Homestuck Reading Novels & Stories

But I can't do anything because my guilt towards him is huge, it's piled up and I don't have the right to demand or even act. "I am? Sweetheart, I am starting to like this side of yours. Then do read me a story." He promised me softly and then he pulled me towards the chair. Elijah sat down but I didn't. I looked around and looked for a book to read and I remembered the one I read Homer's Odyssey. I took it, even though I didn't want to read it I had no choice. I sat next to Elijah and started reading where I stopped before.

He replies, “I may have read your mind when you were squealing to know what was making you that happy.” I smile and I pick up Twisted Lies, Christian and Stella’s story, before I respond to what Blake said, “That makes sense, it is okay. Let us start our next book,” we start reading and we go silent again, our attention being captivated by the stories playing out in front of us, I knew Blake would finish his book before me, I did not know he was a fast reader like that.

Adam stopped halfway through the page. “…Nah.” He let the book drop slightly in his hand, exhaling through his nose as if he needed a second to reset. His jaw tightened, eyes scanning back over a few lines like he didn’t fully trust what he just read. “This one’s different,” he muttered. He pushed himself off the counter and started pacing slowly behind the bar, the book still open. There was something about this story that didn’t sit the same way as the first.

The title was simple, elegant, and deeply personal: Homeward Bound. The artwork depicted a warm, glowing house surrounded by trees, a pathway leading toward an open door. It wasn’t just any house. It was ours. Luca gasped. “Dad, that looks like our home!” Tears blurred my vision as I nodded. “Because it is,” I whispered. I opened the book, flipping through the pages. Each chapter told a piece of our journey, weaving together themes of love, resilience, and chosen family. The final page held the dedication, one I had written months ago but had never read aloud.

He still puckered his lips and furrowed his eyebrows like he used to as a kid when he was focused on what he was doing. I chuckled, making him turn toward me. "Hey, sis. When did you get here? I didn't hear you walk in." he asks, making me roll my eyes as I smile foolishly. I kissed his cheek and sat next to him. "Just now. What are you reading?" I asked, making him clear his throat as he looked at the back of the book and showed me the cover. "Uh, Pound The Stone, by," "Joshua Medclaff," I said, feeling proud. "Good choice," I added, making him chuckle. "So you've read it?"

Not having anyone to talk to, especially other women, brought on more pain. The Walkers had been right the entire time. Humans and other species were not so different from werewolves. They had different appearances and characteristics, yet they all just longed to live peacefully alongside one another. -=- It has been a while since I began this story, and I appreciate that you have reached the end. Finding Home is my first werewolf story, so forgive me if it took time to write. I apologize for taking time to write the last remaining chapters, as life and work piled too high on my plate and I couldn’t write anything creative. Thank you again for reading this far, and I hope you liked the endin

Thousands of abandoned books rested upon the silent sand. Some were half-buried. Others lay open, their pages completely blank. The woman whispered, "These are all unfinished stories..." The First Reader nodded. "Every story abandoned by its Author eventually arrives here." Adrian stepped onto the cold sand. The moment his foot touched the shore... every abandoned book trembled. One by one... their pages began turning. Not by wind. By recognition. A faint whisper rose from every direction. "Author..." "Please..." "Finish us..." Thousands of voices.

Not cautious. Not asking. Something closer to arriving. Cress set it in the center of the table. The room gathered. We have been reading the companion document for three weeks. We have been reading it the way it asked to be read. Slowly. Returning to the same pages. Sitting with what they showed. We want to tell you what we found. Not in the document. In ourselves. While reading it. They had read section two. About the reflexive smallness. The instinct to disappear.

The Hudson River below looked like a sheet of hammered pewter, sluggish and indifferent to the city rotating around it. Ava sat cross-legged on the deep charcoal living room sofa, a thick, canvas-bound book resting unopened in her lap. Her thumbs traced the rough texture of the spine, over and over, until the friction warmed her skin. She had been staring at the exact same paragraph at the top of page eighty-four for nearly twenty minutes. She wasn't actually reading the text. She was simply using the physical weight of the pages as an anchor to keep her mind from slipping back into the analytical grids that had dominated her life since the spring allocations.

I haven’t heard of any of them. How did Justus learn to read? Can everyone in Last Pack? I was always told that they can’t. I flip through the book with the sun on the front. The font is small, and the paragraphs are long. I skim the first page, but none of it sticks. My eyes slide along the words like they’re buttered. I’m about to put it back when someone whistles outside the den. My fingers fumble, and the book falls, wide open and face down.