A Poetry Book Novels & Stories

I prompted. “I am reading the epic poems by the Fae Sage Yric of Cynraed, most particularly the Paragon of Theodghar and the Deceit of Elovyn.” “Poetry,” I sat back on my heels and regarded him in bemusement. The beautiful golden-haired man was absorbed in reading poetry, or all the unusual things for him to possibly be reading in a dragon’s cave, poetry had not even entered my speculative list. “I did not imagine you would read poetry.”

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

Maybe even… sad. I clutch my chest. Not here. Not now. “Albert?” I look up too quickly, heart racing. It’s not Edward. It’s just Emon. But his brow furrows as he walks over. “You okay?” I nod, but it’s a lie. He knows it. Still, he doesn’t push. “I found something you might like.” He holds out a thin book, hand-bound, no title on the cover. “What is it?” He shrugs. “Some indie press thing. Local poetry, I think. The owner said it’s about being lost in your own body.”

Part of me wants to flee this exchange, the other feels strangely drawn to his presence. — Does she have a favorite genre? Poetry? Old novels? He frowns slightly. — She loved poetry, once… before the illness stole a bit of herself from her. But I think she would appreciate a book that reminds her of her youth. Something that makes her feel like she still exists. These words strike me unexpectedly. I understand this pain, this need to cling to what remains. — I might have what you need… follow me. I lead him to the back shelves, where the books no one comes looking for anymore lie dormant. I pull out a bound collection of Ronsard, with a worn leather cover, gilt-edged pages.

COWRIE He brought me a book the morning after our wedding, something bound in cracked leather, old pages smelling like salt and coal smoke. “It’s from the southern coast,” he said, brushing dust off the spine. “I thought you might like the poems. They’re written in three languages—two I know, one I don’t.” His voice stayed soft, hopeful. I nodded once, took it with both hands, placed it on the windowsill. The wind howled against the glass. I rose, smoothed down the folds of my robe, walked past him without a word, my footsteps slapping against stone.

Yam sliced it open slowly, hands trembling. Inside was their book. “The Art of Staying.” Cover: a sunflower. A crooked shelf. Two mugs—one chipped. And behind it all, the suggestion of a fan, mid-spin. Franc stared at it like it might whisper back. “Feels unreal,” Yam said. Franc flipped through pages. Some with artwork. Others with Yam’s poetry. Their story—wired beginnings and all—now bound in matte finish. “I think this book breathes,” Franc said.

The books were mostly collections of poetry, with a powerful presence of works by William Shakespeare. “The Tempest,” she murmured, excitement evident in her voice. It brought back memories of her school days when she had wanted to borrow the book from the library, only to find it unavailable. She had never bought it herself, worrying about the burden of moving with too many belongings during her frequent relocations. Her fingers hovered over the spines of the books, dabbing them but refraining from pulling any off the shelf. “Let it go, Chom,” Ladapha sighed to herself, attempting to shake off her longing. She turned to leave but startled with a soft gasp, “Oh!”

"Show me. Show me who you are when you're not being perfect. When you're not trying to prove anything. Just you." He's quiet for a long moment. Then he pulls away. Goes back to the chair. Picks up the book again. "Sit," he says. I sit. He opens the book. Finds a page. Starts reading. His voice changes. Softens. Like the words mean something. Like they're important. It's poetry. Old. Beautiful. About wolves and moonlight and bonds that transcend death. I close my eyes. Let his voice wash over me. Let myself just feel.

A w‌ee‌k after the bookstore, a plain, unmarked package was deliv‌ered to Elara’s studio. There was no⁠ retu‍rn address⁠, no not‍e. W‌ar⁠y⁠, she opened it to find‌ not a weap⁠on or a threat, but a book. Th‍e‍ sam‍e lea‍ther-bo‍und collection of Mary Oliver poems they had both reached for.

But here, under the soft hum of old lights and surrounded by paper and ink, it eased. She moved toward the back room, flipping the CLOSED sign even though the door was unlocked. Technically, they didn’t open until ten. Technically, she didn’t care. Back among the shelves, she let her fingertips drift over cracked spines and dog - eared corners. Each book whispered differently. Some loud, some quiet. Some didn’t whisper at all. But one — near the middle, in the poetry section no one ever touched — felt warm. Warmer than it should’ve.