Fiction Friday…on Saturday! I’m afraid it won’t be the last time. I try to be a constant and reliable person, and I am. Generally speaking. If I say I’ll do something, I will do it. And usually on time. But, if I’ve learned anything from having five children in seven years, it’s that sometimes things don’t work out exactly as you have planned and some flexibility goes a long way. So, yes, “Fiction Friday” is a loose term.
I have about six different first chapters for Timothy’s Monsters; that’s what happens when you take several months in between writing. I forget where I was going with some things, and other things just turn out to be different than I thought because of what went on in my life during those months away. I like this one, and I think it’s going in the right direction, so we’ll see if it takes!
Before I jump into the chapter, I thought I’d throw this little bundle of facts about me as an author. I like knowing about people because it sheds light on why they write what they write. So, here you are:
10 things about Hannah Mariah Holm, the (would be) author.
1- I write for my children. The stories I write won’t have anything in them that I don’t want my children to read.
2- It’s important to me that the stories I write mean something. When you read my stories, I want you to close the book feeling like you are stronger or wiser or more content or driven than you were when you opened it.
3- I am what you call an amateur. I read somewhere that the actual meaning of the word amateur isn’t synonymous with beginner, but rather
someone who does something because they love it. I have no formal training, unless you count the creative writing course I took in college or the writers conference I attended once or twice. I’ve read some books and studied the craft here and there, but I do this because I love it.
4- I self-published my first book, Henry’s Battalion, five years ago. I intend to rework it a bit and release a second edition to paid subscribers. Someday.
5- Writing is something that drew me and my husband together when we were first dating. We handwrote the beginning of a story together, each writing a page or two then handing it to the other to write the next page or two. It is called Somewhere Real Good and will be part of a series called After Orion and it might just be world-changing.
6- As I’m sure is the case with many if not most authors, the inspiration for characters and plot lines often comes from real experiences and/or people in my life.
7- I will likely always self publish. Never say never, right, but I don’t like the idea of being under the thumb of a publishing company, presuming one would have me. I’d rather be in control of all the elements and avoid the kind of pressure that can come from contracts and editors and all that.
8- The dream is for writing to supply the bulk of our income so that my husband and I can run a small farm with our children. Reality might never come to that, but it’s a lovely dream and we’ll keep working towards it.
9- There typically are weeks and even months between my writing sessions. My children come first, and since we homeschool, there isn’t a lot of down time. Therefore, my stories will come about much slower than I might like, but they will be richer for the experience I can infuse them with that comes from the time I spend with my sweet littles.
10- And finally, I always, always appreciate feedback on my writing. It helps me course correct, or have the confidence to continue forward as I’m going. So, please feel free to leave comments!
Chapter One
“I don’t want to go,” said Timothy.
“I know, love,” said Eleanor, putting a hand on his shoulder. Even though it was light as a feather, it felt heavy to him as it rested there. Timothy sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Leaves from the lilac bushes above him drifted down, brown and crisp. From where he knelt, he reached and brushed away the layer of fall debris that covered the tiny grave nestled between the bushes that towered above him, as tall as two men. Or one Q. He breathed in deeply from his nose and tried to remember how they smelled in springtime when they were in bloom. He wished he could pick those blossoms to rest on the grave. Gently, with tears streaming down his cheeks, he laid his hand over the resting place of his tiny friend. His hand covered the whole thing.
“It’s my fault,” he gasped, and the words opened up the dam that had held back all of the thoughts and feelings he had had over the past couple of weeks.
“No,” said Eleanor. Her hand slid across his back to his other shoulder and she pulled him close to her.
“It is. It’s all my fault. Arthur wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for me. We wouldn’t have been seen if it wasn’t for me. We wouldn’t have to leave if it wasn’t because of me. It’s all my fault!” Timothy wept.
“No, Tim. No, do you hear me?” Eleanor said as she took his face in her hands so that he had no choice but to look her in the eyes.
“But it is,” Timothy whimpered, and his eight-year-old heart felt like it was crumbling inside his chest.
“No!” said Eleanor again, with force. “Now you listen to me, young man. Squid killed Arthur, not you. What you did was share a piece of your heart with people who didn’t deserve it, and that is a difficult, painful lesson to learn. And it won’t be the last time you’ll have to learn it, I’m afraid.” Her arms fell back around him and she squeezed him gently.
