by A.J.(Tony) Powell

It was the first day of April in Viola in Central Florida. A family from Canada had settled the area close to Lake Griffin. Viola was a small, but successful community of related family and a few close friends.

Arthur Monkton was not an educated man, but he was their respected leader. For whatever reason, he was also an avid diarist, who scratched down, just about every happening (hardy event) in the every-day life of that close-knit group. Fishing in the lake, he’d record the catch, however small. Going to the store, he’d write down what they bought and what it cost.

Arthur was not a ‘creative’ author – no ’embroidery’, no thoughts, no reflections, no opinions. Just “This is what happened today.”

So this entry seems out-of-place.

“Before dawn, Arto called me outside. I don’t sleep good anyway. He seen a fireball in the sky. Me? I saw it too. Brighter than a star. It dropped out of that night sky down to the lake side. We went on down there.”

“Smoking and hot, trees burned, branches broke, and a small, burned up water barrel. Come daylight, we tractored it up. Looked like two children inside, all burned and broke up.”

“Some said they seen lights moving in that night sky. They saw it come down.”

“Aker knows the law. Could be trouble. Outsiders be down here. Best to keep this inside.”

Later Arthur wrote, “Best of four hours to bury that thing.”

His last entry was “Spring soon. Repaired roof on Bikas house, Widow, we do for her.”

No more writings for weeks, then “Devil came that day. Going back to where we know.”

Apparently a couple of the families stayed on in Florida, but moved far away from Viola.

It didn’t take long for the abandoned buildings to be hauled off and ‘recycled’ by neighbors in nearby Slighville, and, later, Lady Lake.

Of course, they didn’t know about the ‘thing’ which was (is?) buried under Bikas’ barn.

’til next time . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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