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There’s a limit to how much living can be done in a life without freedom.

Lauren DeStefano

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Lauren DeStefano
Age: 40
Born: 1984
Born: October 13
Author
Novelist
Connecticut
United States
Limits
Freedom
Living
Without
Done
Much
Life
Limit

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Lovers are weapons, but love is a wound.
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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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None of the wives mention the security guards by the door, who will probably tackle us to the ground if we try to leave without our husbands.
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There is a dark place calling to me, but I will not go just yet. I know I can't return from it.
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Love is not enough to keep any of us alive.
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It's never right to give up on someone.
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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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Dystopian, by definition, promises a darker story.
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My sisters were in that van.
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I figured it out eventually, she says. She's sitting on the edge of the gurney again her features slowly materialize as my vision clears. It's momentum. What? I whisper. The feeling returning to my lips, spreading out to my fingertips and toes. Momentum, she repeats. You can't just stand there if you want something to fly. You have
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Childhood is a long, long road, from which that dark whispering forest of death seems an impossible destination.
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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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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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It's the silence I imagine in the rest of the world, the silence of an endless ocean and uninhabitable island, a silence that can be seen from space.
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There is warmth shooting through my broken body where there should be pain, and I put my arms around the back of his neck and I hold on to him. I hold on because you never know in this place when something good will be taken away.
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It doesn't matter how much his mother loves him love is not enough to keep any of us alive.
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I miss something I never even had.
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I watch the ashes swim around like dandelion puffs, making swirls where bodies and walls once stood.
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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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Set fire to the broken pieces start anew.
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