A Poetry Book 소설 & 이야기

Bernice cried, "Mom and Dad are gone." "It's impossible!" Dylan exploded in anger. He denied it as he rushed from room to room, shouting, "You're all just pretending! When I left, Mom and Dad were perfectly fine. How could they suddenly be gone?" Bernice shook her head. "Why don't you believe me? Mom and Dad are truly gone. They were poisoned to death. The doctor said that they kept calling our names before they passed. We're not worthy of being their children." Andrew and Sally were the best parents in the world and had devoted everything to Dylan and Bernice.

Everything exactly right. He was in the poetry section, which should not have surprised me and did anyway. Standing with his back partially to the door, fingers moving along the spines with the unhurried attention of a man who understood that browsing was its own form of conversation. He stopped at a leather-bound Keats and drew it from the shelf, opening it with both hands, his touch careful and reverent in the way you touch something that has mattered to a great number of people over a great deal of time. I stood in the aisle and watched him for a moment before he knew I was there.

“Makes sense.” That surprised me a little. I expected a comment. Or judgment. Or that usual tone he used when he thought something was pointless but didn’t care enough to argue. Instead he just… accepted it. So I leaned into the conversation instead. “This book is actually good,” I said, tapping it lightly. “It’s mostly poetry centered on grief and memory and how people pretend they’re okay when they’re not.” His eyes flicked down to it again. “Sounds depressing.” “It’s not depressing,” I said immediately. “It’s emotional.”

Isla The black envelope arrived on my doorstep at midnight, sealed with crimson wax imprinted by a symbol I did not recognize, a coiled serpent devouring its own tail. Inside, a single cardstock invitation, embossed in gold. “The Vault awaits. Your presence is required. Refusal is not an option.” No signature, no explanation. Just an address in the shadowed underbelly of the city, a warehouse district where the elite hid their dirtiest secrets.

Rae was jumping in her seat with anticipation when I walked in the room. “I guess you found something then” I smirked. “Johnny this book I don’t understand what it is but it is full of acrostic poems but looking at this one particular poem, its layered with more secrets and hidden messages on top. All poems have hidden meanings that’s the basis of every poem but this book is so cleverly written. Look at this page the book and the amulet together- look here,” she showed me the page I had found with the book and Amulet on a stone plinth.

But she did not realize how quickly it could turn into nighttime. "The sun was up just a moment ago," she whispered. "Seconds ago, actually. Why is it slowly turning nighttime already? This is too--" her whole body jolted as a book popped out right in front of her. It glowed, as if inviting Verena to open the pages under the moon that is slowly coming up to its place. "The cursed book," she whispered. "Why the hell is this here? How could this book follow me in my dream?" "Am I draping or is this..."

he asked, taking another sip of his coffee. "A book," was her dry reply, without even looking up. Nic gritted his teeth. "I'm aware of that. What's the title?" he asked, with less patience than before. "How to kill someone you don't like in two days." Nic had to laugh on the inside. She really was a funny piece of work. She still had yet to learn her manners, but she would. He would be damn sure of that. He walked over to her and snatched the book from her hands. Before she could protest, he read the title to himself. '100 Greatest Love Poems of All Time'. He handed the book back to her and walked to the bar area and sipped some more of his coffee.

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.

I make my way through the aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines of books, until I reach the poetry section. I don't know why I'm drawn here. I just am. My body moves like it knows something my brain doesn't. I walk through the poetry section, line by line, shelf by shelf, until I stop. My hand freezes mid-reach. 'Pablo Neruda.' A whole row of his work, lined up neatly, my fingers pause over one book in particular. 'Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.' I pull it off the shelf slowly, like it might bite me. The cover is worn, soft under my fingers, like someone's held this book a lot and loved it.

“I think that is time I leave you. I will see you later, Raina.” I looked around the room that I was now locked in. I looked through every draw, every cabinet, and through a small closet, only stumbling across a small book of poetry. I could only assume that it had been left there by the previous occupant of the room. I had always enjoyed poetry. I sat down on the bed and began reading the book. The poetry was eloquently written and quite meaningful. I could feel the emotions of the writer dripping out of every line. One particular line stood out to me as I read: