Lemonade Poetry Book Novels & Stories

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.

For some time, Leah wandered around the shelves, looking at the used book books full of multi-colored spines: some pretty shabby, with wrinkled or even torn corners, others practically new. And there were even ones that had never been opened, with a crunchy sound pleasant to the ear, as soon as she tried to leaf through one of these. “Your coffee,” Yuna announced in a playfully formal tone, lowering a tall glass goblet onto a special wooden stand. — I hope you like the latte?

It’s not a particularly good smell—no one would make a cologne out of it—but it eases my chest and makes me feel languid and weightless, like I’m floating in space. I’m hardly paying attention as Justus takes all the books out of the crate to get a hardback at the very bottom. I hadn’t noticed it earlier. It’s an old children’s book. Thumbelina. The fabric cover is threadbare in places, and the gold embossed lettering is tarnished. I remember the story vaguely from the early years at Moon Lake Academy. It’s a human fairy tale.

"That one. That poem. Read it." I read it silently. It was about grief. About holding on to people through scents, songs, and random moments. I felt my chest tighten. "You like sad poems?" I asked. "Only when I don’t know what to say." We bought the book. … Lunch was hotdogs from a street vendor. "Seriously?" I said, staring at the cart. "Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it." He loaded it up with mustard and onions and handed it to me like it was gourmet.

Leah opened it. The page was filled with jagged lines, crossed-out words, fragments of sentences. But it was there. A beginning. Leah read it slowly. It was a poem. About a girl who lived in a house full of silence. About a mango tree that listened better than people. About a voice that was afraid to be loud. Leah looked up. “It’s beautiful,” she said. Tala shrugged. “It’s not finished.” Leah smiled. “Neither are you.” Tala began attending every session.

It wasn't until she noticed the strange book tucked away in the corner that she was able to distract herself from her thoughts. "I almost missed one," she whispered. As she walked over to it, she noticed that its cover was worn, and it seemed to emit a faint glow that caught her attention. Maybe it's how the moon perfectly acted as its own spotlight that made it seem so glowy, but it's not just that. She somehow felt a little hint of amusement as she stared at it. As she approached the book, she saw the shinny title written on it, Lunaria, and she couldn't help but be intrigued. The moonlight shining down on the pages illuminated the words in a way that made them seem to come alive.

The pretty lady on-stage said to her mic, “Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Penny and I’m the host for the Poetry League. I’ll now come up with a theme where everyone should base their poetry composition on. Whoever writes the best will earn the title The Gifted Hibiscus Scholar! You should know this title is the highest honor for scholars and literati!” Penny scanned the crowd. “It’s deep into autumn, so the theme for this year’s Poetry League is Autumn. Whoever writes the best poem wins!”

"The fourteenth herb she has no clue about. She wants us to provide some references to see what rare toxins exist in the world. Mr. Leon are there any books you can recommend." "Let me think. There do seem to be books that document all the toxins." They sat down together again to discuss about wolfbane. Time passed unnoticed, and it was getting dark. They were unaware of it. Danger crept in with the darkness. Princess Adele, "They lost track of time as usual, didn't they?" "Yes. Everyone has left. Now there are only two of them left in the library." "Very well. Then let's follow the plan." ***

Artemisia had briefly forgotten that that day wasn't normal, she's starting to realize, and think, that maybe she's not the one who's going crazy. The girl approached the shelves and Helga's voice danced again in her mind. "The navy blue cover book will tell you a story, I can't tell you which one, only the book is entitled to that." Artemisia didn't understand, but soon found the book near the second door. It was a heavy book, but not as thick as expected. It had a glow reminiscent of sunbeams touching the greenish water of a river or lake. It also had nymphs drawn on the cover and side of the leaves.

Turning the music off, I grab the lavender and put it in a tiny glass vase, and set it in the center of the long ebony black dining table. Walking out of the conjoined dining room and kitchen I grab my book, my water bottle, and a blanket. I set the water and blanket by the back door that leads to the porch, and the beach a little off, and head back to the kitchen with my book. Of human bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham. The book itself isn't bad, but from my point of view, it's terribly bland. I like more poetic works. But also a hint of darkness. The best example is the poem, In the Desert, by Stephen Crane, from his book The Black Riders and Other Lines. It has a sense of dystopia that I ca