Owls Bookstore Novels & Stories

My phone buzzed again. Oscar sent me a photo. It was the design sketch for the earrings. Beside it sat a brand-new finished pair. Oscar: I made a new pair. The craftsmanship is better than that of three years ago. You can be the judge of that the next time we meet. I stared at the photo and subconsciously smiled. Me: Okay. ... Oscar arranged to meet me at an old bookstore. He said it was his mother’s favorite place to go. The bookstore was not large. The shelves reached all the way to the ceiling and were packed full. The air smelled of old paper and dust.

The crisp paper and musty smell of carpet and an ozone-like tang air condition welcomed us. “Old-fashioned bookstores. Nice.” A few selections of magazines and greeting cards on the racks behind the glass window. Sturdy old bookshelves of different books lining the walls and marching across the floor in rows. A small round table at the corner was holding a book in the display, and posters displaying popular books and discounts posted on the wall. “Not every day you’ll find a place like this,” she said. “What’s the headline today, Pete?” “Old man Bart’s has a new calf, dear,” An old man on the vintage chair with a newspaper in hand replied.

Opal Saturday afternoon brought a gentle autumn rain to Savannah, turning the cobblestone streets slick and reflective. Seeking refuge from the drizzle, I took the triplets to E. Shaver, Bookseller—a cozy, labyrinthine indie bookstore filled with the comforting aroma of old paper, leather bindings, and dark roast coffee. "Stay together, please," I instructed softly, unwrapping my damp scarf as we navigated the narrow wooden aisles. "Mommy, can I look at the space books with the giant rockets?" Oliver asked, tugging on my sleeve, his dark eyes wide with excitement.

his voice is soft as he speaks. I flinch, straightening up. “Uhm”, I turn my head. He is staring at me with his hair unstyled and his body dressed in a matching pyjama set, “The Owl Service.” Elijah studies the book cover for a moment, fumbling with his thumbs the entire time. “I don't know it”, he mumbles, looking away, “is it good?” “Yeah, uhm, it's good.” “Cool.” He doesn’t seem to want to say another word. Good. That means he doesn’t want to talk about what happened. You are in the clear, now you can finally read without feeling like spiralling.

Her grey eyes were wide and fascinated, tracking my every movement like I was the most interesting thing she had ever seen. "I still can't believe you're real," she said suddenly, her voice filled with wonder. "I mean, I know you're real. You're right there. But I can't believe you're real." I blinked at her, unsure how to respond. "She's fascinated by you," Kealen said through our link. "She's never seen a colorful owl like you before." "I'm the prettiest Owl. Of course she's never seen anything like me." "Don't let it go to your head."

grinned Owen, my faithful Friday boy and witcher extraordinaire. “I'm just saying that zombies have undergone a huge transformation over the years. Hiding a smile, I blew on my tea and watched the waves crash against the glass wall of my bookstore-bar. “Speed, maybe,” he retorted, stacking the glasses under the counter. Sitting on a stool, I sipped my tea while Owen checked the bottles of alcohol, replacing empty ones. I am running a books bar in Danius Clive'S Pack. Tables, most with small stained-glass lamps, were scattered throughout the bar, green leather chairs surrounding them.

The walk to the bookstore was shorter than she expected. Nestled between two larger buildings, its faded sign read "Willow’s Nook.” A small bell chimed as they stepped inside, and the scent of old paper and polished wood greeted them. The librarian was a small lady with a bob cut and cat eyed glasses, probably in her fifties. The space was cozy, with narrow aisles lined with overflowing shelves and dim lamps casting a warm glow. It felt like stepping into another world, one untouched by time.

he whispered. *** Owen was right after all. An hour after we came in, it started to drizzle. The smell of freshly baked pancakes wafted through the air as I stared out the large glass door that gave a fine view of the pool. Owen had wrapped me up in a warm blanket leaving me with a book and hot chocolate. Power of the pussy. I read, trailing my fingers over the book cover — smooth and simple design. “I should read this?” I asked rhetorically, picking up the book to glance through the pages.

I mumbled with a full mouth. "There's extra in there. Let's keep moving." We turned the corner into another street lined with low brick buildings. One had a dusty window and a sun-faded sign that read Dog-Eared Pages. "This place is a little gem," Robbie said. "If you ever want to read up on modern stuff written for wolves from the old packs—this is where to do it. They even have books on magic you won't find in human shops." That piqued my interest immediately, but—

Besides the fresh ink smell of picture books, the air was also filled with the scent of paper from all kinds of novels, classic literature, and manga. —A werewolf’s keen sense of smell can clearly distinguish how long books have been stored, whether they’re new or old. I had to admit, although this shop looked no more than ten square meters, the selection was surprisingly complete. It even had a few rare illustrated folklore books. Clearly, the owner was a true book lover. I didn’t really know what to look at when I suddenly noticed a printer on the owner’s cashier desk. The printer was rattling nonstop, spitting out pages.