Brandy O’Briant
LightNews LightNews
banner
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant
@brandyo71.bsky.social
2.4K followers 5.3K following 720 posts
54. 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
Posts Media Videos Starter Packs
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 6h
Already posted the piece with movement, so went with move.

#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amediting
#litfic
Helen flicks a small piece of chicken to Bingley who catches it midair with the accuracy of an Arsenal goalie. Arsenal. She sees Rowan’s red shirt in her mind and feels the weight of her experience and the two, or was it three, glasses of wine she has had today. The chair on which she sits feels as if it might dissolve beneath her and her body releases its vigilant hold, morphing her from a human shape to a blob before Claudia’s eyes. Okay, mum. You’re tired. Let’s get you upstairs. I’m going to draw you a bath and then Brian and I will clean up down here. Helen wants to argue with her daughter. I am supposed to be the one drawing you a bath, putting in bubbles and toys and sitting next to you singing Wheels on the Bus or Row Row Row Your Boat. But she can’t. She hasn’t the energy to move her mouth to form the words, I am the mother.
2 11
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 6h
Already posted the piece with movement, so went with move.

#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amediting
#litfic
Helen flicks a small piece of chicken to Bingley who catches it midair with the accuracy of an Arsenal goalie. Arsenal. She sees Rowan’s red shirt in her mind and feels the weight of her experience and the two, or was it three, glasses of wine she has had today. The chair on which she sits feels as if it might dissolve beneath her and her body releases its vigilant hold, morphing her from a human shape to a blob before Claudia’s eyes. Okay, mum. You’re tired. Let’s get you upstairs. I’m going to draw you a bath and then Brian and I will clean up down here. Helen wants to argue with her daughter. I am supposed to be the one drawing you a bath, putting in bubbles and toys and sitting next to you singing Wheels on the Bus or Row Row Row Your Boat. But she can’t. She hasn’t the energy to move her mouth to form the words, I am the mother.
2 6
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 2d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amediting
#litfic
The father emits animal noises of such affliction, such heartbreak, sounds that seems to never end, sounds Helen has never heard before and hopes never to hear again. And a sight, a sight that will live etched on the back of her eyelids for all days, the blonde head tilting back and the viscous red fluid trailing onto the green cardigan. Rowan stands completely still in the middle of the field, staring at his sister’s body fallen on the grass, trying in his child’s mind to process what’s before him. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t blink, but watches his father run toward his sister, grab her head, and try to move her chin towards her chest in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding.
1 13
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 2d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amediting
#litfic
The father emits animal noises of such affliction, such heartbreak, sounds that seems to never end, sounds Helen has never heard before and hopes never to hear again. And a sight, a sight that will live etched on the back of her eyelids for all days, the blonde head tilting back and the viscous red fluid trailing onto the green cardigan. Rowan stands completely still in the middle of the field, staring at his sister’s body fallen on the grass, trying in his child’s mind to process what’s before him. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t blink, but watches his father run toward his sister, grab her head, and try to move her chin towards her chest in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding.
1 19
Reposted by Brandy O’Briant
gigawattconduit.bsky.social
Justin Carter @gigawattconduit.bsky.social · 3d
Woke up today to the news
Andy Samberg and Justin Timberlake from the SNL short “dick in a box”
140 1.7K 7.3K
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 3d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amediting
#litfic
Once, after Ali died, a kindly therapist, an older Jewish woman with a beautiful salt and pepper bob and a way of talking straight that made Helen feel seen and respected, said to Helen that she had a tiger in a box. Joan said a steel box, locked and wrapped in lengths of chains. And that Helen knew how to tame the tiger well, knew how, when it rattled its cage, to turn away from it, to turn towards movement, productivity, projects, anything distracting. The tiger would eventually settle. But someday, someday, Joan told her, that tiger would find its way out. It won’t die in there. It will force you to open the box yourself. To open the box and look it in the eye. That is the only way to find out that it can’t eat you. Easy, tiger. Down, boy. Not today.
3 9
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 3d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amediting
#litfic
