Paper Towns Book Covers Novels & Stories

"Sure. I'll give it a try." Her eyes lit up. Soon, she pressed her lips together, nodded, and stepped back to the counter. I took a sip, and it felt like warmth had finally settled into a part of me that had stayed cold for a very long time. Just then, my phone buzzed. I glanced at it; the publisher's editor had sent over a draft cover for my new book. The cover featured a gradually brightening deep blue expanse, with the title "Crossing" printed across it.

The public library printer hummed, spitting out the first page while the progress bar crawled across the monitor. My fingers hovered over the keyboard to guard the downloaded P*F. The original, the heavy parchment with the actual embossed seal, was still safe, hidden in the locked drawer at home. These were just reprints. Replacements for the ones he had torn up last year. I just wanted to see my name on a paper again, to prove to myself that I still existed outside of this apartment.

I quickly flipped through the book and I saw a lot of drawings, so I took my time and opened the first page and I saw a drawing, of a little girl. She looked happy also smiling a wide smile with a front tooth missing. Her hair was shoulder length and she was wearing a cute Minnie dress. I was about to flip to the next page, but then something else in the drawer caught my eye. It was a paper that had two pictures on it and on closer inspection I could see that they were the front and back pages of a passport. There were two of them, photocopied in black and white, one on top and one right under it.

The streets were lined with flower beds in full bloom, local shops with hand-painted signs and people who nodded as they passed, faces a little older, a little wiser, but kind nonetheless. Cassie wandered slowly, hands in her pockets, letting her steps take her where they pleased. Her first stop was the bookstore, Willow Pages, a two-story shop that still smelled of pinewood shelves and well-loved novels. She didn’t stay long but bought a worn paperback she had once read in high school, more for the nostalgia than the plot.

Without looking to Owen for confirmation, I say, “We do. Please, explain.” She opens her bag and removes a few tattered paperbacks. The spines are unreadable, they’ve been cracked in so many places. One is missing a cover. All of them have a forest of neon tabs jutting out from their sides. I hear Hannah’s audible gasp of delight and admiration. I’m surprised she doesn’t ask for the brand, style, and inventory number of the tabs. “Our pack is so obsessed with the story of our origins, that we ignore the story of our ending.” She opens one of the books and it lays flat, pages perilously close to falling out. There’s a woodcut illustration of Fenrir devouring Odin.

In the far corner is a sink and a crude-looking toilet. Hooks line one of the walls, all empty. The air smells like rust and dust. But then, something catches my eye. A shelf near the back, almost hidden in shadow. Not plastic packages this time. Books. Old ones. Their spines are worn, leather cracked. Some have gold filigree. Others are thick and bound in cloth. I move closer, squinting to read the faded titles. “Lineage of Power.” “The Lost Coronation.” “Treaties of the First Blood.”