This time as we ascend, I watch the world sinking below us. I watch the way the city fades into sand that gets washed by the ocean.
Lauren DeStefanoStichwörter: poetic-fiction ocean city
There is a silence so great that I can hear the ice crystals cracking and falling from eyelashes of girls who will never blink again.
Lauren DeStefanoShe’s a commodity in a sea of broken girls.
Lauren DeStefanoStichwörter: prostitution dark sad
There’s a limit to how much living can be done in a life without freedom.
Lauren DeStefanoHe talks softly, patiently, as I sit on the window ledge and watch boats with colorful triangles for sails scratch the ocean.
Lauren DeStefanoStichwörter: poetic-fiction ocean
We were his disposable things. Brought to him like cattle. Stripped of what made us sisters or daughters or children. There was nothing that he could take from us—our genes, our bones, our wombs—that would ever satisfy him. There was no other way that we would be free.
Lauren DeStefanoIt isn’t a perfect place. There are no perfect places. But nobody cares about perfection when there are sand castles to build and kites to chase, children that are being born, old hearts that are giving in.
Lauren DeStefanoStichwörter: life inspirational poetic-fiction
And about a thousand other things," he says, pausing sometimes between his words, making sure he has them right. I get the sense that words are not sufficient tools for him to build what's going on in his head as he stands before me.
Lauren DeStefanoMy uncle used to let me pretend they were bricks," Linden says, startling me. He eases a thick hardcover from the shelf, hefts it in either hand, and then places it back. "I like to build houses out of them. They never came out exactly like I'd planned, but that's good. It taught me that there are three versions of things: the one I see in my mind, and the one that carries onto the paper, and then what it ultimately becomes."
For some reason I'm finding it difficult to meet his eyes. I nod at one of the lower shelves and say, "Maybe it's because in your mind you don't have to worry about building materials. So you're not as limited."
"That's astute," he says. He pauses. "You've always been astute about things.
He needs to grieve," I tell her. "He'll come find us when he's ready."
"Rose is never going to be dead," she says, too disheartened to sound bitter.
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