Poetry On Book Novels & Stories

But she did not realize how quickly it could turn into nighttime. "The sun was up just a moment ago," she whispered. "Seconds ago, actually. Why is it slowly turning nighttime already? This is too--" her whole body jolted as a book popped out right in front of her. It glowed, as if inviting Verena to open the pages under the moon that is slowly coming up to its place. "The cursed book," she whispered. "Why the hell is this here? How could this book follow me in my dream?" "Am I draping or is this..."

I walked over to the bookshelf and ran my fingers over the spines, trying to decide which one to pick. Finally, I settled on a book of poetry and carried it over to the armchair in the corner of my room. I curled up with the book and a blanket, feeling the warmth of the fabric wrap around me like a cocoon. I opened the book and let my eyes roam over the pages, drinking in the words and letting them transport me to another world.

She shivered at those thoughts. No, she wanted to handle this on her own. She sat back and drove to work. ... Carina glanced around at BookCrazy with satisfaction. Poetry nights drew large crowds, and they were all book buyers. Every Friday night, she often folds the bookstore into a small hall. Quietly, the soundtrack is melodious through the dimly lit passageways. Apple-green chairs were crammed together, and distorted coffee tables had been pulled from the warehouse and arranged in an informal circle. The crowd was an interesting mix of intellectuals, some quite serious and others just wanting a night of entertainment. She pulled the mic up onto a small platform, and checked her watch aga

However, when I reached the spot where the presence seemed strongest, I was startled to find not a person but a book. It looked different from the many tomes and manuscripts filling the shelves of the library. The book was leather bound, and instead of facing me with its spine, it was placed on the shelf with its front cover facing me. It was dark—beautiful and deep obsidian. The edges were threaded and swollen because what I guessed had to be antlers were sewn into the edges. In the middle laid a blood-red jewel that seemed to shine in my face with its own light. The book was pumping with energy. I swear, it sounded like it was whispering to me, calling to me.

Russell Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle Stuck On You and Other Prime Cuts by Jasper Bark Poetry collections: WAR by Alessandro Manzetti and Marge Simon Brief Encounters with My Third Eye by Bruce Boston No Mercy: Dark Poems by Alessandro Manzetti Eden Underground: Poetry of Darkness by Alessandro Manzetti If you’ve ever thought of becoming an author, we’d also like to recommend these non-fiction titles: The Dead Stage: The Journey from Page to Stage by Dan Weatherer

It was hardbound but there was no title or anything— it was just a book covered with vintage material. Khloe handed out the book to me so I let her go and held it in my hand. I scanned it by flipping the pages and I noticed that the contents were all handwritten. There was also no title inside, table of contents, index nor publisher information. And I realized this was not really a book— it was purely a handwritten notebook. "Can you read the latest handwritten poem?" Khloe spoke and I gazed up at her with my eyebrow raised.

***Author's Note: This book will not make sense if you do not read the two before this first. So, please read: Book one: P.S. You're My Mate Book two: She's My Mate Before reading this book. Thank you and enjoy!! _________________________________________________ QUADE Poetry. Tattoos. Piercings. Sex.

Books that cost more than most people made in a month. But what struck me was not the expense. It was the attention. The fact that he had listened and remembered and cared enough to track down each specific title. I picked up a leather bound copy of my favorite poetry collection and found a note tucked inside. "For the moments when you need to remember that beauty exists even in pain." My vision blurred. The thoughtfulness was overwhelming in its sincerity and I felt my carefully constructed walls beginning to crack. A knock at my door made me jump. I opened it expecting Dante but found Catherine instead, her face grave.

Adaeze sat with the question. She thought about what kind of writer she was. She thought about why she had written the book. About the woman in the dark. About the thing that the book could do that the posts could not quite do — the permanence of it, the fullness of it, the way it gave not just a moment of recognition but a sustained experience of not being alone. And she thought about what speaking could do that the book alone could not. The book gave the woman in the dark the experience of recognition and the knowledge that someone had been here and found their way through. It gave her language. It gave her clarity.

“Makes sense.” That surprised me a little. I expected a comment. Or judgment. Or that usual tone he used when he thought something was pointless but didn’t care enough to argue. Instead he just… accepted it. So I leaned into the conversation instead. “This book is actually good,” I said, tapping it lightly. “It’s mostly poetry centered on grief and memory and how people pretend they’re okay when they’re not.” His eyes flicked down to it again. “Sounds depressing.” “It’s not depressing,” I said immediately. “It’s emotional.”