Atlantic Canada Tales by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Rigolet

by

Mike Bozart

© 2024 Mike Bozart

Panuk, a nineteen-year-old, lanky, still-brokenhearted-from-a-month-ago-romantic-breakup Inuit male begins walking northeast from the small town of Rigolet (Labrador, Canada) on the longest boardwalk in North America (length: 8.08 km; 5 miles) that skirts (on the northwest shore) the narrow southwest passage of Hamilton Inlet. Just over a kilometer (.62 miles) into his forlorn trek on the cool-but-not-cold mid-morning of Saturday, October 8, 2022, the aspiring writer sees a small rectangular object in the already-autumnally-browned marshy vegetation. He stops, looks around, and sees no one. He stealthily advances closer and then steps off the ash-gray planks to retrieve a … [drumroll] cerise, clear-plastic-coated wallet. As his thrift-store, dark-brown hiking boots sink three centimeters (1.18 in.) into the low-tide muck, his mind ponders the plausible scenarios. It most likely belongs to a NLA [Northern Lights Academy] student.

Probably a high school girl. Should I open it? My pawprints are all over it now. Should’ve grabbed it with my gloves on.

Darn! Another bad decision. A string of them as of late. Why did I have to put those new gloves in my jacket pockets instead of on my hands? Why didn’t I have them on? They’re thin and perfect for this slightly chilly weather. Oh well, that’s just my luck. Hmmm … Hate being nosy and prying into someone’s personal space, but the pulesi [police] will certainly go through it – all of it. Should I just bring it to the RCMP [Royal Canadian Mounted Police] station? Or, just take a very quick peek? Decisions. The intrigue is too much.

But, curiosity killed the cat. But, I’m a wily cat. ‘Yeah, right!

Not.’ If I turn it in to the law, I’ll be the prime suspect if something untoward occurred. Or will I? I surely will be if this young lady was attacked. Wonder if she was accosted by some unsavory dude … who then robbed her? And sexually assaulted her? Injured her? Killed her? Yikes! I’ll be in that little interrogation chamber for hours. Many hours. ‘So, do you always end up with female wallets in your possession, sir?’ [internal groan] Need to check the local news on my cell phone. Yeah, that’s it. [gets his two-year-old SG going]

Hmmm … Don’t see anything about any criminal activity in the last 24 hours. Nobody is wanted. Or on the run. Maybe it fell out of her pocketbook or purse due to carelessness.

Maybe she was texting on her phone and was totally oblivious to it falling out of a back pocket. Bet that’s it.

Mystery solved. Now to …

Suddenly an e-bike doing 34 km/h (21 mph) whizzes by.

They both glance at each other for a split-second. However, the electric-motor-assisted bicycle does not stop, nor slow.

Wonder what that guy is doing down there. Digging for clams? [internal chortle] He sure looks suspicious. This place is beginning to attract strange folks: an emerging weirdo magnet. / Well, don’t have to worry about him reporting me to the police; he’s not supposed to be riding on the boardwalk. The pulesi would fine his ass. Big-time.

Would they impound his motorized bicycle? Maybe not for a first offence. Bet the pulesi are aware of him. Yeah, he’s already on their watchlist. Did he launch his e-bike down those steps at the start of the boardwalk – right beside the

‘No Bikes’ sign? He’ll plead unawares. He’s probably just another meth-head. [methamphetamine addict] Probably already jacked-up for the weekend. ‘Trouble ahead for you, sport. There are broken boards and rising steps ahead –

way too many to hop up. No, I’m afraid it doesn’t end well for him. ‘That brand of craziness don’t play in Rigolet, partner!’

Hmmm … And she sure don’t play. [his ex-girlfriend]

Merciless. Heartless. Bet she becomes a prosecuting attorney. And I bet he doesn’t make it even halfway to Double Mer Point. [the northern endpoint] Hmmm … Can he even get turned around on this narrow boardwalk? Those e-bikes are heavy. Clunky when not in motion. Wonder if Katjuk [Panuk’s best friend] still has his. The snowmobile is enough for me. Need to change the oil. Maybe tomorrow.

