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brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant
@brandyo71.bsky.social
2.4K followers 5.2K following 710 posts
53. American in England. Beagle mom. Professional marketeer. Former bookshop owner. Signed 1st edition collector. Northwestern University MFA. Writer. Literary fiction. INFJ. Finalist, Wildhouse Fiction Prize brandyobriant.com
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brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 3d
#wipsnips
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As they walk away from The Plough, both relaxed from the wine and biscuits, Helen finds she does not want to go home. She feels compelled to walk back towards the Hill, to walk past Chris and Rowan’s house. How will they continue to live there with the site of the accident visible from their front window? A shiny Jeff Koons balloon dog sculpture sits in the bay window, all the shutters behind it closed, as if the house itself were dead. She should have brought something, she thinks. She should have something in hand to give her a reason to ring the bell, something to offer to the father and son. She should have showered after her swim; her frizzy hair and red face must be a sight. She rings the bell anyway, but there is no answer. She rings again. The weight of an insistent urge pressures her to connect with them. They are not alone in the catastrophe. She begins to realise herself a participant, not just an observer. She too has been affected. Not like Chris. Not like Rowan. But in her own way, she will never be the same again either. She has been altered, a thought that had not occurred to her before now, a thought that had not had time to occur to her, as she so forcibly kept to the pattern of her life. But now, now. What to do now with herself now? The now before her is an unknown, a sense that well-worn neural pathways are closed to her, safe escape routes boarded up, and she must take a step into what has yet to be charted. She feels desperate to connect with the other participants of this experience, for they are the only ones who might also understand, but they are not there. She feels a certain umbrage, almost taking offense at being left behind. The wine at the pub cracked open a hatch to what lies beneath, giving her a peek at her emotions, allowing her feelings about the event begin to foment and make themselves known.
1 15
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 3d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amediting
#litfic
As they walk away from The Plough, both relaxed from the wine and biscuits, Helen finds she does not want to go home. She feels compelled to walk back towards the Hill, to walk past Chris and Rowan’s house. How will they continue to live there with the site of the accident visible from their front window? A shiny Jeff Koons balloon dog sculpture sits in the bay window, all the shutters behind it closed, as if the house itself were dead. She should have brought something, she thinks. She should have something in hand to give her a reason to ring the bell, something to offer to the father and son. She should have showered after her swim; her frizzy hair and red face must be a sight. She rings the bell anyway, but there is no answer. She rings again. The weight of an insistent urge pressures her to connect with them. They are not alone in the catastrophe. She begins to realise herself a participant, not just an observer. She too has been affected. Not like Chris. Not like Rowan. But in her own way, she will never be the same again either. She has been altered, a thought that had not occurred to her before now, a thought that had not had time to occur to her, as she so forcibly kept to the pattern of her life. But now, now. What to do now with herself now? The now before her is an unknown, a sense that well-worn neural pathways are closed to her, safe escape routes boarded up, and she must take a step into what has yet to be charted. She feels desperate to connect with the other participants of this experience, for they are the only ones who might also understand, but they are not there. She feels a certain umbrage, almost taking offense at being left behind. The wine at the pub cracked open a hatch to what lies beneath, giving her a peek at her emotions, allowing her feelings about the event begin to foment and make themselves known.
1 3
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 4d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amediting
#litfic
The post-it on the door says: Please knock. Bell broken. So, Helen does and Dolly, Rosie’s skittish fox red cockapoo heralds her arrival with a trumpet of shrill barking. Rosie opens the door, tan from her trip, her blonde hair blonder, and her face perfectly arranged. Enough years have gone by that Helen no longer feels badly showing up at this house so raggedy. Rather, she’s come to appreciate the fact that Rosie does not care. In fact, she appreciates even more that Rosie doesn’t even really seem to notice. Helen is Helen. Rosie is Rosie. No comparison, none of the one-up-man-ship that other women engage in. Pure acceptance, which makes Helen rank Rosie right up there with Emma in terms of women she can stand for more than an hour. After an evening at the Plough and multiple bottles of Chicken Wine, they learned that Rosie was a Capricorn with Scorpio rising and Helen was a Scorpio with Capricorn rising. Another sister from another mister.
