This short story is meant to be read in the future, perhaps in bed on a rainy night. When the mind wonders down memory lane, when recollections come to warm us up, to fill us with nostalgia, joy and hope. So, here it goes.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness. It was the autumn of hope in Brussels, on a cool and crisp 22nd of November evening, year A.D. 2018.
The clock hands showed 7 in the evening. Waterstones bookshop in Brussels was extraordinarily busy that night. The second floor was packed with eagerness and anticipation as invitees, visitors and passers-by awaited the launch of the second Anthology of the Brussels Writers Circle. The enthusiastic audience soaked up spoken extracts from the accomplished works of:
- Colin Walsh: The Flare Carving Itself through the Dark
- Jeanie Keogh: If at First You Don’t Succeed
- Cynthia Huijgens: The Things We Do For Love
- Klavs Skovsholm: Belle of the Ball
- T.D. Arkenberg: Aftershock
- S.R. Harris: Sightings
- Jay Harold: Corn Bread and Iced Tea
- Patrick ten Brink: The Half-Apple
There was camaraderie, there was wit and laughter, there were friendly exchanges and chat and signing each other’s copies. There was delight for those who managed to make it from afar.
There was sadness and nostalgia for those who didn’t. There was speculation, there was aspiration: what about a new Anthology? The BWC Anthology number 3?… But that is another tale. As I said in the beginning, this is just a short story meant to be read in a comfy bed in an old house on a rainy night.