Light Read Online Novels & Stories

Pure, radiant celestial light exploded outward in a wave. It tore across the battlefield like the wrath of the moon herself. Lawrence’s front lines were obliterated. Shields cracked. Armor melted. Enemies screamed and vanished into ash. The very ground shook as starlight carved through darkness, leaving only silence in its wake. And Derick took the brunt of it. He didn’t scream. He looked at me as the light consumed him, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. Regret? Rage? Relief? I’ll never know.

Layla Death is cold and empty. It’s silent. It’s lonely. I feel weightless, like I’m being carried. But there’s no sound, no feeling in my body. Just a faint, flashing light. Everyone talks about seeing a light at the end of the tunnel. Follow the light--into death. Whenever people talk of the light they follow into heaven—or in my case, it’s probably hell—I always imagined it would be bright white. Not flashing red and blue like this light.

The library keeper stared. Alaric stared back. Then both of them laughed simultaneously. The crew exchanged confused looks. Hope pointed dramatically. Again. "You know each other." Elowen shook her head. "Not exactly." Alaric nodded. "Only through stories." Which somehow made perfect sense. And no sense at all. The First Light apparently operated according to very specific rules. Alaric approached the dock. Slowly. Carefully. His eyes never left Elowen. "You preserved them." Silence.

The only things that match exactly are the two machetes in leather scabbards hanging from their waists. Lights is the oldest male Miracle, born the day after Radar. His real name is Javier. He’s a slender guy of Mexican descent, just a couple inches taller than me, with olive skin and longish black hair he keeps cut short in the front to keep it out of his yellow-gold eyes. His eyes were dark brown until his Power appeared several years ago, when they turned golden. His Power, as his nickname suggests, is light. He can create balls of light with either hand, or shoot a beam of light from his eyes. As he’s gotten older, he’s learned to control the size and the brightness of the balls and beam

"Mr. Lloyd, I'd like to work for your company." "I'll come ready with my full commitment, and two of Eric's key clients. Is that enough? I can bring more if needed." A deep voice answered. "What do you want in return?" "I have no home and not a single penny to my name." "Alright. Come to my place."

[Help me draft a press release for his international exhibition—let’s attract some investors! Her response was instantaneous: [OMG. Maxwell Zane? The devastatingly talented Valmont-Azura painter? He absolutely crushes Henry! You two collaborating will redefine contemporary art!]

Sure enough, it was gone. The image of him smiling at the clerk came to mind, along with the warm compliments about what a loving couple we were. That scene kept replaying in my head. I stood there in a daze, the bitterness in my chest slowly settling. I quietly told myself that maybe this was all just a one-sided crush on Serena's end. After dinner, Lucas suddenly set down his fork and said, "I have to work late tonight at the observatory. I need to observe a star that's quite rare."

A radiant light poured from it, flooding the battlefield with its warmth and power. Lara lifted her hand, and as she did, the light intensified. She aimed it at Thana, and when the beam of pure energy touched the Queen of Darkness's face, Thana let out an ear-piercing shriek. Writhing in agony, Thana’s skin began to crack as dark smoke escaped from the wounds. The light from the ring burned with the intensity of a thousand stars, pushing back the shadows that clung to Thana like a second skin.

Luna nodded with enthusiasm. “You can ask anyone who knows jewelry if you don’t believe me. There is also a legend that says that anyone who sees the seven colors of light will be very lucky.” “If that’s true, then I need to see the seven colors of light. I’m so glad I have a small flashlight in my bag,” said one of the women, taking out a small flashlight from her bag and holding it to Rhea’s wrist. Rhea tried to take back her hand, already feeling embarrassed and guilty.

It is the light of where I actually am, which is better than the light of anywhere I imagined. I read the message twice. I show it to Lucien. He reads it. He looks at the compound windows, the February evening coming in through the east facing glass with the specific quality of winter light that carries more warmth than the season usually allows. "The light of where I actually am," he says quietly. "Yes," I say. "That is what the record is for," he says. "Getting people to the light of where they actually are, rather than the light they imagined from the distance of carrying something alone."