1 2
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 4d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amediting
#litfic
The post-it on the door says: Please knock. Bell broken. So, Helen does and Dolly, Rosie’s skittish fox red cockapoo heralds her arrival with a trumpet of shrill barking. Rosie opens the door, tan from her trip, her blonde hair blonder, and her face perfectly arranged. Enough years have gone by that Helen no longer feels badly showing up at this house so raggedy. Rather, she’s come to appreciate the fact that Rosie does not care. In fact, she appreciates even more that Rosie doesn’t even really seem to notice. Helen is Helen. Rosie is Rosie. No comparison, none of the one-up-man-ship that other women engage in. Pure acceptance, which makes Helen rank Rosie right up there with Emma in terms of women she can stand for more than an hour. After an evening at the Plough and multiple bottles of Chicken Wine, they learned that Rosie was a Capricorn with Scorpio rising and Helen was a Scorpio with Capricorn rising. Another sister from another mister.
2 11
Reposted by Brandy O’Briant
mrsbettybowers.bsky.social
Mrs. Betty Bowers @mrsbettybowers.bsky.social · 6d
On this date, Matthew Shephard died 27 years ago. He was beaten, tortured, and left for dead on fence for being gay. Please keep him and his wonderful mother Judy in your thoughts. And let's all work for a world where such horrific things do not happen to anyone. ❤️🏳️‍🌈
830 8.4K 31K
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 6d
#wipsnips
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#writesky
#booksky
#amediting
#litfic
Helen asks Rowan if he would like to walk Bingley. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and takes the leash from her. Helen gently grasps Rowan’s hand, feelings the stickiness of it. I like dogs. My mom and dad won’t let me have a dog, Rowan says after walking in silence for a bit. Is that so? Why not? Because we are going to have two houses, one with our mom and one with our dad. They say it’s too much trouble to move a dog back and forth. I can understand that Helen says. Dogs are a lot of responsibility. As if on cue, Bingley begins hunching over as he walks and lays a mountainous pile of poo on the grass. She takes out a bag, opens it up, puts her hand inside, picking up the mess, and pulling the bag off her hand and knotting it. Rowan says that’s gross but seems impressed she did it without getting her hands dirty. I could do that, he says. Do you think so? Yep. Well, maybe if my hands were bigger. Helen smiles at him, conscious of how in the moment he is, how his mind has no invasive thoughts that push away what is right before his eyes. When does that start, she wonders? When do we lose the ability to just be where we are?
1 4
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 6d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amediting
#litfic
Helen asks Rowan if he would like to walk Bingley. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and takes the leash from her. Helen gently grasps Rowan’s hand, feelings the stickiness of it. I like dogs. My mom and dad won’t let me have a dog, Rowan says after walking in silence for a bit. Is that so? Why not? Because we are going to have two houses, one with our mom and one with our dad. They say it’s too much trouble to move a dog back and forth. I can understand that Helen says. Dogs are a lot of responsibility. As if on cue, Bingley begins hunching over as he walks and lays a mountainous pile of poo on the grass. She takes out a bag, opens it up, puts her hand inside, picking up the mess, and pulling the bag off her hand and knotting it. Rowan says that’s gross but seems impressed she did it without getting her hands dirty. I could do that, he says. Do you think so? Yep. Well, maybe if my hands were bigger. Helen smiles at him, conscious of how in the moment he is, how his mind has no invasive thoughts that push away what is right before his eyes. When does that start, she wonders? When do we lose the ability to just be where we are?
1 10
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 11d
#wipsnips
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Fuck me. I’m in a pickle. Do you have Chris or Elisabeth Davies phone number? No, why? What happened? Rowan is here. They don’t know he left and I need to tell them he’s here. That he’s safe. A missing child is not what they need on top of everything else. Oh god. Let me think. Suzanne might know. She seems to know contacts for everyone who has ever entered the pub. Let me text her. Thank you. CHRIS DAVIES 07384 849 173 Brilliant. You’re the best.
10
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 12d
Dress for the job you want:
1
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 12d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
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#writesky
#booksky
#amediting
#litfic
Fuck me. I’m in a pickle. Do you have Chris or Elisabeth Davies phone number? No, why? What happened? Rowan is here. They don’t know he left and I need to tell them he’s here. That he’s safe. A missing child is not what they need on top of everything else. Oh god. Let me think. Suzanne might know. She seems to know contacts for everyone who has ever entered the pub. Let me text her. Thank you. CHRIS DAVIES 07384 849 173 Brilliant. You’re the best.
