Book Pocket Size Novels & Stories

I want to start a conversation to reduced my boredom and know him better, but he seemed a carbon copy of Grayson because they had the same posture. Nicho was quiet, not talkative, annoys you with his silence and even make you out of place because he's a bookworm to me. Where did he even get that book? Maybe he put the book to his pocket, that's why I didn't see it? Wait, but that is not small book either. "It fits my pocket," he spoke. "What?" I stuttered. He take a quick glanced at me before turning back at the book, "This book fits my pocket. If you're wondering how I able to bring this."

I walked up to a lady looking 28 years old. "Ms.? I've never bought a phone before... What phone should I get. She looked back at me, and said. "You should get the XMZ for your first phone. It has a lot of memory space, and you can fit it in your pocket. It's a decent size when you open it, but it folds in half. It has a touch screen too, so you can play games on it."

Like him. Then, beneath all the clutter, I found it. A black box. It was small, much smaller than any of the other folders and binders, almost the size of an A5 notebook. It felt light when I picked it up—too light. It was out of place among the thick stacks of reports and documents, almost like it didn’t belong there. I hesitated for a second before prying it open. Inside, there were only photographs.

The sixth register was smaller than any of them expected. Octavo-sized, the kind of book that fit in one hand, bound in the same worn-honey leather as the others but with a different quality to its age this one had been touched more recently, handled more carefully, as though whoever had held it last had understood what it contained and had treated it accordingly.

He nods and leans to the side, pulling something out of the large hidden pocket he had down his leg. “I assume you know how to use a book and inkhold?” Tearing out the front pages he hands me a small hardcover book, bound with leather and rope, as well as what reminded me of a pen but I had to assume it was a modified bird feather, similar to how people used quills, just without the ink in a pot or the fluffy touch. Funnily enough, I don’t hesitate to take it and start writing notes about some of the things I have heard about today.

Most of them have only one picture on the page and are a quarter of the size of a regular book. "Shit." I say quietly. "I can't believe it still costs ten bucks for a book that only has six pages. I can get a two hundred page paperback at the grocery store for the same price." Tiffany smirks. "But does your two hundred page paperback have fur like this touchy-feely book with a tiger on the front?" "It has fur?" I grab it out of her hands and begin going through it, touching all the different pictures as I turn the pages.

It was ours. "Alice?" Marco's voice came from the door. This time, he entered, carrying two cardboard boxes. "What's that?" "Sit down. Open them." I sat in the rocking chair—the same one Dorotea had used—and placed the boxes on my lap. I opened the first one. Inside, a tiny boot. Light brown leather, soft as butter. With light pink details on the sides and a miniature little buckle. It was the size of my hand, but perfectly formed, like a real cowboy boot in miniature version.

It didn’t look like much, faded and crinkled and tea stained as it was, but it held all of the information that would – hopefully – help us bring down our neighbourhood supernatural attacker. My shoulders felt lighter, and every breath felt easier. I relished in the feeling of my lungs expanding, holding the oxygen inside me, and then letting it out again, ever so slowly. I tucked the little book inside my coat pocket, and stuffed my feet into a pair of lace-up boots.

Just honestly, which I was finding was a different thing entirely from what I used to think honesty between us felt like. He reached into his jacket pocket and put something on the table between us. A small notebook. Slim, good paper, the kind you could feel the quality of just by looking. The cover was a deep blue. I looked at it. "It's not a gesture," he said. "It's just a notebook. You can throw it away if you want." I picked it up. It was exactly the right size. The kind that fits in the pocket of a jacket or a large bag without you having to think about it.