MEMORY HOUSE
THE SAVVY, BOLD & SAGACIOUS MEMORIES OF 16 WRITERS
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Dear Orbiter,
Every Saturday, we land on the softest soil of Planet Ral, where the skies spill stories, the moons whisper poetry, and the terrain is thick with thought.
This week, we open the doors to the Memory House — where writing becomes a key, and the past comes quietly, vividly, back to life. 16 writers have stepped inside, bringing with them snapshots both old and new images that ache, glow, or linger: paired with 300-word essays that explore the rooms of memory: childhood kitchens, lost cities, first heartbreaks, forgotten smells, names we no longer say.
On Planet Ral, imagination is data, emotion is ink, and language, in all its forms, becomes a vessel. Whether you're a reader, a dreamer, or a creator orbiting in between, this issue is for you.
Like most writers, I am shaped by my history and experiences. But most of the time, for the erotic stories that I write, I don’t really want to bring real people, places, and situations to life. I prefer using those memories to add color and texture to the fictional short stories. Also, I am in my ‘50’s and have a variety of experiences and jobs. Those shape and guide my thoughts and imagination, but I don’t really want my readers to think of specific locations or even people. If you are a regular reader of my stories, then you might notice I rarely give specifics when describing people. Places, locations, and situations might have colors, sounds, smells, and sometimes tastes, but when it comes to the people in my stories, unless I am describing a specific type of person because the story needs it (for example, Pete, the horn player in AAA Detective stories, is coded as mixed race, possibly Hispanic, but because he is a background character, it really isn’t explored). Most of my stories are written in 2nd person POV. “You” are the main character. I might tell you a bit about the “you” of the story. Male, or female, straight or gay, tall or short, thin, athletic, or curvy. I describe just enough so the reader can imagine themselves in the story. I don’t mention skin tone, because I want the readers to imagine the characters as they find desirable. But what does that have to do with bringing the past to life? More than you think. I have been that guy that snaps open his Zippo to light his smoke. The smell of the burning tobacco, and the color of the smoke cloud as it rises. It isn’t my current reality, but it’s something I easily can describe. The same with various drinks and foods. Long time readers may recognize that in many of my stories, there are scenes where characters are snacking, drinking, and chatting. That is something that is a reality to most of us. As I said, because I write erotica, I don’t want the readers to picture me. If they are, then I feel I have written it poorly. I want them to picture people who they find arousing and exciting, in locations and situations that I help bring to life.
EDITOR'S VOICE — "Sometimes, the truest voice is the one that writes anyway — not to be profound, just to stay alive on the page"
XOXO @ OLI TROLLGORA _ © 2025
One memory that I still carry with me in an unshakeable way, but for good, was a meeting with my academic counselor and favorite professor at the end of my junior year of college. The memory of the meeting was initially an embarrassing one but with time became one that was life defining and transformative.
At previous meetings, I had struggled to answer questions concerning plans post-graduation.
Sometimes I would mention law school.
Other times I would mention graduate school.
The actual answer was that I had no idea.
I was so busy trying to balance working over 30 hours a week as a waitress with being a full-time student that I neglected thinking deeply about how I saw myself professionally.
So, my advisor got “back to basics”. He shared a book, What Color is Your Parachute, and asked me career inventory type questions which included identifying a list of my strengths.
I was silent.
The pause lengthened uncomfortably.
I knew I had strengths.
I was an excellent student, disciplined and hardworking but I couldn’t vocalize anything beyond being a “good student”.
I was embarrassed that I was struggling to say anything of meaning and started to tear up. Taking notice, my advisor filled the void by acknowledging how uncomfortable the question made me feel and pointing out numerous strengths that I possessed that I would never have noted as strengths at that time.
I cried and then we both laughed.
We decided that I would take a week to construct the list and meet next week to follow up. With more time and his kind, supportive words of encouragement, I was able to move forward.
At the next meeting, I shared the list by reading it aloud which made me very uncomfortable but broke down a barrier, a wall that I had constructed, limiting my ability to recognize my full potential, to recognize my self-worth.
That tearful, embarrassing encounter set me on a road to self-discovery that has fueled greater self-belief.
Despite the tears, the memory of that meeting – that room that I still carry -is an unshakeable one in the most positive, transformative way.
When self-doubt creeps in - even at this advanced stage of my life - I’ll think of my 21-year-old self that was full of potential that I was unable to recognize until I learned to show myself the same grace, kindness, and compassion that my advisor had shown me over 40 years ago.