2 10
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 13d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
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#writesky
#booksky
#amwriting
#litfic
Helen turns down the long hallway to the kitchen, stack of mail in her arm, Bingley at her heels. She no longer startles herself with intruding memories and meddling thoughts of Alistair, seeing them now more as soft recollections than sharp reminders of what isn’t. After the first year of grieving, she settled into her own rhythm and follow her path without having to consult another. Having to is not the right phrase. She never felt like she had to; she wanted to. She misses having Ali to run all her thoughts and plans by. She misses the small connections of her marriage. She misses how he tempered her over-enthusiasm for projects she would likely never finish. She misses the dependable text asking which train she would be getting home from London each time she went in for work. She misses the way he would reach his hand towards her in the mornings just after waking, wanting her to rub his thumb joint to ease his arthritis. She missed that the first thing on his mind each day was what he would cook for dinner.
3 17
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 13d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amwriting
#litfic
Helen turns down the long hallway to the kitchen, stack of mail in her arm, Bingley at her heels. She no longer startles herself with intruding memories and meddling thoughts of Alistair, seeing them now more as soft recollections than sharp reminders of what isn’t. After the first year of grieving, she settled into her own rhythm and follow her path without having to consult another. Having to is not the right phrase. She never felt like she had to; she wanted to. She misses having Ali to run all her thoughts and plans by. She misses the small connections of her marriage. She misses how he tempered her over-enthusiasm for projects she would likely never finish. She misses the dependable text asking which train she would be getting home from London each time she went in for work. She misses the way he would reach his hand towards her in the mornings just after waking, wanting her to rub his thumb joint to ease his arthritis. She missed that the first thing on his mind each day was what he would cook for dinner.
1 18
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 15d
Didn't have hunt so went with search.

#wipsnips
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#writesky
#booksky
#amwriting
#litfic
She is not entirely sure how long they stayed like this. Could have been minutes, could have been hours. She is sure people walked by and saw them. She wonders what they would think. There’s never any shortage of gossip in Hastings and by now this scene is certain to have made it to the Plough and beyond. She hears her mother in her head, But what will people think? What will they think? She wonders. What does she think? She is a sixty-year-old woman lying on a hill holding hands with a thirty-five-year-old man whose daughter she witnessed die. It does not feel romantic. It does not feel maternal. It feels…it feels…she searches for the word. It feels human.
3 19
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 15d
Didn't have hunt so went with search.

#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amwriting
#litfic
She is not entirely sure how long they stayed like this. Could have been minutes, could have been hours. She is sure people walked by and saw them. She wonders what they would think. There’s never any shortage of gossip in Hastings and by now this scene is certain to have made it to the Plough and beyond. She hears her mother in her head, But what will people think? What will they think? She wonders. What does she think? She is a sixty-year-old woman lying on a hill holding hands with a thirty-five-year-old man whose daughter she witnessed die. It does not feel romantic. It does not feel maternal. It feels…it feels…she searches for the word. It feels human.
3 17
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 16d
Didn't have hibernate so went with sleep.

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The buzzing of her phone awakens her. Bingley raises his head in annoyance at the sound. Helen opens her eyes and feels that she has slept deeply. The wonderful sleep that comes after crying it all out. Her body relaxed and splayed across the bed, her breathing slow and easy, her limbs loose. She looks at the time. Ten in the morning. Text from Rosie. Helen smiles knowing that Rosie has had to restrain herself. They usually start exchanging texts about half seven in the morning. Some comment about the plan for the day, a link to an interesting article or funny meme. Both checking on how the other feels. Helen’s cherishes her regular mornings: tea, rice cake with almond butter, New York Times puzzle games…Mini Crossword, Wordle, Connections, Strands, in that order. Results of each sent to Helen’s sister Emma, who always responds in kind. Even though they have an ocean and a country between them, with Emma in Seattle, they connect with each other every day across the globe with their game scores; have done for years now. Emma once joked it’s the best way to know that the other is still alive. Since Emma won’t be sending her scores for many hours until she wakes up, Helen knows the buzzing is Rosie.
2 26
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 16d
Didn't have hibernate, so went with sleep.

