Fiction Poetry Books Novels & Stories

Russell Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle Stuck On You and Other Prime Cuts by Jasper Bark Poetry collections: WAR by Alessandro Manzetti and Marge Simon Brief Encounters with My Third Eye by Bruce Boston No Mercy: Dark Poems by Alessandro Manzetti Eden Underground: Poetry of Darkness by Alessandro Manzetti If you’ve ever thought of becoming an author, we’d also like to recommend these non-fiction titles: The Dead Stage: The Journey from Page to Stage by Dan Weatherer

It was open late, and the soft lighting inside looked like a scene from another world. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The scent of old pages and wood polish welcomed me like a friend. I didn’t even look at the titles at first I just wandered the aisles, brushing my fingers along the spines of hardcovers, letting the silence cradle me. I paused in the poetry section. There was something honest about poetry. No filler. No fluff. Just raw, unfiltered emotion. I picked up a slim volume by an author I didn’t recognize and flipped through the pages of the book. I wasn't going to read it. it had coffee brown pages and if I knew anything that book was going to get me wrecked and I wasn’t

I close the door quietly. I spend an hour in the smaller library looking at the books. He has everything. Fiction. Nonfiction. Art books. History. A whole shelf of poetry that looks like it has never been touched. I pull out a volume of Mary Oliver and flip through it. Someone has dog-eared a page. I read the poem. "Wild Geese." I read it twice.

It wasn't about pages anymore, but skin, heat, and the obscene echo of their passion. The poetry aisle was dark, almost pitch-black, but for the tiny strip of light bleeding in from the exit sign and the glow of Rowan's phone-still open to that stained paperback. Claire's back was flattened against the cold metal of the bookshelf, heat pooling at the edge of her damp panties. Her hand was pressed hard to her mouth, muffling breathless gasps and soft moans, her other fingers clutching a binding like it was her lifeline. Rowan was behind her, hands strong on her hips, the tip of his cock pressing wet and insistently against her entrance.

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.

It was a space designed purely for quiet study, and reverence. “These two shelves here are all about the mate bond,” Thefros said, gesturing toward a pair of bookcases halfway down the room. “Lore, case studies, theory. Everything we’ve managed to preserve.” I nodded, pulling down five books at random and settling at the table under the nearest lamp. Thefros took a seat opposite, already flipping through his own selection with practiced ease. The pages felt heavy in my hands, textured like something handmade. These books hadn’t touched a printer, some were written in fading ink, others illuminated with strange symbols or brutal sketches. One book was nothing but badly rhymed poetry pretendin

[haiku] i think i'm in love with a man drunk on the moon i think he's a wolf Continue reading... King Panda Aug 2017 pillow talk a crocus opens and closes with the stream of midnight moon. the playmate of exhaustion crosses the room in his heavy, black boots to close the curtains. goodbye, light. goodbye, pride of lions and boy transformed into a werewolf. a scratch of larceny, the cuddle of maple leaves rotting, the magnet spinning in rocket-ship orbit. all secrets held in feathers, in hair compounded

“What do you read when you’re not being paid to alphabetize it?” “Receipts,” I deadpanned. “And warning labels.” He laughed. Not loud. Real. It landed in the center of me and spread warmth in all the places hunger liked to live. “Poetry,” I admitted after a beat. “The kind that cuts and then kisses the wound. Histories written by the losers. Field guides for plants that are trying to kill you.” “Useful,” he said. “Necessary,” I corrected.

“Read the titles as you ride,” he ordered. “Poetry of… oh fuck… Love,” I gasped. “Mystery… Thrillers.” “Make it dirty. What would you do in those stories?” “Fuck the poet,” I panted. “Solve the mystery with my ass.” He groaned, took the books from me, and tossed them aside before wrapping his arms around me and thrusting up hard. “Cum now. On the shelf.” I stroked myself fast, shooting ropes of cum onto the books, white streaks marking their covers as my body convulsed and my hole milked him.

Piper — cat, queen, bookstore menace — stalked over the counter like she owned it and plopped herself on the pile. "You're in the way," Aria said. Piper blinked at her, stretched, and knocked a paperback to the floor. "You're fired." The bell above the door rang just before noon. A woman stepped in, tall, sharp, her coat the green of frozen leaves. "Do you have anything that feels like winter?" she asked. "Genre?" "Poetry. Something cold." Aria nodded, stepping toward a shelf. She traced the spines until she found it: The Book of Hours by Rilke. She handed it over without a word.