Once, after Ali died, a kindly therapist, an older Jewish woman with a beautiful salt and pepper bob and a way of talking straight that made Helen feel seen and respected, said to Helen that she had a tiger in a box. Joan said a steel box, locked and wrapped in lengths of chains. And that Helen knew how to tame the tiger well, knew how, when it rattled its cage, to turn away from it, to turn towards movement, productivity, projects, anything distracting. The tiger would eventually settle. But someday, someday, Joan told her, that tiger would find its way out. It won’t die in there. It will force you to open the box yourself. To open the box and look it in the eye. That is the only way to find out that it can’t eat you. Easy, tiger. Down, boy. Not today.
2 19
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 4d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amediting
#litfic
Helen knows Rosie means well, she does. But this is not what she wants to hear. Sometimes this community, this obligation to others, feels like a pressure she cannot carry. She remembers this after Ali’s funeral. The wake at the Plough, the singing, the drunken hugs and tears. She remembers how she sat there at a table, wondering how long she had to stay, how long was polite to endure this before she could go home. Just as Rosie says, the community needs an outlet as well, a coming together to grieve. Often, she feels as if the individual comes second to the community, which obviously, philosophically, morally, it does, in her view of the world. But sweet Jesus, she needs alone time as well, needs to focus on her healing too, before she enters the community circle jerk around these things. This unkind attitude makes her think there is a part missing in her, a sensitivity chip, that other people have which allows them to grieve en masse, to lean on each other, to carry the weight of collective pain. That they are nicer than she is, that she is selfish, self-absorbed, unfit in some way. She realises that this is why she loves big cities; she loves the anonymity of them, loves being able to walk down the street without anyone giving a shit who she is. In a city, she feels free. She feels she doesn’t have to be the Helen seen by others; she can be her Helen, whoever and whatever that is at a given moment.
3 20
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 4d
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amediting
#litfic
Helen knows Rosie means well, she does. But this is not what she wants to hear. Sometimes this community, this obligation to others, feels like a pressure she cannot carry. She remembers this after Ali’s funeral. The wake at the Plough, the singing, the drunken hugs and tears. She remembers how she sat there at a table, wondering how long she had to stay, how long was polite to endure this before she could go home. Just as Rosie says, the community needs an outlet as well, a coming together to grieve. Often, she feels as if the individual comes second to the community, which obviously, philosophically, morally, it does, in her view of the world. But sweet Jesus, she needs alone time as well, needs to focus on her healing too, before she enters the community circle jerk around these things. This unkind attitude makes her think there is a part missing in her, a sensitivity chip, that other people have which allows them to grieve en masse, to lean on each other, to carry the weight of collective pain. That they are nicer than she is, that she is selfish, self-absorbed, unfit in some way. She realises that this is why she loves big cities; she loves the anonymity of them, loves being able to walk down the street without anyone giving a shit who she is. In a city, she feels free. She feels she doesn’t have to be the Helen seen by others; she can be her Helen, whoever and whatever that is at a given moment.
2 23
Reposted by Brandy O’Briant
hillaryclinton.bsky.social
Hillary Rodham Clinton @hillaryclinton.bsky.social · 17d
It’s not his house. It’s your house. And he’s destroying it.
Washington Post: White House begins destroying East wing facade to build Trump’s ballroom
800 2.9K 9.4K
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 22d
#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 15
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 22d
#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 · 23d
#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 · 23d
#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 · 25d
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 · 25d
#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 4
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · 25d
#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 · Oct 7
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#bluesky
#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.
10
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · Oct 7
Dress for the job you want:
1
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · Oct 7
#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#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 · Oct 6
#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.
3 17
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · Oct 6
#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 · Oct 4
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 19
brandyo71.bsky.social
Brandy O’Briant @brandyo71.bsky.social · Oct 4
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 · Oct 3
Didn't have hibernate so went with sleep.

#wipsnips
#writingcommunity
#writersofbluesky
#writesky
#booksky
#amwriting
#litfic
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