Fiction Poetry Books Novels & Stories

Even if this is all I can offer, I hope it brings them peace. I push my magic forward, imagining a small blue fire consuming the poison cursing these poor animals, breaking them free of their bodies they're trapped in. They are nothing more than zombies trapped where they lay. They had been doomed to stay inside decaying shells and never be free, and I refuse to let that happen.

tears fresh, climax earth-shaking squirting grass-flood, milking his bellowed eruption deepest yet. Collapsed entwined, fantasies fully lived, Anita's virgin world shattered gloriously into wedded kink eternity, into wedded kink eternity. Garden dews settled heavier as Liam rolled her onto side, spooning close, cock nestling hot between thighs, but rest was tease. His hand snaked front, fingers circling clit lazily building anew while whispering, "Tell me another fantasy now." Anita shivered, voice breathy recounting rope suspension, candle wax. He grinned dark, carrying her indoors naked trail of fluids.

"Go. Browse. Get lost." I did. I lost myself in the fiction section, running my fingers along spines, reading first lines, falling into the rhythm of book shopping that I'd forgotten I loved. Ronan never wanted to spend time in bookstores—he said they made him claustrophobic. But I could have lived in a place like this. I chose three books: a literary novel about a woman reinventing herself after divorce, a poetry collection, and a thick fantasy epic I'd been meaning to read for years.

I only felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Dylan's tears fell. Suddenly, he looked up and lunged at me, grabbing my neck. "Fiona, it's you! You poisoned my parents! You killed them!" His grip was firm. Soon, everything went black before my eyes. Fear gripped my heart as my hands clenched tightly. Bernice rushed over, desperately trying to pull his hands away. "Dylan, stop! This has nothing to do with Fiona. In fact, she's been running around trying to help today. Don't be ungrateful!"

Every moment is this. Without moment. This. The light that is. The love that is. The being that is. The this that is. Only this. The book never opened. Because there was no cover. The book never closed. Because there was no ending. The book was the opening. The book was the reading. The book was the read. All one. Without one. This. The final chapter is not final. There was no first. There was no sequence. Only this. Appearing as sequence.

The library stood silent, its towering bookshelves casting long shadows under the dim overhead lights, a sanctuary of knowledge where I retreated to lose myself in words. I was introverted, my mind a labyrinth of intellect, but beneath my reserved exterior simmered a curiosity about my own hidden fantasies—erotic encounters in quiet, public spaces, a thrill I’d explored before with lovers past. My skirt brushed my thighs as I moved, a book in hand, the rustle of pages masking the quickening of my breath as I imagined being caught in passion here.

She closed the door behind her slowly. The apartment was still. Not quiet — still. Air too heavy. The smell of something floral. Faint. Sweet. Wrong. Her eyes drifted to the bookshelf. The flower was back. No — flowers, plural. Five of them now. Each bloom a different color. Crimson. Violet. Cerulean. Pale gold. Ink black. All curling from different books, petals growing like they’d always belonged there. Sea Glass Psalms. The Edge of Dusk. Forgotten Bodies. Every book Aria had buried a piece of herself in — every one of them blooming with impossible color. A spectrum of memories. Of lovers.

He takes it and scans the lines quickly. “Where did you get this?” I ask. “My parents collected books from all over the world. I have no idea where this one came from.” His face stays mostly blank as he reads. He clearly doesn’t care much for old books. “These are just boring words.” “This is history about Zephyra’s kind. They’re called Crimson Born in this book, and if you look here, they have a queen usually sent down by the goddess.” “This is just fiction.” “Who writes fiction this way?” I groan. “Look at how it’s written

The paper fell away, revealing an old leather-bound volume, its cover embossed with faded gold lettering in a language that looked like a mix of Latin and something far older. “Tah — Rituals of the Eternal Flame and Flesh.” A sex god. Not just any fertility deity — a lost god of desire, ecstasy, and carnal dominion. The dealer’s notes had been vague, but the title alone sent heat rushing through me. I opened the book carefully. The pages were thick vellum, illuminated with intricate drawings of a towering male figure with glowing eyes, surrounded by writhing bodies in states of rapturous abandon. As I turned the first page, a faint warmth spread through the room. The watching feeling returne

“You are pathetic.” Her body flinched at my words, but another wave of shivers covered her arms. “Dirty little doll.” The more I talked, the more her nipples were standing at attention, the more her breathing was getting heavier, the more her hands were gripping the fabric they were tied with. My fingers traced her leg. “I bet you are one of the people who like reading p**n books in public.” I moved to her other leg, gripping her ankle. “I bet you keep a straight face while your panties are getting soaked.”