A Short Story - The Beaver Stalker BY The J.E.M. Cult

I stepped out into the cold frosty air. I pulled my muffler tighter round my hands and crunched across the frozen grass. Today was the first day of the beaver season- and by golly, I was sure gonna get me one. I love beavers. I can't help it. There's just something about stroking that damp fur that sends me to the heights of ecstasy. At the end of the season, when my little friends grow scarce, my hands shake from withdrawal. But today, with the anticipation of the beaver-filled months ahead, it was excitement that had me shaking in my sheepskin boots.

People sometimes think I'm a bit strange. I do get some funny looks when I tell my mates in the pub that I can't come and watch football because I'm out beaver hunting. I don't see what's so wrong about it. Some people like dogs and cats for pets, some like rats or even monkeys, though not so much monkeys nowadays. I can't look at monkeys. I had a bad experience with one in Africa - a vervet monkey it was. Well, it pounced on me unexpectedly with all its teeth bared and its sharp claws out. It embedded itself into me balls. I had no choice but to pick up my cricket bat and give it a good few hard whacks across its pert little rump. It soon let go and limped away, whimpering.

Well ask anyone and they'll tell you I'm an animal lover and would never do something like that normally. But to this very day I still feel guilty for spanking the monkey.

Well. What's the best way to catch a beaver? I hear you ask. I asked the same question myself many years ago. I was stood by the creek watching a beaver swimming on its back, eating a tasty piece of salmon, when all of a sudden there was a man. He was stood completely starkers in the water and he had grabbed hold of the beaver. The beaver was none too pleased. He'd dropped his lunch so I couldn't blame him.

I stood there in disbelief as this hoary old man, river water dripping down his chest, proceeded to rub the beaver vigorously up and down his thighs. Then, wrapping the beaver towel-like round his waist, he broke the animal's neck. Then just as sudden as he'd rose up out of the creek, he submerged amid bubbles frothing on the water.

From then on I had found my role in life: to save these poor furry mites from such cruel treatment. They don't always want to be saved, of course..but I exercise tough love. I'll never forget my first beaver. She was a beautiful young specimen, full of the joys of life. Light falling through the foliage above dappled her sleek coat, and I felt the first stirrings of lust. God, I wanted this beaver.

I slipped slowly into the water, trying my hardest not to disturb her. Like the evil hunter I was naked, but my motivation was pure love. I slid smoothly under the small dark body as it writhed on the surface. Then in a quick movement my arms were around her, and I emerged, gasping, struggling wet beaver clutched over my groin.

At first she resisted the rhythmic movements of my muscular flanks as I strode through the water. But as we finally reached the sunny shore, her struggling was more feminine and she began to give in to me, like an eager flower to a rampant humming bee. Her wet paws gave a last anxious spasm, then she resigned herself to her fate.

I lay her carefully down , hidden by the tall rushes growing abundantly by the gently trickling stream. I stared down at her outstretched body, fur tousled and moist. I ran my fingers through the matted curls and deftly explored the warm body beneath..

The pleasure was becoming almost too much for me to bear, and I'd guess it was the same for her too. For the next moment she had regained some strength, stretched up and sunk her sharp teeth deep into my calf. This time my cricket bat was redundant, however, for as I released her in my pain, she made her escape. I was left, naked and forlorn, standing amongst the reeds. Of the beaver there was no sign, save a faint splash as she re-entered the water.

As I stood there, stunned and in my state of undress, I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I turned round sharpish, and saw a policewoman standing there looking right stern. A jolt of fear ran through me. And what, she said, do you think you're doing, sir?

I sat down meekly and began to describe the afternoon's hunt. I described my lost beaver and showed her the bite mark on my calf. Y'see, she left me something to remember me by. Aye she wanted it all right. Happen it was your fault she scarpered like that. The uniformed officer stared at me with unblinking eyes, and mouth agog. Yes sir, well, I, ahem, perhaps you should come to the station and tell my sergeant about it. Aye, glad too, I said, does he like a bit of damp beaver an' all? © The J.E.M. Cult May 2004

Fiction - The Art Of Being Alone In A Crowded Bar By Rich Mills
	What music are you into, man? The American exchange student who had earlier introduced himself, without any regard for Jean-Paul's need to be alone, suddenly threw a curve-ball of a question in his direction. Well I listen to... What followed was a definitive list of bands from Jean-Paul's wide ranging rare vinyl Read more...

Fiction - Old Tired & Completely Rucked By Martin Dale
	Of course, I used to be big league me. Right up there with the bigwigs I was. Every game I'd be out there, working my socks off for the club. I'd be at the bottom of every ruck, in the thick of every maul, I'd cover more of the pitch than anyone else on the team. Pretty good really, now that I come to think about it, Read more...

Fiction - From a Spirited Beginning By Martin Dale
	My earliest memory? Isolation. Being small, vulnerable, completely alone. I was surrounded by seemingly alien life, one with the life, but at the same time different, distinct. I came from this being, but I was no longer completely a part of it. I had a separate consciousness. No. Not yet. That was to come. At that time it was only an instinct. Read more...

Fiction - A Man with Two Horses By Lazyswede
	I met a man today that had two horses, but he could not get the horses to go the way he wanted them to. The gray mare wanted to take the footpath to the left and the old chestnut mare wanted to take the footpath to the right, while the man wanted to go back the way he came because he knew he would be late for his dinner if he took either of the other two paths. Read more...

Fiction - Halloween - One For The Road

	by Nicholas Boldock Jason Travis tip-tapped the steering wheel in time to the music blaring from the car's speakers. He glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard - 16:53. The sky was darkening, even at this early summer hour, not as a result of the setting sun but brought about by the lumbering grey rain clouds overhead. Read more...

Fiction - Telling Lies by Nicholas Boldock
	At half past five Harry arranged all the papers on his desk into neat piles, as he always did before going home. He shoved his pens into the blue plastic desk tidy and shut down his PC. He performed this same ritual every evening, did it automatically, even unconsciously. He felt overjoyed to be finally going home - the days seemed to be getting longer and longer and longer - even though home, to Harry, was only marginally more bearable than work. Read more...

Fiction - C(P)U On The Other Side
	by Rich Mills Roy carelessly tossed the apple core in the bin next to his computer. Constructed in a moment of sheer mindless boredom the waste-paper bin was an amalgam of newspaper strips and PVA glue, coated in a thick yellowing layer of varnish. Read more...