#Fast Fiction - Dec 19... Countdown to 100

Here we are at #1 Paragraph story 98. Two more to go and we reach 100- my Little Granny made it past 100 years old, and she celebrated her centennial by riding a Motorbike through Carmen, Manitoba. I doubt these stories will get their licence by next Tuesday, but who knows. Stories can take you anywhere. The plan when that big three digit number is reached, is to put a little Kindle book together. Working title: 'Writing? But what do you do as a job?'


Ma, sis, and me had gone ahead to the camp out in Haldy Lake before Pa cuz he still had a few more days left of work. Although each cabin had its own stove, there still was a large wood stove in the main building where most of us campers would meet. The place was built sometime before Ma was born, she told us, but no one could remember exactly when that was. The now owners were, what Pa called: Grandfathered in. And those owners before, the same, kinda kept in the family, but no one took records on when, and who the first owners were. Once, a few years back, sis and I found a door in the cellar that opened to yellow stone steps. Old. Old and dusty. At the bottom was a room covered in, what I found out later, Mayan art, with a pit in the centre so deep that we couldn’t hear our spit hit the bottom. We still assume it is bottomless, or at the very least, opens up in China somewhere. Mr. Sackett, the groundskeeper, found us and chased us upstairs on account he didnt want to face a lawsuit if me, or sis fell in. The next week we came looking for the hole, but the stairs and the door weren’t there anymore. We were positive we knew where we had been, but we have never found it again. But, the real story starts two years ago, the Summer of ’83, the time of the great Electrical Storm, when we learned the true history of Rafter Eighty-nine and the land the camp was resting on… or protecting, as I had come to understand. I remember when the first spike of lightning hit, all the hairs on my arm wavered in the air like someone was holding a balloon over them. Then, like a heartbeat, two kabooms broke the song of the Grasshoppers, and the ground not ten feet from our campfire by the main house, kicked up dirt. After the first explosion of light I rubbed my eyes and while I blinked to get my sight back, and before the second blue spark erupted, I caught the faint outline of a woman holding a baby. The next kaboom broke the night air, and she disappeared. But, before the grasshoppers started up again, I heard the baby cry, and it broke my heart. At thirteen, I had never been in love, I had never really had a crush on anyone before that night, but my heart knew an empty sadness as deep as that pit we found. There was three more weeks left at Rafter Eighty-nine and when Sis and I finally slumped in the back seat of our Dad’s Station Wagon to head back to Quesnel, we would have brought our Mom back from the dead, gone back in time, met an Aztec Priest, and helped the ghost woman find her baby. That summer we would witness miracles, because all good miracles happen in the summer.

James C.