Friday Phrases!

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The Very Best of GHOST STORIES Part 2!


And now, dinner has been made, the kitchen is a mess (but it’s not my job to clean it 😉 ) and here comes the Very Best of Ghost Stories part 2!
It is so awesome to be on time with things. I mean, really, I can ride a Punctuality high for a while! Aaaand when Procrastination comes, well … I bounce back sometime or other! Anyway, here’s an end to the rambles and I shall leave ye to delight in the Very Best of Ghost Stories part 2!


Rêve-Ree ‏@ReeDwithaBee
They insinuate themselves behind your eyelids, burrowing into your
thoughts & dreams; turning them into nightmares you can’t escape.
Joshua Haveman ‏@JDHaveman
All of the ghosts in the room belonged to her. Had been made by her.
And though only she could see them, their presence was keenly felt.

Bret M.W. ‏@Bretmw_Author
We’re all born into the ghosts of others. They call it history, but I know
birth and death are fingers interlaced, cuffs we can’t escape

J.D. Estrada ‏@JDEstradawriter
Civil responsibility
So many long forgotten ghost stories to read in the Great Again library
of Politics

J.D. Estrada ‏@JDEstradawriter
Once upon a death
A soul learned the pain of a dagger
And the fear of remaining after a mortal coil is cut short.

Rachel Laverdiere ‏@r_laverdiere
Pops claps a hand over his heart & pales. “Pops?” I rush towards him,
but he recovers quickly.
“Becca, I thought I’d seen a ghost.” #FP

Nerd Cactus ‏@NerdCactus
“So… the ghosts have figured out how to steal the bodies of the living?”
“Great!” Zeke’s face did not match his voice. #FP
S Rodger Bock ‏@SRodgerBock
Dragging his chains, he shuffled lifelessly toward his appointment with
the gallows. He wasn’t dead just yet, unless you meant his soul.

Nerd Cactus ‏@NerdCactus
Izzy pulled on her goggles. “It’s going to be a foggy night. Ghosties will
be out in force.”
“We’ll be needing the strong tea, then.” #FP

Nerd Cactus ‏@NerdCactus
Izzy had invented Ghost Goggles using Mech technology and a little bit
of ingenuity. Half the department wanted a pair for themselves. #FP
Bret M.W. ‏@Bretmw_Author 
The thought speaking, that regret, the one haunting you for ignoring it,
it’s rattling your bones, waiting to bury you. Give it a wave.

Kris. always Kris.. ‏@superkrispydj  
#fp The grey lady stands at the window & watches the world. Groups of
kids come to be scared. She likes the company but loves the screams.
Lettuce is Tricksy ‏@AdrianYoung10 
The Adventures of Kim and Tim. The Original Waterskiing Spies!

“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Sooo noncommittal”

Nerd Cactus ‏@NerdCactus 
In the glimmering copper of Jonny’s face, a shadow shifted. Izzy spun,
and electricity crackled in the London fog. “Damn ghosties.” #FP
Sif (like Steve -t) ‏@MGSpaceHamster
You are dead to me
I buried you in my mind
Under happier thoughts
Under memories without you

I can’t escape the ghost of you.

Nerd Cactus ‏@NerdCactus
Izzy looked around. A thousand obsidian shards of what’d been the
ghost of Admiral Nelson were buried in the walls.
“Well, that’s new.” #FP

Casey Costra ‏@CaseyCostra
Her body shut down. At last. She couldn’t feel the whip, she couldn’t
cringe from a blow, she couldn’t smell the blood, she couldn’t…

Casey Costra ‏@CaseyCostra
#FP A bouncy teen when they took her, 12-men days destroyed her
strength, her self, her soul. They made her into a f__king ghost of a

Cyril Bunt ‏@Cyril_Bunt
“I’m Scared.”
“Yes, good.”
“It means you want to live, want to fight and thrive in this word of

Bobbi Bowman ‏@bobbibowwoman
Blood, guts, zombies, screams… Scary?

Not so much.

The most terrifying ghost stories include the words “Trump presidency.”
Call me Trulock ‏@CrTrulock  
I wanted to meet a ghost, maybe see that they are real.
So I summoned one, or thought I did.

