A Book Of Poems Novels & Stories

I was about to turn away—honestly, I’d already proven my point by existing in here—when something caught my eye. A book. Not just any book. It had a dark velvet cover, stitched along the edges, with delicate silver embossing. Fancy. A little dramatic. Totally Sebastian. I picked it up, flipping it open without a second thought. He should’ve hidden it better if he didn’t want anyone snooping. The first page stopped me cold. A poem. Not the gross, rhyming kind either. It was... good. Too good. The kind that actually made you feel something.

“I just wanted to change the environment a bit. You’ve gotten your wolf dragon now. So there is nothing taking us back there.” Nyxoria looked down at the worn-out book still in her hands, her fingers gently running across the rough, faded cover. “So, are you the owner of this book?” she asked curiously once again. Ora stepped closer and gently took the book from her hands, flipping it open with practiced fingers. “What do you think?” she asked. “These are poems. Very old ones.” “Do you understand the writing? The language looks strange to me,” Nyxoria asked, tilting her head.

Novels, grimoires, Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickinson. Wait, what? The Emily Dickinson? She hid most of her poems until the day she died, but looking at this book, holding it, it feels like everything she had written is in here. It's a lot, there were still poems of her that I haven't read yet, I never knew about its existence until now. I quickly opened the book and the pages were amazing, you know that scent of old books? This one has it, that one familiar scent of home, of comfortability, of coffee in the early morning while it's raining. I stopped on a particular poem, one I've read over and over again. I'm Nobody! Who are you?

I say and go up to my room. I drop into my blue bean bag in front of the fish tank. I take the Poems, book out of my jacket pocket and hold it up. Easter Holidays is the first poem in this book. It's followed by Dura Navis and I don't know what to do with this other than to summarize what I thought these poems meant in tenth grade. I've never gotten gifts for my birthday. It never felt like a celebration for us. "Have you seen my other boot?" Miles asks. I turn back to see Micca toss it to him from the bed. "Sweet,"

Like a precious lost treasure, she held the book in her hands with the inscription "The Book of the Banshees" etched like gold on the cover. Evelyn's eyes were trained on the book, lost in the sight of it like an invisible specter tethering her thoughts and focus to one single point.

Through the window, he could vaguely see a young man driving. His pride stopped him from chasing after her for an explanation, but the question haunted him all the way home. "Is it because I have nothing right now?" Back home, he pulled a poetry collection from the shelf. Inside was a bookmark made from a neatly pressed sycamore leaf. Written on it in black ink was: [O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being.] He tucked the bookmark into his collection of European poetry, right on the page of John Keats' On First Looking into Chapman's Homer.

Gladys says, smiling at me and the ladies scream in longing at what has been bestowed for me. “Lastly…” Gladys says, presenting a stack of book towards me. “This is a volume of the king’s favorite books, bound in the finest leather and edged in gold. These poems are shared with you as a token of his desire to connect through the words that move him." Once again, there is an audible sigh spread through the women. "To share his favorite verses," one woman mused aloud. “To connect with him on such an intimate level... What I would give to hold that book, to read the words that move him." Another adds.

He began contemplating death. I turned another. Still death. “No.” I put it back. The sixth was poetry. Better. I opened near the middle. Grain. I read the next poem. Also grain. I checked farther back. Rain. Then grain after rain. I closed the book. Six Veyrathi books. Not one romance. This was a catastrophe of modest but genuine proportions. I looked at the shelf again in case a seventh had developed while I was reading about grain. It had not.

A young girl, not quite tall enough to reach the sorting tray, was assisting in piling up the warm pages. "They sound like poetry," Lia whispered. "But with directions." She wasn't addressing anyone specifically, but the man folding pamphlets at the next table inclined his head. "That's the idea," he said. "Poetry endures. So does purpose." Outside, a cart of snacks rolled past—kutsinta, banana cue, rice cakes in banana leaves. The vendor paused, glancing in through the window. “You’re printing the memory books?” he asked. “Yes,” Lia said. “Want one?”

I whisper. This time, the tears don’t feel like weakness. They feel like healing. Like something finally beginning. ************************ Unspoken Desires - Book 3…. Coming Soon