Forever grateful.EDITOR'S VOICE — “Sometimes it takes another’s voice to help you find your own, not because you weren’t capable, but because someone needed to remind you you’ve always been enough.”
XOXO @ CAROLYN FAGGIONI _ © 2025
I created everything in this room. The dyed-gold curtains hanging at the window; the pale green flannel sofa-bed cover that I hand decorated with fabric paint. The artwork hanging on the walls. This is my studio and the room I’m preparing for the birth of my second son. I sewed a liner for the carrycot from a sheet with tiny sprigs of flowers on a cream background. The carrycot is burgundy corduroy, bought with the money I saved week-by-week during my first pregnancy, eight years ago. My first son didn’t sleep in it (I wanted a brand-new pram for him) and neither did Alice, who never came home. But I plan for this baby to lie beside me in it, while I work at my table on the jewel-like images that will follow his birth. The wallpaper in here is rose-coloured, the carpet dark red. I empty my mind, write in my diary, looking out over the garden that I was so excited to have. I paint watercolours in rich hues, I try to imagine who the baby inside me will be. I’m sleeping in the room to centre myself for the birth. One Monday morning I wake convinced this is the day. I ask my husband to stay home from work. I rock Felix to sleep in his buggy while I time my contractions. Their father has ridden his bicycle to the other side of town to buy me some raspberry leaf tea. While Felix sleeps, my waters break into the toilet. The midwives arrive before my husband but he is home, the raspberry leaf tea unneeded, by the time our son wakes from his nap. I lean over a beanbag, pushing, while my toddler hands out pretend tea from toy plastic cups. The picture that stays in my mind is the expression on my toddler’s face, watching his brother’s birth. As the midwife bathes the baby in a red bowl, Felix leans over and kisses his damp head. Later, he recalls Ruben being born ‘out of a red bowl’.
EDITOR'S VOICE — “Some rooms don’t just hold life — they make it, again and again. Through paint, through fabric, through grief and breath and birth, they become sacred places where memory and hope live side by side.”
XOXO @ TRACEY SCOTT-TOWNSEND _ © 2025
My mind betrays me, drags me backwards, as I find myself standing in the kitchen once again. Gripping the countertop, knuckles white and teeth grinding. "Just my daily panic attack", I force the words out, and glance at my husband. I know I must be dying, at this moment. I know this is the end. I brace myself, muscles rigid, thoughts a screaming pile of shit. Am I there? or am I here? This is more than memory, this feels too real. This recurrent, obsessive thought, brings me right back to then. Reminding me that at any moment, I might lose my illusions of control. And I know my brain is trying to protect me, checking to see if I feel that familiar anxiety coursing, through my tired veins. And I know that if I react with the fear that this vision warrants, it sticks around longer. Weaving a vicious web I can't escape. So I shrug my shoulders, unhitch the breath I've been holding and peel my tongue off the roof of my mouth. My husband's concerned face turns to mist, and I finally notice- I'm not even standing in the kitchen.
EDITOR'S VOICE — “Sometimes the brain confuses safety with reliving the fire — dragging us back through the smoke just to check if we still burn.”
XOXO @ LAURA CATANZANO _ © 2025
I didn’t plan to become a business English coach.
It started with a favour. A friend asked me to stand in for a Business English trainer who couldn’t make it. I said yes — reluctantly. It wasn’t really my thing. I just thought I’d help out once and be done.
After the session, one of the participants, Michael, came up to me and asked, “Do you offer 1:1 coaching?”
I hesitated. I really didn’t want to. But I also didn’t want to disappoint him. So I said yes.
And then I felt terrible about charging him money.
So I gave him double the hours he paid for.
We worked together regularly — and I loved every single session.
About six months later, Michael introduced me to the Personnel Manager at his company. That one connection led to something much bigger: I started running group courses in that company. That was 25 years ago. And guess what? That same company is still one of my clients today.
What did I learn?
Sometimes, the most important opportunities show up when you’re not looking.
I learned to be curious. To say yes, even when I’m unsure.
And that it’s okay to be reluctant — as long as you stay open.
I had no business plan, no fancy website, no 10-year vision.
Just a willingness to try. And that one ‘yes’? It built a business — and a life — I still love today.EDITOR'S VOICE — “Not every yes is certain, but some are still life-changing. Especially the ones we say with doubt, but follow with heart.”
