To whom it may concern

One of the Time-o-Saurs had broken loose, tearing through a weak point in the net of dino-proof twine that held their reality separate from what Marshall still, despite everything, thought of as "regular Eerie."

The first thing it had done was come for the time canoe, still stored at the very back of the cupboard under the stairs in Marshall's parents' house.

Luckily, the regular canoe his dad had bought under the influence of The Donald's subliminal advertising had acted as an accidental decoy, and the Time-o-Saur had left clutching it's worthless orange prize, leaving their secret weapon behind it.

Ongoing Verse: Milkman

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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There was always the time-canoe, wrapped in plastic and propped up in the darkest corner of his parent's attic. Their rented apartment didn't have room for it, and besides, they'd never bothered replacing the dinosaur-proof twine after their last adventure in the time-stream. The threat of time-o-saurs hadn't been an issue before now.

The time-stream was most dangerous in spring, when Easter rabbits hatched from hen's eggs and the laws of probability were even wobblier than usual. He couldn't remember where the life-jackets were, or where they'd stored the time-anchor.

No, rescue by time-canoe was out, at least for now.

Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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That year, the temporal river trickled brown and sluggish between the dusty banks of high summer. Travellers ran their time canoes aground amidst the treacherous shallows of the never-was, their shrivelled corpses baking to ever-lasting beef jerky beneath the eternal August sun. Others find themselves menaced by Timeosaurs when their dino-proof twine became dry and brittle in the heat, and roasted slowly within cocoons of Time Foil that were meant to protect them.

The Milkmen ferried the few survivors back to the present in the back of their refrigerated trucks, dust and sweat besmirching the cool crisp lines of their well-starched white uniforms. The sacred Dairy Cow gazed out at their struggle with all three of her cobalt-blue eyes, but she existed only in the liminal spaces between the clock change and could not interfere for months. Every day, the fifty-foot billboard that showed the Days Since Last Lost Time Injury was reset to zero, and the deep red glow of it's illuminated numbers shone like bloodied failure over the assembled dairy disseminators.

The Garbage Mens' lips were a thin pale line, the edges of their stolen flesh-suits pressed tight to conceal the maw behind. Still, in private, they grinned.

( Read the rest of the Milkman series here )