That's the way prayer do. It's like electricity, it keeps things going.

Find I can get my point across a lot better writing them down

I slip off my flats and walk down the front porch steps, while Mother calls out for me to put my shoes back on, threatening ringworm, mosquito, encephalitis. The inevitability of death by no shoes. Death by no husband.

If chocolate was a sound, it would've been Constantine's voice singing. If singing was a color, it would've been the color of that chocolate.

And why? Because they are suffocating within the lines that define their town and their times. And sometimes lines are made to be crossed.

Bosoms are for bedrooms and breastfeeding.