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leondumoulin.nl: Diary of a Witch's Daughter (): Tonya D. Parker, Anim the Priestess, Trisha Gentle: Books.
Table of contents

• More Artworks from the Collection
• A Discovery of Witches (TV Series – ) - IMDb
• Hip-Hop EDU: Use Music To Spark Students' Creativity and Learning
• Out...2013
• Ellen's Parents

She remade the crochet-hook from bamboo chopsticks and she was knitting sweaters. It was first time to see that somebody repair holes in socks and to wear again for me. She taught me how to knit sweater too. Every time she made something much unexpected me, and also killed the caterpillars. There were some snake-sake bottles in the old Japanese style shelf.

And some antique bowls, old wooden sculpture on the shelf too. I was pricked my feet on a thorn on wooden floor many times. And it had a dark room, this house's atmosphere was fit for the witches. This Diary was started to write when she stopped a geisha job and married then came into "Onogi" family. This diary had the meaning to change her old habits and had meaning for her psychological therapy.

It was beginning to believe from a group of Shinto "Matsushita ancestral Shinto" in Showa 6 , until her death in Showa Then my grandmother edited these diaries and wrote down the modern Japanese version.

There was sad memory at that time in the diary. Also we can see her as a local people she did self-cultivation process for" people valued selflessness ". My grandmother died at age 98 in I will not run away into the forest, because that is what they want me to do. I keep my eyes forward now, staring at the gallows. They have hammered away for a night and a day putting it up. You can smell the fresh-cut wood, even from where I stand at the back of the crowd. What powers do they think we have, my grandmother and I? If she had real power, would she not be able to undo the locks to their stinking dungeon and fly through the air to safety?

Would she not call up her master, Satan, to blast and shrivel them to dust and powder? And if I had any powers, any at all, I would destroy all these people, right here and now. I would turn them into a mass of fornicating toads. I would turn them into leprous blind newts and set them to eating themselves.

More Artworks from the Collection

I would cover their bodies with suppurating sores. I would curse them from generation to generation, down through the ages, so their children and their children's children bore gaggling half-wits. I would addle their heads, curdling, corrupting the insides of their skulls until their brains dripped from their noses, like bloody mucus. I was so lost in my curses that only the sudden silence of the crowd brought me back to what was about to happen. Black figures stood on the pale boards, silhouetted against the white of the sky: Witchfinder, Minister, Hangman.

In the unexpected quiet, a sneeze sounded, loud. Obadiah Wilson's thin figure bent forward, suddenly convulsed. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his face as sneeze after sneeze racked him. When he took it away, the crowd drew breath. Blood bloomed thick and red on the snow-white linen. It was the only color on the whole platform.

My grandmother was brought forward for all to see. She was held, arms pinioned behind her, then pushed to the foot of the ladder that leaned against the gallows tree. She ignored the eyes on her, looking over the upturned heads, searching for me. Her eyes found mine and she smiled. Her glance went sideways to Obadiah Wilson, self-appointed Witchfinder, trying to staunch the blood pouring from his nostrils, and she nodded very slightly, as if to say well done. She nodded again to someone behind me.

That was the last I saw of her. The hangman stepped forward. He held a hood raised to cover her face, and at the same time a cloak closed around me. I was taken down one of the steep alleys leading from the market and was pushed into a waiting carriage just as I heard the crowd's roar. She stared out the window, studying the passing scene while I studied her.

She was obviously a lady, richly apparelled. Her cloak was soft dark wool fastened at the throat with a silver clasp and chain; her dress was green silk-velvet, the shifting shade of young beech leaves turning in a spring wind. Her hands were gloved, her fingers long and thin, and I could see beneath the soft leather the bulge of many rings. Her face was veiled. These cookies track usage of the site for security, analytics and targeted advertising purposes.

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Out...2013

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