Friday, December 29, 2017

Flashback Friday: Life in Snowglobia

Flashback Friday is a monthly meme that takes place on the last Friday of the month.
The idea is to give a little more love to a post you’ve published on your blog before.  Maybe you just love it, maybe it’s appropriate for now, or maybe it just didn’t get the attention it deserved when you first published it.

Thanks to Michael d’Agostino, who started it all, there is a solution – join Flashback Friday!

Just join in whenever you like, repost one of your own blog posts, including any copyright notices on text or media, on the last Friday of the month.

Use the Flashback Friday logo above, as designed by Michael d’Agostino. Link it back to host Jemima Pett (there's a linky list!) and add a link to your post in the comments on Jemima's post (or mine, or any other participant's).

Since Friday is my flash fiction day, I've been sharing stories from the archives. In the spirit of winter, I found a story from back in 2013.  It's a rather horrifying little story about a lovely snowglobe...

Life in Snowglobia

Dick and Dora considered the ruin of their home. Everything lay in heaps on the floor, and anything breakable was broken. People in Snowglobia avoided breakables, but mistakes could be made.

"At least we’re not hurt," Dora said. This time, she added silently.

"Let's clean up," was all Dick said.

They worked in silence until everything was retuned to its place, wedging cabinets shut and books more tightly onto shelves in readiness for the next time. At one point Dora looked out the window.

"It's stopped snowing."


"Do you think so?" She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to.

When all was restored to order, Dick dusted his trousers, put on his coat and overcoat, and took up his top hat. He smoothed a dent from the crown and carefully brushed the dust off.

Dora watched him. "Do you have to go out?"

"Yes. It's a short shift today. I'll be back for tea."

Unless it happens again, they both thought. There was no predicting the cataclysms, just that moment of warning and then the utter destruction of all sense of up and down.

Dora watched from the window as Dick made his way to the lamppost on the corner. As he approached, an identically dressed gentleman nodded, folded his paper, kicked his feet loose, and walked briskly away. Dick took the same position, stamped his feet into place, opened his newspaper, and began to read. Dora watched for a long time, but nothing changed. The snow lay on the ground where it had settled, and the only motion was the occasional turn of a page. The light remained constant, without so much as a momentary dimming. That was good.

Two hours later, the light vanished. It was odd that way. Sometimes the day faded away, sometimes it ended in a flash. Either way, darkness meant Snowglobia came to life. It meant an end, for a time, to the fear of cataclysm. No one had to stand in position at the lamppost, or around back of the next house where one of the women had always to be poised to feed the cat.  In the darkness they could visit one another.

When the light vanished outside, cautious little lights came on in the four houses of Snowglobia. They were attached in a row, so no one had to venture outside. They could pull the chairs together around a table and eat off whatever dishes remained unbroken, confident that there would be no disruption.

This night, Dick and Dora didn’t join the other residents in the communal meal. They sat together on their own horsehair sofa, and stared at the floor.

“I can’t stand it any longer, Dick.”

“There’s nothing to be done about it.”

“’That’s life in Snowglobia.’ That’s what everyone says. But I can’t stand it.” She didn’t sound passionate, as she sometimes did when raging at a cataclysm that had sent all her work flying and filled the air with a blizzard. She said it like someone who truly could not endure any more.

“There’s no escape, Dora. Good God, do you think I haven’t looked? We just have to enjoy the dark times, when things stay calm. Come and have some dinner.”

She pushed herself to her feet and followed him slowly into the other room, then through the connecting door to where the other residents ate silently. They were always subdued following a cataclysm, and most bore bruises and wrapped joints, injured when they had been tumbled about.

Dora looked around. “Where’s Arthur?” The oldest member of the community was missing.  No one would meet her eyes. Finally Clair spoke in a low voice.

“He broke his neck. The cataclysm. It was so much worse than usual this morning. . . .”

Dora nodded. It had been quiet for several days, but this morning the shaking had gone on and one, tumbling them about for an eternity. None of the usual precautions had worked. Only the moment’s warning had prevented them all from being killed, those who could move fast enough to take hold on something solid when the shadow covered the globe. Always the moment of warning, the dimming of the light before the tumbling began. But never something you could plan on. Just a dimming, and then seconds later the shaking. And pain.

They could see it in her face, the refusal to accept it. Colin said it anyway.

“That’s life in Snowglobia.”

“No,” Dora said. “It’s not.” They all looked at her, mystified. They had long since been bludgeoned into acceptance, but she could not give in. “It’s not life in Snowglobia. It’s death in Snowglobia.”

©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2013
As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated!


  1. I love this - again. As you may have discovered, I didn't do a flashback this week, although the Year in Books was a rerun of an old theme....

    1. I noticed that! And I love the Year in Books theme.


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