#wipsnips
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#writesky
#booksky
#amwriting
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The buzzing of her phone awakens her. Bingley raises his head in annoyance at the sound. Helen opens her eyes and feels that she has slept deeply. The wonderful sleep that comes after crying it all out. Her body relaxed and splayed across the bed, her breathing slow and easy, her limbs loose. She looks at the time. Ten in the morning. Text from Rosie. Helen smiles knowing that Rosie has had to restrain herself. They usually start exchanging texts about half seven in the morning. Some comment about the plan for the day, a link to an interesting article or funny meme. Both checking on how the other feels. Helen’s cherishes her regular mornings: tea, rice cake with almond butter, New York Times puzzle games…Mini Crossword, Wordle, Connections, Strands, in that order. Results of each sent to Helen’s sister Emma, who always responds in kind. Even though they have an ocean and a country between them, with Emma in Seattle, they connect with each other every day across the globe with their game scores; have done for years now. Emma once joked it’s the best way to know that the other is still alive. Since Emma won’t be sending her scores for many hours until she wakes up, Helen knows the buzzing is Rosie.
1 13
Reposted by Brandy O’Briant
enrich12.bsky.social
enrich12 @enrich12.bsky.social · 16d
What he said. 👇
6 14
Reposted by Brandy O’Briant
johncusack.bsky.social
John Cusack @johncusack.bsky.social · 17d
6 5.7K 19K
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 17d
Didn't have salmon, so went with fish.
#wipsnips
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#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
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#litfic
But. But what if? Complications arise. Freak things happen. When they wouldn’t allow Helen in the ward with Claudia, she made her daughter promise to text her when she went in. And she did. Helen texted back, I love you. She wanted to make certain that if those were the last words Claudia saw that they were words of love. Helen sat in the hospital canteen, drinking bottle after bottle of SmartWater, knowing Claudia would give her side-eye at using so many plastic bottles. But God, who could remember to take a reusable one? At least she only bought one and kept refilling it at the water fountain. One virtue point for Helen. She wondered how on God’s green earth could a place dedicated to health serve such food. No yogurt and granola available, but here’s a full English if you like, bacon, sausage and black pudding included. Or perhaps you might fancy deep fried fish and chips? Not that Helen could stomach anything knowing her daughter was unconscious on an operating table, her insides being invaded by a wormlike scope with a light on the end. Laparoscopes. What if? What if one nicked the wrong vein? What if it sliced open her intestine? What if? Helen had allowed herself these thoughts in the cafeteria. Allowed the panic to take over her own intestines, make her stomach clench. She told herself she was practicing maransati. Seeing Claudia’s death as a possibility. Facing what waits just on the other side for all of us. Accepting that life is fragile. There but for the grace of God she thinks as she looks at Rowan, still chattering away at her. Chris and Elisabeth are living that right now. They will not have the experience Helen did of finding Claudia in recovery, drowsy, fragile, oxygen mask over her pale face, when Claudia looked Helen in the eye and gave her weak smile and a thumbs up before falling back to sleep. And Helen cried. Cried tears of relief, of acknowledgement, of acceptance that nothing wider than a hair stood between Claudia alive and Claudia dead. S…
1 17
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 17d
Didn't have salmon, so went with fish.
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amwriting
#litfic
But. But what if? Complications arise. Freak things happen. When they wouldn’t allow Helen in the ward with Claudia, she made her daughter promise to text her when she went in. And she did. Helen texted back, I love you. She wanted to make certain that if those were the last words Claudia saw that they were words of love. Helen sat in the hospital canteen, drinking bottle after bottle of SmartWater, knowing Claudia would give her side-eye at using so many plastic bottles. But God, who could remember to take a reusable one? At least she only bought one and kept refilling it at the water fountain. One virtue point for Helen. She wondered how on God’s green earth could a place dedicated to health serve such food. No yogurt and granola available, but here’s a full English if you like, bacon, sausage and black pudding included. Or perhaps you might fancy deep fried fish and chips? Not that Helen could stomach anything knowing her daughter was unconscious on an operating table, her insides being invaded by a wormlike scope with a light on the end. Laparoscopes. What if? What if one nicked the wrong vein? What if it sliced open her intestine? What if? Helen had allowed herself these thoughts in the cafeteria. Allowed the panic to take over her own intestines, make her stomach clench. She told herself she was practicing maransati. Seeing Claudia’s death as a possibility. Facing what waits just on the other side for all of us. Accepting that life is fragile. There but for the grace of God she thinks as she looks at Rowan, still chattering away at her. Chris and Elisabeth are living that right now. They will not have the experience Helen did of finding Claudia in recovery, drowsy, fragile, oxygen mask over her pale face, when Claudia looked Helen in the eye and gave her weak smile and a thumbs up before falling back to sleep. And Helen cried. Cried tears of relief, of acknowledgement, of acceptance that nothing wider than a hair stood between Claudia alive and Claudia dead. S…
1 9
Reposted by Brandy O’Briant
barackobama.bsky.social
Barack Obama @barackobama.bsky.social · 19d
The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice. Except it doesn’t bend on its own—it bends because we pull it in the direction of justice. What keeps me hopeful during times like these is being surrounded by people who are doing just that.