Snow season is nigh, though. Another winter. Another freezing-ass-cold winter. Alone. Oh, the joy. [audible groan]

Well, time to get moving along.

Panuk rebounds on the boardwalk with the found wallet tucked inside his re-zipped-shut, right-front, green/blue-striped jacket pocket. He pensively glances northeastward.

The westernmost rocky barrow of the adjacent peninsula catches his eye. He muses. Looks like a volcanic island from this vantage point. And my name means island. Katjuk means arrow. Katjuk, somewhere up there launching arrows into the narrows. Mangling many marrows. Silly English rhymes. Oh, my … then silently sigh. Yo-no! Those crystals sure are kicking in now. Most definitely feeling some heightened neural activity in the control room. Need to write this up someday. Though, just finding a wallet in a sedge bog is not a story. Really need to open it. But, not here! Walk

a little farther … to that secluded sylvan spot. Yeah, that’s the plan. Wonder how much loot is in it. Will soon find out.

Six minutes and six seconds later, Panuk is sitting on a fallen coniferous tree trunk in a copse just inland from the boardwalk. He cautiously opens the wallet to find an ID card of an Inuit female named Anjij. He flips the card-holder sleeve up: another ID card appears in the second sleeve; this one is from NLA with a photo. Wow. I knew it! She sure is cute. Looks like she’s seventeen, or maybe eighteen.

Wonder if she’s available for a pelvic connection. What the heck am I thinking?! Hormonally directed. [internal chuckle]

His right index finger then feels a thin piece of round metal in the lower-lefthand corner of the cash slot, which has a single Canadian dollar bill in it. Is that a tracking chip? Is this wallet being …

There’s some rustling of the twigs. Someone is walking towards him. What in the world?! Has someone decided to take a piss right here? Of all the places to pee! What are the odds of this? .0001%? Just my rotten luck. Just hope that …

Before he can see the advancing, purple-hoodied face, a young lady’s voice nonchalantly states: “Why, hello there.

Would you happen to have seen a cherry-colored wallet on or near the boardwalk?” Have I been set up? Is this some kind of bizarre prank? Is Ikiaq [an acquaintance who Panuk senses to be a future literary rival] behind this? Such a devoid-of-imagination, jealousy-consumed prick.

Panuk clears his lingering-Bronchitis throat. “How much money was in it?” Wow. What a clever question. Sly guy.

“Just a lone note,” Anjij answers sans emotion. “Just a single CAD.” [Canadian dollar]

“Here ya go,” Panuk solemnly says as he extends his right hand with the wallet lying on his palm. An honest lad.

Anjij takes it and notices Panuk’s still-illuminated cell-phone display. “Hey, what’s that?” she asks with unabashed intrigue as she peers at a tilted 8 x 8 grid of black-and-white squarish diamonds with red and green geometric shapes in the upper and lower sectors. [image below/follows]

“Oh, it’s just an unrefined game that I invented to exile the encroaching ennui. It’s played on a standard chessboard; however, the chessboard is slanted 45° so that each player has a corner pointed at their gut.” Exile ennui? What in the world?! He’s different alright.

Anjij giggles. “Oh, a reminder to stay on that this-is-the-one-that-will-work diet?” Though, he’s certainly not fat; may even be a little underweight. Does he think I’m fat? How could he tell with my coat still all-buttoned-up? He hasn’t seen my backside. Is my face puffy? No, it looked fine in the mirror this morning. / Girls say the strangest things. Need to use this in a story someday. Wonder if she’s single. Would love to have sex with her. Early and often. Repeat.

“Well, maybe, I guess. Was not really thinking of that. I just wanted to create a larger field of play.” Field of play?

“Ok, game inventor-maven, do continue,” Anjij insists with a smile. “First, tell me the name of your game.” The name of my game? The name of the game is lame; it’s a shame.

“The tentative appellation is Quandary 4321, or just 4321, or maybe 4-3-2-1-Woah! Each player has a total of ten pieces, but they are not chess pieces or checkers chips; they are coins: 4 pennies, the octagons; 3 nickels, the pentagons; 2

dimes, the triangles; and 1 quarter, the big dot – 4-3-2-1.

