cross-posted from: https://lemm.ee/post/52969384

I’m working on a short story set in the late '60s, but I’m trying to avoid explicitly stating the time period. Since it’s all in my head as I write, when I go back and read it, I think, “Yeah, that’s exactly what I want.”

Buuuut I’m starting to second guess myself. The time period isn’t crucial to the story, but I hate aspects of modern society—like phones, TikTok, and all the crap—so wanted to set the story in a time before all that.

Do you think I’m successfully conveying that vibe without explicitly saying it’s the late '60s? Or do you have any suggestions on how to better hint at the era?

Excerpt:

The bus ride felt like shedding an old skin. I sat by the window, watching the cityscape blur into flat plains and then roll into hills dusted with early snow. Across the aisle, a group of young people sprawled in their seats, their patchwork clothes and tangled hair telling me all I needed to know about them. None of them could have been over 21.

They had a kind of effortless beauty. That kind that seems to come standard when you’re young, no matter what you eat or how lazy you are. I didn’t hate my body, not really, but I couldn’t ignore how time had softened me in ways I didn’t entirely welcome. Not so much bitterness, just a quiet ache for the days when my reflection and life felt simpler.

One of the boys strummed a battered guitar, his voice lazy as he hummed a melody I didn’t recognize. The faint scent of marijuana drifted over, earthy and sharp, mingling with the smell of old upholstery.

I leaned closer to the window, but it didn’t stop one of them—a girl in a flowing dress and too many jangling bracelets—from catching my eye.

“Where ya heading, babe?” she asked, grinning like we were old friends. Her cheeks were flushed and her glassy eyes sparkled with a carefree haze. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. Her golden hair was parted neatly down the middle and topped with a drooping wreath of wilted flowers. She didn’t seem to notice or care that she looked like the perfect stereotype of a flower child, with all her mismatched, dreamy glory.

“Boulder Ridge,” I replied, forcing a polite smile.

“Groovy,” she said, as if I’d just told her I was on my way to Nirvana. “We’re headed up to Steamboat Springs. Gonna live off the land, you know? Get back to what’s real.”

I nodded, unsure what to say. Her enthusiasm was intoxicating, like the smell of weed wafting from her group. For a brief moment, I felt a twinge of jealousy. She had the kind of freedom I used to dream about but never quite reached.

But then, watching her exaggerated movements and the way she seemed to orbit the boy with the guitar, I reminded myself it wasn’t real freedom. Life wasn’t like that.

“Ever been to Boulder Ridge?” I asked.

“Nah,” she said, laughing. “But, like, the whole state’s supposed to be amazing, man. Wildflowers, big skies. You’ll dig it.” She stretched her legs into the aisle, the golden sunlight catching the fine, light blond hairs on her tanned skin. The hair was soft and sparse, almost glowing in the warm light. “We’re all tired of cities, you know? The whole capitalist bullshit machine. Fuck the man, you know?”

I nodded again, but this time it felt heavier. I had my reasons for leaving, but I knew her reasons wouldn’t hold up against the weight of reality. Cities didn’t wear you out. Life did.

The bus sighed to a stop at a tiny station just after noon, and her words faded as I stepped off. My middle-aged body reminded me of its stiffness with every creak and pop, protesting the long hours spent sitting. The mountain air bit at my face, clean and sharp enough to sting.

Boulder Ridge was even smaller than I’d imagined. The buildings leaned into each other, their wooden faces weathered and plain. A single red Coke machine stood in front of the diner, buzzing faintly as it worked. The general store had a hand-painted sign in the window advertising canned goods and cigarettes. A post office with peeling paint rounded out the town square.

It was nothing like the university campus where I’d spent most of my life, but that was the whole point. I needed a fresh start, a place where I wouldn’t feel like an extra part that no one needed anymore.

I’d seen a show about the lower cost of living in small Colorado towns and figured it might be a good escape. Maybe even a place to start over. Boulder Ridge caught my eye. The name felt simple, unassuming, and straightforward—something I could appreciate.

A station wagon idled by the curb. The woman leaning against it wore her hair pinned up and looked older than me by at least a decade. She waved when she caught my eye. Evelyn Carver. She’d sounded practical and kind on the phone, and she seemed even more so in person.

“You must be Alice,” she said, taking my suitcase like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Welcome to Boulder Ridge. Hope you don’t mind, but I lit the woodstove at the cabin. Figured you’d want it warm. It’s colder than usual for October.”

“Sounds great,” I said, climbing into the car.

Evelyn started the engine, and the radio came on softly, playing something by the Rolling Stones. She tapped her fingers on the wheel as we drove, her eyes on the winding road.

“That’s where we’re headed,” she said as we rounded a bend. The water gleamed between the trees, dark and still. “Boulder Ridge Lake. Not the most creative name, but there ya go.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“Yep,” Evelyn agreed. “Some folks in town will tell ya not to go around it after dark. Old stories. Ignore them though.”

“Stories?”

“Yeah, stuff about things people claim to have seen come out of it,” she said with a laugh, though her eyes stayed focused ahead. “How there’s no fish in it. How even the birds steer clear. Maybe we’ve got our own Loch Ness monster or something. Nonsense like that. Mostly stories folks make up to freak out the doped-up hippies around here.”

The cabin came into view a few minutes later. Small, with a chimney puffing smoke. The wood creaked under my boots as I stepped inside. I felt the warmth immediately. It smelled like woodsmoke and old books. There was a braided rug, a shelf of mismatched novels, and a rocking chair facing the lake through a wide window.

Exactly what I needed.

Evelyn pointed toward the water, her finger lingering on the figure near the shore. “That’s Tommy, the groundskeeper. He used to run with some hippie crowd. Guess the free love and drum circles shit got old. Needed a job, so now he keeps this place from falling apart.”

I looked and saw him, standing at the edge of the water. His back was to us, his dark hair long and loose. He stood shirtless, his tan back a canvas of lean, defined muscle. He wasn’t bulky, just effortlessly fit in that way some young men are, as if his body was built for grace and strength without ever trying.

“Doesn’t say much, just does what he’s told—most of the time,” Evelyn said, then raised her voice. “Tommy!”

The man turned and began making his way back to the cabin, each step deliberate, his pace unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. I tried not to let my gaze linger, but it was impossible to ignore the sharp planes of his cheekbones or the way his dark eyes seemed almost too large for his face. A faint shadow of stubble dusted his chin and cheeks, soft and boyish.

He wore tight bellbottoms with frayed bottoms, and I caught glimpses of his worn-out tennis shoes as he walked. When he reached the porch, he said a quiet “hi” and held out his hand for a quick shake. His hand was cold, and he pulled it back right away, like he was uncomfortable. His eyes kept darting back to the water, his expression distant, like his mind was somewhere else entirely.

A phone rang somewhere in the background. “I need to grab that. Be right back,” Evelyn said, disappearing and leaving me alone with Tommy.

“It’s beautiful here,” I said, trying to fill the silence.

He looked back at the lake again. “It can be strange sometimes. You’ll see.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded. His didn’t look at me again, his eyes fixed on the water like he was listening to something.

That night, the radio played faintly as I unpacked. A cool dark Johnny Cash song, followed up by the forlorn Simon & Garfunkel.

The lake outside was dark, its surface was like black glass reflecting smudges of stars.