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There was a desperate undercurrent to our marriage--a feeling of being in a dream from which I couldn't seem to awaken. A nagging sense that my life, laid out so neatly like the clothes Deirdre left on my divan, was no longer my own.

Lauren DeStefano

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Lauren DeStefano
Age: 40
Born: 1984
Born: October 13
Author
Novelist
Connecticut
United States
Dream
Clothes
Seems
Marriage
Undercurrent
Life
Seem
Neatly
Like
Longer
Nagging
Feeling
Awaken
Sense
Laid
Left
Desperate
Feelings
Couldn

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I think, in this strange world of beautiful things, there may be some humanity after all.
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When I was 11 or 12, I was really bored with everything on my summer reading list. It was all happy, middle-grade kinds of books. I was getting frustrated, because I liked to read. My mother went to the library and got me a copy of 'The Other Side of Midnight' by Sidney Sheldon. It was my first adult book.
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There's nothing here to say good-bye to. There's no dancing girl. No mischievous smile. She's gone, off with her sisters, broken free, escaped. And if she were here now, she would say, Go.
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It is the face of a girl who has seen the world, who realizes that it hates her, and who hates it in return.
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I wish I had a memory of that first violent shove, the shock of cold air, the sting of oxygen into new lungs. Everyone should remember being born. It doesn't seem fair that we only remember dying.
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I used to have only one name it used to mean something.
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The thing about hope is that it doesn't go away even when it serves no purpose.
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In the distance I see a lighthouse. The light washes over us and continues on its rotation. This time, I don't know where the light will guide us.
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I see an ocean that’s spilled out of a wineglass, its body clear and sparkling and folding over itself. I see a ribbon of sand.
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The seeds are tiny, unborn things, and I resent them. They'll be planted and they'll grow into exactly what they're meant to be.
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Fall has always been my favorite season. The time when everything bursts with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for the grand finale.
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I stare at her collarbone that's framed with lace, the hollow of her throat, her shoulders that rise with each rise with the weight of her next breath. We're fragile things. Our bones show through our skin. What would any god want with us?
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Good night, sweetheart, he says. Good bye, sweetheart, I say. And it's so casual, so innocent that he doesn't suspect a thing.
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I should not have loved my daughter as I did. Not in this world in which nothing lives for long. You children are flies. You are roses. You multiply and die.
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It's quiet for a while, and then Rowan says We could talk now. We're alone out here. No walls. There are always walls. I say.
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Words like 'unputdownable' and 'irresistible' are simply not enough for Cat Winters's In the Shadow of Blackbirds. Days after finishing this story, it remains the first thought I have in the morning, and the thing that haunts me until I sleep.
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Real’ is a dirty word in this place.
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It's best to let her go, he says. No, no, that's wrong. It's never right to give up on someone.
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I've done it all before, I tell myself, and I can do it again. Trust is the strongest weapon.
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Someday I'll tell you all of it, I say. I'd like that, he says. No, I say. I promise you won't.
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