50 Book Novels & Stories

My boyfriend proposed to me when we graduated from high school, but I made a deal with him instead of giving him an immediate answer. "We'll get married when we've collected 500 train tickets." In the first year, Marcus could hardly wait to come see me every day. Before long, our collection had grown to 280 tickets. He even laughed and said that he'd be able to take me home as his wife before graduation at the rate he was going. In the second year, we met each other halfway. Soon, the number of tickets climbed to 400. But in our third year, Marcus told me that his advisor had taken on a new project and that a junior who had just joined the research team needed him to show her the rope

When my shift ended, I found myself walking toward the corner table where Kael sat, his laptop closed now, a book in his hands. I stopped short when I saw the cover. ‘Knot We Cannot Untie.’ That was the book he was holding. I can't believe that Kael would be reading one of Linda Lively’s books. “You read… this?” I said, the surprise evidently in my voice. Kael looked up, one brow raised. “Why? You think I only read racing magazines and bank statements?” I gave a small laugh. “Chill bro. It’s just… not what I was expecting ”

I got out a dense packed book and quickly went back to Reuben in bed. He looked confused and disheveled; his inquisitive gaze fell on the book in my hand. He asked, "What is that?" I, in turn, proudly presented it to him, "Lo and behold Your Highness, this right here in my hand is the 5th popular limited edition of Busty Asian Babes. I heard it is so stimulating that you can release at any time." Reuben with book in hand, "..........."

He looked back at Ernest. He said: "We are the fifth book." Ernest looked at him. He received this. He received the weight of it. The four books were the written argument. The four books were the description. The four books were the means of seeing. But the thing itself—the convergence, the accumulation, the being-inside, the ordinary day at thirty-three years deep—that thing could not be written. That thing could only be lived. And they were living it. They had been living it for thirty-three years. The living was the fifth book.