Emerson Barrett Books Novels & Stories

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.

Their silver-blue ember glowed in the central brazier, a promise that truth and love endure beyond every trial. Author’s Note Eternal Embers was inspired by my fascination with hidden societies, the power of choice, and the alchemy of art. I hope Isabelle’s sketches and Alexander’s courage encourage you to discover then rekindle the embers within your own story. .

She winked, trying to lighten the mood. "Oh god, Helen!" She exclaimed, but a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Maybe, just maybe, this crazy idea could work. Anything was better than the agony of unspoken feelings. She took a deep breath, the music swirling around her, and signaled to the bartender for another drink. Tonight was going to be interesting, to say the least.

the impatient Willie said, her voice eager to know what her sister had discovered. Aside from being independent, Willie loved new and juicy news—the only typical feminine trait she exhibited. “Emily is a Hamilton,” Calista explained, recounting her shock when she found out Emily was marrying the president’s son. “I knew something was off about her,” Willie uttered. Willie had an uncanny ability to detect right from wrong and always waited until her suspicions were proven true. “Well, that isn’t all,” Calista continued, feeling the urge to relax from the night before by telling the story. “She’s getting married to the first son of the newly elected President of the United States, guys.”

Facing the camera, I spoke calmly, “No one loves me anymore, and I don’t have the courage to go on living. Fine. You can all just think of me as weak, but don’t worry. I’ll make sure to record everything. Even if I die, I won’t let them get away with it.” In the video, I crouched by the shore of Exile Island, holding a sharpened piece of bamboo. Again and again, I struck it against a rock. My hands soon became a bloody mess, but I felt nothing. It was as if I had gone completely numb. Someone in the audience cried out, “What is Jacob doing, sharpening bamboo like that? He’s not thinking of ending it, is he?” “After everything he’s been through, it wouldn’t be surprising…”

Carla and Travis watched from the sidelines, hands clasped. “We did it,” Carla said, her voice steady. Travis nodded. “And we’re just getting started.” The scars remained, but they were no longer wounds. Dave, Carla, and the other victims were healing, not just surviving but thriving, their journeys a testament to resilience, love, and the unyielding power of talent reclaimed. ----- This marks the end of the Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire. Compiled short story arcs now made their way to their ends. See you next time. There'll be more ahead. Thank you!

They come back at four. Emma comes through the door first, which surprises me, and she is carrying a bag from the bookstore, and she does not say hello right away, she goes directly to the kitchen island and sets the bag down and starts removing books from it with the focused, methodical energy of someone conducting an inventory. Three books on astronomy. One on architectural drawing. A slim volume on the history of bridge construction that she sets slightly apart from the others. “The bridge one is for a project,” she says, without looking up. “But it’s also just interesting.”

Barrett’s POV The phone call had gone better than expected. Emily had answered after three rings, her voice a delicate mix of confusion and caution, but the moment she realized it was me—Barrett Augustus—her tone shifted to something more respectful. I could hear the hesitation behind her words, the hesitation of a woman who had been burned too many times, who had learned the hard way that even well-dressed men with deep pockets carried knives behind their backs. But I was not calling to hurt her. No, I had far more interesting things in mind.

Maynard ran after her; however, those creatures blocking his way made it too late. Barrett jumped to the cliff, her long dark hair of the same color of the night sky spread. The loud crashing of waves on the rocks have hidden her body falling. “Barrett!”

Maybe one day my talent will get me somewhere better in life. Ah ,grief, I should not treat you like a homeless dog, who comes to the back door for a crust,for a meatless bone , I should trust you. I should coax you into the house and give you, your own corner,a worn mat to lie on, your own water dish . You think I don't know you've been living under my porch. You long for your real place to be readied before winter comes . You need your name, your collar and tag, you need the right to warn off intruders, to consider my house your own and me your person and yourself my own dog . A poem by Denise Levertov.