Classic Historical Fiction Novels & Stories

This was going to give him some time, and he had been itching to get his hands on more of the information in those books. Walking back over to the bookshelf, Bradford noticed there were thicker books, unlike the journal of his mother that he had been reading. These books read more like history books. These books spoke at length about what was done in order to defeat The opposing clan of casters that tried to take down the Bellevonnes Clan. Flipping through the pages, he could feel their age. He had to be very careful not to tear or smudge what was left of the writing inside of it. The edges of the book seem to be stained with time, and the great smell of glue and leather and paper lifted to

Alana let go of our hands, darting toward the children’s section at the end of the hall. Suddenly, it was just the two of us. Standing side by side in the narrow aisle of classic literature. Gareth tucked his hands into his pockets, scanning the spines of the books with a quiet, respectful interest. "What do you usually go for, Claire?" he asked softly. His voice seemed to blend into the hum of the air conditioning. I ran my fingers along the worn spines of the hardcovers. "The classics. Jane Austen, the Brontës... anything with beautiful prose and a happy ending. I suppose I like the escape."

Emma said, walking deep into the living room. "Thanks." She walked to a set of shelves on the far side of the room, running her fingers over the spines of his books. A lot of them were classics, novels by Dickens, Voltaire, Dumas, Melville, and Hemingway. She smiled when her fingers ran over the spine of not one, but three copies of Mitchell's Gone with the Wind. There were modern novels, too, including Stephen King and Sidney Sheldon, but they didn't look as well read as some of the others.

She followed Willow around the corner and into an aisle labeled Biographical Histories. Willow stopped in front of the third shelf and ran her puffy hands along the spines, finally pulling out a book and handing it to Clara: Historic Crimes in Hiestora. When Clara pried it open, the book issued a hissing sound and she noticed it suddenly felt lighter in her hands. Cracking open the dusty tome, Clara noticed pictures that were moving as if the history was playing out once again inside these pages. Below the pictures were written texts of the events.

A reader? I feel drawn to the shelf like a moth to a flame. My fingers trail over the spines — classic literature, philosophy, ancient history. Lost in the titles, my eyes land on a beautiful leather-bound edition of Wuthering Heights. I rise onto my toes, straining, my fingers just brushing its edge. It wobbles and then falls from the shelf with a heavy thud that sends a cloud of dust into the air making me sneeze twice.

He would have, right? I shook my head again and concentrated on the book placed on my lap. It was one of the British, historical romance fictions set during the World War Two. I had randomly picked it up at the bookstore and somehow felt myself drawn towards it. Sappy novel with mopey dialogues and dragged out bits, it still provided me with much needed solace.