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I yelled while scratching at my skin clawing hoping I could rip it off, I cant take it anymore I wanna be pretty I wanna be good enough, I looked through my cabinets for my razor when I got it I went back to staring at myself in the mirror "why me God why am I not pretty and light skin I wanna be light skin i don't want this color" I cried when I looked down at my wrist I saw blood but I couldn't stop cutting looking in the mirror it was like I was watching someone else, it was like I was an outsider looking in, I couldn't feel the pain I was numb to it.

The extravagant paper opening wide once, twice, three times, her calves, then knees, then thighs inhaled in big bites. She’d plunged waist deep, her skin a billowing skirt of wrinkled, glistening flesh nestled around her ribs. The hem of her jeans scrunched around her tits. The bottom of her shirt teasing the tip of her chin. The skin of her back having split to gather at the front. Between these pages flesh was being stripped from bone. Tendons were being sucked, ligaments savored. Between these pages muscle was devoured while bones were licked, chomped, munched.

The first thing I noticed was the notebook. Soft leather. Ivory-colored. Elegant but simple. My fingers brushed across the cover, and my heart skipped when I saw the gold foil lettering pressed perfectly into the surface. A.D. My initials. How were they able to do that! I slowly opened it, running my thumb along the thick cream pages. The paper felt expensive…smooth, almost silky. The kind of notebook you wouldn’t want to ruin with messy sketches. The kind that made you want to draw something worthy of it.

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.

Kieran said, handing over a very huge book to me. “Every one?” “Every single one,” Kieran nodded. “The ones she commissioned humans to fight, the ones she was present at, yeah, everyone.” “I have a lot of work to do then,” I muttered, flipping through the heavy pages. The material used to make them was different because it was way better than ordinary paper. It had the weight of gold and the thickness of steel. “If you ever want to come here, all you just have to do is touch one of the spots I did, the rest will come to you,” Kieran said, looking to the side, giving a chance for the rays of light to hit his pretty red eyes.

Elise could easily imagine his commanding presence stealing the hearts of all the women attending one of those tedious balls she missed so much. She found Nate Kimble to be the most striking of the three. Even after a full day’s ride, his raven hair settled nicely along the collar of his Pinkerton coat. It was not long enough to pull back into a pique, yet it was still a good length. Perfect brows accentuated his deep-set, crystal blue eyes, straight nose, and smooth, thin lips. His jaw looked strong, but not square. She was sure that, if she stood next to him, he would tower over her by at least ten inches. Of the three, he seemed the least impressed by the fact that she was amongst the

Viktoria’s POV I scanned the books, and I wanted to be careful with them as they didn’t look fake old. They were really old. As I pulled one off the shelf and I felt the texture of the cover, I dropped it on the floor! A shiver ran down my spine as I looked at the book. The cover was made out of skin, not leather! It wasn’t human, and it wasn’t an animal. I couldn’t place what kind it was, but it was definitely skin! I carefully picked it up and shivered as I put it back. I would have to be more careful and was lucky that the book didn’t tear or get damaged. No longer able to slip my finger over the backs of the books for fear I might touch something else I didn’t want to know about, I tried

She raises her hand high to the sky and a black dust hurl in circles in her hand, materializing into a large book with covers made of skin and leather. “What is it?” I asked. “My book,” the White Witch answered plainly. “It gave me some insights on what sort of magic we are dealing with.” The White Witch wondered off into the forest again, reading. “Where do you think she is off to now?” Conrad asked. “I don’t know,” I replied. It was getting cold but cold was nothing to wolves especially under the full moon. “What do you think she mean by ‘intriguing and shocking at the same time’?” I asked Conrad.

The romance was being squeezed out. "The journal" Elara shouted, her bare knees hurt as she fell flat onto the asphalt to pick up the black leather book that was lying between them. The moment her fingers touched the leather, the blank white pages inside the journal did not just move they started bleeding. A lot of midnight-blue fluid came out of the journal mixed with the cold rain water and formed a swirling indigo circle around her ankles. The gold letters on the cover of the journal; THE MASTER LEDGER: VOLUME TWO ​flared with a white-hot, blinding radiation that scorched the skin of her palm, the unique, un-templated human syntax of her blood-infused veins screaming in protest against th

He brought his palm flat against the center of his bare chest, right over his heart. Beneath his calloused skin, through the layers of white corporate gauze and clear medical tape, a sharp, bright blue light began to pulse. It wasn't the color of his blood. It was the exact shimmering, liquid ink from Madam Yan’s paper document. The lines of the marriage certificate were rising under his flesh, the characters burning themselves directly into his skin like a hot iron grid, glowing brighter with every single click of the dashboard clock.