Pretty things will swarm you like that, like your heart was a hive of electric bees.

I am here, come closer," the old donkey said with her eyes. "I will mother you.

There are parts of Texas where a fly lives ten thousand years and a man can't die soon enough. Time gets strange there from too much sky, too many miles from crack to crease in the flat surface of the land.

The more potent, unasked question is how society at large reacts to eager, voluntary violence by females, and to the growing evidence that women can be just as aggressive as men.

How deep and sticky is the darkness of childhood, how rigid the blades of infant evil, which is unadulterated, unrestrained by the convenient cushions of age and its civilizing anesthesia.

But I think everybody should write. I think those people with stories who don't write should be stomped on.

Were also far enough from the publishing power that we have no access to the politics of publishing, although there are interpersonal politics, of course.