Turns out you can never unring that bell.
Casey Costra ‏@CaseyCostra
A bouncy teen when they took her, her 12-men days ruined her
strength, her self, her soul. She’d turned into a f__king ghost of a girl.
Call me Trulock ‏@CrTrulock
“I told you we’d burn out the sun, love. I wonder if its ghost will haunt us
while the world dies.”
Andrea Connolly ‏@AndreaCConnolly
She never sprang
When she was living
In the sea
Softly clinging
In the drift
Last night she dared
Dried up on a shelf
Madeleine D’Este ‏@madeleine_deste
“Stay inside,” her old backwards Gran said “It’s the 7th month”
She rolled her eyes. “The ghosts didn’t come with us”
But she was wrong

TζTìm ‏@HomemadeHalo
#FP Regret haunted the model; she stuffed her face with food she had
once hated, but sadly it all went through her ghostly anorexic frame

Sophie Alice Acton ‏@prosateuse
The ghosts settled on their tombstones, kicking their feet and
whispering to one another.
With a smile, the eldest began his story.

Chris Mahan ‏@chris_mahan

You want to hear a ghost story?
Grandpa no! They’re too scary.

Very well.
Once upon a time there lived a princess…

AˢᵉᵉᵐSᵃˣᵉᶰᵃ ‏@RedNightHawkAKS
Every night mom tucked us in,read a story,kissed us g’nite. We never
told dad. He’d just say we imagined it, say she’d died in the fire. #FP

Djinn and Tonic ‏@walesboy1972
My ghost wanders among a world shining with life, unable to interact
with anyone and forever condemned to be alone among the living #fp

Caitlin Keeton ‏@CaitlinKeeton
To the howl of owls
& to the flickering choir
of a camp fire
they tell Ghost Stories,
until morning begins:
Takes away their imaginings #FP

A.M. Hounchell ‏@inferno4dante
One ghost said to another ghost, “want to hear a story?”
“What like a ghost story?” #FP

A.M. Hounchell ‏@inferno4dante
The floors creaked under our feet as the ghost rodents scurried
underneath. #FP

Chris Mahan ‏@chris_mahan

If you automate twitter
Schedule something once a year
Then sadly you pass away
Those messages will still go out
From beyond the grave

Chris Mahan ‏@chris_mahan
They told stories around the campfire
Of ghosts and other monsters
The kids laughed and fell asleep
Adults stayed up all white as sheets

Kaienne Glint ‏@KaiGlint
Years later we meet, but I don’t recognise you.
Where is the boy who used to tell ghost stories in the dark?

Parry ‏@ParawlPerwyl
His fingers couldn’t brush away her tears but he could reach her pink
elephant on the highest shelf and bump it into her lap. #FP

Carol ‏@CarolDrummond4
Full moon shimmering
Ghostly howl
Echoing midst ebony trees
Ever louder rustle of
Approaching steps
She turns…

Alicia ‏@demiurgent_G
We sat up late & told ghost stories. I didn’t know any but wanted to
belong, so I confessed to your murder & told them where you haunt.

Alicia ‏@demiurgent_G
The sun rose, tearing you away. I wept over you once; now I know you
will be with me again come nightfall, as substantial as the moon. #fp

A spark in the dark with @lottacraft!


  Coffee? Yes, please. Can I have some chocolate to go with it? No? That’s ok, no worries. Some chocolate cake perhaps? No cake either? Ah, well (sigh) let’s get on with it then.
Do not let yourselves be distracted by the drama. Or, by all means do! It spices up who I am or who knows; perhaps it brings out the best in me. I find that a bit of drama can’t hurt: it flavors life and helps getting through the day. As an introvert or “hedgehog” (someone that keeps to themselves and drives everyone else away – as lovingly described by a very close family member when I was about 18), I still get the occasional bouts of needing to hide away.

Misfit throughout the biggest part of my teens and tweens.Closeted nerd and gamer. Trying to adapt just to please others and be accepted only succeeded in scraped knees and a wounded soul. So, what’s a girl to do? Tell them all to go fish and just be you, do a bit of drama, enjoy the day. After all, if you feel comfortable in your own skin, no one should tell you otherwise.

So, here I am now. Open nerd and declared gamer. Wannabe writer, dividing my time between my day job, family and children, (neglected) hobbies and writing. I love the theater but haven’t seen a play in the last five years. Cinemas make me slightly claustrophobic, so if I have to go, I pick a morning show, with a half empty room.

