From the journal of one Michael Gideon:
June 17, 2010
Unpacked. Took much longer than it should have for my only having brought a closet’s worth of clothes, some books and my typewriter, but Timber Haven is an…interesting place. I was a little preoccupied.
Lord, I haven’t written in a journal in years, good penmanship isn’t my area of expertise, but I thought it might help break the block when I’m stuck. Get the juices flowing. And I can’t deny it, I’m stuck. Page 128 and I still don’t know what this book is about or where it’s going. Patty’s left four messages just today, and I don’t know what to tell him. Luckily, the cell service is terrible out here, so my “missing calls” isn’t that far-fetched.
So, I’ll drink my scotch, smoke my cigar and write in my journal, much like I imagine Hemmingway did when he was stuck. Only I’m not sitting in a lawn chair on the beach. In Cuba.
Timber Haven. What a place. Gorgeous and bleak all at the same time. Some of the trees here are like – like what I think the trees in Oz, not the trees that talked, but maybe their neighbors, were like. Enchanted, with a sense of purpose. Of function.
Well, that certainly sounds…stupid. Let us have another scotch, dear Journal, what say you? No? Just me, then. Don’t mind if I do.
The first person I met here was Audrey. Audrey Fell. Colorful, if eccentric, girl. Her father owns and runs the Fell hotel, along with some rental property around town. My house included. She helped me out a bit, pointed me around town to the necessities, post office, grocery store, that sort of thing. Over the course of one afternoon, I saw her in three different hats and two different hair colors. And she seems to know everybody here, particularly in what the locals call the Village, an artists’ colony of sorts that blends with local peddlers and what looks to be Timber Haven’s homeless set. I couldn’t believe the amount of tents and lean-tos I saw in what most small towns would call their square. It was a crazy walk around town.
I’m now looking out the window and across the roughly two acres between us at my neighbor, Hurd. Audrey told me his name. He’s another part of why I call this town interesting. It’s nearly six in the morning as I write this. The sun is only now coming up through the trees behind his house and Hurd, this little old man, he’s eighty if a day, has been doing some sort of – I actually don’t know what to call it. It’s almost a dance. Like tai-chi mixed with some sumo stances all set to a jungle rhythm only he seems to hear. But he’s been at it since I sat down to write, at around nine o’clock last night! He just circles the house, over and over. The man has endurance, I’ll give him that.
I haven’t officially met him yet, him or his wife, Angela. She waves at me pleasantly, though, whenever I come in and out of the house. Much like any loving grandmother I’ve ever heard of. She seems like the apron-wearing cookie-baking type, what with the way the kids around here seem to flock to their house. Hurd seems very cranky, though. When he’s not doing his “bring forth the sun” dance, or whatever that is.
He’s gone inside now. I can just make out Angela through their kitchen window, making coffee.
I need to get back to it, the cadence, the clickity-clack of the typewriter, or just go to sleep if I’m not going to accomplish anything else here.
I need to move that mirror off the wall. There’s a mirror across from where I’ve set up shop here in the living room and I keep glancing over at it, trying to catch what keeps attracting my attention over there. So far, it’s just my reflection. God, look at me. I’m a mess. I look like a heavier Patrick Bergin without the moustache, if he’d been slapped around with a bugle.
Looks like it’s bedtime after all, Journal.
We’ll try the real writing again tonight.
I like this.
When I gave you feedback on your Twelve Days story, the one thing failed to describe it as was “restricted”.
If that makes sense.
Here you are very loose and free. And it maintains the ability to paint a picture very well. More so here, then in Days, I am hooked on the main character.
Keep it up.
So far I like it! I’m waiting for something to jump out and say Boo, ‘specially when you mentioned the mirror.
Two typos/fidgets:
2nd sentence is a little awkward, I can’t decide if my is right. Upon re-reading it, it makes more sense, a little stumbly though.
4th paragraph from the end. “…or just got to sleep if…” I’m thinking “got” should be “go”
Off to read more 🙂
FINALLY. I must be a bad friend for waiting so long….but, better late than never. so far though…..me likey
Well written and nice atmosphere. I like the ‘nothingness’, seems to suit a writer well.
Solitary, slice of life, day for a writer. Not sure what to write but writing anyway. Looking for distractions and finding them. I want to know more about this town, somehow I think it is far from ordinary.
Nice work, love the non-chalant voice. Reads very well. I’ll be playing catch up but I’m enjoying this quite alot so far.
Nice little slice of life here, Michael. I’ve had days like that just holding my pen and notebook or staring at a blank computer screen while my mind wondered to absurd locations.
This was my favorite: Let us have another scotch, dear Journal, what say you? No? Just me, then. Don’t mind if I do.
I really love the feel of this piece. Your MC’s voice lends a certain atmosphere to it. I’d love to read more of his journal.
I believe we can all identify with his feelings here. I imagine one day, in a year or so, he’ll discover this entry and think “Voila! There are stories here!”
Very well written, and welcome to #fridayflash!
I like the hints of mystery and suspense that hangs over this — not just a “the muse has fled” story, but a story with an overarching sense of foreboding. Just what is Hurd doing? All those kids going to his house… The mirror that keep drawing his eye. Oh the possibilities are simply delicious.
Welcome to #FridayFlash. Sorry I did not get by sooner.
~jon
Welcome to #tuesdayserial. I loved Michael Gideon’s voice here as he penned his journal with scotch and cigar in hand. There’s a gentle whimsy to his musings well suited to the hint of mystery and strangeness given off by Timber Haven and its eccentric inhabitants. Look forward to next week’s slice.
Love the location and like Jason says, the whimsical tone. I also like how he describes the people he sees, especially the artist colony and the homeless set. Nice piece.