Though, I know these one-centers may not be readily available. [minting of Canadian pennies ceased in 2012] One side is heads; the other side, tails. Other bicolored tokens could be used. Poker chips would work.” Appalachian appellation.

“Yeah, I think that would make it easier to identify whose coin is whose,” Anjij adds. “Players could forget. Maybe intentionally. Big arguments could ensue. Oh, how do these coin-tokens move about? Are the players rolling a die or a pair of dice?”

“No, it’s a dice-less game. The pennies can move one open space in any direction. If an opposing piece is adjacent, it can be removed from the board and the attacking penny will claim that space.”

“Oh, so the pennies are like pawns in chess,” Anjij posits.

“Yes, but unlike chess pawns, they are permitted to retreat.”

“Ok, are the nickels like knights?” She feels confident that she has guessed correctly.

“Yes and no, Anjij. Nickels can move two squares in any direction; however, they cannot jump over any coin, whether their own or the opposition’s. And there is no dog-legging.”

“I see. Now, let me guess: dimes can move three spaces in any direction. Am I right?” Ding.

“You are!” he exclaims. “But they can only move to that third space away if adjacent-space one and middle-space two are free; there must be a clear line to space no. 3; if not, that move is not permitted.”

“And the quarter can move four spaces in any linear direction if all spaces in between are clear, but cannot jump over any pieces. Did I get this one completely right, sir?” Sir?

“You most certainly did, madame. Parfait.” [French for perfect] Why’d he use that French word? Was his ex from Québec?

“Ok, you haven’t mentioned one very important thing: the object of the game. Is the goal to corner or eliminate the opponent’s quarter?” Anjij studies the graphic some more.

Bet that’s it. His game is a reduced version of chess. But, does he realize that the two-space-moving hexagonal tokens and the four-space-moving dots will always be on white spaces? Maybe mention it to him later. Does this crash his

‘great’ boardgame? Or, does it just make it more complicated? Bet it makes stalemates more likely. Does it become like tic-tac-toe, where draws are most likely? Well, if one doesn’t make an astounding blunder. Wait a second …

If the hexagons and dots are always on white spaces – for both players – they can gobble and be gobbled.

“No, the quarter is not a king with queen-like mobility; there’s nothing monarchical about this game. The object is to eliminate – remove – all of your opponent’s coins before he/she does such to you. If it gets down to a single penny versus a single penny, the match is over and deemed a draw. Moreover, if it gets down to any type of single coin versus that same type of single coin, the contest is finished; for example, one dime versus one dime results in the match ending in a tie – a do-over.” I’d like to do her over a stump.

“Can there be a stalemate situation?” Great question. She’s quite smart. And oh-so-sexy! Need to play my cards right.

Don’t want to wind up in virtual quicksand. Was starting to sink in the silt back there.

“To be honest, Anjij, I’m not sure. I haven’t performed enough iterations yet. And, I’m still not sure what the best strategy is.” Honesty and candor. Hope he’s truly genuine.

Reiterations. / Hug the boundaries? Lure into the fore?

“Say, want to play a quick game tomorrow?” Wow. That sure was smooth of him. / Can’t believe that I said that. It just flowed right off my tongue – robotically. Pathologically? Ha!

Ballerton!

“Sure!” the excited lass replies. This has worked out better than I could’ve ever imagined. My homing-deviced-wallet-bait ruse has ensnared my desired male. A veritable Venus flytrap!

“How about at The Grub Box [now permanently closed] at noon?” Yes! He really is asking me out on a date. Yey!

“Sounds great! You can make the first move.” Woah! What a Freudian slip that was! Did he catch it? / Double entendre.

[repercussing flapping-rubber-on-boardwalk thuds; someone is pushing a flatted-tire e-bike]

Their first date would go well. Panuk would add a half-teaspoon of Anjij’s espresso coffee to his Earl Grey tea after she went up three wins to two. The free-flow-fluid banter was often preternatural.

An excerpt of their conversation:

Anjij: “I first took notice of you at that bounce-a-superball-into-the-giant-ornate-orange-urn demonstration in the NLA gymnasium. You were a senior; I was a junior.”

Panuk: “I double-doinked the rim.” Double-doinked?