“He was the best banana slug in the whole forest,” wept Timothy.
“I know, sweetest. I know. He was the best in the whole world.” She kissed his head. “You know that one way or another, every living thing will go back to the earth. It hurts extra when we aren’t expecting it, though, doesn’t it?”
Timothy sniffled and nodded.
“It’s my fault we were seen, El. I made Q do it. I wouldn’t stop asking. I made him.”
Eleanor couldn’t help but smile.
“Tim, do you think anyone can make Q do something he doesn’t want to do?”
“But he did, and I know he didn’t want to. His face said he didn’t want to. He was mad.”
“No, he was scared.”
Timothy scoffed.
“Q is never scared,” he said.
“Oh, not often, you’re right. But he certainly is sometimes. Any time you are in danger, he is scared. He was scared to help that ranger because he knew what might happen. He knew you might be seen. But you didn’t make him do it. You reminded him of what was right, and even though he was scared, he did it anyway.” She sighed and shook her head. “You two are the bravest people I know. It’s not easy to do the right thing when you know it might hurt you.”
“I don’t know if it was the right thing. Maybe he would have been just fine without our help. And now I’m hurt, and you’re hurt, and Q’s hurt, and Birdie’s hurt–”
“Oh, Birdie will be happy anywhere,” said Eleanor, glancing across the yard at the goat tied near the garden. “And so will the rest of us. All this is, Tim, is a new adventure, okay? This place has been wonderful,” she sighed. “I will miss the trees. There is nothing like them in the whole world. But there are other wonderful places to discover that we might never have seen if we had stayed here forever. And these redwoods will be here long after you and I and Q have gone back to the earth. We can visit them again. Q and I knew there might come a day when we would have to disappear again. We are ready. We are fine. You need to understand that neither of us blame you, neither of us are angry, neither of us are even sad. We get to be with you, and we will do whatever it takes to keep it that way, alright? You are our heart.”
Another sniffle from Timothy broke the silence that fell between them. Eleanor’s long, silver braid tickled his nose. He buried his face into her shirt. She smelled like autumn, like earth, like orange and red and yellow and brown. Warmth radiated from her. It melted away the cold, icy guilt that had gripped his heart these last many days. Maybe everything would turn out alright.
“El?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“I don’t think Q is going to fit in the car.”
Eleanor laughed. It was Timothy’s favorite sound in the world, and despite the tears still falling from his eyes, he smiled. Nothing pleased him more than to be the one to make Eleanor laugh.
“No, love, he certainly will not fit in the car. Don’t worry about him. He’ll find his way to us just fine. Maybe he’ll even beat us there.”
Half an hour later, Timothy sat in the back seat of the little green car with Birdie. It was always sitting in the driveway, but he could only remember a handful of times ever riding in it. Birdie folded her legs under her and rested her head in Timothy’s lap. She nibbled on the fingers of one of his hands while the other stroked the fur on her back. Eleanor was securing the beehive to the front seat while Timothy looked out the window to take in the scene that had been his home for as long as he could remember. In the grassy meadow, the very last wildflowers of the season held onto life as the world around them prepared for winter, surrounded by redwood trees towering above the little cottage. It was so ordinary, something he had seen almost every day of his life—the garden that spilled out from around the house in every direction, the little barn for Birdie surrounded by berry bushes, the pond for the ducks, the wind chimes, the lilac bushes. Ordinary. Everyday. Magical. Home.
A honeybee landed on his nose.
“Hello,” he said to her. She buzzed in reply and went to explore the rest of the car. Timothy had helped Eleanor close up the hive the night before, and Q had hefted it into the car for them, but a few of the little worker bees found their way out to the open. The hum was comforting and peaceful, a bit of the familiar that would come along with them to their new home.
“What’s it like there?” Timothy asked. Eleanor closed the passenger door and came around to the driver’s seat. She closed her own door then turned around in her seat to smile at him.
“Different. And the same. I think we’ll learn to love it just as much as we loved this place.”
Sunshine peeked through the tops of the redwoods. Morning was slow to arrive in the meadow, since it had to work its way through those enormous trees. He closed his eyes so that he could take the light full on his face.
“Buckle up, Sweet Thing,” said Eleanor. “It’s time for an adventure.”