak at first, but continued on anyways, "Oh them? Well like I said they were the owners of the orchard down the street. They were nice folk, decent folk, kept to themselves, but boy could Mrs. Williams bake a darn good apple pie! Never could get that recipe down, you know. I suppose there isn't much more to say about them. It really was a tragedy to the whole town when we lost them."

An odd, almost troubled expression came across Davies face and for a second he lost his smile, but then, like a fire sparking back after momentarily losing itself in a breeze, it returned. "I see," Davies trailed off before taking a sip of his cider, "please tell me about the accident."

"It was a car crash. About three years ago. It was on the last day of autumn, I think. No one really knows why they crashed. Suppose sometimes cars just lose control, or people lose control, that is to say, sometimes something loses control and then that's how crashes happen. People sometimes say that there was alcohol involved, or lord knows what, but I don't believe any of that hogwash. Either way, they are remembered as they had lived, wonderfully, beautifully..." Mom trailed off, as though for a moment the tragedy as she knew it became too much to speak of. Dad moved his paw and grasped my moms, and in a little whimper she excused herself. I never understood why the death of two reclusive millionaires had impacted our town so much, never understood till then. The Williamswerent the kind of people who demanded that they be liked, rather they were quite the opposite. Yet, as unimposing as they were, they ended up becoming liked all the more. I suppose people like secrets more than they like answers. A hole in the ground can hide anything while a flat earth tells all. At that moment, as I turned towards a summer breeze, I thought perhaps that`s why people throw wishes down wells, into depths they can hear but not see. At that moment, I pined for a well myself. With Davies so close beside me, I found myself desperate for a wish.

"I see, thank you." Davies dropped his eyes towards the bottom of his empty glass. There was a smile across Davies face still, but the glow within his eyes had faded. He was silent for a moment, and during this silence I found myself leaning slightly towards him, as though magnetized. He spoke, turning towards me as I quickly sprung back to my chair, "I must be going now. I really do apologize. I would like to come back soon however. Perhaps we can share another bottle of cider? I really did enjoy your company. Truly, I did." In parting Davies spoke quickly as though suddenly in a hurry, shaking mine and my dad's hand before shaking my mom's. There was a delay when their paws clasped, a delay so perfect it was as though time had frozen still between the two. Lowly, in a near silent whisper he thanked her again before leaving back up the road. When he walked away his steps seemed less light then what they were during his arrival, and yet, I thought he looked better for it as though only then was he walking on his own, real paws.

**

The next week Davies returned, and then time and time again he continued to return until his appearance became a regular thing for us. Every time he'd bring a bottle of cider and every time we'd share it on our porch while we wasted away the summer afternoons claiming that it were too hot for work anyways. Still, as often as he did visit his undeniable air of mystery would never leave him. He spoke seldom of himself, and when he did, he was careful in never saying much. As comfortable as he was with our family he still kept himself guarded, coming exactly on the same hour of when he first arrived, and leaving exactly when the bottle was finished. On top of this, the final topic always mentioned was the Williams tragedy.

I'm not sure if my infatuation for him grew because of him, or because of my desire to know more about him. If I desired the person, or was merely hungry for more of his story, I did not know, but young as I was it would seem that each emotion translated the same anyways. Whatever the reason, my love for him only grew more after each visit, he but a flower of great intrigue, and I, a buzzing bee around his crown.

"I'm quite the fan of your gardens." Davies commented before pausing to listen to a string of cicadas play through the air. He smiled as they played on while relishing the cooling breeze that just then had begun to hum over his nose. I noticed as it ticked his black and white fur slightly as it passed just like a pet across his head. For him, that moment fleeting as it was, seemed wholly.

"Oh well, we do work hard. Don't we Stuart?" Mom replied cheekily, directing herself towards me in an attempt to grab my attention.

I responded with a blunt, "Yea, I guess."

"Especially the flowers, I'm a real fan of your flowers."

"Oh well, I think Stuart would be obliged to tour you around the yard if you'd so like." Mom said, with sharp eyes towards me.

"I wouldn't want to be a bother..."

"I suppose I could," I replied, returning a mean look towards mom the minute Davies turned away. She responded with a mother knows best glare.

"Oh, that would be great then."

While touring the yard, Davies stayed predictably silent while I talked on, telling him of the various flowers kept in our collection. We had a reasonably sized back yard, most of which was dedicated to various flower beds. The air surrounding us became benefited by these flowers, perfumed as it was by their various allures, coloured ultra chromatically by their various sights. Davies, in particular, seemed to relish these natural pleasures, whiffing the air occasionally, while drifting his paw over each of the soft petals as he passed. His appreciation towards nature was enduring, his reason for it however another of his mysteries.

