Book In Grass Novels & Stories

The grass felt soft under my feet, but only where I walked. It was the strangest thing I had ever seen. As I moved across the hill, the world literally bloomed into existence beneath my toes. A patch of green clover here, a tiny yellow wildflower there. But if I looked back, the path I had taken was already starting to fade into a gray pencil sketch. And if I looked too far ahead, there was only the vast, terrifying white of the unwritten page.

Jake bit his lip on a groan kissing my lips hard before picking up his pace with a moan that had my heart racing again. Every thrust, every movement every kiss built that fire until I was teetering on the edge again, groaning his name and thrusting my hips to meet him desperate to find the release that was so close. “Oh god.” I uttered, as he pulled back slightly, slipping his hand between our bodies.

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.

The library appeared old and somewhat abandoned, with stubborn grass pushing through the cracks in the pavement. Undeterred, Adam pushed open the creaky glass door and stepped inside, only to find the place eerily empty. "Hello, is anyone there?" he called out, but his voice echoed unanswered through the silent corridors. He began to explore the library, scanning the shelves lined with what appeared to be children's storybooks. However, his search led him to a collection of small glass bottles containing strange plants and insects, piquing his curiosity.

Ninety minutes before sunset, Ishida and Rhina arrived on the other side of the lake and walked onto the island that Mount Nawarat was situated upon. Tall blades of grass of rich green and yellowish color rose from the dirt-covered rocks of the island. The grass here was different from the grass on other parts of the floating island; they had access to more minerals in the ground and some stalks even grew on the foot of the golden mountain. Terrestrial grass was not known to grow out of gold, but perhaps Del Cealan grass had special capabilities. Nevertheless, only a small and insignificant portion of Mount Nawarat had grass growing out of it— less than a percent. The rest of the mountain, a

These and many other sounds merge into a soothing melody that calms her ears. The green grass is a musty carpet. Perhaps the most pleasant smell on the grass is the smell of an approaching storm. She often found solace in the rhythmic rustle of raindrops and the wonderful redolence of life-giving rain. It seems that the fragrance of grass is a tangible object that you can see, feel and touch. The breeze blowing across the grass was full of many different smells. The yellow wildflowers smelled like a box of rich dark chocolate.

The man always looks vibrant to Gracie, this moment especially with his red hair and beard, the blue clothing against the greenery of the trees and river. “What are you reading?” Gracie, taken back a little by his energy and concentration on her, lets out a sigh. “It is a book of nature poems, something with impermanence in the title. It is quite pleasant. It helps remind me to slow down, focus on nature, marvel, and breathe.” “Sounds nice, slow down and focus on nature. I may have to try that some time. You like poetry?” “Yes, I have always liked poetry and writing in general. So, what are you up to?” the woman asks.

I whispered. The book said the leaves were rare and only grew near the east garden—somewhere near the training grounds. I didn’t think twice. I got up, grabbed the book, and hurried out of the library before Princess Thania could return and stop me with another one of her “nap therapy” ideas.

It’s driving me crazy. “Want to sit down?” He asks. He must’ve seen me admiring the soft appearance of the grass before. He sits first, and I follow, for lack of anything better to do. I was right: the grass feels like threads of silk. I run my hands through it as though it were a girl's hair. I start at the roots, curling my fingertips slightly into the soft earth, and then slowly run a handful of grass through my fingers. I can’t help myself, I lay down, giggling a little. I continue to run my hands through the thick grass, thinking about how easy it would be to sleep here. The cool night breeze smells like cotton and dreams, and for a second I think I almost do fall asleep.

Like a secret, walled-off pocket of calm. We continue across the patio and down a short set of stone steps, and suddenly the scenery opens up even more. Acres—and I mean acres—of perfectly cut grass spread in every direction. It’s obviously not just for show. These are sparring fields. Shifting space. A battlefield dressed in green velvet. The grass is thick and soft. It’ll cushion a fall better than some I’ve trained on—but not enough to make anything comfortable. It’s still going to hurt like hell when I get thrown into it, which I assume is happening soon.