Face Of Book Novels & Stories

The closer I peek at the book, the more I see the bold title. “The tighter the pussy, the greater the bliss: a dick’s way to wet land.” It has the drawing of a monster cock in front of it, curved in the shape of a banana. My body’s already hot as I reach for the book. However, the moment my hand lands on it, something like a machine chimes. It's only then that I realize this isn’t a book. It’s a panel designed as a book. My heart thumps as a distinct groan echoes in the study, startling me.

Boring, predictable, exactly what I'd expect from a man who treated feelings like a liability. A leather-bound book sat tucked behind a row of finance texts on the lowest shelf. I pulled it out without thinking much about it. The cover had no title. Just worn leather, soft from years of handling, a small dent across the spine like it had been dropped a hundred times and picked back up just as many. I opened it. My own face stared back at me. Page after page. My jaw, my hands, the curve of my neck, details I didn't even know anyone had noticed about me, let alone bothered to capture in pencil with this much care.

Yam sliced it open slowly, hands trembling. Inside was their book. “The Art of Staying.” Cover: a sunflower. A crooked shelf. Two mugs—one chipped. And behind it all, the suggestion of a fan, mid-spin. Franc stared at it like it might whisper back. “Feels unreal,” Yam said. Franc flipped through pages. Some with artwork. Others with Yam’s poetry. Their story—wired beginnings and all—now bound in matte finish. “I think this book breathes,” Franc said.

My heart went into a leap whenever I heard his voice, or whenever a smile broke through the constant cloak of scowl on his face. ‘’You need to grow up,’’ he said, raising the book once more to conceal the most of his face. I watched his eyes move across the page, rapidly and intently. It was as though I was not there. I wondered what it would be like if he would look at me just the way he was looking at that book.

I've seen these enchanting eyes before. I couldn't break the lock I had on his eyes. I knew his untouched, silky smooth face that showed no expression, very, very well. His perfect pointed nose, perfect sharp jawline and those plump bottom lips, hypnotized me once again... I was mortified. Feeling like death was near. Is this a ghost? We slowly got up together and continued holding the book he was trying to return to me. I saw him search my face for a split moment and then adverted his gaze away.

Sliding my hands into the pockets of my blue boot-cut jeans, I at long last noticed the details on the dark-brown wood of the doors. There was a carving of a faceless mother with an equally faceless girl on her lap, her arm was wrapped around the child’s neck and she was holding a book as she did so, reading to her. On the edges of the semi-circular doors were more carvings of half-opened books, full-opened books, closed books, dancing books, and flying books… in every possible angle, arranged at these heavy edges like a frame. There was also the carving of a faceless man with glasses on, in a kind of dignified kingly stance with a staff in one hand and an opened book in the other.

He adds, dropping his fork and placing a big black book in front of me. I hesitated before taking the book. "That's the people I want you to learn about," Liam says. I open the book and there are pictures of strangers of course, their names, age, occupation, personalities, their relationships and connection with Liam written below their pictures. "Memorize their faces and personalities especially," He explains, I stare at Liam and I'm pretty sure my face is nothing but screaming 'why do I have to learn about these people'. Liam scoffs.

My face, as straight as my spine. Uncle Niall placed the book back; his fingers ran across several books before clinging onto a red one—one that stood amidst the black books like it was lost—pulling it out. His eyes fixed on the dull white pages of the book. “Unfamiliar or threatening?” The flutters of the paper punctuated the lingering tension in the office. “What’s unfamiliar about my face?” He flashed a hideous, malicious, and demonic smile.

He nodded and lowered his voice: "Girl, can you stand up straight?" "Huh?" Her whole body stiffened, in disbelief, reaching up to rub her face, thinking: Am I not as beautiful as Rosa Roja? Why is his reaction so different from other men's? Come to think of it, maybe it's because people who read books like to act nice. "I..." She kept trying, persistently calling again. "Okay, don't call again!" That person immediately put out his hand to stop her. "My name is Libro."

They were all adjusted alphabetically. He then randomly picked a book. ‘If I had your Face – By Frances Cha’ He read the title. He opened the book. On the first page, there was her name and a date written. The date when she either got the book or started reading it. He flipped through the pages. She had underlined some context. Marked notes somewhere. Scribbled replies to some lines. He laughed to himself. There was this line she had highlighted, “In New York, you can talk to anyone about anything at any time and have a conversation so long you'll fall a little in love with that person, and then never see them again.”