American Fiction Novel Novels & Stories

“Okay, who is that person?” “Hemmingway. He is noted both for the intense masculinity of his writing and for his adventurous and widely publicized life. His succinct and lucid prose style exerted a powerful influence on American and British fiction in the 20th century. One of his famous book is The Old Man and the Sea—a novella written himself.” While I am continuously answering his question, I found his gaze and saw him staring intently at me as he waited for my next words. I bit my tongue, already distracted on the way he look at me so I look on my right only to see Rael, Nathan and Levi looking so proud at me. I lick my lower lip one more time as I continue what I was about to say earlier

Grace says, placing a plate of French toast with syrup and raspberries. “I do, thank you so much,” I say, smiling at the yummy breakfast in front of me. “You are welcome, and tell me, dear, where are you from? You might be dark-skinned, but you don’t have a black American accent,” Grace says, probably trying to make some talk with me, which I don’t mind because she seems very friendly. I am about to answer her when Ethan beats me to it

The horse slowly continued down the road, sensing that something isn`t right. When they reached the hill, the merchant knew exactly what it was. The remains of camp or a battle, he wasn`t sure…nor did he wanted to know. He turned, mounted his horse and went into the other direction. The Long Road, they call it. It certainly earned that name. Somewhere high above him, on rocky edge, hidden among two sides of the mountain stood an inn, old and freshly repaired, but still it was an inn. He hurried his horse. The inn was large, it had three of four floors, he couldn’t tell. It was getting larger and larger with each passing feet. He dismounted. Two large, but rundown, wooden doors loomed over hi

“Do not think of it in such common terms, June,” he whispered, his voice smooth as silk but heavy as lead. “You are looking at this through the lens of human morality, but we are wolves. We are creatures of destiny and design.”He stepped even closer, his heat radiating through my thin, silver dress, a cruel contrast to the damp stone wall at my back.

Ava’s POV Sleep was a stranger that night. I had tossed and turned until the moon itself had traveled halfway across the sky, the glow through my curtains mocking my exhaustion. My wolf stirred restlessly beneath my skin, as though aware of my turmoil but refusing to share its calm with me. Every breath in the dark felt stifling, every thought circling back to Diego, to Sage, to the chains of my family’s expectations. I finally pushed the covers off with a sigh and padded to my balcony doors. The air outside was cool and heavy with the faint scent of rain. The courtyard below looked peaceful, but peace was the last thing inside me.

Her father is hardly ever home, working long hours in the city while her mother spends most of her time grading papers from all of her high school students. She opens the door quietly, but there is no need. Her mother is still awake. She's curled up in the living room reading her latest adventure novel wrapped on the comfy (and dare she call ugly) recliner her father just had to have. Her curly auburn hair is up in a bun with a few stray strands spiraling free as her eyes intently scan the new Kindle she received for her birthday only a few weeks ago. It's safe to say she has become a little obsessed with it. Can't say Sera can blame her. She herself escapes to a different world every time s

“It was never served. I did love macaroni and cheese, though. And pickles.” I giggled. “Then we are going to go pop your grilled cheese cherry,” I told him. “And they have a great mac and cheese if you hate the sandwich.” “Do you like this place?” he asked, looking down at me with those blue eyes. Today they were the color of the sky just before nightfall. Dark and blue and beautiful. “I do,” I told him. My favorite is called ‘The Young American.’ It’s cheese, tomato, and bacon on sourdough bread. Sometimes I have them add avocado and roasted red peppers, too. It’s delicious.”

Neither option comforted me, but being the White Wolf wasn't about comfort. I would have to speak with Axton first to hear what he has to say about it. His perspective had a way of grounding me, even when I didn't want to admit it. Once I got home, I grabbed the books Axton had brought me and carefully went through them one after another. The pages were old and smelled faintly like dust and pine, probably a result of being kept in the library for decades. I read slowly at first, scanning for anything that caught my attention, then faster when the information became repetitive.

didn’t. Hers was nothing compared to W. F. Call’s, but hers would probably be sufficient to get her to San Francisco, where no doubt she would end up a respectable woman. After accepting a cup of coffee from Lorie, he took a look at Jake’s thumb, which was swollen and turning white. “You better be sure you got all that thorn out,” Gus said. “If you didn’t you’ll probably lose the hand, and maybe the arm that goes with it.” “I won’t lose no arm, and if I did I could still beat you dealing one-handed,” Jake said. “I hope you invite us to breakfast one of these days, to repay the favor.” WhenAugustus reached Lonesome Dove, the one street was still and empty, with only one horse twitching its t