Solitary Man Book Novels & Stories

one The young man's cold voice rang in the room, while the cold breeze of autumn was much warmer and warmer than his voice. He had already slammed the door and left without his mother needing to speak to his father. While Nevra and Altan looked after their son with sad eyes, Altan turned his full eyes to the window next to his bed: one

Every time he speaks it makes my insides melt a little more with nervousness. He turns to walk out, then turns back, “ Are you comfortable?” Just wishing he would go now so I can gather the last of my self respect and bury my head under the covers for the rest of the day. I reply, “yes, thank you”. That seems to appease him and he smiles that lovely smile of his and turns and leaves me to ponder on how I actually got to be here, on an Alaskan mountain, during the biggest snow storm of the century, with a woman doctor and her sheriff husband, and this enticingly good looking Alaskan mountain man, without my sister?

"Let's go back to my place,Em." "Really? I don't mind staying,I'm having Fun!"I was lying of course and he caught on to that straight away. "Okay,I'm not. But it has nothing to do with your friends,nightclubs just aren't my scene." "Me neither-Not anymore."He took my hand in his again."Let's get out of here,Babe. I want to have you all to myself." It's been three weeks of having this amazing man in my life and I was feeling lucky. To have someone care about me the way he did was exactly what I was missing. I looked at him and smiled."I Love You!!"

When I spent almost few minutes reading the first few pages, I heard footsteps coming, so I assumed it was my Roz or Lexy, so I said, “this book is really amazing, I didn’t know that there was someone was really suffered from extreme extroversion. It says here that this man had no social interaction and had no social life. Oh, I could not imagine his life.” When I turned my gaze unto them, I was shocked because I was literally talking not to my friends but to stranger.

I asked in between laughing and coughing he stopped laughing and cleared his throat. “Well I don’t know why are you laughing?” he asked back. I stopped laughing also and shrugged. Then I brought out my book for the present subject and so did he. I know I have mentioned this many times but I feel myself whenever I am around him. It just feels like no other person is in the room but just us. ‘More like we against the world’. Okay, Nah, let's not take it too far but do you understand what I am aiming at? “So who sa-”

“The man. The one I told you about—the gray coat. He’s following me, I swear it.” “Elena, relax. You’ve been overworking yourself. Lagos is full of strange men. Maybe he just happens to walk the same routes.” Elena peeked through the bookstore’s glass front. The man hadn’t followed her inside, but she could still see his reflection in the glass: steady, unshaken, waiting. Her stomach sank. She wasn’t imagining it. She was being watched

She bent down to pick it up. "The Art of Pain" she read on the book cover. "Written by Lirio Dorado." She looked up at the person who had thrown the book. It was a young man of the same height, thin, with white skin. He was dressed in a casual black coat, and a black woolen hat covered his head. She looked at him coldly, adjusting her scarf with her right hand while holding her umbrella with her left. She dared to say, "Sotomayor Jina, you will never change..."

“When my mom died… this place became too loud. Every board creaked like her voice. Every gust of wind sounded like her humming. I couldn’t take it.” I didn’t know what to say to that. So I reached down and picked up a dusty book from the stack beside the couch. The Old Man and The Sea. “You really weren’t lying,” I said, flipping it open and revealing handwritten notes in the margins. His handwriting — sharp and deliberate. “You actually read these.” He gave me a sideways glance. “You sound surprised.” “I am. You just… don’t seem like the kind of guy who reads Hemingway.” “What kind of guy do I seem like?” he asked, voice calm, but something sharpened beneath it.

Heading to the library alone, I feel sadder the more I am getting nearer to my destination. “I don’t like this.” I mumble while pouting my lips. Airo isn’t here today so I took the book he always reads. It’s my time to fill my head with some useful information about this so-called parallel universe. I spend the rest of my time reading it even though most of it seems impossible to understand. I could get a nosebleed with this out of the world’s words. Closing the book, I just notice a man in all poker glaring at me.

“I want to tell you what kind of book it is. Not what the back cover says you’ve read that. What I think it actually is.” I looked at the room. “It’s a book about a man,” I said. “Specifically, a particular man his hands, his voice, the strong black tea he drank every morning for thirty years, the way he cried at my school graduation and didn’t pretend he hadn’t. The way he cooked on Saturday afternoons and believed, without sentimentality, that paying full attention to the small things was the substance of a life.” I paused. “It’s also a book about what happened to him. What was constructed and deployed against him by people who found him threatening and found it convenient to remove him. W