I have many faces. One of then spent about 14 years being a teacher, which is not much different than telling stories: why you’re supposed to do things this way or why it would work better the other way around (yes, this also applies to Math). After a while I decided that sugarcoating the educational curricula is not suitable as a long term plan unless you have an overwhelming desire to go mad. I don’t.

The Drama Queen spent every Saturday with the drama club and the Singer used to go to church choir rehearsal every Thursday; the latter sang every Sunday during Mass.

The Crafter in me sat down with needlework, crochet and knitting, paper, scissors and glue, paints and inks, pencils and markers. Oh, to wander through a well-stocked stationary store!

The Baker baked three tiered chocolate cakes decorated with marzipan roses and was able to bake cupcakes with her eyes closed and one hand tier around her back. Her Christmas coconut meringues were gone in seconds. Did I mention that she made mean profiteroles?

The Chef cooked salmon en croute and slow cooked roasts, made soups and sauces like a pro. The Child went out to play in the virtual realm of fantasy and fiction. The Scholar went to college and the teenager was yearning for love and understanding.

All these faces are still neatly squished together in my head, however they need a playground otherwise they wreak havoc. Someone had to take hold and let them out, one by one, to hone their skills. No one was strong enough, so the Scholar picked up the challenge and lets the others come out to play, one by one. So, if today I’m the Drama Queen, do not worry, I might be the Baker on the weekend and I am definitely the Singer once a week.

#FP: What do you love most about writing? What speaks to you?

LC; I love the way a whole world starts from an idea, from a spark in the dark, much like every journey starts with a first step. It’s also a bit like knitting: you start out with a few balls of yarn and slowly transform them into something you’ve set you heart and soul into.

I love the clicking of the keyboard in a completely silent house or the scratching sound of a pen on paper. It’s so satisfying to see a new world unfurl from your fingertips!
Funnily enough, I get the best ideas when doing repetitive motions: cleaning dishes, mopping the floor, knitting, cooking. Then it’s just a matter of trying to remember everything after I’m done with my chores!

#FP: So, what have you written?

LC: Ah well, about that… I have written a few poems, some of them are on my blog, others still on paper. I also have a few WIP’s such as the first part of a children’s story that I had to make up on request, at bedtime.
Nothing is finished yet; I probably need another few gentle pushes from @Melfka to finally get things done.

#FP: When did you know writing was for you? 

LC: I was always a storyteller but rarely wrote anything down; I didn’t think it was worth it and besides, no one would be interested to read my ramblings anyway. It dawned to me in my early twenties that maybe writing some of the ramblings down wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.
By then, my head was filled to burst with stories and I needed space for new ones. I was afraid I would forget the nicer parts of my stories or a certain twist that I considered being unexpected, so I started writing them down and the act of writing opened a whole new world of possibilities for me: you could say I got hooked. I do wonder sometimes how come it took me so long to get started.
In my pre-laptop era I used notebooks and pens; I probably still have a few forgotten notebooks hidden in my book case, with stories in various stages of progression.

#FP: What are you working on at this minute? What was the inspiration for it?

LC: At the moment I have a few WIP’s that I try to tend to at least once a week. One of them is a series of short stories about fairies (not the traditional fairy tales, though), originating in requested bedtime stories, such as “Tell me a story about the [insert object name here] fairy!” I am trying very hard to keep them as children’s stories but sometimes they have a will of their own and go mad!

The first one is about a fairy (what else!) that has to bring embers through a dark forest as part of an old coming-of-age ritual. The embers are used to light small beacons in the forest, for the fairies to find their way home at night.
She gets lost in the woods at night time, she is alone and cold and decides to use the embers to warm herself. The forest is pitch black; she feels a thousand eyes watching her, critters are crawling on her skin and something or someone is tugging at her hair and her wings. She is too scared to go ahead or go back, so she sits down and opens the box with the embers. The embers are glistening and glowing and she is mesmerized by them. She tilts her head into the box to get a closer look and a strand of hair is falling in, touching the embers. The little specs of light and heat are caught in her hair and while she is shaking her head, trying to remove them, they cover her dark hair with a warm golden glow and rain down onto her wings, lighting them up. The fairy is now very scared, as she fears to burn her wings and she’s fluttering around, up and down, trying to put the fire out. When she finally sits down, crying from fear and exhaustion, she is amazed to notice a glowing light that seems to come from behind her. She tries to turn her head half expecting to find her wings burned down, but her wings are there and they are glowing! She touches them carefully, as not to get burned but the light is cool and won’t harm her. The darkness surrounding her slowly gives way to the mellow light from her wings. She picks up the now empty box and continues her path through the woods.