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory



Title: Anticosti

by Mike Bozart

E-published in

mid-July of 2024

Word count: 2828

© 2024 Mike Bozart

An itinerary-less, though with a desired goal, autumnal sojourn on Anticosti Island: an isolated fortnight of wandering and wondering. That was the new plan. He, Jacques, a single-once-again; childless; increasingly restive; laid-off-two-months-prior-due-to-the-Covid-19-pandemic; 43-year-old

French

Canadian

newsweekly

contributor

(and

occasional fill-in editor) from Gaspé (Québec) wanted to write a different, somewhat-unique kind of fiction: a most-novel novel. He felt that 336 hours on the 222-km-long (138

miles from WNW to ESE), sparsely inhabited, stark-scaped, gorge-fissured, fossil-inundated, large-lozenge island stuck in the mouth of the St. Lawrence River would be the place that would spur dormant creativity, and maybe even spark a startling fate-of-hominids realization. Though, he really wasn’t expecting a cosmic epiphany. Well, maybe not until night 13.

As September of 2020 came to a close, Jacques inventoried his recently procured equipment, supplies, and rations for the fourteen days and nights along the western swath of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. He had enough protein bars and powdered energy-drink mix to survive on, but he included a folding fishing rod, some basic tackle, a sack of jasmine rice, a dozen canned foods, a water filter (to make surface water potable), and a collapsible mini-grill. Why, this was no weight-loss mission; though, he wanted to shed some kilos du ventre (paunch-pounds).

Just after dawn on Friday morning, October 2, 2020, Jacques departs from his downtown apartment in a grey 2015 Subaru Outback. It is an uneventful, yawn-filled, 25-minute drive to Rivière-au-Renard on the north coast, save for some sporadic melancholy thoughts while crossing the Pont de Saint-Majorique bridge on Route 132; the northerly stretch on Route 197 was like a nebulous tranquilizer. Soon he is at the dank-fogged (6° Celsius; 43° Fahrenheit) harbour dock, where he boards his buddy’s 46-foot (14

meters from bow to stern) blue-trim-on-white wooden trawler.

Stéphane, the 44-year-old boat owner-captain, was already planning a fishing expedition in the gulf in early fall. When Jacques learned of this, he agreed to pay a kindly amount to be ferried over to Pointe-Sud-Ouest, directly across the wide southern channel, Détroit D’ Honguedo.

The four-and-a-half-hour-long, 70-km (43.5-mile) transit on relatively calm water passes with only intermittent small talk between Stéphane, Jacques, and a 26-year-old deckhand named Saul. The only exchange of note (translated from Québécois French):

Saul: [at the helm] “So, what are you hoping to find?” Gold?

Jacques: [after a pensive pause] “That’s a great question.

Maybe it will come to me.” Sure hope so. / This dude is off his rocker – another nutter. How did Stéph[ane] meet him?

After being dropped off between two large rocks, Jacques begins walking with his heavy backpack in a southeasterly direction on a nearly-chalk-white, fairly level coastal path in the south-central SÉPAQ region of the island. After approximately eight kilometers (five miles), he starts looking for a place to camp in the spruce-pine-fir forest. Jacques notices that the cloudy sky has dramatically darkened; rain is approaching. Need to get set up before I get wet. Wet and cold. Not a good way to start this odd odyssey.

Jacques pitches his water-repellent-copiously-applied tent in a small crevasse on the lower portion of the south-sloping, limestone-upon-shale cuesta. He was still a long way from

‘the eye of the bear’, as his longtime, map-fanatic friend nicknamed it. But for night one it would have to do. Why did Samuel call that eastern-tip pond the ‘eye of the bear’?

There are no bears on this island – only foxes, deer, and rabbits. And a lot of mosquitoes and flies in the wetlands and around the streams in summer. Glad I chose this time of year. Not supposed to be camping in undesignated campsites, but can’t imagine anyone running me off. This spot is super-secluded. And there’s hardly anyone in this section of the island. Should be fine here. Will pass on the grill tonight. Just go with no-cooking-required prêt à manger.

In his tent at 5:39 PM, he hears the first raindrops on the canvas. He scans the inside of the single-person shelter.