XOXO @ CHRISTINE BURGMER _ © 2025
I spent six weeks in bed on the Women’s Ward. One long room with thirteen beds across from me, and thirteen more on the same side as mine. My bed was three spots away from two tall windows on the one wall facing the outside world. Opposite was a double-wide door that nurses rolled us in and out of. Some of the beds contained women whose feet were never allowed to touch the floor. I was the only girl. Rheumatic Fever was destroying my heart, and the chart hanging at the end of my bed caused Doctors to stand and talk over one another about my looming death as opposed to my slim chances of recovery. I watched the sky through those tall windows, while I held tight to the iron bedstead, listening to them in fear. I knew that if the adult aspirin and penicillin didn’t work, the fever would grow worse, and I would die in that room. Then I would leave like six of the other women, a still body, covered with a sheet, wheeled through those double doors in the mint-green walls. I smelled rubbing alcohol, and fevered flesh, mixed with used bed pans and blood. It cloyed and wrangled like burnt porridge and raisins that the Nuns served for breakfast. I went into that room as a sick little girl. Facing death in recovery meant I outlived my childhood in the first decade of my life. But I walked out on my two feet.
EDITOR'S VOICE — “Sometimes survival isn't a triumph — it's simply walking out, quiet and changed, from the place that almost kept you.”
XOXO @ JOCELYN MILLIS _ © 2025
I awoke in the wee hours of the night. I thought I had heard a tap at my window, yet no one was there. Or were they? I thought I saw my friend - felt him - just on the other side of the window. He had recently transitioned, and the taste of his funeral lingered in my throat. In this moment, his presence was palpable. I felt my heart swell, and pressure rose in my throat.
"I see you there, just across the way.
How can I reach you? You were just here.
It seemed like yesterday.
Won't you come and stay, if only for a moment?
I see you there,
streaming through my window,
a sweet soft soul glow.
Oh, please don't go.
Stay here with me."
Somewhere between earth and ether, lies a place not clearly seen, yet it is perceived, felt as if a kaleidoscope dimension. Such a space opened right outside my window in the night.
I lay perfectly still, breathing softly - my exhale crossing into that dimension, my inhale drawn from it. I can't explain it. Such heart-space defies logic and order.
In the nexus between here and there lies a mysterious yet tangible space where none feel separate, only joined interminably in the field of love.
Such is the power of a window in the night, and such are the ties between souls.EDITOR'S VOICE — “Some rooms hold more than memory — they open to places where love still lingers, just beyond the glass.”
XOXO @ SACRED REBELLE _ © 2025
How a face pack and Vicco Turmeric Cream led to the most unexpected mother-son conversation. During my parents’ recent visit to Mumbai—after three long years—I found myself having an unexpectedly tender moment with my mother. One evening, I was casually applying a face pack. My mom walked by, noticed, but didn’t react. No questions. No judgment. Just quiet acknowledgment. For her, it was the first time seeing me do something like that—and yet, she didn’t flinch. That silence spoke volumes. On the morning of our hotel checkout, I was half-zipped into my backpack when she pulled out a familiar little yellow tube—Vicco Turmeric Cream—and placed it gently on the table. The kind of product that, in my childhood, was advertised with classical music and promises of natural healing. My mother, who I had only ever seen using plain cream her entire life, slid it toward me and asked softly: “Do you want to apply some?” I froze. I was stunned. I’m 40. And this was the first time skincare ever entered our mother-son dialogue. I smiled and said no. Not ready yet for that kind of bonding cream. But something had shifted. Ten years ago, this would’ve caused concern. Now? It felt... normal. What changed? Maybe men’s grooming is no longer taboo. Maybe we’re in an age where South Indian sons can open drawers with moisturizers and still feel manly. And maybe, just maybe, moms are quietly leading this evolution—one Vicco tube at a time. It’s not about face packs. It’s about letting go of old rules. And sometimes, change doesn’t come with a fight. It arrives gently—with a turmeric tube, a smile, and an unspoken nod that says, "It’s okay. I see you."
EDITOR'S VOICE — “Sometimes love evolves not through words, but gestures — quiet, yellow-tubed, and decades overdue.”
XOXO @ HARINATH BABU _ © 2025
A beautiful clear February morning in 1980.
The air smelt fresh, hints of soil, also off set by the smell of brussel sprout plants rotting in the fields currently being ploughed. The air temperature was just above freezing, the sunshine streaming into my mother’s immaculate mini traveler (very old style British Leyland built).