Upon arrival, everyone gasps in amazement at her new wings but they are concerned that the ember box is empty and that they wouldn’t be able to light the beacons. The fairy goes to the final beacon and opens the ember box, hoping to find one last ember, but there is none. As she turns away from the beacon, one of her wings lightly touches its surface and lo and behold, the beacon lights up in a blaze!
Followed by her friends, the fairy goes back into the forest and is able to light every beacon along the way using her wings.

I haven’t decided yet whether the fairy will be the only one with the magic wings, or if she will be able to pass on her new found powers to other, so that they might light up the beacons at night.
The Violin” (this one actually has a title) is about a boy who’s very close to discovering his quite unique legacy. He comes from a long line of gifted people with roots in the past and a very uncertain future. He’s torn between his passion and the need to keep it under control and hidden as much as possible, knowing to well that too much success would cause not only his downfall but endanger his family as well.

And thanks to #FP prompts, I have another few WIP’s that originated there; “Dishonorable”, “Troubles thoughts”, “Prophecy”. Everything else is still waiting to emerge on paper. 

#FP: Do you work to an outline or do you prefer to just see where an idea takes you? Plotter or Pantser?

LC: Pantser it is …Mostly I start with a first sentence then let the story unfold and carry me away. It can take twists and turns and I usually let it have its own way. Sometimes I do change the story line and rub my hands thinking: “Let’s see how you get out of this one!”
The fairy stories have an outline, as they have to be fun, time limited (suitable for bedtime tales) and contain at least one (preferably female) fairy. Everything else is relative.

#FP: How do you find #FP helps your writing?

LC: One of the best things that I learned to appreciate at the #FP prompts is the character limitation per tweet: it pushes me to compress my thoughts and get right to the point; otherwise I would go on and on rambling.
I’m tickled pink every time I am feature in the weekly collection. Thank you so much for that: boosts my wannabe-writer’s confidence.

#FP: What draws you to flash-fiction, to #FP? What do you love and hate about it?

LC: I like the challenge of telling a story in as few words as possible (well, sometimes more). I love to read entries from all the other #FP addicts and I am thankful for the received feedback: shows me that my writing goes the right way.

#FP: What inspires you most about writing? 

LC: That’s a difficult one: I suppose it’s to see the way a story flourishes, to see it grow from a seedling into a fully-fledged tale. Oh, and I like the idea of leaving something behind when I’m gone, even if no one’s going to read it apart from family and friends.
Have I mentioned that I’m not brilliant at gardening?

#FP: Who are your writing inspirations? How do they influence your creativity?

LC: In terms of authors, I’m drawn to sci-fi and fantasy. I remember my first contact with sci-fi; I was twelve and I discovered “The Cyberiad” by Stanisław Lem. The cover looked nice and I had a brief look inside and before I knew it, I had read the whole book. It was fascinating to read about fairy tales with robots, cogs, planets and creational dilemmas.
Once a sci-fi fan, always a sci-fi fan. Further down the reading road followed Ray Bradbury, Orson Scott Card, Isaac Asimov, Fredric Brown, Frank Herbert, Ursula K. Le Guin and A. Heinlein, just to name a few.

I’m also inspired by tales of myths and magic; I read “The Mists of Avalon” at least a dozen times and I still manage to find new depths and undiscovered phrases.
My aspiration is to successfully combine fantasy, myth, magic, sci-fi and elements of the pagan religions (which I find intriguing and fascinating) in an amazing story which will knock everyone socks off!

#FP: What is the hardest thing about writing for you?

LC: Finding time to do some actual writing would be a first one. Next in line is the actual typing of the story; this is always somewhat of a struggle, because I tend to get distracted by adding this and that to the sidelines instead of focusing on what I actually want to say in my story. The stories sound so much better in my head! The lazy part in me is considering speech recognition software, but then I wouldn’t be able to get anything done when not alone. But still, so very tempting!
And once I actually manage to finish typing the story out, editing is not that much fun either.

