Thursday, January 01, 2015


The widow, Mrs Bradbury, walked through the silent rooms.

All of them seemed sterile mockeries of the warm life once shared in this house.

Her husband's study: once stuffed with books and manuscripts, now achingly bereft of all the literature that gave him joy. Vacuumed to within an inch of its life, even the carpet no longer showed the dent of footsteps: his, hers, theirs.

The hall, at least, showed some sign of their life together, even if it was only a plant and a few books.

The idea of someone else living in the house was almost unbearable. But Mrs Bradbury knew that her husband was no longer here. Her husband had gone elsewhere - indeed, he had always been at least halfway elsewhere.

Mrs Bradbury took a final look around the hall. Beautiful, clean, empty.

She sighed, and pushing the front door open, stepped into the carnival.

Her husband, smiling, surrounded by rockets and people and whirligigs, held out his hand to her.

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At 9:10 am, Blogger Hieronymous Anonymous said...

I know that Ray Bradbury's wife predeceased him. This is rather a 'what if'.


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