J M Barrie Little White Bird Novels & Stories

It was the time for the cremation of Mrs. Leena Raichand. She was lying lifeless on the pyre while a few people from the family surrounded her. The atmosphere was tragic, and the scenery complimented the feeling of grief. A barren ground on the Riverside. The weather was cloudy, while the chirping of birds could be heard minutely. The silence was scattered all around except the chanting of the pandit ji, who was fulfilling the rituals before she would be cremated.

I had to get to the bottom of this. “White Wolf, Alpha? Is it possible that it was the white wolf?’ I remember the tales that go on about the last white wolf and the special gift she has. Is that wolf even real? Or just a part of those fables. I sighed, knowing I wasn’t getting anywhere like this. I needed some time alone to think. “Thank you Jacob, you may leave now,” I dismissed him.

"I've already obtained the land deeds and seals and had it notarized by a lawyer. It's considered a legal inheritance. I am now the Walter family's official head!" "I really can't stand your pretentious attitude," Larissa said, then gave Birdie a look. Birdie immediately raised the small drum and began playing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star again. Barbara clenched her teeth, enduring the pain in her stomach. "Who … who are you?" She had just randomly picked a girl from the sea. How did she offend such a scary person? Birdie made a funny face at Barbara. With a disdainful look, she said, "She's the Ms. Larissa I was talking about!"

With winter approaching, the wilderness grew chilly, especially at night. “ Uncle Jiang, can you check if we can borrow Uncle He's ox cart to go to the town? We need winter clothes and some new quilts. I also need a mother goat to feed milk to this little guy,” I patted Little White's head and played with its fur. We were always together; when I slept, it slept on top of me. And those viper's eggs, I named them 'One and Two.' I had a feeling they would hatch soon. CHAPTER 12

“Okay.” She adjusted the blanket around him, tucking it lightly under his shoulders. “There once was a little bird,” she began softly, “who lived in a very large cage. The cage was beautiful. It was made of gold, and everyone who saw it thought the bird was lucky.” His eyes were already softer now. “But the bird didn’t care about gold,” she continued. “It cared about the sky.” He blinked slowly. “The bird would sit by the bars every day and look out at the open sky, wondering what it would feel like to fly without limits.”

Matthew immediately shook his head, "I'm not alone, I have Little White with me!" Lyra looked around but couldn't find the Samoyed named Little White. Matthew pointed to the convenience store on the roadside and said, "Little White is performing there." Lyra looked over and saw Little White being cute at the entrance of the convenience store. Rolling on the ground for a while, then standing up and walking on two legs, and finally even extending its paws to make a congratulatory gesture.

I avoided talking about Gemma tactfully because it always created a clash between my mum and me due to difference of opinion. Our car smoothly sped on the flat highway. I glanced out of the window and saw the orange melting into the blue sky. The faint cry of gulls and the sound of little gusts of wind rattling the car sent a mellow ripple through the quiet evening. As we drew near the main streets of the next town, we saw small heads with bronze arms and spindly legs frolicking on the pavement- their mindless mothers occupied in nugatory tittle-tattle.

I think of all the possibilities of something that terrible happening to a little girl like that. I turn my gaze away from the little sleeping angel and look outside the window. A flock of birds hangs in sync just outside. They are singing gently, and the sound is soothing. Like music. Not the kind that pours out of the jukebox in the bar. Nature is indeed really beautiful in Sunrise Bay.

Night Sky with Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong. Lila wrinkled her nose and placed it back. “Not my type.” She reached for another one. The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath. “Why are they all poems?” she frowned and muttered to herself. Suddenly, she felt a presence behind her. A large figure moved close, and a deep voice followed. “What are you doing here, kid?” She shrieked and spun around, nearly jumping out of her skin. Her eyes met a pair of piercing blue ones.

WINTER: Three Years Later… “Come here, Liam,” I ordered to my three-year-old son. We were done taking our breakfast and were now strolling through the children’s park in the neighborhood. His attention was caught when a bird landed on the floor, staring down at him. “You’re not going to catch him, alright? The bird is only looking at the children.” “Why does the bird have small eyes, Mommy?” he asked, his brows forming a straight line. “Why do his eyes don’t look like mine?”