Book Review Still Life Novels & Stories

There was a kitchen, open to the living space, with a worn butcher block counter and pots hanging from a rack above the island, the pots of someone who actually used them, their surfaces the matte gray of regular heat and regular cleaning. I stood in the middle of the room and turned slowly. "You have so many books," I said. "I do," he said. He was watching me take in the space. "Have you read all of them?" "Most," he said. "Some of them I keep for the same reason you keep certain people in your life. Not because you're actively engaging with them but because having them nearby means something." I looked at him.

It was a space designed purely for quiet study, and reverence. “These two shelves here are all about the mate bond,” Thefros said, gesturing toward a pair of bookcases halfway down the room. “Lore, case studies, theory. Everything we’ve managed to preserve.” I nodded, pulling down five books at random and settling at the table under the nearest lamp. Thefros took a seat opposite, already flipping through his own selection with practiced ease. The pages felt heavy in my hands, textured like something handmade. These books hadn’t touched a printer, some were written in fading ink, others illuminated with strange symbols or brutal sketches. One book was nothing but badly rhymed poetry pretendin

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.”

And yet it was. Across from him, Gluttony stared down at the artifact now resting in his hands. The Book of Rebirth. Its cover shifted constantly between black and white, the colors moving like opposing tides colliding against one another. Faint symbols flickered across the surface, appearing and vanishing as if the book itself was still rewriting its own existence. The energy radiating from it was immense. It was balanced and at the same time unstable. Gluttony swallowed slowly. “I… don’t think this thing likes being touched,” he muttered. Tyrel, standing beside his lover Caius, glanced down at the book nervously. “Then maybe you should stop touching it.”

I like taking my time, that way, I can get used to the idea of living with Xander. Sitting behind the counter in the bookstore, I listen to Vincent talking to his cars while I place an order for new books. One of those books is The Art of War by Sun Tsu. I want to read it and see why Alexei loves it so much. My thoughts turn to the BBQ, and I must admit, I enjoyed it a lot. And Rosemarie was right. Everyone seemed pretty normal. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe guns and men smoking cigars while plotting the end of the world?

Above my head, the phone chirped and sang, "Hush, little baby, don't say a word, Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird don't sing, Mama's going to buy you a diamond ring." Mom pulled out the ice tray, took the bag of minced meat, and spread it on the floor to inspect it. I was about to burst into tears. "Beatrice, are you an idiot? You actually froze your phone in the refrigerator. It's no wonder you didn't answer when I called. What exactly is inside your head?

Too quiet for a place where legends once screamed. A young man walked alone through the upper halls. His steps didn't echo. They never did. The tower swallowed sound like it feared being overheard by something older than time. Bookshelves lined the walls, some untouched for years. Paintings of dead men stared down at him— some kings, some murderers, some both. He didn't stop for any of them. He paused only once—before a fireplace. Above it hung a sword. Thin. Sharp. Cold steel with veins of violet running through the blade.

While I was spaced out, Henry moved some boxes out of the main bedroom. "Cleaned out all the trash, Josephine. He can stay in the storage room. It's not like we have any extra space." He kicked the boxes and met my eyes. There was a challenge in his gaze. I looked at the boxes. The most conspicuous of them was a picture frame covered in a white cloth. That was my wedding photo. All the high heels, dresses, and necklaces I had bought for Josephine were now stuffed into boxes and treated like garbage. A dusty ring box sat in the corner. I picked it up, and my eyes began to sting. "This is trash too?" I opened the box and inside sat a ring. The diamond in the center barely had any gleam left.

She pulled it out, sneezed once as dust motes tickled her nostrils, and lowered the book on the coffee table. The title was written in cursive gold letters, 'The Art Of The Body'. Clearly out of curiosity, she opened to the middle of the book, and her eyes nearly popped out in pure mortification. The book contained explicit diagrams of men and women in different, erotic, sexual poses.

“You can tell from here?” “I worked in a bookstore for years. I can recognize certain covers.” She leaned forward, looking more closely. “It’s probably not valuable, though. A lot of cafés use reproductions for decoration.” “You sound disappointed.” “I hate when people use books as decorations but never read them.” I looked at her with new interest. “You enjoy old books?” “I love them. The older, the better.” “Why?” She thought about the question for a moment. “Because they have history. Someone owned them before you. Maybe they carried them everywhere or wrote notes in the margins. Sometimes you find pressed flowers or old receipts between the pages. It feels like getting a tiny glimpse int