"These here are lilies." I said, pointing to a small bed of white flowers.

"I know of these flowers. I like them the most." He leaned down to examine them more closely. "Sometimes they can make me feel quite sad." His sorrow, slight as it was, as hidden as he tried to keep it, had this tendency from time to time to surface in minor bouts. Whatever he was trying to keep inside must have been like apples in a barrel, he could push each under but sooner or later they'd just float right back to the top. I wanted to help him, because I had grown to love him, but I wasn't sure how. For the moment, I decided to place my paw on his shoulder as it seemed to be the least I could do. At first, to actually place my paw there was easy, but as I kept it there I found to linger was almost impossible, painful even. Touching him seemed to be a task that I was too weak to bare, but I kept on anyways.

"You could have a lily if you'd like. Mom has taken to you enough that I think she wouldn't mind."

He pinched the stem of one of the lilies, picking it and bringing it towards him. For a while he twirled the flower within his paw, its petals spinning like an upside down ballerina. He smelt the flower and then rose to his feet, nodding to me in silent thanks.

"Why do Lilies make you sad?" I asked, taking the flower from his grasp while shifting forward. Now that I was closer to him I could feel my pulse increase, I could feel myself getting more nervous, but he did not retract nor accept my advance. Instead he stood there, stone like a statue. I began to grow concerned as I wondered if he felt for me the same way I had for him. I looked to the flower garden and saw amongst the back row a single flower with a tiny bee buzzing around its crown.

"Suppose, they just do." He dropped his head and turned himself away. "Helpless are those objects that carry the burden of memory," he continued before reciting, "Touch has a memory. O say, love, say / what can I do to kill it and be free/ in my old liberty?"

"I think I know why you came to our house originally. I think I know who you are." I admitted in an outburst. I placed the flower into the top button hole of his jacket, moving even closer now to do so. He turned back to face me. I could feel his breath across my face. Around him was an aura of distortion, I felt both more alive and yet ultimately dampened, like a bulb with the capacity to burn brighter if only I had the power to do so.

"Please don't talk anymore of it." He sighed, wincing as though in sudden pain.

"They say they were your mother's favourite." I prodded further.

"That they were."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"But I am."

"Please."

"Please...," I whispered in return.

Our lips came into contact at that very moment. It was a very sudden kiss, and yet not sudden enough. I thought at first that I would only surmount to anticipation, that I would only live to linger within his proximity. Then when we had actually kissed him I worried that I had done so too quickly. With each spoken word we had been inching closer to that moment, and yet I feared that I would find myself not knowing of enough words to bring me there.

The kiss was gentle at first, a friendly peck. I had expected in a flash moment for him to immediately break the kiss, and then when that expectancy passed I thought we'd stay as we were, lingering around gentle contact, floating in ambiguity. Then he pushed himself forward and my lips parted with his and the kiss grew into something much more fantastic. It was not my first kiss, but it was my best kiss, and as I came to feel him inside of my own mouth, I only wanted to surrender to him.His kiss matched him to a tee. It was simple, appreciative, and yet restricted, mysterious. Within those passions that I tasted I found myself only desiring for more.

The kiss broke and for a moment we stayed close, facing each other. Despite it being the middle of the summer, while he stayed within my arms he was shaking. I could not understand why he had begun to rattle and it concerned me.

"Are you okay,"

"I have to go," he said with strong conviction, his body tensing.

"Are you sure?"

"Thanks for the flower." Those were the last words he said to me before he disappeared for the rest of the summer. Not only was this to my disappointment, but to my mother's as well who was certain that I had said something to keep him away. This only caused to grow tension between mom and me, and for the while we could not stand to be in the same room as the other. She had it in her mind that I had refused his advances for reasons she could not fathom, and I, could not brave to tell her that he was the one to refuse me.

Part of the problem was that I was devastated when he stopped coming around, and in feeling such sadness, had begun to feel blamed for ruining my chances with him. For a while it seemed that the only thing I had in this life was that memory of our summer kiss, a memory I would use in my bedtime fantasises, frantically pawing myself in the night, and in sleep, while the seed of my loving labours dried in my paw.

As time passed love, especially one unfulfilled, had become a sickness for me. I learned that love, like any human need, was a hunger and the longer I was starved, the weaker I would feel. A life without food withers away the body and a life without love does the same. Food had not always been available in my family and sometimes I'd be forced to live with hunger, and I managed. In having to live with heartbreak however I was sure I would die.

Summer turned to fall, and then fall ran its course until the anniversary of the Williams tragedy came. It was on the last day of autumn when I finally had decided to act against my own sorrows. For one, I could no longer bare being without the one who had left me so suddenly while also I felt worried for Davies who would be alone on this day. At the time I seemed to have loved him as much as I hated him; my love the ultimate cause, while my hate becoming my power to act.