750 5.8K 20K
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 19d
#wipsnips
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#booksky
#amwriting
#litfic
After Chris leaves, Helen turns to find Rowan. He and Bingley are in the living room, one end of a knotted rope in the child’s hands and the other in Bingley’s teeth. Bingley lowers himself on his forepaws and pulls, but gently, as if he knows this is a puppy, a puppy he must be easy with. The dog shakes his head, and the motion makes Rowan wobble and laugh. Have you had any breakfast, Helen asks the boy? He looks up at her suspiciously. He answers yes, but it’s a yes with a linger at the end of it, an opening. Would you like more breakfast? Yes…Another linger. But do I have to drink that grey milk? Helen chuckles. No, she says touching him on the shoulder. No, you do not. I have gotten some things for you. Do you like eggs and soldiers? He lights up. Yes! And some orange juice? Yes! Then that is what you shall have.
2 28
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 19d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amwriting
#litfic
After Chris leaves, Helen turns to find Rowan. He and Bingley are in the living room, one end of a knotted rope in the child’s hands and the other in Bingley’s teeth. Bingley lowers himself on his forepaws and pulls, but gently, as if he knows this is a puppy, a puppy he must be easy with. The dog shakes his head, and the motion makes Rowan wobble and laugh. Have you had any breakfast, Helen asks the boy? He looks up at her suspiciously. He answers yes, but it’s a yes with a linger at the end of it, an opening. Would you like more breakfast? Yes…Another linger. But do I have to drink that grey milk? Helen chuckles. No, she says touching him on the shoulder. No, you do not. I have gotten some things for you. Do you like eggs and soldiers? He lights up. Yes! And some orange juice? Yes! Then that is what you shall have.
2 14
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 20d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amwriting
#litfic
This weather also reminds her of Claudia’s third birthday: the blue tricycle birthday. Helen and Alistair took her to the Hill to teach her how to ride it. She insisted on taking her Honey Bunny, a ratty once-pink stuffed animal with long satin lined ears that she would suck on at night to go to sleep. Helen wrapped it inside her navy cardigan with the bunny’s head poking out at the top and Claudia pointed to Helen’s chest and giggled. She called her Bunny Gamma, and the wind lifted her wispy strawberry hair. She felt that behind the stuffed rabbit her heart just may erupt. She once read somewhere that we have children to finally become more fully ourselves, to give birth to our own authenticity, to bear witness to a love beyond explanation. Helen smiled at Ali, bearded now but still as tall, still as fine, as when she met him at nineteen, as he carried the trike over his shoulder with one arm, and thought that this, this here, is how life is meant to be.
3 16
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 20d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amwriting
#litfic
This weather also reminds her of Claudia’s third birthday: the blue tricycle birthday. Helen and Alistair took her to the Hill to teach her how to ride it. She insisted on taking her Honey Bunny, a ratty once-pink stuffed animal with long satin lined ears that she would suck on at night to go to sleep. Helen wrapped it inside her navy cardigan with the bunny’s head poking out at the top and Claudia pointed to Helen’s chest and giggled. She called her Bunny Gamma, and the wind lifted her wispy strawberry hair. She felt that behind the stuffed rabbit her heart just may erupt. She once read somewhere that we have children to finally become more fully ourselves, to give birth to our own authenticity, to bear witness to a love beyond explanation. Helen smiled at Ali, bearded now but still as tall, still as fine, as when she met him at nineteen, as he carried the trike over his shoulder with one arm, and thought that this, this here, is how life is meant to be.
1 2 19