Poetry Collection Books Novels & Stories

The paper fell away, revealing an old leather-bound volume, its cover embossed with faded gold lettering in a language that looked like a mix of Latin and something far older. “Tah — Rituals of the Eternal Flame and Flesh.” A sex god. Not just any fertility deity — a lost god of desire, ecstasy, and carnal dominion. The dealer’s notes had been vague, but the title alone sent heat rushing through me. I opened the book carefully. The pages were thick vellum, illuminated with intricate drawings of a towering male figure with glowing eyes, surrounded by writhing bodies in states of rapturous abandon. As I turned the first page, a faint warmth spread through the room. The watching feeling returne

They wheeled in a large wrapped box. "Open it," Grace urged. I unwrapped it. Slowly. Inside was a leather-bound book. Beautiful. Expensive. Heavy. But not just a book. A collection. "What is this?" "Open it," Asher said. I did. Inside were copies of everything I'd ever written. Every book. Every article. Every speech. Every letter. All compiled. Organized. Preserved. "We submitted this to the Library of Congress," Rowan explained. "They accepted it. It's now part of their permanent collection."

“Then we end it.” Nathan looked at me. The emergency lighting from the first night was gone, replaced by the ordinary glow of his desk lamp, but the intensity in his eyes was the same. “Can you?” I didn’t answer. He stepped closer and brushed his thumb across my lower lip. “I think about you when I’m home. When she’s talking to me. When she’s touching me. It’s poisoning everything, and I still can’t stay away.” I closed my eyes. “Nathan…”

Marathon peaked dawn-lit kitchen, Stacey atop counter legs akimbo, Dean fisting both holes alternately while cock throat-fucked standing. "Ultimate..destroy all at once!" Triple-stretch insanity, spanks with rolling pin..dough-roller welts. Final climaxes nuclear"Haaaarder cummming forever!" world whiting out, bodies seizing in unison torrent, collapsing amid ruins of home and selves, fantasies not just explored but incarnated, marriage baptized in sweat-cum-blood.

We ate, Elsa and her husband had few discussions as we had our diner. I heard a knock on the room’s door, as I was seated alone in the guest room. I went to the door and my sister stood there. “Here” she said as she gave me a novel to read. I used to read novels a lot before leaving the city. But I got too occupied, I lost the zeal to read. I looked at the cover back, it wrote ‘Billy Sam’ that use to be my favorite author. I always read every book he published. I also wished to meet the author, but not anymore. I lost the spark to read.

It's hard to focus without her, but I lead Axar into the small library with me as I begin to search. Having been alive for so long I've acquired many books and ancient pieces of literature. Some are in immaculate shape, others are torn segments and several pages, barely tethered together by bits of spine. Many of these are family heirlooms as well, handwritten and handed down to future generations for guidance. Some are my own notes and contacts, roughly scribed here and there and then stuffed back onto shelves. I find several books on banshees and a couple on cambions. I find some on death as well, and I stack it into my arms with the rest the pile. "Take this one too." Axar softly suggest

Darren had once told me that reputations were fragile things—but they could be made stronger in the places where they had once cracked. I believed him now more than ever. I bought two baby books—one for names, one for poetry. I kept them tucked in the bottom drawer of my nightstand. Not because I was hiding them, but because they felt like promises still unfolding. Some nights, when I couldn’t sleep, I read aloud from the poetry book. Darren didn’t always respond. But he always listened. Even when his eyes were closed. One night, I stood by the window in our bedroom, the curtains pulled aside, the moon painting everything silver.

Her body was curvy and thick in a way that would send most frail men to an early grave. “Hi. I’m Kelly.” She said in a melodic voice. “You should come over sometime. What do you think babe?” She turned over to the woman in her arms for confirmation. Jayne nodded. Thanks but no thanks… I spent the rest of the day trying to work on my book. I couldn’t hang out with the guys because they weren’t supportive about it. According to them, “Writing feels like a babe thing.” Why would any sane guy want to commit to something so “blurrh”?

An hour later, after searching for anything to help us within books that ranged from brand new to hundreds of years old, I huffed with disappointment and decided to stretch my legs; my pale finger trailed over the spines of books, dust painting my fingertip. Once I reached the poetry section, I smiled brightly. All around me were books from Silvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickson, Robert Frost, and many others that were like my old friends. Taking a random book off the shelf, I flipped through its contents. "(...) Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home." ~ Tecumseh "You enjoy poetry too?" A familiar voice spoke behind me, making my heart speed up as I jumped slightly. Turn

I make my way through the aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines of books, until I reach the poetry section. I don't know why I'm drawn here. I just am. My body moves like it knows something my brain doesn't. I walk through the poetry section, line by line, shelf by shelf, until I stop. My hand freezes mid-reach. 'Pablo Neruda.' A whole row of his work, lined up neatly, my fingers pause over one book in particular. 'Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.' I pull it off the shelf slowly, like it might bite me. The cover is worn, soft under my fingers, like someone's held this book a lot and loved it.