I was returning home from visiting the garden of a friend of my new boss.
It was early afternoon, a Saturday and I was aware of a fox hunt in the area. The hounds were barking, horns were blasting.
Windows open on the mini, a single track road, with passing places.
I was wandering how my Mini Coopers MOT had gone. When suddenly out of nowhere a huge emblem of the “Spirit of Destiny” was rapidly travelling towards me at an alarming speed. The road was much higher than the surrounding fields. Braking hard, the statue getting even larger approaching rapidly, no where to go. I jerked the steering wheel right.
And then an almighty noise, the metal box I was travelling in was disintegrating before my eyes. I was now moving, which defied all logic. The smell of hot oil, a stench of petrol, metal screaming as it changed shape. I was travelling backwards, rubber burning.
I was thrown to the right, my right elbow smashing the windscreen, I was showered with a confetti of glass. Something snagged and tore my new denim shirt. Blood everywhere. Something burning my legs as I lay across the passenger seat, excruciating pain in my neck and spine, I was twisted, my head was lower than my body. My legs pinned against the seat and burning hot engine block. An overwhelming heady smell of petrol and hot oil.
The car engine still screaming like an injured animal.
A grey tunnel, imagines of my fiancée, another of a girl friend from school days, voices, excruciating, unimaginable pain, images of Malaysia, the jungle, my pet monkey “Babu”, engine noise still screaming, and unimaginable head pains.
And then I seemed to be flying, fresh air, long grass on my face and then blackness.EDITOR'S VOICE — “Sometimes a life fractures in an instant — and in the splintered glass and petrol haze, memory and meaning rush in to hold it together.”
XOXO @ MARK FARLEY _ © 2025
It’d been a brutal phone call and, while I was pleased that I’d remained calm amidst a tsunami of wrath, misinterpretations, and deliberate cruelty, I was rattled. Deep breaths helped, but my soul felt grimy. I needed a bath. But not the kind of bath involving soap and bubbles. The toxicity I’d experienced during that 10-minute diatribe – I really can’t call it a conversation – went fathoms below skin deep and would linger for days, perhaps months, if I didn’t do something about it. Fast. I’d slept with that man. Luckily, I lived near the Angeles National Forest. A climb up a few admittedly steep hills…and, voila, suburbia vanished. My staunchest friends – pine, oak, cedar– embraced me. Showering me with their gorgeousness, timelessness, dependability. Cradling me with their song – a silence so enveloping, so transcendent yet nurturing that the toxic words my mind replayed, like a scratched LP, didn’t stand a chance. The limbs of my best pal, Tree, swayed in the breeze as I approached. “Hi, Tree,” I said, nestling against the tree's trunk. “Good to see the fairies are still here.” Months earlier, I’d constructed a fairy garden immediately to our right, near a clearing within composting branches, thick with lichen. Usually, I brought an addition for the garden with me – a bridge, well, sign, house – but today, too rattled to remember to raid my fairy-stash, I arrived empty handed. “I’ll bring extra next time,” I promised the wee ones. It still amazed me no one had disturbed the garden. But fairies are never, never ones to cross – woe to those who destroy so much as a fairy ring. BAD luck will ensue. Obviously, these fairies had summoned a forcefield of vibrations. Don’t even think about it. Fairies also loathe liars, which includes those who break their word. I pulled out my phone and typed a note to return asap, with lots of fairy goodies. I’d no sooner returned my phone to my backpack, however, than I was pulling it out again. More rustling of grasses, crackling of twigs… More dear friends! Had the trees summoned the doe, knowing how desperately I needed a boost. A Sign? The Deer opens up new horizons for you. I can swear Tree smiled.
EDITOR'S VOICE — "There are wounds words can’t touch, but trees, silence, and sacred small things often can."
XOXO @ JENINE BAINES _ © 2025
This didn’t happen a long time ago. It was just 5 years ago (2020),
and I was living in an apartment with the father of my kids. In our
bedroom back then, was a place that became both my hiding place and
the room where I was slowly losing my mind. That’s where I cried the
most. That’s where I forgot who I was.
He never hit me, not once. But he chipped away at my spirit. I was a
full-time freelance writer on Upwork then, with three consistent
clients and decent income. Yet no matter how much I provided, I was
constantly blamed, gaslit, and dismissed. And as days went by, I began
to shrink.
I stopped eating, lost weight, and other than my son putting a smile
on my face, all my joy was gone. And as an introvert, I told no one.
