Bringing Bright Ideas to Life:  My Flash

There was a cat in Lord Ashcombe’s house, and the cat leapt upon the mantle. And the cat leapt upon the mantle, and it disturbed the grandfather clock. And the clock chimed, and the clock chimed so loudly that the parrot squawked. And the parrot squawked, and it flapped its wings, and it upset the tea tray. And the tea tray tipped, and the tea spilled upon Lady Ashcombe’s embroidery. And Lady Ashcombe fretted, and she called Mr. Whitcombe. And Mr. Whitcombe shooed the cat, an

During the Second World War, Christmas in Nova Scotia was shaped by its geography as much as by global events. For those living along the Atlantic coast, the war was a daily presence rather than a distant concern. Harbors, particularly Halifax, remained crowded with naval and merchant vessels throughout the holiday season, and the sound of foghorns, drills, and ship engines formed the backdrop to Christmas observance. The sea, which had long defined life in the province, now

Snow began falling long before Harold Bryson reached the edge of the old forest road, the flakes descending in slow, hypnotic spirals—too slow, almost deliberate. By the time he pulled his car to a stop, the drifts were already piling high, swallowing the tires, threatening to bury him right where he sat. Beyond the windshield loomed the Winter House. He had not seen it in thirteen years. And it seemed to remember. Its windows were black pits in a face that once felt warm. Th