Jacques is very content to notice not a single droplet inside his fabric-shell abode. Excellent. All dry. What a relief!

Jacques then retrieves his pocket-size notebook. He begins to muse upon the first entry. Most folks reach their mental

zenith at age 35. I’m already past-peak, but not too far down the descent. What should I write? What would this novel be about? Hmmm … Just begin by stating the facts. And maybe something strange emanates betwixt the cracks …

A middle-aged man in a tent, putting pen to paper as a cool drizzle commences on remote Anticosti Island. Somehow I don’t think that’s how the novel starts. But, who knows? This ice-carved isle sure could tell some stories. I’m sure there has been some human folly over the centuries. Am I going to be the next casualty?

Hope not. At least, not yet. Well, time to take that sleeping pill. Will roll out at the break of dawn.

Hope I can catch a ride at Brick La Mer. If not, this gets a lot more interesting. And probably not in a good way. Glad I remembered the rain parka. So quiet. And no cell service. No surprise, though. Was expected. Kind of like it. It’s just like the old days when on vacation: pleasantly out of contact. The rain seems to have stopped. For now.

More was forecast overnight. Low was predicted to be 7° [Celsius; 45° Fahrenheit]. Perfect. Time to crash. So far, so good. To be continued …

Day two is a solemn Saturday morning that transitions from a misty dawn to partly cloudy skies by nine o’clock. After relieving his body of bio-processed fluids and solids in a spade-dug and neatly covered latrine-pit, he begins breaking down the tent and getting everything repacked. He then takes a break and stares at the tiny-whitecaps-here-and-there wide expanse of muted indigo water. This day is crucial. Sure hope I run across someone who can give me a lift. Way too far to walk with a heavy backpack. A long way from [age] 23.

After munching two breakfast bars and gulping a whey-protein slurry, he recommences his southeastward trek. The trail is all his. Jacques likes the solitude, though strongly desires to meet someone at the Brick La Mer. Seventy-one, stoic-to-fretful-to-fatalistic minutes later (10:55 AM), he is standing on the west side of a small creek, directly across from the ruddy, heavily-weathered-wood-siding Brick La Mer cottage, which he catches glimpses of between the conifers.

There it is! Almost there – at the goal. And then this hydrologic hurdle appears. [internal groan] Always a challenge right before the finish line. Hmmm … What to do?

How to best traverse this liquid obstacle? Come on, synapse! This aint sprocket science.

Jacques then walks up to the narrowest section of the shallow streamlet. The gap between the almost-flat banks is a little over two meters (seven feet). Darn! Too far to jump over with all this gear on my back. Don’t want to get the insides of these non-waterproof boots wet and have cold, soggy feet all day. Eureka! Got the solution: remove the backpack and toss it across, then get a running start and leap. Know I could clear it. But, throwing the backpack that far could result in contents damage. Nah, nix that plan.

Hmmm … Ok, guess I’m down to option 3: take off the boots and socks and hop across with backpack on back and boots in-hand. It’s not very deep. But, do I really want to place my bare feet in that chilly water? [internal groan] Is this a no-win situation? Oh, wait a second! Those extra-large zip-lock bags in the backpack could go over my boots. Could then gingerly step across. Yeah, that’s the ticket! Who says I have incipient cognitive decline? [internal guffaw]

Jacques then carefully removes his backpack and sighs into the 14° Celsius (57° Fahrenheit) maritime air. He unzips the main section and begins to extricate the folded clear plastic bags. While making sure that the zip-lock pouches are indeed long enough and wide enough to encapsulate his boots, he suddenly hears a woman’s voice on the opposite side of the olive-hued rivulet.

“Save your bags, dear. I discovered an improvised passerelle. [footbridge] I’ll drag it down. Will only take fifteen seconds.” Huh? Dear? Sounds like she’s from Trois-Rivières. What’s her deal? No uniform. That’s good. I guess.

“Oh, thanks,” taupe-haired Jacques slowly replies, still somewhat stunned by her presence. He then watches the mid-40-ish, dyed-blonde Caucasian woman pull out an aluminum extension ladder from behind some bankside shrubs. The ladder has a plywood plank screwed onto one side. The other side has some 18-cm (seven inches tall) metal legs bolted on. She then begins extending the ladder across the stream.

