Unbroken Author Novels & Stories

Or what if he gets tired and can't take it anymore? An orphan girl with nothing to her name, what can I possibly offer him, what could I give him? Chapter 2 How did I get here? Standing in front of the door of our broken Alpha, Who’s looking at me like I'm some sort of germ, by the way. Right! I remember I was forced to. Who would have known my life would have turned out like this? I'm Anabella, the adoptive daughter of Beta Bryan and Sophia porter, I lost my parents at the young age of 6 years old, and I was adopted at the age of 8

They broke into a run as soon as they were tucked behind the next cell block, weaving from shelter to shelter, blood rushing in her ears and memories flaring back to life in her mind. Bony hands touched her chin. Meaty palms smacked her face. A stone hit the small of her back. Laughter rung out, clear and crisp against the hazy backdrop of the surreal. Gnarled fingers carded through her knotted hair, pulling hard whenever they met a tangle. Knives were held over fire, gleaming red as they were pressed to her skin – Coming back had been a mistake. She needed to get out of here.

My Grandma died some few years ago but not after telling me everything I have to know, not after leaving a great burden on my shoulders. It was after her death that I decided to relocate. Thea tried all her best to let me stay but I told her I had to leave for my own good. I know that it is bad and very coward of me to always relocate when I am betrayed. I know I should learn to face my demons but what can a broken person really do? What good can ever come out of a broken Pieces of heart? Thea even insisted to follow me here too but I immediately turned her down and explained things clearly to her and she eventually understood.

"When I was a girl. Before Margaret. Before Sergei. Before any of it. I dreamed about mountains and rivers and open skies." "What happened?" "Life." She turned to face me. "Life happened. And I let it break me." "You're not broken." "I'm shattered." She held up her hands. "Look at me. I'm trembling. I haven't stopped trembling in thirty years." "That's not broken. That's human." "Same thing." "No." I walked to her. Took her hands. "Being human means being afraid. Being broken means giving up. You haven't given up." "I've been hiding."

She felt sixteen again, barefoot in that shelter, a paper bead bracelet on her wrist, and a secret in her chest that she thought would kill her if spoken aloud. Then she saw Marla’s smile in her mind. And River’s hands building bookshelves. And her own feet walking into a world she was told she’d never survive. She breathed in. And began. “There was a night I thought would be my last,” she said. “A night where I left a hotel room, pregnant, invisible, and convinced no one would ever care. But here’s the thing about brokenness. It doesn’t mean you’re done. It means you’re in process.

"Deanna, what did you just say? "Didn’t you say before that this child was the treasure your whole family had been waiting for? That I was a hero to your family? That you’d treat me well for the rest of your life? How can you turn on me like this?!" "That was before!" Deanna screamed, her voice breaking. "Look at the situation now! My company is being destroyed. Your family is collapsing. I’m not going down with you! We’re breaking up right now. Stop clinging to me!"

“It’s also a book about what happened to him. What was constructed and deployed against him by people who found him threatening and found it convenient to remove him. What it cost. What it took to correct it.” I looked at Michael Adeyemi in the third row. He met my gaze steadily. “But it’s also and this is the part I didn’t expect when I began a book about what comes after. About the particular work of building something real from the ruins of something broken. About the people who helped with that work and the surprising directions from which help arrived.” I paused. “It’s a love story, which I also didn’t plan. But the truth of the last two years insisted on including itself.”

His mother's words were gospel to him, and the more he mulled over them, the more he was convinced he had to confront Rowena, even if it meant ending her life. As fate would have it, Rowena was being pushed out by the doctor, clamoring for me to take the baby. The others recoiled from the lifeless infant, desperate for it to be someone else's problem. Not me, though. I had faced that horror in a previous life; the shock of a stillborn had already scarred me once. 'But why should I?' I pondered. I confronted Rowena, "Why should I be the one to take your child?"

The sun over Lagos burned without mercy, turning every metal roof into a sheet of fire. At the bus stop, the air quivered with exhaust fumes, impatient honks, and voices raised in the daily battle of survival. Promise stood apart from the crowd, clutching her bag tightly against her body. Her red heels pressed into the cracked pavement, the straps biting her ankles, but her chin stayed level. The words she had written the night before pulsed through her veins: Broken shoes, unbroken steps.

The only light in the room came from the antique floor lamp Mary once read under — its brass still gleamed. Sophie sat, opened her laptop, and pulled up a blank document. She had no speechwriters anymore. This one had to come from her. Her hands hovered above the keyboard for a long moment. Then she began. “To every hand that ever carried this flame... I began Phoenix to survive my own story. But it was you — the readers, the teachers, the broken, the brave — who made it bigger than me. We built something that scared power. We built something that healed strangers.