That room held my silence. It watched me unravel. Even writing, which
kept me on toes, began to slip through my fingers.
Then one morning, I woke up and whispered to myself, “You’ve got to
save yourself because no one else will.” I know what you’re thinking,
but no, I didn’t pack my bags. I simply opened my laptop and applied
for a job I had never thought I’d need, a teaching position at a
technical institute. I had a degree in Computer Technology, but I’d
buried that part of me under my love for writing. Still, I knew I
needed to leave that room. I needed to hear other voices. I needed to
remember mine.
I got the job. It paid less than writing, but it gave me something far
more valuable: people, space, and breath. I began talking to those I
trusted. I wrote not just for clients, but for my own healing. Slowly,
the fog started to lift.
No, I didn’t leave him right away. No one ever really does. But that
was the moment I stepped out of being a ghost in my own life. That was
when I stopped surviving and started returning to myself. I’ve learned
that if you want to change the world around you, you must be the best
in your darkest moments. Not perfect but just willing. Willing to
choose yourself, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
That’s how you begin again.EDITOR'S VOICE — “Healing doesn’t start with leaving. It starts with hearing yourself again — and choosing not to ignore what you hear.”
XOXO @ CAROLINE GAKII _ © 2025
Overwhelmed by noise – the kind that doesn’t listen to my voice, where I am heard only when I am being useful or a reliable, responsible, hard worker. Turns me extremely sensitive to words, expressions and sighs – the disappointment through changing demeanors, cadence of voice or language that cuts right through me.
I have been silently weeping in this room, for as long as I can remember. I carry it with me everywhere – it’s where my soul retreats for release, away from all others. Sometimes tears turn to a blown-out howling or silent weeping intermingled with hiccups that refuse to remain subdued in the quest to remain silent, invisible.
Then it slowly turns to rage. The kind that refuses to bog down, to be helpful or to share and be open. It is mostly short-lived, fizzles down with varying lengths of time and is mostly confined to the walls of this room.
This room is never far, it transforms into a bathroom, a silent car or just a vacant house. It hardly ever emerges in company – that would mean I am either breaking or have been pushed off the edge.
Exiting this room is always filled with relief, deep sighs and burdens left behind to face the crowd outside. I am convinced, almost, that I will prevail upon the despair, the validation that I seem to unwillingly and unknowingly seek.
I have never noticed the colors of this room, and I am an artist! surrounded by them, highly observant with an unfortunate memory that remembers well. I am usually curled up in this room, in pain, focused on finding reasons behind my reaction, the effect a loved one’s reactions or words have on me.
I am too busy in this room to notice anything else, since I am searching for answers to this rollercoaster of tears and rage -posing predicaments like the origins of the chicken and the egg - leaving me confused.
I still carry it – without naming it – in the hope that it is temporary."EDITOR'S VOICE — “Some rooms don’t exist on floor plans. They live in the heart, the gut, the throat. We carry them, not because we want to—but because we haven’t found the exit yet.”
XOXO @ NIMITA KAUL _ © 2025
I have vivid memories of certain times and places, that seem to float In space unattached to the rest of my life. For instance, 40 years ago I moved to London that changed my vocational and romantic life forever. I remember with intense detail being on a boat on the Thames one Friday night a week after my arrival . A work event. It was hot, the drinks were flowing, and a disk jockey played endless new wave hits. I remember seeing the woman who would become my wife at the end of the boat. She was young, and laughing as you only can when you are young. No real cares just a seemingly endless exciting future ahead Every so often we would glance at the shore to see St Paul’s Cathedral or Westminster. Yet these iconic buildings, lit brightly in the summer evening didn’t resonate deeply, instead just being a backdrop to a real life rom-com movie. We told bad jokes, flirted, laughed and danced. It was another 6 months until I asked her out on a real date. I do not have any memories of flying to London, where I stayed, getting my flat, or my first days of work. I must have done all those things but recollection is gone forever. Instead my year in London started as if I was dropped fully formed onto a boat on the river on a fabulous summer night. That would change my life.
EDITOR'S VOICE — "Some memories don’t mark time — they make it. We don’t always recall the logistics, just the light, the laughter, and the feeling that everything was about to begin."
XOXO @ DAVID CROUCH _ © 2025
We had just said our vows.
Richard in his tuxedo and me in my wedding gown. The minister said “You may now kiss the bride.” The church roared with cheers from our guests. Hand in hand we turned and faced the guests. Walking back down the aisle we stopped and gave our parents a kiss and a thank you.