The Williams' Orchard had around it a large fence. This was not a problem for me however as I was able to just climb over it. As I vaulted over the fence, landing on the ground with a less than graceful thud, I gazed over the property as I began to realize how expansive the orchard was. First there was the apple fields themselves, divided in half by a long driveway that extended down towards a large white mansion. To find him, I would have to search both field and home, and when compared to each I felt as though I were the size of a flea.

Despite my doubts, I started my search anyways. As I walked down the driveway, I looked down each infinite row of trees in hoping that I'd see him. The trees in each row were mostly barren, the red amongst all those branches had fallen and now along the ground did they rot away within shades of dirty yellow, faded burgundy and earthly brown.The air however was most alive, the scent of these discarded carcasses filling my nostrils with memories of cider, pies and crumble. These were memories of my childhood, when my parents would bring home various orchard treats from the market. It made me salivate. It made me realize that I was hungry.

Then in the distance, amongst the row, I saw him. His appearance was as sudden as ever, one moment I thought I'd never see him again, and in another he was there, perched upon a branch with book in dark paws.

"Davies!" I screamed in excitement, running down the row.

Calmly, he looked up from his book, nodding slightly in my direction, "Oh, why hello there."

I was so excited that my body had begun to shake. Within me was this tremendous desire to pull him down from his tree and kiss him, kiss him, and then kiss him again. My heart was suicidal, ready to jump out of my chest, and yet I did not care because the badger, my badger, had returned.

He however remained calm, poised, a book titled, "Best of Keats" resting only slightly away from the face as though he expected he would return to it soon.

"I'm sorry my visit is a bit sudden." I said, resting my head on the same low branch that he read on. With big eyes I looked towards him.

"Not a bother." He smiled at me and ruffled my head fur with a large paw before returning his attention towards his book.

"What are you reading?"I raised my paw to grab the book and he passed it to me.

"Poetry," he said, "I've been reading a lot of it lately."

I raised my head from the branch and then rested my back along the trunk. I looked at the words without registering them, understanding each word on its own but not quite together. Hopping down from the branch Davies plucked the book from my paws and then placed it under his arm.

"It's a wonderfully cool fall day. Would you like to walk with me?" Davies extended a paw and I grasped it as he lifted me to my feet.

"How's your mother?" Davies eventually asked as we walked amongst the rows of near barren trees.

"Good." With my hands in my pocket, I kicked a fallen apple across the ground. "She misses you."

"I miss her too." Then he added, eyes meeting mine, "I miss you as well."

"Why did you stop visiting us?"

Davies paused abruptly and without a word approached a single, hanging apple resting on a branch. He plucked it and then handed it to me without actually facing me.

"Thanks."

"I don't often leave my home," he admitted. "It's hard for me to do so. This orchard means a lot to me. It's a great comfort."

I bit into the apple, despite the lateness of the season it tasted fresh, or perhaps only tasted so because I had become so hungry. I offered him a bite but he refused with a raised paw. As he did this, he turned to face me again. He was smiling a warm smile that was all too familiar to me, his eyes glowing as they always had. He looked calm, he always looked calm. He looked appreciative of all his life's bringing. This look was his shield, a shield against the rest of the world.

Davies continued to speak, "It seems that growing up on a farm can make you used to the ways things can change, and you get that right?" I nodded as he pulled towards him a low hanging branch, petting it as though it were a conscious being. "Season in and season out we see a time for planting, a time for harvest, and a time for waiting. Seasonal changes, we say. You can get used to these changes; you can plan your life around them. But when your sense of change suddenly changes, it becomes quickly evident that you're no longer comfortable with thing changing anymore, that you had never really been comfortable with change in the first place. You start to realize that change isn't a luxury to be observed during the seasons but rather quite the opposite.Change hurts." Davies shook his head, releasing the branch from his grasp.

"Davies, I'm so sorry."

"Oh, don't be," he said, "It really isn't a reason to be sorry. It happened as it happened. I mean, it isn't that much to worry about. No point in being sorry. Don't make yourself upset over it. Please."

I finished the apple, dropping its core to the ground. At that moment a cold breeze passed over me and I shivered, hugging myself close. The sky above was grey, cloudy. Davies in seeing me shiver came forward, brushing a paw against my face, but I turned away.

"Why were you carrying a bottle of cider the day you first passed by our house?" I was growing upset with him. I wanted to be upset at him. I grew to resent his falsehoods. I wanted to see him upset. I wanted him to let me help. I convinced myself that I wanted to help him. I feared that I really only wanted to know more.

