A House With Good Bones Novels & Stories

She was in Havermouth. Her heart pounded in her head as she slowly turned to look back the way she had come, and her vision shifted, refocused, sharpened perhaps. Amongst the greenery was bone. Skulls with vines woven through eye sockets. Femur formed the fencing in front of the houses, rib bone curved over plants offering them fragile shade and shelter, the points of spears leaning up against the side of a house were tipped with carved points of bone, a door handle, a piece of jewellery…

Something carried forward. Alexander went into the room sometimes. Elijah knew this not because he was told but because he could tell — the quality of Alexander after the room, which was the settled quality, the quality of a man who had been somewhere important and was re-entering the day from a slightly different angle. He never asked about it. It was Alexander's. The townhouse was becoming itself. That was the summary. It was becoming the house that the bones had indicated it could be, given the right inhabitants — a house that knew what it was for and was doing it: containing a life that was full and chosen and ongoing.

long breath as I turn and walk through the door to our new room, unable to hide my smile at the smell of fresh paint. From the looks of the house, Nick's dad is renovating. But it looks like the heaviest part of the work is already done. Shiny hardwood floors downstairs, matching crown moldings in every room, granite countertops in the kitchen with all the stainless steel appliances, looking like new, and the black and glass cabinets that made my heart flutter a little. I had never lived in a place even close to this beautiful. For a construction worker, Aaron Browns wasn't a bad decorator. It's definitely a good house. A really cool place, actually. Not that it's a mansion—just a simple tw

We all walked inside and entered the living room together, it was extremely large, clean, my eyes shifted to the same white pale walls that I’ve always come to known since I been a child growing up in this house – it Has never changed over the years and no matter how many times I’ve been in this house – it was the same damn reaction, Same thought that screamed in the back of my mind - welcome to your new prison. – no doubt Gary must have wanted his members on pack duties to make them feel at home – A safe place they can call their own. Even when they faced the notion they wouldn’t survive outside their old pack – but For the ones who clung onto some kind hope no matter how small it was – it

I came back to the present. We had pulled up to an estate that announced itself with the specific confidence of money that had been accumulated over a long time and had never been required to apologise for itself. The building was large and well-maintained, set back from the street behind gates that were decorative enough to suggest security without appearing to need it, which was its own kind of statement. I looked at it through the windscreen with the involuntary professional assessment I applied to every structure I encountered, the habit so ingrained it operated independently of any conscious decision to engage it. The bones were good. Strong vertical lines, proportions that someone had

It was a weather-beaten, two-story frame house that looked like it had been holding its breath for fifty years. The porch was sagging, and the paint was peeling in long, sad strips, but the foundation looked solid. It sat on the edge of a ravine, isolated, private, and far enough away from the grid that I could scream or shatter every tree in the forest and no one would ever know. I walked up to the front door, feeling the structure with my hand. It was brittle, old, and tired. I liked it immediately. I could fix this place. I could reshape it. I could make it a fortress that didn't look like one.

We had driven into a village. ‎The "Bone Yard" was a sprawling, chaotic settlement built into the base of a massive limestone cliff. It looked like a junkyard that had been reclaimed by nature and desperation. There were no stone castles or glass mansions here. Instead, there were shelters made of corrugated metal sheets, old shipping containers stacked like building blocks, and cabins constructed from rough-hewn logs. ‎ ‎But it wasn't dead. It was teeming with life. ‎

It was getting dark and Bohdan wasn’t familiar with this part of the pit. “Let’s go then,” Bohdan said and the three headed off to the Mormon house. Fifty feet plus or minus a few yards didn’t take long to traverse and once they were beyond the trees, they could see the house easily. The first thing Bohdan noticed was how well the house was kept. Unlike the miner’s house, the Mormon’s house was clean on the outside, without cracks or damage. All the bricks that had fallen over the years had been patched back into place, and it looked like the outside had been painted in the last few years.

“Ass up, face down?” “God, yes.” Henry clears his throat. “Uh, appliances would need updating. But the bones are solid.” Sloane stage-whispers, “So’s your biceps.” He laughs now, shaking his head. “You two haven’t changed.” I grin. “You have. Look at you. All confident and Realtor Ken.” “More like Craigslist Ken,” he mutters, but there’s a blush high on his cheeks now. “Want to see upstairs?” We follow, climbing the narrow staircase with Sloane muttering, “If he turns around and his ass is as nice as his arms, I’m proposing.”

Jill, Rabbit’s woman, was outside waiting for us, and despite me wanting to tell her and all the MCs to go to hell, the thought of climbing in and out of Grace’s small beetle with a broken leg, two broken ribs, fractured and /or sprained--- just about everything… Yeah, the club SUV easily won my vote… “Home sweet home,” I groaned, but was pleasantly surprised at the sight that greeted me. First off, the house did need some loving when I bought it, needing a splash of paint and basically being a little of a fixer-upper. And then Grace had told me about the state of the house, when she and Prez had gone back to secure the evidence I’d gathered…