Bookworm Style Novels & Stories

I asked her to start a conversation. “Maybe The Singer Not the Song because of the plot but above all, all of them has its different flow of story, so I enjoyed reading them all, the way it was written.” I could say from her response that she’s a big fan of books. What term humans call this again? Ah, bookworm. “So you’re a bookworm?” the strange word rolled strangely inside my mouth. “You could say that,” she said while she nods her head, laughing silently.

I had created an account with a different user name. I had a few notifications from the app, so I opened it. I read the book, she had been reading that day. It was very nice and captivating. I finished it over the night. I liked the way the author had penned down the book. I looked for the other works by the same author. There was another book which was not very long, I finished it within two hours. Her writing style was good. I liked the way she described the love scenes with a subtle sensuality. Romantic... Very romantic. Sensuous, steamy, witty and crisp. I commented what I felt and was surprised to see that she answered back politely.

During the Book Club meeting, where he stood like he ran the whole school. Now it was the fifth time. He was on a bench outside the library, legs crossed, talking to that same nerdy friend of his, blabbering, smiling, alive in his own world. He didn’t look like someone I should be interested in. He was too clumsy for a guy. He had a soft and restless energy. His slender frame, low brown hair that never looked brushed, and eyebrows that were thick and untrimmed matched his nerdy energy. His shirt collar was twisted, and his shoes were definitely not the regular kind. Honestly, he didn’t even look like he belonged here at Orleans College.

My heart leaped with hope as I approached the section, quickly pulling out a few volumes. “Well, here goes nothing,” I murmured to myself, selecting a particularly dusty tome. The book was heavy and worn, its cover adorned with faded gold lettering. I wiped away the dust and carefully opened it, the pages crackling softly in the silence. The satisfying scent of aged paper filled my nostrils, evoking a sense of ancient wisdom and forgotten knowledge.

She had to summarize all that in that first encounter or otherwise she would be wasting her time. He was looking down at his book, legs crossed. “Love is A Dog From Hell” by Charles Bukowski. An excellent choice of literature, she thought. He was wearing a long-sleeved knitted sweater and washed-out blue jeans, dark brown leather boots, too clean for hiking boots, he looked more like an indoor guy.

He winked looking at her beautiful face with much admiration. Eva's smile faded away looking at Rick. "Bookworm.. errmm... yes... I am more into fashion and clothing now. Who liles books now? It is a thing of past." She shrugged her hand, trying to look extremely cool and stylish. Her face flished a little, as she knew it was simply a lie and she was simply a bookworm even now. Except for her looks, nothing really had changed about her.

They weren't joking when they said they'll have a word with my boss about my working hours. Instead of dying from embarrassment, I headed toward the book section, I could read while they aren't here. It's probably the last time I'll set foot in this place, my boss is one mean lady, she'll fire me for sure. Looking around the shop was fairly packed today, we weren't extremely busy, but not empty either. I was trying to catch a book from the top shelf, while keeping my short skirt down. I really should ask mommy for longer skirt, even with the high knee socks keeping me warm, I still was at risk of diaper flashing.

Her favorite by the writer. He was young, definitely younger than her, dressed in jeans with holes and a white linen shirt tucked in the front with a brown leather jacket over it. His hair was dark brown, almost black and hung in loose ringlets to his shoulders. He was wearing what looked like very expensive boots. He may have been the most beautiful man she had ever seen, in person. He glanced her way and his eyes met hers. They were so blue she was sure they were contacts. She was flushed, she could feel it. She looked down and started toward the other side of the shelf, trying to seem unaffected. She peeked through the books and noticed he was coming closer, still thumbing through the boo

She had mixed the color specifically for this book. The title was on the cover in a specific typeface—neither the aggressive modernity of certain contemporary books nor the antiquarian weight of the attempt at the classical. Something between. Something that Don had found in the specimen book and had chosen because, he said, the letterforms had the quality of having been made by someone who understood that the thing being named was both ancient and ongoing. The Inside Account. Don's name below it. The designer had set the text in a way that gave the words the space they needed—not crowded, not isolated. The book has an argument about the arrangement of things on a page.

Even if it means rewriting the rules myself. The book smells of age, the scent of faded parchment mingling with the faint cedarwood that always lingers around Ramon. I trail my fingers over the worn pages, the ancient script dancing before my eyes like a thousand whispered secrets. Beside me, Ramon’s warmth is a steady anchor, his presence grounding me as we delve into the darkness of supernatural law.