Then I got as I wished. For a moment, he collapsed, collapsed further than I had ever seen him collapse before. "I was delivering it to my parents' grave site. That day was the day when my parents and I use to play cards while sharing a bottle from storage. "

Hearing him say this suddenly made me fear that perhaps I had gone too far. As truthful as that statement was, as obvious as his emotions were when he said it, it offered to me perhaps too much truth. I suddenly understood the badger all too well, I had come to see firsthand the face as it was behind his shield, his mask, and it frightened me to know that somebody could have such sorrow. I wanted to apologize, but I knew he did not want to be the type of person to which other people apologized too. He wanted happiness for everyone, happiness for all. He wanted others to feel happiness because it seemed he could not, not really, not after such drastic change, such loss.

"I'm sorry if you find me grim. Let's not dwell on it," he half chucked, wiping a paw under his eye. As he did this I caught his paw, holding it onto his cheek.

"You can dwell on it if you need to. With me you can have that right, I promise you." I meant that promise.

Davies then kissed me. He pulled me close and kissed me. After waiting so long, I had once again kissed the man that I had grown to love. He kissed me like he wanted me, like he needed me. I kissed him back, because I wanted him, and I needed him. At that moment I thought I had figured out the question that I was asking myself the entire time of my knowing him. Did I like him because I wanted his story or because I wanted him? Now that I had him I knew the answer. In a perfect storm of change he had stayed impossible buoyant, as light as others needed him to be, but once the storm cleared it seemed his ship had always been gradually sinking, and yet still he would stay sailing. This among any other reasons was reason enough for me to love him.

Later, we confirmed this love within his bedroom. It was not my first time with someone else, but it was the best time. We were both young, new in our knowledge of other bodies, and yet we were comfortable. We were unafraid of what the other offered, and of what the other possessed. In a suit, he was handsome but shielded, but in nudity he was honest, beautiful. His black fur, a luxury to pass my paws along, pass it along until reaching another point of him, rich and firm, excited, needing. Such a touch was excitable to him, soft moans escaping his lips into my ear. The songs of his pleasure were better than anything I had mustered in fantasy. I too was beyond excitement, our pulsating needs grasped firmly amongst each other within one single paw. His large arms were around me, he was holding me close. We were kissing, almost suffocating, forgetting that we needed to breathe.

When it came time he threw me under him, and then he was inside me. It was a bit much to take, he was an appreciative man, and there was a lot of him to appreciate but somehow I managed to take it. The air of his bedroom was chilled by a touch of winter coming soon and yet in what felt like the frigid pricks of old man winter became a wanted sensation, something new. He spoke words of affection to me as he lay with me, and I returned each one. The longer we passionately engaged the more silly I noticed these words would become.

His moment of release, amongst all other moments experienced to me thus far, had been the most perfect. It felt validating. I had already known that I had the heart to care for him, but at that moment, I knew I had the body as well. As he winded down, he kissed my neck while helping me achieve my own glory. For a while we laid on his bed, panting, laughing, we caught up with each other like old friends. This went on for a while until Davies paused, pointing in the direction of his window.

With a smile on his face he smiled,

"It's snowing."

And then as I turned my head to notice a Lily flower resting on his nightstand I confirmed, "That it has."

--

I haven't been able to write much for the community as of late and this is for good reason. I've been busy with other projects as well as doing some work for some local friends of mine. I won't get too much into it as I'm not one to share anything overtly personal with the furry community but I will say this, I'm starting to feel more like a true to word, budding, writer than ever before. It's all starting to become quite exciting for me. I've got to be careful though. I might lose my head!

I've started a few stories before but never got around to finishing them as new, other, more pressing projects get sent my way. I don't like not finishing stories because I feel like the main difference between a writer and someone pretending to be a writer is writers finish their works. Still, between getting paid and getting only validation, I feel like I know what I should be working on.

That's not to say I only write on here for validation. I think it's important to me that I only justify my involvement within this fandom as a creative space for myself, a place where I can create and experiment as I see fit. Often this experimentation is in creating often surrealist narratives, but in other cases sometimes I just want to explore a genre, or a specific style. That later of course relating to this piece featured.Before you accuse me of purple or rose prose, or being an overly, flowery romanticist (ugh, did he really do a pretentious Keats reference?), know that there is much intention created in anything I write. As a writer, I better myself by making sure I am conscious of my decisions and knowing when to cut that which needs to be cut. That being said I am my own worst editor as well (especially now with less time to edit). So take from that what you will. Haha!

Other than that, I hope you enjoyed this piece. I'm sorry there aren't gratuitous amounts of sex but this piece was supposed to be more narrative/style based then my last piece which was joyfully smutty.

I'm going to go watch American Horror Story. PEACE!

-BeaverReturn

Popquiz: Can anyone guess why my name is BeaverReturn?