It wraps up your heart like a string pulled almost too tight. The pressure, the tug, even the twinge of pain feels good, right, long-absent.

Or else it takes your breath away, sucks it from your lips like a hard fall flat on your back, steals your life for seconds and leaves you airless and aching to breath again.

Or it tears you, barbed wire ripping into the tender flesh of your spirit, your blood leaving you, and even when you heal, the scar reminds you of the time you were rent.

Or it lays beneath you, a perfect bed at the end of a long, hard, nearly endless day. It holds you up and gives you respite. It heals you.

Story. Story does all of these things.

The best writers among us may not even know they have this power, this ability to wrap us and rend us, leave us breathless, and heal our weariness. But they do.

This is why I read. This is why I write. In the quiet, still hope that one day, some of my words will leave you rent and breathless, aching and the smallest bit more whole.

What does story do to you? What do you want your stories to do to others?