All the Murmuring Bones

by A.G. Slatter

I could read for myself, sing for myself, but there’s something magical about song and story when they’re given, something unique.

I put my hand on the box and think, Here is the thing I didn’t tell you: that I loved you no matter what.

the Church gets more and more militant about things that don’t conform. Hard to know, too, how many burn who are genuinely those who can hex, and how many are merely inconvenient women.

here there is something to create and grow and nurture. Here, I feel as if I have a purpose rather than a series of activities done simply to survive, to hold back dust and dirt and eventual death.