Romans & histoires Baudelaire Book

Once again, I was in awe of the underworld. The archives were set up like a vast library, similar to the one Belle was obsessed with in Beauty and the Beast. The shelves started six inches off the ground and went until they reached the vaulted ceiling. Each bookcase had ten frames, and the bookcases were lined up side by side from one long wall to the next. Each shelf was lined with leather-bound books; glancing at them; I could tell they were arranged by title and publication date. The titles of the books were written in a language I couldn't decipher. Still, Samael seemed to know what he was doing as he walked to the far right corner of the library, grabbed one book, and then went to the o

My inner beast simply cannot bear the horrific reality of my own mother abandoning my flesh to the executioners. Hearing my sharp cry cut through the wind, Helena’s boots halt on the gravel, and she slowly turns her head back toward the dock. The illumination is incredibly dim; the heavy midnight darkness around our positions is completely overpowering, even with the high floodlights buzzing on the poles. Helena and my own frame stand far apart, completely separated by the massive, unbridgeable gulf of our distance. But my eyes clearly see the absolute, freezing coldness lingering inside Helena’s gaze. My own mother is looking across the concrete at my face as if her eyes are staring directl

Balthazar shook his head, his mind still working out what he saw. "What?" I asked. "There was something else. The book just kept repeating a verse over and over again." "What was it?" "Something the shadows whispered right before Nesrin had released Dela. 'One shall rise, one shall fall. In a fight of fire and ice, a phoenix will be reborn.' It said it over and over again," I furrowed my brow. "You never mentioned it before." Balthazar shook his head. "It wasn't me they spoke to. It was Balor, and I thought it came true when your mother died, so we never talked about it."

A well worn, thin strip of leather hangs from the bottom of the book marking a page towards the back. When I turn to the page the air is sucked right out of me. My name in giant golden letters at the top, and the most beautiful, inked image of a wolf howling at the moon takes up most of the space. Down the righthand side, next to the spine are words, laid out like a poem, but I don’t recognise any of them as English. “Haec verba recita ut intus bestiam absolvas. Benedicto lunae revelavi tibi.

Leah opened it. The page was filled with jagged lines, crossed-out words, fragments of sentences. But it was there. A beginning. Leah read it slowly. It was a poem. About a girl who lived in a house full of silence. About a mango tree that listened better than people. About a voice that was afraid to be loud. Leah looked up. “It’s beautiful,” she said. Tala shrugged. “It’s not finished.” Leah smiled. “Neither are you.” Tala began attending every session.

section for almost an hour, doing little but changing pleasantries back and forth ad nauseam. A few stacks of French poetry later, Colette raised her eyebrows. "Gotta have something to take back. A souvenir of Paris." Luc was unyielding. I poked him. "It's the rule here. You can't leave without a book." Of course, I gave in, if not gave up completely, and bought a thin book of Baudelaire verse. Colette wrapped it deftly across the counter and gave it to me wrapped up with a smile that made all the ice go.

Belle’s mother would always say to her. Chapter 1: As the sun’s rays hit the earth with a rather subtle amount of heat, with the blue sky glistening in its light, Belle, a beautiful teenage girl with light brown eyes and dark long hair sat in an open field very close to her house. The flowers around were beautiful, bright and colorful. They moved in a way that it seemed like they were dancing to a tune which could only be heard by them. Belle sat on a cloth on the ground while she watched a movie on her cell phone.

Norris, or "Bathilda' as Eliza calls her. They are so different from everyone yet, also I feel cold chills when associating with them like, both of them are looking at me, waiting for something to happen. What I do not know? Garrett does care for me, I can see in his eyes. Bathilda gives me the creeps, and I swear I catch her watching me with longing. I pray it is just my imagination. I am so engrossed in my thoughts, I do not hear Eliza calling my name.“Hunter? Hunter? Are you listening?” I turn to look at Eliza “Oh I beg your pardon, my dear, my mind was preoccupied with other things”. She looks at me irritated. I did not mean to ignore her. “I said, I think I want to go to the baker’s fir

|•| ANDRÉ BAUDELAIRE |•| The smell of books was one of my favourite things in the world—old ones, specifically—they oozed off the most unrefined and effortlessly appealing smell. A mix of ancient leather, woods and a hint of ink and dust, alongside a speck of vanilla. In one word. Heaven.

Claude stood up from his armchair and replied: “Follow me” Claude took Carl to the old library connected to the study. The library looked aged and dark, as if it belonged to a fairytale castle: “The majority of books are written in Latin. I will teach you the language so you can read them” said Claude. “Did you see that red velvet book? Put your hand on it but don’t move it” Carl obeyed the order. Claude put his hand on another book: A big golden one. Then he said: “In three, pull it gently but firmly. One, two, three. And Voila!”