Book Review Still Life Novels & Stories

Nevan was made smarter, agile, authoritative and wise. The two of them began to launch the contents of the mind. A way out with the appearance of the cunning enemy. *** The room is not too cramped. A hand that flipped through a unique book that was slightly dusty. The dark color of the book looks faded by the title. His hands were not smooth, nor did they look dull. But, the eyes are starting to look confusing. “What a strange history book,” Felix muttered glancing around the body of the book.

The thought of him so close, yet entirely detached, was unsettling. ​She found the library, a glorious, two-story room lined with leather-bound books that smelled wonderfully of parchment and age. She walked the aisles, running her fingers along the spines, feeling a quiet comfort in the sheer volume of stories and knowledge contained there. She picked up a thick, weathered volume on horticulture, drawn to the promise of life and growth in the meticulously detailed illustrations.

I don’t try touching it again. Closing the box, I approach the shelves. I take out the book closest to me. Brushing off the dust, I realize it’s a strategy book, written in delicate penmanship. The paper is fragile, but the tome is bound with great care. The other side of the shelf seems to have hard-bound journals. It’s like an entire couple’s life secured in one small room. I hear a scraping sound, and I turn my head to see Robert picking up a stack of small portraits from one of the iron boxes in the corner.

The rain had let up just long enough to tempt him across the square. Now he stood in the narrowest aisle, surrounded by dusty journals and anthologies too niche for anyone to bother stealing. He ran his fingers along the spines, mostly unread. Something about the weight of knowledge in here felt comforting — or at least distracting. Books didn't demand things. They waited. Quiet. Unmoving. Unlike people. His hand paused over a faded publication bound in cloth. Éther – Student Literary & Visual Arts Review: Volume XXVI. The cover had no art, just hand-stamped gold letters on charcoal-grey linen. He pulled it from the shelf.

Yam sliced it open slowly, hands trembling. Inside was their book. “The Art of Staying.” Cover: a sunflower. A crooked shelf. Two mugs—one chipped. And behind it all, the suggestion of a fan, mid-spin. Franc stared at it like it might whisper back. “Feels unreal,” Yam said. Franc flipped through pages. Some with artwork. Others with Yam’s poetry. Their story—wired beginnings and all—now bound in matte finish. “I think this book breathes,” Franc said.

he gestured. I crouched beside him and looked at the book whose binding was perfect. The pages had barely yellowed. "Someone took good care of it," I said. He turned his head and shook it. "Somebody loved it," he corrected. I moved on after that and found my own treasure about three aisles away. It was a slim volume of Victorian interior design sketches. A collection of hand-drawn plates pressed between tissue paper. My hands went still when I opened it. "Lucas." I did not raise my voice, but he appeared almost immediately.

The dark red, almost black, like the last sliver of night before dawn. I’d stuffed them both behind the counter with barely a glance, told Adrian not to ask questions, and powered through my shift like they didn’t exist. But now, standing in my apartment barefoot with the city glowing outside my window, they were impossible to ignore. I peeled the ribbon from the box first, almost resentfully, as if it had personally insulted me. Inside: a perfect grid of truffles….champagne ganache and dark cherry, my favorites. Of course. He remembered.

She muttered in disbelief, "No… No… This can't be happening…" Gavin stood frozen, staring blankly at the scene unfolding before him. … At the police station, Chloe refused to admit to anything until they played the interrogation footage of my murderer. Only then did she finally break down and confess. At first, the murderer had claimed it was a crime of passion. But the criminal profiler noticed something off. Would a crime of passion result in such a brutal and calculated mutilation of the body? Why had the murderer remained unnervingly calm throughout the process?

Just expensive furniture and abstract art that looked chosen to impress rather than express. I passed through the living room, my attention drawn to a large bookshelf covering one wall. The collection impressed me—ancient texts on pack history, rare volumes on wolf magic, modern novels organized by genre rather than author. Many of the books looked unread, their spines uncreased. One leather-bound book caught my eye—its dark cover embossed with strange symbols that resembled no language I recognized. I reached for it, but it refused to budge. Odd. I tried again, pulling harder. The book remained firmly in place, as if glued to the shelf.

Ambrose remarked before sticking a cigarette into his mouth. Sharp as a tack, Cassian deftly picked up the lighter on the desk and lit the cigarette for Ambrose, which made him take note of Cassian's quick wit. He inhaled deeply before asking, "Have you read the historical novel, Triumph of the Three States, before, Cassian?" "I have." Cassian was a little perplexed. He wasn't sure why Ambrose had suddenly brought the book up. "In that case, who do you like more, Bowen Lavigne or Cenric Cassidy?" Ambrose followed up with another question, to which Cassian looked even more mystified.