Book Pickings Novels & Stories

he advises. I thank him with a nod and watch as he bounces back behind the counter to finish his own book. I pick through a couple that have interesting covers, but after reading the jackets I put them down. It takes me forever to finally find one that sounds like it may work. The Business of Business sounds boring enough to put me to sleep. I don’t want to spend any more time digging through stacks, so I grab a random paperback that’s sitting on the edge of the table before heading to the counter. “Excellent choice!” the bookkeeper chirps as he rings me up. “This one here is a riveting read,” he says, holding up the paperback I hadn’t even glanced at.

He shifts back; putting a seat between us and truly looking horrified. Bibah simply shakes her head at our childish shenanigans and takes a sip of her iced latte, metal straw clinking in the Hydro Flask. “The Awoo Book Club’s pick for this week is H.P Lovecraft.” She pats the voluminous book atop the pile and I notice it’s the library copy of H.P Lovecraft’s Omnibus 3. “I’m so excited to roast his ass.”

Like we’d been doing this forever. First stop: the little independent bookstore tucked behind the old theater district. Floor-to-ceiling shelves, creaky wooden ladders, the smell of old paper and coffee. Chloe lit up the second we walked in. She wandered the aisles like she was in church—fingers trailing spines, pulling books out, reading first pages with this quiet, reverent focus. I followed her, content just to watch. She found a slim volume of poetry by a woman she loved and held it up like a treasure. It was a rare piece to come by.

The librarian, a wise old man with spectacles perched on his nose, had greeted them warmly and invited them to explore the dusty shelves filled with ancient tomes. As Scarlett's fingers grazed the spines of the books, a particular leather-bound volume caught her eye. Its title, "The Prophecy of the Shifting Stars," called to her with an inexplicable pull. She plucked it from the shelf and dusted off its cover, revealing faded golden letters etched into the leather. Curiosity burned within Scarlett. She opened the book and began to read aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. The words flowed like poetry from her lips, resonating deeply within her soul.

Brandon’s POV “This is amazing,” Natalie whispered, her voice echoing just a little bit in the empty space. We wandered slowly between the aisles, our footsteps muted by the thick carpet as our fingers brushed along the spines of books. Natalie leaned in close to read titles, whispering observations as if the space itself demanded reverence. “Who names a book The Economic Implications of Seventeenth-Century Brickmaking?” she murmured. I snorted quietly. “Someone very committed to a niche audience.”

Surely, it wouldn’t be out in the open, but he also wouldn’t tuck it away somewhere that would take years to find. Flora began pulling books from the shelves one by one, opening them carefully and flipping through the pages, hoping to find something—anything—that might give her a clue. Most of the books were old and untouched, dusty even. It was tedious work, and her patience began to wear thin as book after book yielded nothing.

I whispered into the empty room. [Why did the stream cut out just now?] [Alison's dead? How did that happen? And why's her skin missing? That's so scary!] [Out of the original six, only three players are alive… And how is the pick-me girl still here? It makes zero sense. Also, why is Lonnie going to the GM's office? Dude's digging his own grave!] [Wait, why is the pick-me girl following him?] "This is the GM's office?" Lonnie muttered.

"There's one in Capitol Hill open until eleven. We could just browse. No agenda." "Okay. Pick me up in twenty." The bookstore is quiet. Soft lighting. The smell of coffee and paper. We split up. An unspoken agreement to explore separately. I find him thirty minutes later in the poetry section, reading with complete focus. "Find anything?" I ask. He shows me a collection by Mary Oliver. "I didn't know I liked poetry. But this is—it's beautiful." "Buy it." "I will." We leave with five books between us. None of them self-help or business strategy. Just novels and poetry and a cookbook.

And then, because she had no idea what else to do — because her hands had to do something, anything, aside from shake — she reached for the shelf. Her fingers ran along the spine of a thin, worn-through book. She hesitated. It was one of her favorites — a still, painful story of finding hope again after loss. She drew it free slowly and held it out to him. Julian took it from her without looking at the cover, his fingers slowing to brush against hers. A jolt ran up Lena's arm. He leaned over her, his voice a low, menacing whisper. "I'll read anything you put in my hands."

Peeking around the room, I ensure no one is in sight. Climbing onto the chair next to the bookshelf, I run my fingers along the spines of the books. Jessica told me that it would be the one with no writing. Finally, I find it. An old tattered book that has clearly been looked through a thousand times. Standing on my tiptoes, I carefully pull the book off the shelf and slide down onto the chair.