#FP: Do you have any secret and wacky writing rituals that help the words flow?

LC: Apart from secretly wishing everyone was in bed and asleep, not much. Even then, I find that the ideas I was pondering upon earlier had just flown away as soon as I have time to do some actual writing. So I just stare at a blank page and start typing out random words, hoping that one of them will light a spark.

#FP: What advice would you give to aspiring writers and poets, anyone who wants to free the art within? What helped you make it to this point?

LC: I’m a cat person and a story idea is very much like a cat. You don’t own it, it owns you. If you are too insistent or too pushy, it will arch its back and hiss at you. Be gentle and bribe it with some (brain) food, such as chocolate or cake and wait until it grants you permission to pet it or scratch it behind the ears. Once the story idea has nestled comfortable in your (brain) lap, feel free to explore it at leisure, knowing that it has accepted you as its master.

In other words, do not lose faith and do not despair. Take it one day at a time, wait for it. Patience and perseverance will be rewarded in the end.

#FP: What genres do you find yourself most drawn to? In your books and in your #FP’s?

LC: I like the possibilities that fantasy and fairy tale have to offer; also the way a tale can take an unexpected turn and go in the opposite direction. I find that adding a shred of every-day life to a fantasy story makes it sound that much more real. A hero has to do chores after all; otherwise he’s not too credible.

#FP: How can readers discover more about you and you work?

LC: My twitter stamp is @lottacrafts and my blog (which needs updating) can be found here:

The Violin

It is one of the first memories I have of the new house. It stood on top of a soft hill, was built from brick and wood, painted powder blue and white, and had large airy rooms and windows overlooking the hills. On clear days you could see the dark edge of the forest from the kitchen window.
The house came with a huge garden with vegetable and flower patches and a handful of trees in the back, growing behind a downtrodden shed. Later that year, in autumn, Dad would discover the grape vines embracing the outer fence.
We had just moved in that summer and I spent the first days running around the garden and climbing every apple tree in the small orchard. I chased butterflies and looked for hedgehogs, shrieked when spiders crawled up my shoes and collected snails in an orange bucket, to make my own snail farm.
I started school a few weeks later and I felt excited and nervous at the same time. We were still new to the parish and I hadn’t really met any other children my age so I was looking forward to new friends and playdates.
I remember waking up on the first day of school to the smell of cinnamon waffles and coffee. I ran barefoot downstairs into the kitchen, where Mum lifted out the last waffles and placed the heaping plate onto the table. She smiled and opened her arms; I flew into her embrace and buried my face into her long auburn curls. She smelled of lavender and cinnamon and I didn’t want to ever let go.
Dad stepped into kitchen and poured coffee and tea into powder blue mugs; coffee for them, peppermint tea for me. The scent of the hot beverages, mum’s lavender and Dad’s aftershave blended together into the smell of my childhood; my safe haven.
My brand new school bag was waiting on my chair, together with an oddly shaped wooden box. I didn’t know yet what it was, but I felt strangely drawn to it. I reached out to touch it and was surprised to find that the surface wasn’t cold, as expected, but mildly warm. I ran my hand along the raised parts of the box and looked up to see Mum and Dad smiling:
“It’s a violin,” she said. “Your new school will teach you how to play it.”
My hand was still resting on the violin box and I could feel the wood getting hot under my palm.
“Why is the box so warm?” I asked. Dad’s brow furrowed but he was quick with a smile. “It’s ok,” he said, “That’s a sign that the violin likes you!” The box was starting to burn my hand but I couldn’t let go; tears were welling up in my eyes. Mum gently lifted my hand from the box and handed me the schoolbag: “Now, who wants to go to school?”
The rest of that day and the weeks afterwards are a blur. I remember sunshine and red maple leaves in the school yard, the pitter-patter of raindrops on the windowsill at night, the smell of freshly picked apples, ink and new books, morning mists rising from the valley and flocks of geese flying south. Strangely enough, I can’t remember any music or learning the violin.
On a Sunday in October, Mum baked her famous apple pie and Dad cleaned the whole house, from top to bottom. Aunt Morag would pay us a visit.


