Behind The Door..

Behind The Door….

A page for flash fiction, commentaries, poems and musings on what lies behind closed doors; both past and present, literal, allegorical, journeys into the past and realms of imagination…



Slum_in_Glasgow,_1871What lies behind that door?


Ludwig van Beethoven’s Last Door.


Schwarzspanierhaus_w2The Schwarzspanier House, was Beethoven’s final home. Sadly it no longer stands, but above is a photograph of the hallway, staircase and the door to his apartment as it looked in the late nineteenth century.

What lay  behind this heavy wooden door?

Here is an image drawn after Beethoven had left this world:


His last roomThis is his study with the Graf Piano, which is now in Beethoven Huas in Bonn.

We have Gerhard von Breuning to thank for writing his memoirs of the special times he shared with Beethoven, when just a child.

The Daily Beethoven blog has a wonderful post on Gerhard’s remembrances of the Schwarzspanier House, and Beethoven:

The book is available as a free e-book download here:


 The House of Pigeons

HouseeditedUpon one of my walks I suddenly came upon a derelict house. Fallen into ruin, forgotten and forlorn, loved only by pigeons, who shelter from the rain, build nests inside the roof, and raise their families there. Long ago, human families lived and loved in this house. Alas, it is too late to save this once beautiful house!

What stories could it tell?


Housepastandpresent My dear William,

I am sitting by the window with my needlework, gazing out of the window, watching Papa alight the carriage. The front door shuts and I hear him call for Mama. Still no news of you! I expect London makes this little village seem rather dull in comparison.  I do so hope you are making your fortune; but hurry home my love – I would rather have you by my side than all the silks in London. The light is fading, Mama is calling me for supper, but I have no appetite. I must go…

Write to me soon dear and tell me how you are.

Your Amelia.


The House of Secrets.

Doorleaves3 The leaves whisper in the breeze. Only they know my secrets. The trees know when to keep silent; some things must not be spoken out loud. This door is guarded by the tangle of branches, roots and thorns. I remain silent.



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