Bird Box Book Novels & Stories

Jasmine's tone instantly changed as she spoke sweetly into the phone. "Don't worry, darling. No one will make things hard for you today. I'll lead the bridesmaids to welcome you at the hotel entrance ahead of time. Your friends will be jealous of you instead!" Harold's voice on the phone was cold and commanding, nothing like the gentle, submissive tone he used with me. I bit down on the sock in my mouth, struggling to make any noise. Upon seeing this, Jasmine smirked and continued.

“You’ve never seen one, my lady?” “No, they are beautiful,” my attention was drawn to one who filtered to the ground, chirping sadly. It looked like a baby. “Poor thing,” I murmured. “Can I touch them?” “They are well trained so they won’t cause any harm," Teal explained. I crouched down. “He’s too young to fly, isn’t he?” Teal’s eyes flicked toward the little orange bird. “Perhaps. But they all learn eventually.” I took a careful step closer to the little Phoenix. He looked up at me with bright, gold-ringed eyes.

Its neck was twisted in an unnatural position, and inside its slightly open beak was a small piece of paper. I bit my lip, my body still trembling. Aaric grabbed the paper carefully, unfolding it. Only one sentence there, written in red ink, seemed to be drying. "The bird that chirps too much will lose its voice forever."

She noticed then that the lid had actually been torn into shreds, and was dumped by the side of the box. Storm opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Instead, she gulped down no saliva, and stalked toward the box. With shaking hands, she touched the box, and peered into it, fearing the worst, fearing that the book was gone. Her fears were right this time. The book was gone. The box was empty, save for a feather. A feather? Storm folded her lips, looked around her for the umpteenth time, before dipping her still shaking hands into the box and retrieving the feather.

"Look, a magic pet shop!" As I looked at the building beside us, I saw it was a tall building with a large display window, Tasha and I walked up to just in front of the glass, and as I looked through, I could see a strange-looking bird that looked like it was made of fire, so I asked Tasha's nanny, "What's that bird over there? The one on fire?"

I open the door, “hey Brooklyn, why are you out here by yourself, are you not feeling well?” A smile forms on her face and her hand lifts, her finger points up into a tree, “that bird is trying to get her baby bird back in the nest, but the baby keeps falling out of it.” She swings her legs and her frown forms again, “do you think Momma’s ever get too tired to help their babies.”

It was about the size of a jewelry box, tied with a crimson ribbon that seemed too bright, too cheerful for the foreboding atmosphere. I approached cautiously, heart hammering. That's when I noticed a thin line of dark red liquid seeping from beneath the box and trickling slowly into the drain. Blood. My stomach clenched painfully. With trembling fingers, I reached for the box, untied the ribbon, and lifted the lid. The stench hit me first, metallic and rotten. Then I saw it. Nestled on a bed of black velvet lay a small bird. A canary. Its once-bright yellow feathers now matted with blood, its tiny head twisted at an unnatural angle.

"It feels like a place where you can actually hear yourself think. I bet you’d like studying here." "I would," I said. "It beats the noisy student center back home." We walked through the rows of books. Jax stopped. He pulled a small book from the shelf and handed it to me. It was a book of poems. "Read the one on page 42," he said. I opened it. The poem was about a bird that finally learned to fly after being kept in a gold cage. I looked up at him, my heart skipping a beat. I didn't know what to say. I just held the book.

He carried something in his hand, and I recognized it immediately — a small wooden box, simple and unadorned. “What’s this,” I asked, curious. “I’ve been working on something,” he admitted, something nervous in his voice that I rarely heard from him. “In Daniel’s old workshop tools, the ones we found when we visited him at the guest cottage. I mentioned once, a while back, wanting to build things again, with my hands.” He opened the box slowly, revealing a small, carved wooden bird inside, imperfect but clearly made with careful attention. “It’s not very good. I’m still learning. But I wanted to give you something that came from that part of myself again, the part I thought I’d lost after Sa

Mandy York, my girlfriend, was practically a migratory bird that always flew away during summer. Every year, during July and August, which were the hottest months of the year, she would fly off and disappear from the face of the earth. She said that it was because her company gave her a special project abroad that required absolute secrecy from her. She was also not to contact anyone during that period of time. Even when I got into a car accident last year and lay in the ICU for two months, she never called to ask about me. Plenty of times, I had comforted myself and endured the harsh summer alone. One day, I accidentally saw the social media account of a friend of mine living abro