Hold Still Book Novels & Stories

She looked toward the living room, the familiar clutter suddenly suffused with golden light, everything ordinary made strange and precious by those three words. Books were piled beside the couch, spines creased and pages nestled with torn sticky notes. A mug sat on the coffee table, the string of a tea bag dried and curled like a tiny flag against its chipped side. Her application notes still occupied one corner of the dining table, pages fanned out in nervous stacks—she had been too superstitious to put them away, as if hiding them would tempt fate to change its mind. She swallowed hard, the motion tightening her throat, a taste of salt and relief lingering on her tongue.

Nevertheless, he never thought of abandoning me, nor did he expect me to disappear from their lives. "Mr. Shaw." A maid in the living room spoke up after finding a note and a bank card I had left behind.

“Not erased.” The Author of Silence didn’t move, Didn’t threaten. It simply waited. The closed book still extended. Her hands itched. Her chest pulsed. Her daughter still stared, still holding that one page. Mama lives. It was not a prophecy. It was a plea. Liora reached for the sealed book. Kael tensed. Ashen screamed inside her blood, And just as her fingers brushed the leather cover, The book moved. No longer in the Author’s hands, Now held by Liolai. And as she touched it, The book opened itself.

When my shift ended, I found myself walking toward the corner table where Kael sat, his laptop closed now, a book in his hands. I stopped short when I saw the cover. ‘Knot We Cannot Untie.’ That was the book he was holding. I can't believe that Kael would be reading one of Linda Lively’s books. “You read… this?” I said, the surprise evidently in my voice. Kael looked up, one brow raised. “Why? You think I only read racing magazines and bank statements?” I gave a small laugh. “Chill bro. It’s just… not what I was expecting ”

The ones that had survived every version of him and every place he'd lived. Her finger stopped on a dark green spine, the gold lettering almost entirely rubbed away. She tilted it toward her. Walt Whitman. *Leaves of Grass.* The most worn book on the shelf — the cover soft with handling, the corners rounded, the spine held together by old glue and what appeared to be sheer stubbornness. She pulled it out carefully and it fell open in her hands the way books fall open to the pages they've visited most, the paper remembering where it's been taken before.

The word that belonged to what I had always been was said in a formal proceeding in the city that had put a different word in its place for twenty-two years. I heard it. I heard it the way you hear something you had known was coming and had prepared for and still received differently than you expected—not louder, but more real. More solid. The way certain things became solid when they stopped being only yours and became part of a record that other people could read. I kept my hands flat. I breathed in. I breathed out. Under the table, my fingers pressed against the edge of the notebook. I thought, "Mira Voss wrote Hold It." I thought, "I held it." I thought, "It is on the record now." No one

But the podium in the middle was empty, like the book which stood there was taken. I look over at Colby confused, he only shrugs his shoulders telling me he didn’t have a clue where the other book could be. I take a step closer to the podiums to see what books were left, perhaps that could give us an idea of what the book missing could be called. On the first podium sat a reddish colour book, it was very dusty which tells me no one had picked it up in years to read. I reach over and wipe some of the dust from the cover, this revealing the title. “The Forgotten Truth”.

He walked back to her room and since the room was abandoned Lu Sheng clicked open the door and went in. He looked down at the bed which still contained her warmth, he tried to seep the warmth through his skin when the book which she was reading caught his sight. She had left it open and the wind was flattering its pages. Curious, Lu Sheng lifted the book and tried to read the content.

I'm currently preparing other projects to get around that inspiration to complete this book, although I've thought of deleting the book, I couldn't, soon I hope to bounce back from this writer's block and complete this book. SO THIS BOOK IS CURRENTLY ON HOLD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The others are not. If you are pursuing on finding out what became of her well this is the clue. In Milan, where flowers bloom beside a cup, There’s a little café where coffee wakes you up. Its name sounds floral, its tables smell sweet, But one painted bouquet there refuses to be beat. The flowers look furious, their petals full of rage, As if they’re glaring angrily right off the page. They won’t say a word, yet somehow you know They’re the angriest blossoms you’ll ever see grow. What café am I, and what painting am I looking for? Good luck lil sis. Love always and forever Stormie Mae