Archive | February 2014
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A rebellious imagination
On the link you’ll find a web page devoted to a working replica of the Matthew, the ship in which John Cabot first reached Newfoundland in 1497. She’s only a best guess, because the information about her namesake is frustratingly sparse, but she’s a caravel of the correct tonnage, so she won’t be very far […]
The Fate of the Rose
She was always careless, but I was never able to hold it against her. She was always so genuinely upset, whether her latest victim had been a priceless vase or an ephemeral trifle, and so earnest in her promises to improve. I tried to remember that as I swept up the rose petals, and to […]
Afterwards
I never expected to find them there; it had been too long. All the same, I had to walk the familiar path, to pass through the gaping doorway, to negotiate what remained of the passage. I hardly knew where I was heading, and I was almost surprised to find myself in the shell of my […]
Between Heartbeats
I was tempted to launch this on you without preamble, but as I have been known, rarely, to dabble in romance, that seemed a little cruel. Between Heartbeats has been written for the Love Bites anti-Valentine Blog Hop. You have been warned. By five I’d been waiting for almost an hour, but I wasn’t impatient. I’d come […]
It’s good to be back
How did I forget this? The way I would feel when I finished final edits, I remembered that – the anti-climax and dissatisfaction that, for me at least, is the natural consequence of a prolonged period of focussing minutely on the weaknesses and recurrent faults of my writing. I expected that, this time. I can’t […]
Bells, damn bells
Well, my dear, what could I do? I crammed on my hat and just ran. I’d laid everything out, of course, for an early start, and so as not to disturb poor George – when I thought of it I was quite glad the alarm hadn’t gone off to wake him too. I’d missed my […]
Still family
I listened impatiently to my sister’s bitter grumbling, my increasing unease heightened by the disturbing familiarity of the scents wafting from the pot she tended. We can’t get away with that kind of thing, not anymore. Eventually she gave me an opportunity to round on her. “You can’t call her a traipse.” She bristled. “And […]
The old devil
I found myself sitting, abruptly and unexpectedly, in my father’s chair, in that room that was exactly as it had always been, that I must transform, firstly into a sanitised memory of itself, and then into an empty shell. When I felt able, I returned to the mantelpiece, and to that hideous, twisted, little wrought […]
Alex Brightsmith 
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