Love is the story and the prayer that matters the most.

All stories are, in some form, prayers.

But if we do not dream, then I think perhaps we are misusing our heads. They are not on our shoulders only to be farms for hair.

Some women have a pulsing energy almost too sharp and salty to endure and when they are in pain their pain is ferocious and shatters all over the place.

Everyone thinks that the old days were better, or that they were harder, and the modern times are chaotic and complex, or easier all around, but I think people’s hearts have always been the same,...

Did I ever tell you about Asin? She is the wild woman of the woods. It’s an old story of the People. My mom used to tell me about Asin. Asin couldn’t bear being married...

She’ll be a fierce woman, that one. It’ll take a hell of a man to love her right. Be like living with a thunderstorm. Same as her mother. A fierce woman. Force of nature. The...

There are stories in the air as thick as birds around me, he would say. I will save those stories from starving he would say. I have a great hunger for stories, he would say.

Maybe we guzzle forty stories with every breath we draw and they soak into us and flavor and thicken and spice the wild stew we are.

Rained gently last night, just enough to wash the town clean, and then today a clean crisp fat spring day, the air redolent, the kind of green minty succulent air you’d bottle if you could...