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Set fire to the broken pieces start anew.

Lauren DeStefano

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Lauren DeStefano
Age: 40
Born: 1984
Born: October 13
Author
Novelist
Connecticut
United States
Anew
Broken
Pieces
Fire
Start

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And everywhere girls, tumbling from trees like orange blossoms and hitting the earth with sickening thuds. They crack open.
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But I know all the things you're too sweet to know.
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Real’ is a dirty word in this place.
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A party in the orange grove. The pain on Linden's face is immediate. I am unwavering. He has cost me more pain than I will ever be able to repay.
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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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Once upon a time there were two parents, two children, and a brick house with lilies in the yard. The parents died, the lilies wilted. One child disappeared. Then the other. Pg 225
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To die trying would be better than to die without purpose.
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There's a world out there that nobody has bothered to promise her.
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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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I don't dare touch her. Loss is a knowledge I'm sorry to have. Perhaps the only thing worse than experiencing it, is watching it replay anew in someone else--all the awful stages picking up like a chorus that has to be sung.
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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'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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Hope, that risky, illustrious thing. It should have gone extinct by now, but we keep it alive.
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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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Even things that aren't broken can be fixed.
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There's a sort of dead passion in him. A spark that, had he more years to live, would be a wildfire.
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So many of the things I've wanted are the things I've been taught to fear.
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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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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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