The Brontë Plot

by Katherine Reay

a disparate but symbiotic alchemy of beauty with every flick of his wrist, and this mix of old and new with the something unexpected

His brain and body moved like a kaleidoscope, myriad directions at once, but all congruent and, in the end, masterfully creative.

Always keep tactile objects at hand. You want engagement.

the whimsical and grinning Oscar Wilde staring back at her. Only his bronze head, one hand, and what appeared to be a flowing scarf protruded from the bench, as if they’d burst out like lava and flowed in swirls and folds as his genius cooled on top of the granite.

Lucy wandered around the space and, for the first time, felt something holy, outside time and larger than anything she’d ever known or understood. It wasn’t peace. Peace was calm. This was active and vibrant. Anticipation? Expectation? She couldn’t find a descriptor so she stopped trying to classify it and instead delighted in it.

The Abbey felt solid and she wanted to sit, stay, and let the feeling grow and take root—as if she, too, could become more solid, more defined, simply by spending time beneath its arches.

Poet’s Corner.

Her writers, her beloved, all immortalized here with their stories and words that reached high, dug deep, and soared with wind and clouds.

I reined him in. I should’ve told him, ‘run mad as often as you choose; but do not faint,’

fiction conveyed change and truth and was loved and digested again and again because it reflected the worst, the best, and all the moments in between of the human experience.

What she’d thought was a tsunami, twenty years pulling back from the shore, was hitting more like a ripple—changing nothing and unable to sweep the sands smooth.

To capture that moment of stillness and transcendent completeness, you must go to the classics or poetry. It’s still alive in poetry, even the modern stuff. The soul soars with those words.”