A Collection Of Poems Novels & Stories

Even the annoying bugs were a sign of life! I would love to see just one flower that isn't withered and black moldering on the ground. See a tree with actual leaves, not this drippy sludge I'm scared is going to land on me at any moment. I have no idea what type of poison is in them, but from the acrid smell, it can't be good.

I groaned in frustration and leaned against the door, ready to cry when the door pushed open and I fell in. It opened. It fucking opened! I jumped to my feet in happiness, ready to celebrate, when I took notice of the room, and I froze. This wasn't what a study should look like. I shut the door behind me and walked into the room that was dim with red light. Thin ropes decorated the space of the room from one end to the other and I ran my fingers through them, feeling how soft yet sturdy they were. Instruments that were a little hard to recognize from afar decorated the wall and when I inched closer, my jaw literally dropped to the floor. I would recognize what these were even in my sleep.

The air in Aethoniel’s manor was always thick, saturated with the ghost-notes of spells long since cast. It was a bouquet of power, a symphony of flavors that only he, a Fae Lord of ancient and peculiar appetite, could truly savor. He was a collector, but his treasures were not locked in glass cases. They wandered his gilded halls, his moonlit gardens, his silent library, living their lives in a beautiful, gilded cage, forever weaving the magic that seasoned their very souls for his consumption.

"What kind of visibility?" "An anthology. Print and digital. Work from the people who have written to us. The sculptor. The filmmaker. Edmund's poems. The woman in Seattle whose mother played the same three pieces every evening." I look at him. "Not a grant. Not a competition. Just a collection. Here is the work. Here are the people. Here is what devotion looks like across forty years and every discipline." He is quiet for a moment. "That is a publishing project." "Yes." "We are a foundation, not a publisher."

Forbidden Pleasures My Father’s Best Friend 21 Epilogue The remote coastal cabin sat perched precariously on a jagged cliff overlooking the vast, dark ocean. Below, the crashing waves slammed against the rocks with a relentless, rhythmic roar, throwing salt spray high into the night air. It was a lonely, isolated place, miles away from civilization, and more importantly, miles away from the cold, judgmental eyes of the lakeside community they had left behind. Inside the cabin, the heavy scent of the salt air filled the room, drifting through the wide-open balcony doors. Pale moonlight spilled across the dark wooden floorboards, casting long, dramatic shadows against the walls.

John raised a brow and turned to Dick, who shook his head. “Interesting. You’ll go to the collection of alphas?” John asked, standing up. The collection of alphas was responsible for his outlawed status. People referred to them as either the “collection of alphas” or as “the collective”. The only desire he had to deal with the collective was to hurt them. The collection of alphas acted like social workers or the modern legal system for wolves. “They would make you pay more.” “You really think they’d help you?” John asked, taking a step toward the other man. All he needed was any excuse to end this sack of shit’s life and he’d do it in a heartbeat.

I prepared and left for work. Work went smoothly except the fact my team is to stay behind until we had a better strategy for the company’s new product, lots of presentations and meetings, but they all happened fast. I noticed a colleague, Stephen staring at me. I honestly feel like I am overthinking it. He is actually the hottest male colleague in our team, and our Assistant Team Leader. After our last meeting, I went to get coffee, and a stunning male figure came in, shutting the door and the blinds. I turned to look at him, it was Stephen our Ass. Team leader.

Russell Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle Stuck On You and Other Prime Cuts by Jasper Bark Poetry collections: WAR by Alessandro Manzetti and Marge Simon Brief Encounters with My Third Eye by Bruce Boston No Mercy: Dark Poems by Alessandro Manzetti Eden Underground: Poetry of Darkness by Alessandro Manzetti If you’ve ever thought of becoming an author, we’d also like to recommend these non-fiction titles: The Dead Stage: The Journey from Page to Stage by Dan Weatherer

The alternative was worse, my family ruined, me thrown to the streets. Pushing through the heavy doors, I entered a world of shadows and silk. Velvet curtains draped the walls, muffling the low hum of voices and the occasional moan echoing from hidden rooms. A woman in a sheer gown approached, her eyes appraising me like merchandise. "Mirelle Kane? Follow me. Your collector awaits." My stomach twisted. The collector. Rafe Draven. I had seen his name on the letter, a man whose reputation preceded him like a storm cloud.

When Wendy Chance's father, Josiah, was rendered speechless, I was the only one he wanted to go to speech therapy with. Every time Wendy and I wanted to go out, Josiah would clutch the corner of my shirt. Once again, Wendy would stuff an unused train ticket in my hand and pat my shoulder apologetically. "Treat my dad well, and I'll make it up to you on another trip. Evan can accompany me on this business trip instead. Don’t overthink this." Evan Striker was the secretary she claimed knew his place. I had collected 27 unused tickets over the past three years. They were from unrealized trips to the mountains, historical towns, and the beach. Every ticket turned into a post on Evan's social