Eight Years Novels & Stories

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE Katelyn woke up before the sun. Not because she had to. Not because Avery had climbed into her bed sometime during the night like she used to when she was younger. Not because of work. Today was simply different. Today was Avery's birthday. For several moments, she remained lying in bed, staring at the ceiling while a smile slowly spread across her face. Eight years. Her baby was eight years old. The thought still felt impossible.

he said to the schist. Not to us. To the schist. I looked at Amara. She was looking at the pavement. Her expression. At the boy talking to a rock. Telling it he was coming to see its origin. The way you told category eight things what was happening. Because the category eight things deserved to know. "Yes," she said quietly. "You are." He kept walking. Eight days. The origin visit. The schist in the pavement. Five hundred million years. About to be visited by a six year old with a survey notebook and the specific understanding that origins were important.

"Tuesday." "Tuesday," she repeats slowly, her mind whirling. "Yeah Tuesday it comes after Monday and before Wednesday." "That was the eighth?" "Yeah the 8th was my birthday and I got no presents in case you are wondering." A thought briefly crosses her mind before she dismisses it as the odds would have to be astronomical against it. If he is not lying and truly did turn 18 years old on Dec. 8th, he shares the exact same birthday as Randy.

"You know, sometimes I wonder if you are truly six, because sometimes you talk so maturely that I have to pause to rethink your age." "I'm not six! You see what I've been saying? You don't even know my age; I'm eight! I'm no longer six; I was six two years ago!" he snapped angrily.

AIDAN “Eight years ago was a long time, man,” Jace said from the other end of the phone as I buried my head in my desk, going through the contracts that needed my review and signatures. “Hell, this was more than eight years. It’s close to nine, if not over..” “So what’s your point?” I asked gruffly.

For the first time in eight years, the past loosened its grip. Not gone. But finally understood. And maybe, just maybe, ready to be left behind.

For six months. One hundred eighty days. Each one an eternity.

"Where have you been all these years? Do you know how long I've been looking for you?" Howard Quinn yelled at me, stopping me in my path. His eyes gleamed maniacally as I looked worriedly at my son, Charlie Jerome, clearing the trash nearby. Howard's friends stood in front of me, glowering at me angrily. "You heartless woman! How could you be so cruel?" "Do you know that Howard had stayed single all these years because of you?" I ran away eight years ago when I was pregnant. Howard had never forgotten about me, constantly trying to find me. His friends were angry on his behalf.

Eight Years The eighth year began in the specific way the well-built years had learned to begin — with the east wall and the accounting and the particular quality of a morning that knew itself as a beginning without requiring ceremony. Eight years since the gate. Elara stood in the cold dawn and thought about what eight years had produced and what they had contained and what they had cost and what they had been worth.

I frantically rummaged through the drawers. I wanted to find a photo of Vera. But there wasn't a single one. Eight years. Two thousand, nine hundred and twenty days. I hadn't kept a single picture of her, hadn't given her a single decent gift, hadn't given her a single promise, not even a deceitful one. I had chewed up her youth, swallowed it whole, and still had the gall to complain that she didn't come from the right family. "A substitute will always be just a substitute."