A Book Of Poetry Novels & Stories

But she… didn’t flinch. Lena walked over to a little table display and picked up a thin, cloth-bound book. She walked over to him, holding it out like an offering. *The Quiet Between Lightning Strikes.* A poetry book. The cover was old and nubbly, the title scribbled in fine silver ink. Julian stared at it like it was an alien thing. "What's this?" "A book," she said, smiling. "I told you. I don't—"

The crackling fire spat, dawning in me the realization that even in the stillness of the night, there was still warmth to be found. I involuntarily walked towards a certain shelf containing a familiar row of books, my hands scaling slowly through the books there. It was poetry,my favourite while young. back then it was an old friend, a comfort whenever I come to the library after a long and tiring day. I fell in love with poetry, and it fell in love with me. As I opened the book of poetry that night, I scanned through the pages of the book. It all seemed to come alive as I stood there,the large book on my arm.

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,"

He returned his attention to the bookshelf at the rear of his office, the one he’d been browsing when he’d first heard the strange sounds outside, only being made by the cats, after all. The top shelf held purely “literary works.” Poetry collections of Blake, Yeats, Robert Frost, and Shakespeare. Prose collections of Zora Neal Hurston, Hemingway, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Flannery O’Connor, and folktales collected by the Brothers Grimm. Novels, from The Man in the Iron Mask to Madame Bovary, to Villette and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, to A Passage to India by E. M. Forster.

***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.

"No, it doesn't rain very much there. And I would love to visit Mumbai sometime." Unsure of what to say next, I let the conversation lapse. He was very much engrossed in his book and I didn't think he was going to let his attention waver much. I took a peek at the cover to find it was a poetry book. So I let out a small sigh of dissatisfaction as I closed my eyes and stretched out a bit more. I felt the heat of the rays press kisses against my skin and I sprawled on the chaise further, hoping to renew some semblance of the tan I had inherited from my mother. From the corner of my eye, I took a peek of him again to find him still captivated by the book.

"It'll be fine. You'll see." The door closed behind her. I sat there for a moment in the quiet. Then stood and walked to the bookshelf that lined the far wall. My fingers found the worn spine of a leather-bound book—poetry, something I'd never actually read. Pulled it forward until I heard the click. The entire bookshelf groaned. Started sliding to the left, smooth and silent despite its weight. Behind it, a room. Small. Hidden. Locked away where no one would ever think to look.

His smile could light up the entire library. He settles into the leather wingback, my favourite chair, the one I curl up in when I want to feel held, and opens his book. I catch a glimpse of the cover. Pablo Neruda. Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. “Why are you reading that?” He looks up at me. “What?” I clear my throat. What the fuck are you doing Vanessa? I adjust the collar of my shirt. “Neruda. Why are you reading it?”

The History of Literary Criticism. "Huh," I laugh. No wonder it's never been read. It sounds incredibly boring. It's so beautiful, though, that I can't resist pulling it down off the shelf and carefully flipping open the cover. And that's when I understand why this book is different. It's not a book at all - at least not a functional one. All of the pages have been glued together, and a block has been carved out of the middle, making a perfect little nook in which to conceal something. There's something inside - a small, roughly rectangular bundle wrapped in plain cloth.

The atmosphere of the island was serene and warm, despite the nearness of the sea and the lightness of swimwear. — At the center of the square There stood a massive book, bound in dark brown leather. Its pages were thick, as if made to bear the heaviest of emotions. It lay open to a blank page. This was the Book of the Lovers’ Remembrance. It was said that every name written within it could never be erased, never forgotten, but would be immortalized with the island itself. Naomi approached slowly, her eyes gleaming with pure wonder, curiosity mingled with an inexplicable sense of awe. Adel followed her, stood beside her, and gently placed his hand on her shoulder.