Blood Roses by Francesca Lia Block

By Francesca Lia Block

What we could do, we all?

we all passionate women who worry crushing the lads we adore with our mouths like caverns of enamel, our mushrooming brains, our watermelon hearts?

what is genuine is what is imagined in 9 stories of transformation through Francesca Lia Block.

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Maybe the electricity in the air had contributed to the spell. Rachel Sorrow’s friend Sasha Sorenson won biggest flirt in middle school. She had soft blond hair and pretty green eyes, little teeth that showed coyly when she smiled and big dimples. When they graduated from middle school, three boys pledged themselves to her in the class will and testament. She lived in a house with lots of glass walls and a pool. Her mother was a fashion designer and her stepfather was a photographer. She was always dressed in the cutest trendy clothes.

Fleurette had once loved that dollhouse. Her father had made it for her. He had even made most of the furniture. Fleurette and her mother had made the curtains and the pillows; they had wallpapered and carpeted. They had no idea that the tiny roses and fleur-de-lis and lace doilies and all the rest were decorations for Death. Last Christmas the dollhouse family had a real Christmas tree and real birthday candles in the candelabra. Fleurette and her mother had wrapped tiny wooden blocks with shiny paper and thread to make presents.

For instance, she was already in love with John Mandolin, just based on the fact that he had painterly talents, bicyclist’s legs, the lips and heavy-lidded eyes of a Byzantine angel, and compassion for teenagers who contemplated suicide. If she and John Mandolin started dating, Rachel Sorrow would be compelled to write him love poetry every night. She would want to make out with him every night. She would climb in his window. She would weep into his shirt. He would say, “You are so intense. Like a storm.

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