Dostoevsky Novels & Stories

Nikolai’s POV I slammed my bedroom door so hard that the frame shook in response. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling. I pressed them flat against the wood, trying to steady myself, trying to understand what the hell had just happened. That omega. That insignificant omega—arrgh! I pushed away from the door and started pacing. Everything felt wrong and off and out of place. This was far from what I expected. That’s if I even expected anything.

"Konstantin." As if electrocuted, Dostov released his bite with a slight surge and then looked up at Alice. Nick's blood flowed slowly from his fangs into his jaw. I don't know why Alice called him Konstantin, or how she knew Dostov. The only thing I know is that both of them are from Russia. Dostov stood up from his spot and took a step toward Alice, the expression on his face contrasting with his age. Dostov is one of the oldest Volders alive, and when you get as old as Dostov controlling emotions becomes as easy as breathing. Expression is weakness, if your enemy can read the expression on your face he can beat you easily.

He flipped over the front of the book to see the title. It was Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot. “Well, that’s fitting,” B laughed and closed the book. He fell deeper into the recesses of the chair. He brought the glasses up to his face and thought, If this is what an estate man does, then let me be an estate man for just a couple of minutes while the whiskey does its work. B let Dostoyevksy’s words run through his mind like a new mantra — it’s life that matters… the process of discovering… the everlasting and perpetual process… — and slid the glasses onto his face.

The cover wasn’t familiar, but it was also scuffed and torn. A shudder rolled through me at the book’s mistreatment, but by the many dog-eared pages, it was much loved. “Tolstoy?” I asked as I read the author’s name. In my hands was one of Tolstoy’s greatest novels, and one I could admit I’d never read—War and Peace. I looked up at him but he was back in his shadow, talking to Marco, though his eyes never left me. I flipped open the pages, happy to have something to read again, since my unfinished book was somewhere in my bag that they’d done who knows what with. I greatly missed reading and was desperate for anything to help get my head out of my present situation.

His voice was a soft whisper against my ear, devoid of any warmth. "You will be my greatest asset. You will be his kryptonite and his nemesis. I can see why Sokolov is really into you." Vlad Kuznetsov. The name finally clicked into place, not as a memory of a face or a specific event, but as a reputation, a name whispered in hushed tones in certain circles, a titan of industry with a dark underbelly, known for his relentless ambition and unforgiving nature.

I'm not sure what to do because nervousness alone is keeping me awake now. Then it hits me. Half a cup of beer isn't enough. I need more to relax and hopefully sleep. Mom has a secret stash of booze hidden below the kitchen sink. She doesn't think I know about it-just like her tip money in the Folgers can-but since I'm the only one who cleans around here, that small bottle of vodka she keeps for an emergency might be the answer. Maybe a couple sips will help me relax? Or at least calm me down.

Icy voice cut through the air. Dead clear... The man leaned back in his seat with a evil look and victorious smirk on his face. Time for Payback.....! ___________________ The man sat there with a box of cigarettes. Lightening the seventh cigarette, he heaved a sigh. Oh Lord! forgive us for our sins...... Tears rolled down his eyes as he looked at his destruction. Only for few millions...... He sold his faith........ Only for few millions..... Few millions....... Sold my faith........ Sold........... The words kept ringing in his mind as he repented over his crime for which he knows he had to pay with his most beloved........

The only connection that I had with life and my existence on earth was pain. I felt numb without the pain, felt nothingness, at least the pain made me feel like something, it made me feel a little, like other humans. Without the pain, I was totally detached from reality, totally removed from the realm where normal people lived. He took a copy of the book he had been reading and turned the back page to write something. It was a copy of Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. A modernist novel that we were currently reading. His copy wasn’t brand new, it had dog pages, had been read over and over again. With some lines underlined.

Dalton’s point of view: Why do I care? I had repeated this question a hundred times already in my head, maybe even a thousand times, scarcely knowing what to make of this strangely incredible connection between me and Cassandra. I’ve been trying to understand what this… thing was that spiraled deep within me, as though it was slowly boring its way out of some pitch-black, fathomless pit I had long pretended didn’t still reside inside me. Yet, I suspected I knew exactly what the thing was. It was a flicker of light, even just a spark, but potentially powerful enough to cast a glorious light over my life. Joy. And pride.

so violent it simply cuts off the heads of these wolves He finished with them, so their cries rose, and everyone ran away from him His terrified eyes looked at Ardena to run towards her, making a sound in the ground from the force of his strikes to the ground Do not be afraid, my dear, for you have someone who can easily throw his soul to death so that your heartbeat can continue You have someone who is ready to become 'just a withered corpse' in order for you to bloom