Living Writer Review Novels & Stories

I want to create something that will be a subway to my mind, a plane to my soul, and words that can explain my lungs. We can all write a book- but only few wants to bleed. Writing is bleeding. Letting your mind turn into thoughts and letting your pen run out of ink. It's being brave enough to express yourself without thinking about the monsters surrounding you- the ones who walks in the streets and not those the one you think that hides in your closet. “You alright?” I heard Grandpa's voice that made me brought back to my senses. “Huh-uhm.. yes..” “ You've been staring at the floor for almost a minute now. It might melt any

I tortured him until I felt that I had enough. Fifteen minutes passed ,and I was covered in Alexei’s blood. I stepped back and looked at my magnificent art I have done to Alexei’s body. People would think I’m a psycho for enjoying watching someone die while their life drains from their body. I just enjoy the sight of someone fighting to survive to stay awake while they know it is no use fitting at all because he or she will die anyway no matter what.

The culinary journals never stayed in the rack for long — they migrated to Elijah's office or to the kitchen or to the small stack beside his side of the bed — but they passed through the rack on their way to wherever they were going. A literary review that had been there for four months and that Elijah was definitely going to get to. This was a running joke between them — the literary review that arrived, was placed in the rack, and remained there, untouched, issue after issue, while Elijah read everything else in the house. The literary review had become something like a houseguest who had overstayed their welcome but was too polite to ask to leave. Elijah maintained that he was saving it

So despite the fact that I have been feeling so watched, I feel consoled knowing that I could have it much worse in Salvatore's hands. Around eleven at night, I went downstairs to get a glass of water from one of the fridges, the kitchen was dark and Mrs. Cali had neatly put away everything. While I was drinking water from a cup, I could not help but feel like I was being watched by someone and how familiar that gaze felt, I have learned to ignore the uncomfortable sensation of being under one's scrutiny but I just knew that stare.

For a few minutes, she had enough time to reflect on her short-lived life. "If only I could live inside my novels, I would be happier than I was today." The line went taut. The struggling was no more. The voiceless storyteller has found her salvation with her eyes closed.

Author's Note: Hello. If there is someone who is reading this book, as you can see I made a mistake for publishing the other chapters. I'm so sorry. My phone lags that's why it happens. Forgive me. I hope you guys still enjoy reading my book. I will try to finish the book this month. ~*~ KEVIN'S (HIRO'S) POINT OF VIEW

“Never judge a book by its cover. Having a coworker like her is seriously the biggest stain on my life.” I ignored everyone’s mocking comments and simply smiled as I escorted Elijah and his group out. After everything I went through in my previous life, words like these meant nothing to me anymore.

She couldn't resist the temptation and slowly opened the creaky lid. Inside the chest, she discovered a collection of journals, each filled with faded ink and delicate handwriting. The journals were filled with accounts of daring expeditions to far-off lands, encounters with mythical creatures, and tales of hidden treasures. They painted a vivid picture of Killian's past adventures, and Tiffany was captivated by the stories they held. Unable to resist, she chose one journal and began to read. As she delved deeper into the pages, Tiffany felt an inexplicable connection to the tales. The words seemed to come alive, transporting her to distant lands and igniting a longing for her own adventures

The library review came out in November. Not the architectural press review — that had come in the spring, the threshold as held breath language having been picked up and distributed through the professional publications. This was a different kind of review: a feature in the city's cultural magazine, the kind of piece that was written not for architects but for the people who used the buildings, the account of the library as a lived experience rather than a designed object.

Is one quiet night really too much to ask? I clasped my hands on my ears as the sounds of moans and groans from the other room was piercing through the walls of my bedroom. This is what I get for agreeing to living in the same house with one of the biggest players in campus, just so I could pay cheap rent. I laid down in bed, defeated. I couldn't even get through one sentence with all of the commotion from the other room. What the heck is he even doing to these women to make them scream all night? Is he really that good in bed?