“You have clearly not given this decision enough thought,” Aunt Morag was sitting at the kitchen table, her back perfectly straight in the oaken chair. Mum and Dad were sitting on the opposite side of the table, looking nervous, yet determined.
“Have you considered the implications?” she asked.
“We have, “said Mum. “He always reacted different to music, even as an infant.”
Aunt Morag pressed her thin lips together. “Yes, well, Julia, infants react different to a whole range of things. There is no way of knowing yet and this is just calling it out. He may not be a Musical. David here liked music too, but that was not his calling.” Aunt Morag turned to Dad.
“David, you of all people should know that the Calling cannot be determined this early. Have you forgotten that already?”
Dad reached out to hold Mum’s hand. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said in a firm voice. “And I won’t let anything like that happen to him. If he’s not a Musical, we won’t force it upon him. He’s free to find his own Calling.”
Aunt Morag did not seem pleased: “Fine, and what if he is a Musical? How will you be able to contain it? It’s far too early for him to master it and it will only be a matter of time until it consumes him or worse, expose us all! There is a very good reason why the first step on the path to the Calling starts when the child is ready! Are you willing to risk his sanity and our safety?”
Mum sat up straight in her chair: “We are not going to risk neither his sanity, nor our safety. If Music is not his calling, he simply won’t follow that path; we will teach him to look out for signs and guide him towards them.”
Aunt Morag shook her head: “I pray to the gods that you are right,” she sighed. After a few moments of silent brooding, she turned to Mum and smiled: “Now, Julia, give us a slice of that glorious apple pie. All this worrying has made me hungry!”


I remember the very first violin lessons; there was no music-making involved and I was somewhat disappointed. We were taught how to get the violin out of the box, how to hold it under the chin. We had to memorize the parts of the violin: the scroll, the pegbox, the turning pegs, the neck and the fingerboards, the upper and lower bout, the waist and the F holes, the bridge, the fine tuner, the tailpiece and the chinrest. The strings are E, A, D and G. The bow had a stick, the bow tip, the bow grip, the frog; the adjusting screw and the hair were horsehairs.
At first, I didn’t want to touch the violin box again; I was afraid that it would burn my hands. I discovered that once I had opened the box and taken out the violin for the very first time, the box would never get hot again. The violin was smooth and nestled comfortably under my chin and in my hand. It felt like a part of me.
It was a misty morning in November when Miss Matthews, our violin teacher, said that we were going to listen to our violins today. We were each told to take our violin out and place it under the chin. Then Miss Matthews whispered: “Your violin will now speak to you. First, make a fist with your right hand. Now stretch out your pointing finger and bend it to make a little hook. Move your arm, your fist and the little finger hook over, above the strings and carefully pluck one string.”
The silence was broken by a cacophony of sounds, a storm of buzzing pizzicatos, as each one of my classmates plucked wildly at the strings of their violin. I was ready to pluck a string too, but I couldn’t make up my mind which one to choose. They are looked equally enticing and I didn’t know how to choose one. As I looked down at the strings, with my index finger in the air, one of them seemed to vibrate, emitting a low hum. I lowered my finger and the humming stopped; when I lifted my hand, the hum was back: it was like the violin was telling me which string to pick, so I gently plucked the A string.
The string vibrated under my touch, filling the room with a sound that reverberated into every corner. As all the other violins went silent, I could see the sound roll up from the violin, touching my finger and unfolding into bubbles of crimson hues and deep reds. The room suddenly smelled of apple pie, cinnamon and lavender. The bubbles looked very real and I reached out to catch one, dropping the violin.
The bubbles were suddenly gone, together with the smell of apple pie, cinnamon and lavender. I couldn’t hear anything, except the roaring laughter of my classmates. I couldn’t see or feel anything, except the hot tears running down my cheeks. I turned around and ran out of the classroom, ran blindly out into the street until I couldn’t breathe anymore.
I’ve tried so often to think back to what happened next, but I can’t. The only thing I can remember is that after running until out of breath I suddenly smelled lavender and found myself nestled in my mother’s arms. I cried uncontrollably while she was holding me on the way home, when she put me to bed and while she sat with me, holding me tight until I drifted off to sleep, dreaming of our apple orchard and of blue lavender fields on the horizon.
I woke up briefly that night to hear loud arguing downstairs. I could make out Mum’s voice, then Dad’s, and then Aunt Morag’s, then Mum’s again and then another voice; it sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. I couldn’t understand what they were saying and I was too tired to get out of bed and go downstairs, so I closed my eyes, conjuring up the apple orchard and the lavender fields.


