Page 13 of Fate Fiction

I listlessly plunked at my keyboard, typing out a sentence, deleting it, typing another one, then deleting that. I typed out “fuck everything this fucking sucks.”

Then I deleted that too and closed my laptop.

It was only day one, and I could chalk up this particular kind of writer’s block to the hours I’d spent driving and the giddy excitement of being at camp. Tomorrow I would have more ideas. Tomorrow me would be a creative genius.

I resigned myself to a night devoid of writing and decided to seek inspiration elsewhere. The sun had long set, I missed it in my failed attempt at brainstorming. Under the cover of complete darkness, I snuck out of the cabin to lay on the dock and stare up at the stars. It was a nightly tradition when I was up here, only torrential downpours could keep me away.

It started sometime after losing my fear of the dark, and I’d spend hours alone watching satellites and shooting stars whiz past. I swore I saw a UFO once, but no one believed me.

The dock was my own personal planetarium, the only sound was the wind rustling tree branches, the small waves lapping against the wood, and the occasional loon call or coyote howl.

In a way, the solitude was almost suffocating. I was nothing more than a microscopic dot in the center of dozens of miles of wilderness and an infinite galaxy. In a sense it was reassuring, a reminder that nothing actually mattered, my existence was but a fleck of dust in this universe. A grain of sand on an endless beach.

The Milky Way extended over the lake in an arc, one end looking like it connected directly to the mountain on my right. Light pollution and the slow destruction of our planet thanks to capitalism took away these kinds of night skies from most people. It felt like a privilege to see the stars at all.

The stars blurred across my vision as sleep settled onto my lids. I’d lost track counting them and dotting the constellations, instead letting my breathing rhythmically settle.

Then I remembered I should probably avoid letting myself become bear food and ran back into the safety of my cabin.

four

. . .

Sunday, June 1

The sun rose over an empty camp, taking its time moseying across the sky, as though it was also delaying the inevitable. Birds chirped like I was frozen in the intro to an old Disney cartoon. No voices from other cabins, no oversized lifted trucks and SUVs with blacked out windows ambling down the gravel driveway.

My bliss was temporary.

I threw on my swimsuit, and checked the clock. I put a pot of coffee on the stove, and checked the clock. I slid a pair of jean shorts up my legs, and checked the clock. Everything I did to get ready for my day was paired with a looming countdown ticking down the hours until this mysterious “celebrity” guest would arrive. Each minute was one closer to whatever cameras, partying, and general debauchery this person and their entourage would bring upon the camp like a plight.

I had yet to be swayed that this guest was an actual celebrity. Sue and her lack of modern-day pop culture knowledge could probably be convinced that anyone with more than a few thousand Instagram followers was famous.

The VIP guest in question was probably some washed up D-lister or wannabe outdoors influencer. Two equally infuriating options that I wanted nothing to do with. I was devising ways to avoid being in the background of whatever douchey dude-bro video content the “squad” would inevitably be making. I flinched in anticipation of the endless cannonballs they’d be doing off the dock.

Last night at dinner Sue insisted, over and over, it was one person staying here. When she asked for meal quantities and requests he told her it would be him and him alone for every meal.

She had to have misunderstood. I wasn’t the type to believe that my aging aunt had lost her marbles, but this instance might sway me.

One sane person wouldn’t book out an entire camp, even under the pretense of privacy. And no celebrity would travel this far from civilization without someone accompanying them.

Wasn’t the concept of a “celebrity entourage” a known thing, even to out-of-touch off-the-grid Gen X’ers?

It wasn’t worth the argument, she’d see the chaos for herself later this afternoon.

I had better plans to pursue. Hours of solitary bliss.

I dug through one of the paper shopping bags filled to the brim with snacks, only to see something else got to one of my treats first.

“What the hell,” I muttered as I pulled out the half eaten bag of cheese puffs. A few tumbled through the chewed hole in the bottom onto the ground. “Goddamned mice…”

I wouldn’t let this one hiccup put a damper on my day, I’d mourn the loss of my third favorite snack and get on with my plans.

This morning was my only chance to escape unnoticed. I’d hop into a kayak and head to a quiet cove tucked away halfway down the lake. It wasn’t visible from camp and for most of my conscious life I considered it to be my own hidden oasis.

As a kid I had discovered it unintentionally while messing around and paddling a kayak around the lake, and it felt like finding real life magic. The water there seemed warmer, and the views were somehow even better. I stayed on that secret beach for hours and when I got back I begged Sue not to tell anyone about my “discovery.”

Today I’d go and lounge and tan and read and burn through half the snacks I bought for the trip, then quietly return to camp a few minutes before the guest of honor arrived so I could be available for whatever assistance his majesty required.