“Just grab hold of it and set it down on a hard spot,” she instructs like she has done such a hundred times. Is she now a permanent resident? How is that allowed? It’s not.

Jacques grasps the extended end and does just that. “Why, thank you so much, madame.” He seems like a decent guy.

Think I can trust him. Wonder what his story is. Divorced?

Lost? Both?

The modified ladder bows down as Jacques cautiously walks on it. However, it doesn’t dip below the waterline. Once safely – and dryly – across, he puts the portable passerelle back for the mysterious, attractive, fuchsia-jacketed lady. Is she out here alone? Sincerely doubt that. Where’s hubby?

“Thanks so much,” she says as they make eye contact for the first time. “My name is Claire. What’s yours?” Is she single? / Is he unattached?

“Jacques. I’m headed to the eastern end of the island, just north of Heath Point.” To do what? Commit suicide? Ha!

“On foot?!” Claire is astonished by his intended destination.

“That might take a month!” she exclaims. “Are you on vacation for all of October?” Is he an incognito IT millionaire from Montréal? He’s here for something. Can sense it.

“No, only for thirteen more nights. Was hoping to catch a ride over to the northern road. I’ll pay a very generous fare.” He didn’t have transportation lined up beforehand? Hmmm …

He certainly didn’t come over with a hunting/fishing outfit. Or did he, and then break off? Why? Hmmm …

“Let’s go inside and discuss this further over coffee or tea,”

Claire insists. Hope he behaves. Pepper spray? Check.

“Sure,” Jacques agrees. Hope she has access to a motor vehicle. Or knows where I can catch a ride. [He spies a maroon Jeep Wrangler as they near the front of the cottage.]

Ah, bet that’s her rental. ‘Twould be perfect. But, she may have a set schedule – unlike me – and not be able to drive me off the south shore. Maybe she’s not alone. Wonder what her story is. Will definitely weave her into the future novel.

Weave la saucisse d’amour [the love sausage] into her …

<bang> That sounded like a rifle. A deer hunter? Here?

Jacques slumps to the ground. Oh my God! Did that gunshot strike him? [sees blood seeping from the left-underarm area of his jacket] It did! Who is out there?! Why?! Am I next?!

Need to take cover. Fast! Then come back and attend to his wound. Though, he appears to already be dead. Yeah, he’s gone. The bullet pierced his heart. Got to get out of here.

Now!

Claire crouches down and scurries in zigzag fashion to the front porch of the cottage. She frantically opens the bone-white door and dashes inside. She locks the deadbolt while ducking below the window. Will they be coming for me? Will they try to enter? Bust the door down? Then shoot me close-range? An execution-style forehead shot? Is it a lone homicidal maniac? What a freaking nightmare! Can’t call the police. No cell service with my carrier. Anyway, the phone is completely dead – zero bars. Ughhh!

The afternoon is unnervingly quiet – tortuous near-silence.

Claire lies on the main bedroom floor, out of window view.

The hours creep by with dire thoughts and agonizing sensations. This is pure hell. Just waiting to be killed. And yet, the day started so serene. So peaceful. So nondescript.

Banal, even. And then this grisly tragedy occurs from out of nowhere! So unforeseen. Like out of a horror movie. Or real-crime dramatization. But, so much worse; it is REAL! That man REALLY was shot and killed less than two meters [six feet] from me. Did he severely cross someone? Who then tracked him? But, why does he shoot him when I am next to him? Why have a witness? Why didn’t he shoot him when he was hiking alone? Wait. Was it my deranged ex-boyfriend?

Was Charles spying on me the past five days? Did he take this man to be a secret lover? A clandestine rendezvous?

His body is still lying on the ground just 15 meters [49 feet]

from here! How am I going to report this? Where? Guess I’ll have to drive to Port Menier. [on the west end of the island]

Will I be arrested? There’s no gun in this cottage or in the Jeep. They’ll think that I hid the gun somewhere after shooting him. At the very least I’ll be a person of interest.

And most likely a suspect. The prime suspect? Maybe so.