Later I would learn that Aunt Morag stayed the night and the voice I couldn’t quite place was Miss Matthews’. Aunt Morag summoned her to the house, planning to triumphantly lay the blame on my parents for making me attend violin classes and to forbid Miss Matthews to ever teach me again. It could have gone very bad that night. Surprisingly, it was Miss Matthews who achieved the impossible: she and Aunt Morag talked for a long while after my parents went to bed and it was agreed that I would not attend the violin classes in school anymore. Instead, Miss Matthews would come to the house once a week and teach me. Either Mum, Dad or Aunt Morag would have to be present as well; for my own safety, as I was later told.

Thank You For The Chance …


Hello, everyone …
So here we are, in our second week since my mom and sister took serious ill … and it has been such a long, long, stressful two weeks.
Every day, we’ve been subsiding of prayers, off deep breaths, sleepless nights and terrifying cocktails of medications. And we’ve made it this far, but not without irrevocable damage and change to our lives.
My mom’s cortisone treatment was all for naught, because she was misdiagnosed for the early onslaught of multiple sclerosis, and then Devics Disease. And this was not the case.
The cortisone weakened her immune system greatly, and yes, she’s now going blind.
Her good eye, the eye that was heavily operated on as a child, is under such severe strain that she can’t concentrate for more than a few minutes. The retina in that eye is extremely inflamed and painful … and she’s getting sick, her immune system being so weak.
The Vitamin B shots she is getting to start repairing her immune system is making her extremely weak.
And yet, she is strong. She is smiling. Laughing. Joking around. Tomorrow, we are celebrating my sisters 18th birthday and she will be there, and being the amazing warrior of a woman that she is.
Life as I have known it for nearly twenty-one years has just changed drastically, and I am adjusting to certain realities that will come and has already arrived to my family.
I am going to have to do a lot more to help my family than I ever have or ever thought I would, because this is not going to change, but I can. I am. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Because this is the only lifetime I have that I will be able to love them as much as I do.
And yet, the last two weeks would have been unbearable to me without you guys. You have, every time that I wanted to fall down and die, picked me up and held me close and walled me out of the hell I never thought that I would escape. You kept me together. Kept me sane. Focused. Alive.
The circumstances that we are in are by no means over.
We have a long, long painful and expensive road to recovery, before we are all in good enough condition to get out of here.
But this road is easier now than it was four days ago, when I swear to god, I was not sure I’d ever see my mom again.
And I owe what little perseverance I thought I had to you.
Because this would not be possible without you.
I have no words to thank you appropriately. I have no words from a deep enough place in my heart to fully express my gratitude, and you deserve it, without a doubt.
I am indebted to you.
Every donation received, every shout out, every submission and every kind word, they have had the most profound effect on my family, and our future. They have helped us out of some of our darkest hours, of which we have had many.
I do not know where to begin, even, I do not know what to say …
Except you saved our lives. You saved mine.
And so, to those of you whom have been there from the beginning, thank you.
Thank you, @bobbibowwoman, for everything. I want to tell the world about what you’ve done for us, but it’s a surprise. I want to sing it from the rooftops, and I will, I promise. Thank you for helping me.
Thank you, @HopeDenney2, for being you and for being amazing, always, every day. My mom has been wanting to thank you for so long, and she never can, because no computer or phone screens. Thank you for “being the special soul” that you are.
Thank you , @AseemSaxena, for being our champion. For telling the world about us. For sharing our story and lending your voice to our cause. For buying us a cup of coffee. Thank you for everything.
There are so many of you that I would like to meet and thank in person, and hug the life out of you all and I just wouldn’t know where to start, but one day, I’ll get there.
In the meantime, what you have given us will be our saving grace amidst immensely difficult times and I am indebted to each and every single one of you.
I hope to be there for you all in the way you have been there for me.
Hopefully not under the same circumstances, but yeah …
Now, it is time I fade away and pick up the pieces I’ve left behind in #FP and #200WT over the last few weeks.
I love you guys.
And as long as I live, I will continue doing the best job that I can and keep a sacred place on one lonely corner of the World Wide Web.
But thank you for the chance … the chance to do what I do best.
Love the ones in my life.

With all my love, and thanks …

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