Book Light With Clip Novels & Stories

Routine, to Clara, was not at all dullness. Routine was safety. Routine did not vanish in smoke. Inside the bookstore, the air carried a layered fragrance — aged pages, cinnamon oil rubbed lovingly into oak shelves, and faint lavender sachets Clara hid discreetly among the stacks. Sunlight streamed through the tall front windows, falling in pale gold panels across the polished floorboards.

She wouldn't mind checking everything out, or whatever called her attention. There was another shelf after the award shelf. A bookshelf. It didn't contain so many books, although he had something that hooked her attention. Book of art. Clinton had a black hardcover drawing book he called Book Of Art. He used it to draw his imagination. Anthony had one too, meaning he also had an eye for art.

Books stood beside one section in a heap. Where did all those books come from? The lights lining the edges of the shelves were off. Doris left her side to flip a switch, and all of them came on. The gold hue of the lights reflected on the maroon rug. In the centre of the room were beige couches tucked so close to form a circle.

Moonlight poured through the tall window and turned the room silver and gray. I walked straight to the bookshelf and pressed the loose volume on the third shelf from the top. The panel clicked open with a soft snick. The safe sat behind it, a small iron box with the key still on the chain around my neck. My fingers shook when I fitted the key into the lock. Rowan stood close enough that I felt his warmth at my back but he didn’t touch me. He let me do this alone. The door swung open. Inside rested the book, exactly as I remembered. Midnight-blue leather with a small crescent, worn smooth from years of handling. I lifted it out with both hands, the weight felt heavier than it should have.

The woman stood behind the podium; her old, but unworked hands, smoothing out the precious pages. “Welcome to my library,” The woman said, her eyes flashing to them. “Can I help you find something?” The librarian had a reputation about her, stories whispered on sleepless nights. Her name was Claudia, and she had been in the library for as long as anyone could remember. Claudia’s book held more than the location of library books; it was said to hold every answer imaginable. The volume was magic; so much so that it was a part of the woman’s soul, and only she could read its pages. To every other eye, it was completely and utterly blank.

"Breath through your mouth. Don't speak." Her eyes were wide and unsure. Maybe something bordering on panic. I don't try to reassure her. I take a few more clothespins in my hand and start clipping them onto the edge of her labia, the last one I clamp over her clit. She jerks each time and I hear her gasp at the last one.

“Red light on the bookshelf. Spine of The Intelligent Investor. Fucking poetic.” I follow his gaze. There it is the tiny LED blinking like a cruel heartbeat how many nights did I climb onto this desk while he fucked me slow and deep, whispering filthy promises in Spanish? How many times did I come with my nails in his shoulders, thinking the house was ours alone? Every second of it recorded every moan archived every secret turned into ammunition every single thoughts circled in my head as i watched Julian cross the room in two long strides he rips the book off the shelf, pages fluttering. The camera is small black plastic, lens no bigger than a dime, thin wire snaking into the dark gap behin

The shelves are lined with clams, I guess these are their books. I grabbed one from the shelf and open it up, there are no pages inside. How am I supposed to read these? I look over and see one of the mermaids holding it up to his ear. I put the clam to my ear, suddenly I can hear the words of the book in my mind. This doesn’t sound like the book I needed so I put it back on the shelves and wander the rows of clams looking for something that catches my eye.

Not with my bare hands. I opened the drawer again, grabbed a clean tissue, then used the edge of it to push the pink glitter clip into the bag. The little thing slid slowly across the bottom of the box, making almost no sound. When it finally dropped into the ziplock, its glitter caught the light from my desk lamp. Pink. Cheap. Small. Issa’s. I sealed the ziplock tight. Inside the plastic, the clip did not look like a four-year-old’s hair accessory. It looked like a bullet someone had just placed in my palm.

By the time I woke up June was slowing down and pulling into a driveway next to a quaint small yellow house. I admired the gorgeous garden out front with luscious hibiscus blooms, tulips, and other various flowers and plants. It was close to dawn as there were orange red streaks illuminating the sky. June pulled all the way into the open garage, and as if by magic the door started to close on its own plunging us into darkness for a moment before the garage lights came on.