Bite-sized Book Novels & Stories

With a sudden, jarring jolt, she found herself awake, gasping for breath, her heart racing wildly within her chest. The room was heavy with the pungent scent of ash, a thick fog of smoke lingering in the air, wrapping around her like a suffocating shroud. Her gaze was drawn to the Book lying wide open on the wooden floor next to her bed, its aged pages fluttering as if stirred by an unseen wind. The pendant that had once been a mere trinket now blazed with a fierce glow, radiating warmth and an unfamiliar power. As she leaned closer, a word—burned into the very fabric of the parchment—caught her eye, not inscribed with ink or blood, but scorched as if marked by a divine hand:

the food seemed like the best option, the sun had just set and it was almost dark outside. I rummaged through the food basket to see what he got and I did a happy dance when I came across a bottle of cranberry juice, I swear at the rate I was drinking it, I’d probably turn into a giant cranberry tree or give birth to one. My forehead creased, my brows arching as item by item I slowly realised that the basket was mostly filled with my favourite foods.

She stormed off. I giggled. "Didn't think you would reject her." "I'm not into easy girls." He replied while still reading his book. We were in the school garden. Mallory was taking a little nap by a tree. And I was left with Mr. Few words. His answers are, yes, no, maybe, and many more. "So what's your type." I asked while opening my chocolate bar. He set the book down and looked at me. "I'm not into anyone. I don't do love and all relationship crap." He replied and then went back to his book.

he said. Inside were pages full of pencil sketches and short, clumsy sentences—none of them professionally done, all of them exactly him. There was a crooked family on the first page with two parents and a rescue dog named Bix. The second page had a sketch that looked suspiciously like our penthouse couch, with the caption: Where Tuesdays live. The book was a hand-made children’s story: The Little House That Held Tuesdays. Each page held a tiny adventure—the first puddle jump, the first burned pancake, the time a kite escaped and came back with a ribbon.

Phobos pipes in telling me of his doubts about my accomplishment of his exercise. Grinding my teeth I claw on it and adding pressure to it has a piece pop up from the page. I startle dropping the book to the grass floor, caught off guard. Peering in I see fur peeking from underneath the piece. Time is running out. Taking a small breath I slowly tear the piece from the book. It comes off easily as if it was meant to whilst uncovering a small picture of four baby wild hares sleeping in a basket. There weren't merely four hares but eight.

she gives me a warm smile and just shakes her head before she nods and turns back to placing the books on the shelves. I quickly come across a book on bonds, but it takes me ages to find one about demons. I search through every book and shelf until, finally, at the very top, I spot a small, extremely dusty book. Although it doesn’t explicitly say “demons,” its title, “Monsters of Our World,” is the closest I can find.

I say sweetly, peeling back the cover and revealing my treasures tucked into a carved-out hole in the pages. Two instant noodle packs. Three Baby Ruth bars. And one shiny, glorious cheese powder sachet. I damn near cried. “You carved out the book?” he asked, incredulous. “Relax. The kids already cried in it. Might as well make it useful.” He stared at me, mouth open. “You made me traffic snacks.” “Technically, literature-enhanced goods.” “You used me.” “Technically, I recruited you.” He paced the cell. “Do you know how much trouble I could’ve gotten into?”

Corrian says as we pass a reading nook with oversized bean bag chairs and a shelf full of books no toddler would read. I catch one title, ‘Teeth Are Not for Biting (But Sometimes They Are)’. I raise an eyebrow. “Special how?” He doesn’t answer. We pass a hallway lined with artwork. Crayon drawings, finger paints, but some of them are odd. Red scribbles in circular patterns, shapes that look more like symbols than animals. One has a giant black figure drawn with scratchy lines and tiny words underneath it. I lean closer. ‘The Bad Ones Are Coming.’

he continued, recalling how easily Vreihya tears up. While raising his brow, he flicked the book and read the author's name. "You're not sure," Mino said, as if the author could hear him. "How can you tell?" he asked, closing the book furiously and tossing it on the table. He'll never forget this book because it's what he was reading when he met the princess in his room for the first time. The first day, he felt a peculiar pain in his chest and was terrified when he noticed the princess's unusual colored eyes.

Why had he never asked her out? She bent over, yelping softly as the cold book touched her exposed skin. She’d been pretty back then, nothing to gawk at, but definitely pretty. She brushed her fingers over the picture once more and closed the book, sighing heavily and putting her treasures back where they belonged. Why would forever be the question.