Imagine That Books Novels & Stories

A ·− N −· Y −·−− B −··· M −− Z −−·· C −·−· O −−− D −·· P ·−−· E · Q −−·− F ··−· R ·−· G −−· S ··· H ···· T − I ·· U ··− J ·−−− V ···− K −·− W ·−− L ·−·· X −··− Thank you all for reading my book hope you all are liking it. This book is the opposite of Utopia and if you know the definition of that…. then you will understand this world. Yet remember there will be holes in this story, and to fill those holes you must use your imagination to fill them in. Sometimes in writing less is more, a mystery even.

The warmth from the fire was inviting, and I could imagine how cozy it would be to curl up in a chair with a good book. The bookshelves were filled with leather-bound tomes, with gold-embossed titles that were hard to read from where I sat. I wondered what kind of knowledge was contained within the books, and what kind of stories they held. I felt a sense of longing as I looked at the books, wishing I could read them and learn from them.

Besides, I don't see what's interesting about those books, they're just pages with words on them. —Aida, you're talking about a trilogy and it's not. Besides, books aren't just pages with words on them, each book is magical, with a great story or adventure waiting to be read, with characters you can fall in love with or hate as if they were real, who will only live in your mind since they won't come out of those pages. It's an escape from reality, in conclusion. —Well, I don't plan to live that, since I love the real world even if it seems like shit sometimes. Besides, have you seen how thick those books are? —I roll my eyes. —You'll die before finishing reading them.

Exhausted, frustrated, and confused, Rio sat alone in the library. Books are scattered at the table in front of him. These books were all about paranormal beings. Creatures that are believed to have existed among us but stayed hidden from the mortal’s eye at least. Rio massages his forehead removed his reading glasses and closed his eyes.

she said as she made herself more comfortable on the leather chair. “Obviously but what I mean is, just let your mind go for one second and imagine that what you write was actually true,” I said. “Firstly my books are creations from my imagination and secondly as cool as it might be it’s just physically impossible,” she said as she looked at me. “But what if it was true?” I asked her.

I am never shocked. I always expect things to happen, at a point I expected this conversation to happen, right at that moment when I was talking to Safira. I anticipated this, but I didn't anticipate this conversation. “I thought no one read those books but me.” King Rafie chuckles and his eyes soften. “I’m waiting for the second book from the author. Humans are fascinating in the way they think and imagine aren’t they?” I nod because they are. I’ve been haunted by dreams of living my days out in a small house in the human realm, with a library and all the books I could want in the world. I still want that dream to become a reality.

I'm not fat actually ( you should also know this since you've seen my pictures before). Speaking of...when am I going to see one of yours? It's not exactly fair that I have not the slightest clue as to what you look like, at least. I still think you're an old psycho, but that happens a few times, and that's when I start over thinking P.S, you wouldn't want to see me overthink, really. I'm literally a character from these adolescent novels like "diary of a wimpy kid" or "dork diaries."

They are probably burning them. A wave of horror flooded through him. Burning books! There was not a book in the library that was not at least two thousand years old. It had been eons since books were printed. Even the most trivial books were important artifacts of the earlier time. " But that is sick! only an insane human will burn such books. I doubt it. Never!" He said. what else can he or she do with those books? After all the books are written in n ancient language. They can't even read it. They need a translator to do that for them.

I wanted to be a writer when I grow up. The books wait to speak their words, their ink on papery leaves that would always stay even though centuries may pass. They invite a conversation with the thoughts, one unspoken and kind - for one could always walk away from a book if one chooses, and return when ready. In a way, they were the legacy their author's thoughts, preserving ideas that would otherwise be as fleeting as the song of a bird.

Perhaps it was in my pocket driving. The idea was ridiculous, but it was all he had to hold on to. If, for the sake of a possibility, if he happened to lose the book from his pocket on his way back home, it could be somewhere waiting to be picked up. He imagined vivid and concrete scenarios, which indicated that the person who had taken away the book opened it and looked through the names and phone numbers written on its pages.