They were beaming. When we reached the vestibule, Richard turned to me and asked “Did we do the right thing?” Shock waves went through my body. I couldn’t think. So I did what I normally do…I acted. I greeted friends and family, we danced our dance, and cut the cake like there was nothing wrong.
As the Sun went down over the lake on the golf course, it came time to leave. We said goodbye to everyone as we walked out to the Bentley. As we drove away, my heart sank and I began to cry. Richard was demanding I sit next to him and I was so angry I didn’t even want to talk especially since the driver could hear every word.
We got back to my parents home and we went upstairs to change. He started yelling at me. I began telling him to calm down. He wouldn’t. And that was the beginning of the end of our marriage.
It haunts me to this day. EDITOR'S VOICE — “Sometimes the loudest warning comes softly—one question, one moment, and everything shifts.”
XOXO @ LANEY MILLS _ © 2025
In the 3rd trimester of pregnancy, my abdomen grew with the morning and homesickness.
I learnt that my healthy, strong, and principled (and a smoker) father had fallen ill. I wrote long, detailed letters to them. Three decades ago, forms of communication were extremely limited between countries. I waited for replies that didn’t come, other than a few short letters from my sister. She asked me to focus on my health; she kept me updated with his fast deterioration even though my pregnancy kept me busy.
My preexisting heart issues increased in number as the pregnancy advanced.
One morning, before my doctor's appointment, I sat down to meditate, a regular practice since I was a child. When I closed my eyes, I saw Dad. He kissed my forehead and asked me to be brave. As I embraced that vision, again within a few minutes, I saw him lying lifeless on a hospital bed.
I was upset, sad, and confused. Everyone said that if something were truly wrong, my family would tell me. I wrote another letter; I made a journal entry. I couldn’t shake my father's presence in such a strange way.
I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Diet and exercise couldn't bring the numbers down. I pricked my fingers 6 times a day, weighed food, and injected insulin. In my 7th month, my breech baby stopped moving. A C-section ensued.
After spending a few weeks in the NICU, we finally brought our premature baby home. A month later, when my health somewhat improved, I found out that my father had left this mortal world.
My husband had received news of Dad’s death the same day my father visited me during meditation—the same day I made a journal entry. All the loved ones, including my OBGYN, decided against sharing this heartbreaking news during pregnancy.
To this day, it feels unreal. Even though I was not there with him, his spirit came to me to say goodbye.EDITOR'S VOICE — “Some goodbyes travel beyond distance, language, or time—finding their way to the heart that’s ready to receive them.”
XOXO @ SUE BANERJI _ © 2025Book Recommendation — My First Book
Legacy of Loss is the deeply personal and culturally rich story of Joseph — a man of valor and rigid moral code, both adored and feared in his community. But in a world where goodness is often punished and enemies wear the masks of kin, Joseph’s faith in people becomes his greatest vulnerability.
Spanning generations, this story traces the impact of Joseph’s life and absence on his wife and children, uncovering a web of abandonment, resilience, love, and the search for peace in the aftermath of pain — Legacy of Loss bridges the emotional and cultural gaps between the past and the present, tradition and transformation. ORDER HERE
Saturday Soundtrack — Let's close off with good music
Recommended by our Dearest
Here is “Now and Then” — A single released in November 2nd, 2023 by — “The Beatles”
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Join us next week for “The Shift: Crossing Into Something” — our new theme invites you to explore moments of change, crossing thresholds, or stepping into the unknown. Submit your work, be it designed, strange, sketchy, magical, loud, nostalgic, spoken, tweetable, beautiful or ugly as it may be. You're welcome to our Orbit.
Have a lovely Sunday tomorrow. xoxo
This completely blew me away. It finally feels like home in here. Don't you agree?
Thanks to all the the beautiful, amazing, marvelous and incredibly talented and supportive writers who decided to join us on this edition.
You have my heart 💗
Dear Ral, thank you for including my story of that one room - the Women’s Ward - I thought I might not leave alive. But, I did and it became a powerful memory.
Each of the submissions in this memory house shows how dynamic and creative memory is for each of us. Time is always relative and never boring in memory. I would like to reread and respond to each of the writers who contributed to this fabulous house of memories.
But Ral you gave us the prompt and gathered our work to make a house of many rooms. Your editorial comments add flavour and the colours of inspiration abound in the images shared. Your work is a blessing 🌹