Lemonade Poetry Book Novels & Stories

“This is my homemade lemonade. I can't promise you'll love everything else I have packed in the picnic basket, but I'd be willing to bet money that you'll go nuts over this. It's a secret lemonade recipe known only to a handful of the Corbett family.” “In that case, I consider myself lucky for being able to have a taste.” As Ethan spoke, it seemed apparent to Laura that he was more interested in her than he was in the lemonade. It was like he couldn't take his eyes off of her. She loved it. It made her feel beautiful and extraordinary. She pulled two plastic cups out of the basket and filled them both with lemonade from the jug. “Secret recipe, huh?” he said, taking the cup from Laura's hand

Rae was jumping in her seat with anticipation when I walked in the room. “I guess you found something then” I smirked. “Johnny this book I don’t understand what it is but it is full of acrostic poems but looking at this one particular poem, its layered with more secrets and hidden messages on top. All poems have hidden meanings that’s the basis of every poem but this book is so cleverly written. Look at this page the book and the amulet together- look here,” she showed me the page I had found with the book and Amulet on a stone plinth.

Beside the bowl, a glass of cold lemonade sparkled with condensation, tiny droplets running down the sides. "Here, the farmer’s wife says you remind her of her daughter.” Jelo says and I look back, the farmer wife waves at me. I wave back at her and I smile. “I remind her of her daughter? Does this dress belong to her daughter then?” I ask. “Perhaps, their daughter is dead.” Jelo says. “Oh, poor thing.” I say. The scent of the sweet strawberries mixed with the tangy aroma of the lemonade makes my mouth water. I take the glass of lemonade first, the coolness of it is refreshing as I sip. The tart flavor is something I never thought I would crave. The sweetness bursts onto my tongue as I bite

The books were mostly collections of poetry, with a powerful presence of works by William Shakespeare. “The Tempest,” she murmured, excitement evident in her voice. It brought back memories of her school days when she had wanted to borrow the book from the library, only to find it unavailable. She had never bought it herself, worrying about the burden of moving with too many belongings during her frequent relocations. Her fingers hovered over the spines of the books, dabbing them but refraining from pulling any off the shelf. “Let it go, Chom,” Ladapha sighed to herself, attempting to shake off her longing. She turned to leave but startled with a soft gasp, “Oh!”

Yam sliced it open slowly, hands trembling. Inside was their book. “The Art of Staying.” Cover: a sunflower. A crooked shelf. Two mugs—one chipped. And behind it all, the suggestion of a fan, mid-spin. Franc stared at it like it might whisper back. “Feels unreal,” Yam said. Franc flipped through pages. Some with artwork. Others with Yam’s poetry. Their story—wired beginnings and all—now bound in matte finish. “I think this book breathes,” Franc said.

he asked, taking another sip of his coffee. "A book," was her dry reply, without even looking up. Nic gritted his teeth. "I'm aware of that. What's the title?" he asked, with less patience than before. "How to kill someone you don't like in two days." Nic had to laugh on the inside. She really was a funny piece of work. She still had yet to learn her manners, but she would. He would be damn sure of that. He walked over to her and snatched the book from her hands. Before she could protest, he read the title to himself. '100 Greatest Love Poems of All Time'. He handed the book back to her and walked to the bar area and sipped some more of his coffee.

To her dismay, Jane found herself walking down the hall to English with Lucy by her side, still talking, talking, talking. "I didn't know you were such a big reader, Jane," Lucy said, smiling at her. "I guess because your book-report books are always so short. But length isn't what matters in a book. I love a lot of short books, too. Just look at poetry. A poem can be any length. There are millions of wonderful poems that are only a few lines long. Like Emily Dickinson's poems. She can say more in two lines than most people can say in a hundred pages. What part are you up to in A Tale of Two Cities?"

Tank After dinner I threw out the styrofoam containers and Lilly and I took Harley out for a walk in the backyard. The sun was just starting to set, painting the sky in oranges, pinks, purples and light shades of blue. I described it all for Lilly. From the fluffy clouds to the sinking sun. Before Lilly lost her vision I had never given thought to simple things like sunsets. Or the feel of a blanket. Or the smell of flowers. But every day with Lilly is a new adventure. Learning new things together and appreciating old things that I took for granted. I wish that it hadn’t taken Lilly’s accident to wake me up. But I am happy I am now. I made a vow to myself not to waste a single day with my gi

Kennedy POV. The weather was bad, but I needed to get that new book, it's Robert birthday gift, who'd knew a grown up man would kill for the newest werewolf love book. I got into my car, drove carefully toward the local book store, they had the new book reserved for me. It was supposed to one quick drive, until I walked into the library. A girl was sitting on a bean bag, her blond hair was covering her eyes with overgrown bangs, she tried to huff them away from her face but to no use. She looked young, maybe she's just here with her parents, looking down at the book she had in her hands it was a kids story. Does she read for the local kids? Or is it just for her?

The children were arranged in the front row, Emma and Jack sitting with solemn ceremony, Marcus in Clara's arms, Leo standing slightly apart with his piece of paper, already reading it silently to himself with moving lips. The officiant spoke briefly. Then he invited Leo to read. Leo unfolded his paper and cleared his throat with the self-consciousness of a thirteen-year-old performing in front of adults, which passed quickly once he started reading. He had written the poem himself, which Chloe had not known and which Lucien, judging by his expression, had also not known. It was not a polished poem. It had an uncertain metre and one rhyme that did not quite work, and it was, without question