Black Fiction Books Novels & Stories

Just muttered, “Feel free to browse.” I nodded and wandered. The silence was thick. Peaceful. I ran my fingers along the spines—mysteries, war history, sci-fi. None of it felt right. I turned a corner and found myself in a crooked, narrow aisle. A handwritten label above the shelf read: “Folklores, Myths & Things Best Left Alone.” Something about it made me shiver. I reached out and picked a worn, black-spined book: “The Blood and Bond of the Wild.”

Dust clung to everything, and the dim lighting made it feel more like a tomb than a library. I found a small table in the corner and set my bag down, then started browsing through the shelves. It didn’t take long to realize that most of the books were about standard small-town fare—local history, genealogy, that sort of thing. But buried between the boring volumes on family trees and tax records, I found something a little more interesting. Legends of Blackthorn Ridge. The book was old, its spine cracked and its pages yellowed with age. The title alone made my pulse quicken with anticipation. I pulled it from the shelf and sat down at the table, flipping it open.

He shrugged. “I didn’t say I would be yours.” I squeaked because I hadn't. All I had done was agree to spend some time with him. A few days, he said. I had never once agreed that I would be his any longer than that. Now in the books I devoured, the women in these situations were always offered money. It was something I had never really understood, but it was hot anyway. On paper. If The Judge had offered me money to spend a week with him, I would have found some way of hurting him.

Sabeerah brought them out one by one. Muslim Girl and If I Speak by Umm Zakiyyah, The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides, Three Daughters Of Eve by Elif Shafak, On Black Sister's Street by Chika Unigwe, And Then There Was None by Agatha Christie, A Time To Kill by John Grisham and finally, A History Of The Wives Of Prophet Muhammad by Umam Kahn. She picked up the last book which was actually a journal and tucked in its side were plack pencils with bookish scribbles on them.

“That’s exactly what your grandmother used to say at your age.” I wandered farther between the narrow shelves mostly to escape the public humiliation, while Harmony disappeared toward the romance section making loud, dramatic noises about enemies-to-lovers tropes. The bookstore glowed softly beneath the low hanging lights while the snow drifted in thick waves outside the front windows facing Main Street. I paused near the folklore section automatically, my fingers tracing the bindings. Appalachian legends, mountain myths, and local history books lined the dark wood. One specific title caught my eye immediately: The Founding Families of Black Hollow.

Agbai said. "His lifestyle or morals has nothing to do with his economics," I said. "Okay, I agree with you on that one. Um... You said you read Nigerian books, which one have you guys read." "Chimamanda's Purple Hibiscus, Americana, a whole lot," I said. "But I like Wole Soyinka's A Dance In The Forest and..." I paused to think of the other book. "Things Fall Apart," Raymond added. "Yes, that's it. Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart." I said.

As soon as I cleared the Sydney airport checkpoint on Sunday afternoon, I headed straight for the bookstore. A pile of hardcover books near the entrance caught my eye. The pyramid under construction highlighted Wild, the new book by one of the most popular novelists. The clerk attached “autographed copy” stickers to the covers, which, with their mysterious flames in yellow and red on a black background, gave them a garish touch, drawing attention. As a sociologist specializing in the study of Brazilian aborigines, I knew Daniel. He had aboriginal ancestry and wrote paranormal mystery stories starring a Brazilian aboriginal policeman.

Roman said with a sigh. Bianchi tensed up. His lips began to tremble as he spoke, "I remember." He replied, his eyes opening widely in fear. "But pleas-" Roman corked his gun, "Good." He replied and with that, he shot at Bianchi, unaliving him immediately.

Sasha was hesitating to enter pass the school gate. It seems like she's going to be more in trouble today than usual. I'm not tough but here I go, she thought and walk inside. Opening her locker to get some books, a few folded paper fell. She knows what those papers are; warnings from her bullies. Although she knows what's written inside, she would always read them. It has the same words like "you're ugly" "quit school" "go die" . Sometimes, she wonder how those bully think and why they think like that when she hasn't done anything wrong. She pities them, most of the time.

Book One: How to Destroy a Badboy Book Two: The Emancipation of a Badboy Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places, events and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places, events and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.