Ed Burns Books Novels & Stories

James said slowly. "Are you supporting them?" Peter Okeke asked. "No I am not." "You must know that burning a human is setting them on fire and fire is not friendly when it comes in contact with a human skin." James took the book, flipped through the pages then he gave the book to Paul Okeke. "Read that story." Paul Okeke collected the book from James hands. The title was written in bold letters like the previous story he read. It was titled: A GRUESOME DEATH. He swallowed and started reading loudly.

"H-how? I remember perfectly well when you were swimming in the burning flames of the poisonous fire." Amethyst muttered under her breath, still analysing the black covers of the big, bold book that she knew she burnt a few months ago. Her hands trembled at its heaviness — at how fresh and old it smelled. Old tales and unknown prophecies were still lingering on every page she turned over.

"But what really happened here? Why is a book burnt?. I wrote quickly, my hand still trembling. I don't know. I touched one book and it started to burn. I dropped it. It was a weak lie, but it was all I had in that moment of panic. Suddenly, Noah's eyes caught something. He grabbed my hand roughly, turning it over. "You're burned." He was right. My hand was red and blistered from where I had held the burning book. I had been so terrified by what I'd read and by the fire that I hadn't even felt the pain.

I’d flip the whole damn thing over. I was curled into the corner of the pink plush sofa, knees tucked to my chest, the fluffiest white blanket I’d ever touched draped lazily over my shoulder and down my body. It swallowed my barely-there shorts and oversized T-shirt whole, cocooning me in warmth while the rest of the world faded into nothing but pages and ink. Tragedies of True Hearts. I bit my lip, failing to suppress a giggle as I read—the slow-burn enemies finally cracking, confessions spilling out after chapters of tension and denial. One reckless, emotional night where everything finally unraveled.

Not waiting to behold the fallout, I scramble out of the dining room, fleeing back to the nursery. Once back in the room, I ignite a taper from the room's only wall sconce. I make my way to my dark cell, lighting the little oil lamp on the nightstand next to my sleeping pallet. The small oil lamp sheds enough light for me to open my newly acquired trunk and grab another woolen tunic. I change and performing a cursory exam of the fading burn marks on my thighs, relieved that the soup is not any hotter because this is a time where I could die from a splinter.

The air in the car is too hot, too heavy and too much that even opening of the door does nothing to soothe the burning inside. I feel like my body is on fire. Their attention always burns me up and I love every second of it, it's all I've ever wanted…all I've ever needed. “Jennie you must be really tired, you look wrecked” my stepfather says as we step out of the car and I am being supported by my stepbrothers to stand straight.

I paused and continued, “As we speak, it's in my chambers. Aquamarine brought it." Levi's eyes went wide in shock. "You mean the one that can't be touched?" I nodded. "No freaking way," he whispered. "I didn't notice any burns on her hands. Are you sure it's the book?” I released a low breath, “I was shocked too. I just kept staring at it when she dropped it on the table. I touched it and it still burned, Levi.” I stared at my palms, still red and aching from the burns I got from touching the book. “She's truly the one who can save me.”

WREN'S POV I sprinted immediately the class was over, stumbling between equally impatient students. I ran into the safest place I could find. The library. Going deeper into the back, I found myself slouched on a dusty bookshelf. My legs still trembled from class. My thighs still clenched involuntarily every time I replayed Kai’s voice in my head. The way he whispered, the heat behind his gaze, the cocky smirk that made my stomach flip inside out. I needed to breathe.

Arthur found the letter in her journal and cried. The church became more than just a ministry. It became a movement—spanning cities, and then nations. Their message was clear: the altar we burn is not always of wood or stone. Sometimes it’s tradition. Sometimes it’s silence. And sometimes, it’s the lies we told ourselves just to survive. Isabella published her story under the same name as the church—The Altar We Burned. It became a bestseller, then a documentary, and finally, a foundation for victims of spiritual abuse worldwide.

Right after I finished speaking, Rita threw herself off the hospital bed. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, filled with stubbornness and sorrow. "Looks like I've been getting in the way of your perfect little family. The doctor said if I didn't get new skin grafts soon, the burns could kill me. Don't worry. I'll stay out of sight so I won't ruin your happiness," she said. She deliberately pulled back her sleeve, exposing the mottled, raw skin beneath. Then, with tears streaming down her face, she dialed her phone and called to give up on treatment.