Small Poetry Books Novels & Stories

It wasn't until she noticed the strange book tucked away in the corner that she was able to distract herself from her thoughts. "I almost missed one," she whispered. As she walked over to it, she noticed that its cover was worn, and it seemed to emit a faint glow that caught her attention. Maybe it's how the moon perfectly acted as its own spotlight that made it seem so glowy, but it's not just that. She somehow felt a little hint of amusement as she stared at it. As she approached the book, she saw the shinny title written on it, Lunaria, and she couldn't help but be intrigued. The moonlight shining down on the pages illuminated the words in a way that made them seem to come alive.

But she… didn’t flinch. Lena walked over to a little table display and picked up a thin, cloth-bound book. She walked over to him, holding it out like an offering. *The Quiet Between Lightning Strikes.* A poetry book. The cover was old and nubbly, the title scribbled in fine silver ink. Julian stared at it like it was an alien thing. "What's this?" "A book," she said, smiling. "I told you. I don't—"

He yelled, "You're lying! There's nothing in it! Taylor, do you think that just because you've come up with some story, the police will believe you?" "Well, let's see shall we?" I took my phone, about to call the police. "How dare you?!" Michael roared and pounced at me, trying to snatch my phone. I sidestepped, seized his wrist, and with my other hand, yanked open his jacket. With a clatter, everything in his pocket spilled onto the floor. A lighter. Cigarettes. Car keys… Then, a small glass vial rolled to my feet. Inside it, traces of pale yellow powder remained.

I only had a year to find my answers, no distractions was a good way to start. "Venus, honey, are you ready?" My mom called me from the kitchen, as I opened my bedroom door. "Yes, mom be right there." I called back. Walking towards the kitchen, I was singing Famous Last Words out loud. "I am not afraid to keep on living, I am not afraid to walk this world alone, honey if you stay I'll be forgiven, Nothing you can say can stop me going home. Can you see my eyes are shining bright? Cause I'm out here on the other side of a jet black hotel mirror and I'm so weak..."

Lucy asked between bites. “I own a bookstore in Mirial.” “Oh are you right next to the bakery? Mel’s I think it’s called.” I nodded. “Yes, that’s the one.” “You have the best selection!” Lucy exclaimed. “My sister loves poetry and I found a collection of Fae poems there that is now her favorite. I tell everyone about it.” “I’m so happy to hear that. Do you remember which book it was?” “Hmm, I think it was by something Sharpsbury.”

I must have dozed off while I was reading earlier. The Poems of Francis Ledwidge – the moth-eaten emerald green book I found in the study – is lying next to my pillow, the gold-embossed oak leaves on the cover glinting in the lamplight. The last thing I remember reading before nodding off was a poem gran had often sung to me as a bedtime lullaby. That book of the page is creased, dog-eared. The poem is about a water spirit who died after falling in love, which seemed to be one of Francis Ledwidge’s favorite themes – doomed love, tragic, beautiful maidens and lots and lots of flowers.

“They’re about private wounds.” Franc nodded, understanding etched into his features. “But shared healing.” They curated a small chapbook: “Places Silence Shaped Us.” Thirty pages. Each with a poem, a sketch, a truth. They didn’t distribute widely. Just copies in the studio, tucked among supplies and leaning against chipped mugs filled with dried brushes. One guest read the poem about Yam’s panic attack, fingers trembling slightly as they left a note: “Your chaos matched mine. I don’t feel like a puzzle piece anymore.”

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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.

It was open late, and the soft lighting inside looked like a scene from another world. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The scent of old pages and wood polish welcomed me like a friend. I didn’t even look at the titles at first I just wandered the aisles, brushing my fingers along the spines of hardcovers, letting the silence cradle me. I paused in the poetry section. There was something honest about poetry. No filler. No fluff. Just raw, unfiltered emotion. I picked up a slim volume by an author I didn’t recognize and flipped through the pages of the book. I wasn't going to read it. it had coffee brown pages and if I knew anything that book was going to get me wrecked and I wasn’t