No Nuts November Novels & Stories

"There were these really aromatic nuts; I can still remember the scent like it was yesterday. I always associate it with the holiday that scent. It was always my treat when we came here to see the Nutcracker. I wouldn't eat anything else until I had those nuts." I didn't have the heart to tell her that the smell was way better than the actual taste, but I knew what she was talking about. There's a cart on fifth somewhere that I've seen in the past. I was going to ask if she preferred peanuts or cashews but decided to take a leaf out of Pop's book and get an abundance of both. Don't know how she'd heat that shit up, but it's the smell she's after anyway.

"Lena, I'm old now, so I can't protect you anymore. You have three deadly trials in your life, each more dangerous than the last. Every one of them could kill you. These three walnuts are the chances I traded half my life for. "Remember to open each one only at the moment I told you." I didn't have my parents beside me when growing up. It was my grandmother who raised me by picking up trash. People in the village called her a lunatic, but I knew she was the only person in the world who truly loved me. So, I carved her warning into my bones. On my twenty-fifth birthday, I cracked open the first walnut. 'Go to the skybridge and grovel at the first beggar you meet.'

“The light through the trees… I could draw that for hours.” Nova shoved past both of us with three grocery bags swinging from her fists. “Less talking, more drinking. I brought the good tequila and the cheap wine because I’m not a monster.” She was still in her neon running shorts and cropped hoodie from the drive, ponytail swinging, skin glowing from the last few miles of mountain road. At twenty-nine she moved like the world was a game she kept winning.

Ivan then pecked on her forehead and left the half-naked Amara on the bed all alone. She was jolted up from her 20 years of sleep. It was too late for her remorse but "It's never too late." To wake up her conscience, Amara had to pay with her dignity. And now she won't do any harm to Celestine but will try to gain her forgiveness. Maybe with her forgiveness, she would be able to lead a peaceful life. ~~~~~~~~ Dozza- a village in the city of Bologna- was known for its medieval history and paintings on walls. The people of Dozza celebrate a painting festival in September - every year.

“One time, Yemaya. I made the mistake just one time.” “One time that could've, as well, cost me my life!” She scoffs dramatically. “Imagine waking up at six a.m. for my morning routine and going to grab my trusty gloriously nutty muesli, only to find out that you bought the one with raisins in it! That's a horrific betrayal, if you ask me.” I chuckle, shaking my head. “I’m picking up three boxes of the nutty one as we speak. Happy?” “Not just nutty. Gloriously nutty! It's the one with the orange packaging that's giving autumn vibes.”

“She'll eat later, Knox just has to make it from scratch.” “He does that?” my mom raises an eyebrow. “Yes,” Nova nods. “Thalia refused to eat anything that isn't junk or fed if not made by Knox's hands and he's usually on time so I wonder where he is.” “That's not true, I'm eating these potato chips and marmalade aren't I?” I defend myself, “Knox didn't make it.” “He made the marmalade,” Nova laughs. “You just didn't know that.”

Something in her face that is past the precision and past the assessment and fully in the warm underneath version. "That's imprecise," she says. "I know," he says. "I mean it anyway." They eat the bad pasta. It is genuinely bad. He has three portions. Three months after that. Nathan is on the porch of the farmhouse in Montana. November. The visit that has become a fixture — Sterling Cross Partners has a board dinner the Friday before Thanksgiving and Nathan has been invited for the second year running, which has shifted from professional to something else in the way that things shift when they're genuine.

November arrived with intention. Not the hesitant, apologetic November that sometimes crept in after a generous October, still wearing summer’s borrowed colors and pretending the cold wasn’t coming. This November meant business from the very first morning — hard frost on the garden beds, breath visible in the air before seven, the sky a low, serious gray that suggested it had important things to consider and would not be rushed.

I make a quick trip deeper into the woods and work out the kinks in my legs. When I come back, I steal a sip of Nia’s whiskey to warm my chest. She stirs in silence. I set the glass on the frosted ground and shove my hands up my jacket sleeves to warm my fingers. It’s a new moon, and the smattering of late November stars fade as we get closer to sunrise. Beyond the fire, black walnut trees loom high overhead, punctuating the stillness of the night with a jarring thump each time the wind knocks an overripe nut free from its moorings.