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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.
Lauren DeStefano
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Lauren DeStefano
Age: 40
Born: 1984
Born: October 13
Author
Novelist
Connecticut
United States
Grow
Grows
Planted
Things
Unborn
Resent
Seeds
Tiny
Meant
Exactly
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It's never right to give up on someone.
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It was my fifth grade teacher who introduced the idea that writing could be more than a hobby for me.
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She's been conned, ruined, left for dead, and she's not going to forgive any of it. She will soldier on, if only out of spite.
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Most dystopian, classic and contemporary, paints a future world that puts a twist on present society - a future world that could plausibly happen.
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Everyone should remember being born. It doesn't seem fair that we only remember dying.
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For males twenty-five is the fatal age. For women it's twenty. We are all dropping like flies.
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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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You have a way of looking at things. You make it seem as though everything's going to be okay. I can't imagine a more dangerous thing to have than hope like yours.
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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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Dystopian, by definition, promises a darker story.
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We'll squeeze every second that we can from our lives, because we're young, and we have plenty of years to grow. We'll grow until we're braver. We'll grow until our bones ache and our skin wrinkles and our hair goes white, and until our hearts decide, at last, that it's time to stop.
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He sits next to me, careful to avoid my hair that's splayed out around my head like blood. A bullet to the forehead, boom, blond waves everywhere.
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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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Love is not enough to keep any of us alive.
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Bet you never eat, he says. Bet you drink up the oxygen like it's butter. Bet you can go for days on nothing but thoughts.
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Don't you miss it? I say. Being free. He laughs.
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Even things that aren't broken can be fixed.
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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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