Paper Towns Book Covers Novels & Stories

Sounds good. Wish I could join you.... Then I get a quick shot of the cover. What on earth's she reading? Tipping back her book to see the jacket, it's a bright splash of cartoon figures against a gentian blue sky. Smiley faced men and women frolic with a dog in front of a kids' classic 'first house drawing': a square box, with a triangle of a roof and a window in each corner. I peer at the blurb on the back.... "A few weeks ago, it was finite element analysis and Fourier series. Now you're reading chick-lit?"

It was a bridge between his past and our present. In the center of the room stood the crib. It was mahogany, dark and rich, polished to a mirror shine. It looked sturdy enough to survive an earthquake. And above it... Above the crib hung a mobile. But not plastic animals. It was made of delicate glass stars and... pages. I walked closer. The "stars" were folded from paper. "Are those..." I reached out to touch one. "Alex, are these book pages?" "First editions," he murmured, standing behind me. "Pride and Prejudice. Jane Eyre. The Great Gatsby."

I locked the front door, dimmed the overhead lights to just the warm glow of the reading lamps, and flipped the sign to *Closed* but didn't lock it. The shop smelled like old paper, cedar shelves, and the faint vanilla of the candle I’d lit earlier. I should have gone home. Should have poured wine, watched the ball drop on my tiny TV, toasted alone. Instead I lingered. I wandered to the back corner—the erotica section nobody ever asked for help finding. I pulled a slim volume from the top shelf: The Art of Surrender. The cover was black with gold lettering, no photo. Perfect. I sank into the worn velvet armchair tucked between the stacks, the one customers sometimes used to read a chapter be

They should be in climate-controlled areas, not just thrown in the daily mail and shipped across the country. “Not sure what these are,” I say, picking up a few dark volumes. “And they’re covered in dust.” I blow off the cover, trying to dislodge the grime. “And no titles. Lovely.” I put them to the side, hoping to make most of our progress on the easily-categorized ones and then revisiting. “No title?” Ben asks, curiously, coming to look over my shoulder. “What about on the spine? Inside cover?” I pick one back up and scan the side. “It’s disgusting. We should clean it.” But I open a cover anyway, squinting at the small print. “A…. J… Nie-lan? Nillan?”

Turning the cover for me to see he said, “So this is your favorite book, huh?” Wondering what had him looking so sly I focused my eyes on the cover and I immediately felt a rush of heat flare through my body. The cover had a picture of the naked anatomy of a man and woman embracing each other sensually and the title read, ‘100 ways to spice up your life.' “If this is what you were here searching for in the library then I don’t think I have any problem,” he laughed patronizingly, and flicking through the pages he stopped at one and reading the words on it he continued, “Try being intimate in random or unfamiliar places-”

The cover of the book read, “Arthur Zimmerman, Game 71. I found the second shelf on the case and scanned for my next book. Book thirteen had a cover of deep purple. I frowned at the woman looking up at me, scanning over her tangled fiery curls, the cinnamon freckles across her nose, and the way her emerald eyes seemed to twinkle at me from the cover. Her hair and eyes were the only familiar thing about her. My face was a bit rounder than hers, and definitely held a bit more baby fat. Her cheekbones were high and her lips full, conventionally beautiful in a wild sort of way. I felt that twinge of guilt as I looked down at the cover. “Sasha Burnette, Game 51.”

Small. If you think about it, small isn't such a bad word. Abi? The house is coated in a light layer of lemon-green paint. Stubborn lemon-green that refuses adamantly to catch the evening light. Stubborn lemon-green paint which is peeling at the corners, under the steel bars at the windows, near the floor, coiling away from the concrete like the skin of an orange attacked by a knife. The bedroom is crammed with Chantelle's stuff, hastily packed by the looks of it, and there is no Television in sight. On the bedroom wall stands a shelf made of shiny chestnut-coloured wood, spilling with books, many dogeared, judging by which I'd say they have other hobbies to keep them occupied. I spy a Mills

“Can I have some paper? I want to try that.” “Okay,” she had eased off the bed sending little sparrows slipping and sliding across the covers, and had stepped around the empty shells of the romance covers that lay in a discard pile on the floor, their pages re-purposed into origami. At the edge of the ward, she handed him half a dozen pages torn from the hated novels. “There you are.”

The book cover was made of thick leather with parchment pages tightly bound together with twine. With trembling hands, Anna opened the cover and began reading the first page, and the next, and the next. She was astonished to see the text was word-for-word the exact same as the manuscript her publishing company was about to release in a few days, plus several thousand years in the future.

When I was done, I headed for my office, shutting the door behind me. Walking to my desk, my hands shook as I pulled the bottom drawer open. In it, several worn paperbacks of my secret stash were laid out. With titles like- CLAIMED BY THE PACK, BRED BY THE BEAST AND TAKEN WITHOUT MERCY. I grabbed Taken Without Mercy, the cover showcasing a naked curvy woman with a fucked out pussy, big tits and two guys by her side with huge mighty cocks. I slid onto my chair, the urge to resist failing me. It's being months and I told myself I'd stop, but the ache in me needed to be satisfied.