I’m pressed for time today, so I’m attempting a what’s-its-name — a 100-word story — Oh, yeah, a drabble. The title doesn’t count. And it isn’t 100 words or fewer, it’s exactly 100 words.
by Marian Allen
Life was hell.
When Canadian civilization collapsed, Pete thought, “No taxes!” Wrong. Money worthless? Pay in pemmican.
He was sick of it. Hunt deer. Gather berries. Process meat and fat. Dry meat and berries. Make pemmican.
Then young Steffi appeared at his hut in the heights of Montreal – evading something, he thought. Good hunter, good cook.
“Will they come here?” she asked now.
“The BNA Act says we have to take it down.”
“They don’t know where we live?”
“So why take it?”
“Suppose they come looking?”
She hefted a heavy, pointed stone. “Suppose they do.”
Life was good.
I’m posting today at Fatal Foodies about my new hot air fryer.
MY PROMPTS TODAY: Pemmican, BNA Act, and Heights of Montreal
you, and my cats thank you.