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Sometimes The Mountain Buries You is a queer novella about the monster that threatens your attempt at a much-needed quiet life. Check out the about page here.
Town is varying levels of quiet depending on your proclivities. The small contingent of twenty-somethings with dirtbikes would not consider their lives quiet. The trail medic who, for a working trail medic, spends a considerable amount of time deep in the bush might not consider her life quiet. The ranches up the backside of the hill probably don't consider their lives quiet some good portion of time.
But walking through town on any given day, you might see only just a handful of people about, and half of those sitting on porches with books and bottles of tequila or tossing a ball for a dog in the baseball diamond whose grasses grow long all spring until the one weekend in summer with a baseball tournament for the neighbouring towns. Town has a team, you never see them practice.
You picked this place for several reasons. Like the last veterinarian, it reminded you of a place you knew. That veterinarian moved back to the place she knew when she retired. You cannot.
The rest of the list goes: three or fewer places of business—proper building-occupying businesses, the variety of shed-based services did not add to this count; walkable from end-to-end, side-to-side in less than an hour combined; a limited to zero number of ostentatious corporate timeshare "log" cabins; the need for a veterinarian; no cops. The library was a bonus.
Technically, town is a community or a village. The nearest hospital is in an actual town—which usually comes in second place in the baseball tournament, you've learned. There's another town and a handful of communities before the nearest city. The nearest city is far enough away they don't have a team in the baseball tournament.
It's small enough that you know who all everyone is fairly quickly, but large enough that there's a cabin permanently intended for the resident veterinarian. There would be another for the resident doctor, but he owns a place. The vacant intended doctor's cabin is a mix of rented out by the town and an artist residency run by the library. One of the sheds in town houses a ceramicist, one of the rooms in the town hall houses the weavers and spinners guild for the region, there are more woodshops than you have fingers, you have more fingers than the person who does chainsaw art, and after finding college boring one of the jack-of-all-trades returned and started welding things together into sculptures.
It's very different from the place you knew, but close enough to remind you of it.
There's an afternoon breeze you can set a clock to, a morning rain in spring and autumn too. Summers are a little too dry and a little too hot. Winters get enough snow there are more treads than wheels on the roads. You are never not looking at a mountain, and you can taste them in the air. It's close enough.
Town is varying levels of quiet depending on your proclivities. The small contingent of twenty-somethings with dirtbikes would not consider their lives quiet. The trail medic who, for a working trail medic, spends a considerable amount of time deep in the bush might not consider her life quiet. The ranches up the backside of the hill probably don't consider their lives quiet some good portion of time.
But walking through town on any given day, you might see only just a handful of people about, and half of those sitting on porches with books and bottles of tequila or tossing a ball for a dog in the baseball diamond whose grasses grow long all spring until the one weekend in summer with a baseball tournament for the neighbouring towns. Town has a team, you never see them practice.
You picked this place for several reasons. Like the last veterinarian, it reminded you of a place you knew. That veterinarian moved back to the place she knew when she retired. You cannot.
The rest of the list goes: three or fewer places of business—proper building-occupying businesses, the variety of shed-based services did not add to this count; walkable from end-to-end, side-to-side in less than an hour combined; a limited to zero number of ostentatious corporate timeshare "log" cabins; the need for a veterinarian; no cops. The library was a bonus.
Technically, town is a community or a village. The nearest hospital is in an actual town—which usually comes in second place in the baseball tournament, you've learned. There's another town and a handful of communities before the nearest city. The nearest city is far enough away they don't have a team in the baseball tournament.
It's small enough that you know who all everyone is fairly quickly, but large enough that there's a cabin permanently intended for the resident veterinarian. There would be another for the resident doctor, but he owns a place. The vacant intended doctor's cabin is a mix of rented out by the town and an artist residency run by the library. One of the sheds in town houses a ceramicist, one of the rooms in the town hall houses the weavers and spinners guild for the region, there are more woodshops than you have fingers, you have more fingers than the person who does chainsaw art, and after finding college boring one of the jack-of-all-trades returned and started welding things together into sculptures.
It's very different from the place you knew, but close enough to remind you of it.
There's an afternoon breeze you can set a clock to, a morning rain in spring and autumn too. Summers are a little too dry and a little too hot. Winters get enough snow there are more treads than wheels on the roads. You are never not looking at a mountain, and you can taste them in the air. It's close enough.
