Booktok Literary Fiction Novels & Stories

Kayden — the rising star in the literary world, the renowned author of The Upward Gravity, A Spark in the Rubble, The Dawn Theory, Beyond the Script, and The Beautiful Unbecoming. Every one of his books had been a success. I had read them all. They were my only source of motivation during the darkest days of my life. I first met him years ago, completely by chance, in a coffee shop. I was sitting alone, lost in the pages of The Dawn Theory, scribbling my own theories in the margins of the book. I was so absorbed that I didn’t even notice the man across from me until he suddenly shifted seats and sat beside me.

I could only hope that she would have settled in again by tonight, because otherwise I would be allowed to sleep on the couch one night again - and it was really uncomfortable. Sighing, I leaned back and opened the completely tattered book again, which I actually already knew by heart. But I wanted to repeat as much as possible today so that I could get off to a good start tomorrow. I ran my finger over the familiar table of contents. Foreword, evolution, instinct, social life, physiology, reproduction, ancestry, stem groups and subspecies. How many times had I made this movement with my finger? I couldn't count it anymore, but it was like a little ritual I had to go through before I could s

“Since you’re back, are you going to pick the next book?” I blinked. “Me?” “Of course,” she said, smiling. “You’ve been gone. You deserve the honor.” Everyone nodded expectantly. I looked down at the stack of books on the table, my fingers brushing across their covers. My hand paused on a novel about love, identity and societal expectations. This book will give them a glimpse of what I passed through during my absence. I smiled softly. “How about this one?” Brent groaned. “Oh no, not another depressing tragedy. Can’t we read something with a hopeful romance?”

"Go. Browse. Get lost." I did. I lost myself in the fiction section, running my fingers along spines, reading first lines, falling into the rhythm of book shopping that I'd forgotten I loved. Ronan never wanted to spend time in bookstores—he said they made him claustrophobic. But I could have lived in a place like this. I chose three books: a literary novel about a woman reinventing herself after divorce, a poetry collection, and a thick fantasy epic I'd been meaning to read for years.

The History of Literary Criticism. "Huh," I laugh. No wonder it's never been read. It sounds incredibly boring. It's so beautiful, though, that I can't resist pulling it down off the shelf and carefully flipping open the cover. And that's when I understand why this book is different. It's not a book at all - at least not a functional one. All of the pages have been glued together, and a block has been carved out of the middle, making a perfect little nook in which to conceal something. There's something inside - a small, roughly rectangular bundle wrapped in plain cloth.

It was a face that held the promise of a future yet to be unraveled. Magnus was gone for the day with the elders, and Orla was at the community building, so I had the house to myself. We were not allowed books of fiction in our communal library. I scanned the leather spines and pulled one off the shelf, The Picture of Dorian Gray by an author Oscar Wilde. I settled into my Father's oversized leather chair and opened the book on his desk. As I delve into the pages, I find myself captivated by a foreign world. The characters' complexities and struggles resonate deeply, reflecting parts of my inner thoughts and emotions.

He waited, in the specific and patient way of a man who understood that this sentence had not yet arrived at its content. "For a person," I said. "Whose taste I am attempting to characterize accurately." He took off his reading glasses. "Tell me what you know," he said. I told him. I told him about the medieval businesswomen and the Antwerp interior life. I told him about the novels that were not genre and not performatively literary. I told him about the receipt-as-bookmark, which I included not because I thought it was relevant to the selection of books but because it was true and I had decided when I walked through the door that I was going to be accurate about this rather than approximat

she said. “Yeah. Exactly. Like she had a book in her.” “Okay, that’s some legit weird spooky shit right there,” she said. “How so?” “Nah, just someone in a bookstore said that to me recently. That I had a book in me.” A quick shrug. “Weird.” “Damn right it’s weird.” Margo smiled. “I know, right?” “Right! I mean, a bookstore? For real? Are those even a thing anymore?” ***

The moment she crosses the threshold and her feet met the cool, welcoming touch of her bedroom floor, she allows herself to sink onto her bed, the cushions yielding to her weight. With a deep sense of purpose, she extends her hand towards the book nestled on her bed, cradling it tenderly. Astrid could scarcely contain her curiosity, her fingers quivering with the exhilaration of the adventure awaiting her. As she opened the book, she was instantly transported into a world as captivating as the printed pages itself, where words spun tales of Supernatural beings beyond her wildest imagination. The book unveiled a hidden realm, one inhabited by nine extraordinary entities, each with its own uni

when it comes to gist and details about her life so she left no details when she was telling her about Ohio, they sat and talked for almost an hour before other students of literature started coming in, they knew their class was about to begin so they ran for the front seat so they could get a better glimpse of there lecturer and a better view of everybody who was giving an opinion on the book to be reviewed. Stephanie wondered what literary work they would be reviewing that day. She anticipated it like a person who was waiting for the lottery to be won. "Calm down sis, you would soon know what we will be reviewing" Mirabel teased. In a few minutes, the lecturer came in and started the clas