Maybe? For sure! Really don’t want to be dealing with the police for weeks and months. Questions. Inquiries. More questions. Wonder who knows that he was in this particular area of Anticosti. [Island] Was he just a loner? Was he going to meet a friend near Heath Point? Is he/she expecting him now? Are the police already looking for him? What to do?

Should I try to hide his body? Bury him in the crawl space?

Hmmm …

A few minutes after nightfall, Claire, now dressed in a black hooded coat and black pants, takes some deep breaths for steadiness. Then she exits the cottage via the back door.

Seeing and hearing no one, she slinks up to Jacques. Some more blood has drained from the entrance wound; most has already dried. Indeed deceased. Poor guy. Horrible.

As she rotates his torso, the little notebook falls from Jacques’ right-back jeans pocket. When she grabs it, Claire hears the sounds of a mammal approaching. Probably just a fox. Or, is that the shooter walking lightly?! Can’t chance it.

She dashes back to the cottage, entering the way she left.

Realizing that she failed to lock the door upon exiting, she inspects the interior of the once-upon-a-time-cozy-but-now-birdcage-esque cabin: no person had snuck inside. What a day! My psyche is scarred for life.

After an interminable and virtually sleepless night, Claire goes back outside via the rear door to check on Jacques’

corpse in the cold 1° Celsius (34° Fahrenheit) pre-dawn air.

His body is gone! Who or what hauled him away? A man?

Or men? Still think it was a lone gunman. His backpack is gone, too. Why, look at that: the fallen leaves and pine needles have been re-scattered. Intentionally. Strategically.

No blood. Anywhere. No sign that a bloody corpse was here.

Extracted by the shooter. Obviously. How far did he drag/carry Jacques? Where’s his corpse now? Is the madman still around? Am I being watched? Now?! Time to get out of here. And say adieu to Anticosti. [Island] Forever!

Claire would make it safely off the island and back to Gentilly, Québec. (Jacques’ guess was very close.) She scans a multitude of news sites daily, but there’s nothing related to Anticosti Island. But then on Saturday evening, October 17th, a missing person article with a photo of Jacques ensnares Claire’s eye.

Later on the late-night local news, Jacques’ disappearance is the third story. And by 6 PM Sunday, it becomes the lead eastern Canada story.

But then the intriguing mystery of Jacques’s disappearance fades. Occasionally there would be an update, but the supposedly hot leads would go stone-cold or prove frivolous upon closer examination. Claire remains mum.

Claire is haunted by the tragic death of the would-be novelist. Having dabbled in prose, she decides to draft a short story about an out-of-the-blue fatality in a remote setting. But the tale keeps expanding; it eventually becomes a 77,000-page novel, L’Histoire de Veronique.

Claire would e-publish it four years later. Her novel was a catharsis, incorporating memories of those ghastly nineteen hours of terror at Brick La Mer. All the proper nouns were changed and the storyline was slightly skewed. The novel’s tagline: A woman shockingly discovers that the foremost danger in the wilderness is just like in other places: human.

During a submersible test run in 2112, Jacques’ skeletal remains would be found by chance on the bottom of a multi-crescent-shoreline, postglacial, Anticosti Island lake that came to be known as Lac du Oeil de L’Ours.

In Closing …

First off, thanks immensely for your valuable mind-time! I know that you could be doing many other things.

Secondly, I’ve always admired Canada. While cataloging the various locations of my stories over the years, I was shocked by the realization that I had never set a yarn down to unwind in the Great White North. Well, that oversight has been duly remedied. More to follow. Well, if I can keep encroaching cognitive decline at bay. (My little island is slowly sinking. :D) I have written many other tales (over 200 short stories) similar to these six. Back in 2013 I penned a suspenseful, thought-filled, unpredictable, film noir-esque, erotic e-novel ( Gold, a summer story). Two novellas ( To Morrow Tomorrow and Mysterieau of San Francisco) and three novelettes ( Kron by Night, Foxfire, and Lost in Lost Cove) followed. All of these titles are on numerous websites – and the vast majority are absolutely FREE to download – just search for

‘Mike Bozart e-books’.

Mirth and mystery,

Mike

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