A Book Of Poems Novels & Stories

The books were mostly collections of poetry, with a powerful presence of works by William Shakespeare. “The Tempest,” she murmured, excitement evident in her voice. It brought back memories of her school days when she had wanted to borrow the book from the library, only to find it unavailable. She had never bought it herself, worrying about the burden of moving with too many belongings during her frequent relocations. Her fingers hovered over the spines of the books, dabbing them but refraining from pulling any off the shelf. “Let it go, Chom,” Ladapha sighed to herself, attempting to shake off her longing. She turned to leave but startled with a soft gasp, “Oh!”

It was hardbound but there was no title or anything— it was just a book covered with vintage material. Khloe handed out the book to me so I let her go and held it in my hand. I scanned it by flipping the pages and I noticed that the contents were all handwritten. There was also no title inside, table of contents, index nor publisher information. And I realized this was not really a book— it was purely a handwritten notebook. "Can you read the latest handwritten poem?" Khloe spoke and I gazed up at her with my eyebrow raised.

Hah“ ”Pfft. Why is my wife being so cute?“ ”Shut up, it wouldn't get me at all“ ”Let's go eat before the food gets cold“ *screen zooms at the very last page of the bool* A book is not just a piece of paper. It is a whole new world. A different dimension. A teacher that would show you things and teach you. A friend that would comfort you and save you. A vehicle that would bring you to a far far away land without even moving from where you are. Just like a journey filled with thousands of different car. Going to various of places that is very far.

***Author's Note: This book will not make sense if you do not read the two before this first. So, please read: Book one: P.S. You're My Mate Book two: She's My Mate Before reading this book. Thank you and enjoy!! _________________________________________________ QUADE Poetry. Tattoos. Piercings. Sex.

I demanded, eyeing the mysterious device untrustingly. Indigo didn’t try to hand it to me though, he merely unwound a string of leather from around it and flipped it open, revealing more and more pieces of parchment inside, hundreds of them, bound together and fanning up from the center between two thicker outer shells to make an arch. Captivated as all the parchment settled again, I watched in awe when Indigo pressed his hand down on it. “This,” he told me, “is called a book.” “A book,” I repeated reverently, easing cautiously closer. “Is it dangerous?”

"Show me. Show me who you are when you're not being perfect. When you're not trying to prove anything. Just you." He's quiet for a long moment. Then he pulls away. Goes back to the chair. Picks up the book again. "Sit," he says. I sit. He opens the book. Finds a page. Starts reading. His voice changes. Softens. Like the words mean something. Like they're important. It's poetry. Old. Beautiful. About wolves and moonlight and bonds that transcend death. I close my eyes. Let his voice wash over me. Let myself just feel.

COWRIE He brought me a book the morning after our wedding, something bound in cracked leather, old pages smelling like salt and coal smoke. “It’s from the southern coast,” he said, brushing dust off the spine. “I thought you might like the poems. They’re written in three languages—two I know, one I don’t.” His voice stayed soft, hopeful. I nodded once, took it with both hands, placed it on the windowsill. The wind howled against the glass. I rose, smoothed down the folds of my robe, walked past him without a word, my footsteps slapping against stone.

Part of me wants to flee this exchange, the other feels strangely drawn to his presence. — Does she have a favorite genre? Poetry? Old novels? He frowns slightly. — She loved poetry, once… before the illness stole a bit of herself from her. But I think she would appreciate a book that reminds her of her youth. Something that makes her feel like she still exists. These words strike me unexpectedly. I understand this pain, this need to cling to what remains. — I might have what you need… follow me. I lead him to the back shelves, where the books no one comes looking for anymore lie dormant. I pull out a bound collection of Ronsard, with a worn leather cover, gilt-edged pages.

Pulled the book out. It was a slim volume of poems. Contemporary, literary, the sort of thing that wins prizes and sits unread on most people's shelves. But this copy had been read. The spine was cracked at multiple points, and when I opened it, the pencil marks were everywhere — single words underlined, question marks in the margins, occasionally a longer note in handwriting that was smaller and more controlled than I expected. Sharp. Precise. I sat in the worn reading chair and opened to a marked page and read.

Running my fingers along with the rolls of books in the palace library, I have never written a poem before, so I need to research; I stop walking when I notice a small leather book without a title. That peaks my curiosity. I grab it, and walk over to the sofa and sit down with the book in hand; I have never seen this before, and it has my attention. I open it and start reading through some of the writing, and it's a handwritten book; I'm not sure this is even a book, more like a journal.