Poem Book Pages Novels & Stories

“For you.” I could hardly believe it. Flipping through the composition book, I could make out pages upon pages filled with neat handwriting, what looked like ten chapters worth of reading, and even… a couple of smutty scenes. My cheeks warmed as I flipped to a random page and read something about the dragon turning into a man, and…

In addition, she had filled the basket with plenty of tasty drinks that tasted like fruit juice. It was everything one could possibly want if they were going to lie on a blanket in the beautiful summer sun and read a book about elven history. I lay down on my stomach, placing the book in front of me. It was large and heavy. Just for fun, I flipped to the back—there were no fewer than four hundred and forty-nine pages in the book. And that was only volume one! I wondered how many volumes there were in total. I opened the big book and could smell the traces of time in it. All I hoped for was that it wouldn’t be too dry to read.

Could you please tell me why I cannot read the next page or any other page? [Host has understood 1% of the content of the First Page] [The Second Page will be accessible after the Host gains 100% on the first page] You!! AGGHH! Why aren't you letting me be overpowered! [I've overpowered the host enough. Get to work!] As I thought of destroying the book, I became furious, but I calmed down immediately. Relax, it's nothing to worry about. There is no free meal available. I got a gist of how the book works, the reader moves onto the next page once they have understood 100% of that page.

and I showed him the book I am holding. “Is that your story, right?” Syrel asked and she gets the book away from me. “What the heck. There is nothing inside” she reacted when she saw the content of the book. “It’s just a sample handbound of my story. Besides, where are calculating how we can put all of it in just one book. Look at it, it’s thick because it has 500+ pages” I explained to her. “So don’t expect that it has contents now because it’s just a sample” I added.

I close the door quietly. I spend an hour in the smaller library looking at the books. He has everything. Fiction. Nonfiction. Art books. History. A whole shelf of poetry that looks like it has never been touched. I pull out a volume of Mary Oliver and flip through it. Someone has dog-eared a page. I read the poem. "Wild Geese." I read it twice.

Yam sliced it open slowly, hands trembling. Inside was their book. “The Art of Staying.” Cover: a sunflower. A crooked shelf. Two mugs—one chipped. And behind it all, the suggestion of a fan, mid-spin. Franc stared at it like it might whisper back. “Feels unreal,” Yam said. Franc flipped through pages. Some with artwork. Others with Yam’s poetry. Their story—wired beginnings and all—now bound in matte finish. “I think this book breathes,” Franc said.

My tears rolled and crept down my face and landed between the pages beneath and on my chest. I take the corner of the cover carefully and hold it between my finger and thumb. I open to a blank page. I then keep on going and I see writing on all pages. "Poems." I breathe. Most are written in blank ink, some in pencil. All of them are drawn with a careless yet wispy style of writing. His writing. I keep on turning the pages in awe. My eyes can't keep up with the endless stream of words. I reach the end of the book.

(Jette came near the phone and answered the call) “Hello, Ma’am, how may I help you?” asked Jette. “Please find the first rule in the middle of the book,” said the woman on the other line. “Hello, what do you mean?” asked Jette. (Busy phone sound starts) *** At home, when she arrived, she counted all the pages, the book contains 500 pages. She divided it by two, she carefully turns every page. When she reaches page 250, she found a little envelope, and she opened it, Jette opened the small paper inside, and she reads it…

The poetry collection — the Bronx poet, from the Court Street bookstore, the one I had told him to buy on a rainy Saturday in October that felt like a year ago. "I finished it," he said. I looked at it. Then at him. "And?" I said. "You were right." He held my gaze. "She writes about the city the way it actually feels." He paused. "There's a poem in the middle. Page forty-seven." Something warm moved through his expression. "Read it." He left. I picked up the book. Turned to page forty-seven.

It hadn't been touched in a while because it looked brand new though very dusty. I opened it and cold wind blew gushed through my face. It was as strong and cold as the first wind. I turned back to the cover of the page to check for anything but it was blank black. Only golden stripes at the spine of the book didn't make it completely dull. I placed my finger on the book to swipe the pages but the book took control and swiped the page by itself, leading me to a page I would have least expected it to be. 'The joy of a mother'