The Book With No Pictures Book Novels & Stories

Then I moved away from the window, and turned to look at the books which all looked amusing. I reached out to the bottom of the shelf and removed a book from it. Then I dusted it off, and sneezed as the dust got into my nostrils. These books must have been here for a long time, and that means it’s all about history. Hmm! Things are about to get interesting. “Story of the Rainbow?” I scoffed and bit my lips, then opened the book. I flipped through the pages, awed by the writings and the pictures which were inside.

Most of them have only one picture on the page and are a quarter of the size of a regular book. "Shit." I say quietly. "I can't believe it still costs ten bucks for a book that only has six pages. I can get a two hundred page paperback at the grocery store for the same price." Tiffany smirks. "But does your two hundred page paperback have fur like this touchy-feely book with a tiger on the front?" "It has fur?" I grab it out of her hands and begin going through it, touching all the different pictures as I turn the pages.

You allow the young Prince to drag you out from the presence of your parents and into a hallway. Everything's huge and the interior appears modern than what you'd usually see in children's books. They don't have those metal-like figures resting on the walls to give out that dungeon-y kind of vibe. Then again, it's not like you would want to see that. The mere thought of them coming out to life with whatever weapon they had on hold just waiting to slice or beat any human to a pulp? Sent a big wave of shivers slithering down your spine like a snake.

I am sitting in what was supposed to be an easy dress, but feels cumbersome and awkward, especially since it needs to be adjusted from behind. “But she said she was leaving you a book….” “She left several, actually, but none of them had stories inside,” I try to explain, taking a nibble of my toast. “Well, then what…?” “They had LOTS of pictures. Lots and lots of pictures,” I am beginning to feel flushed everywhere, my chest and face growing warm. “And diagrams. Mostly about anatomy and…” His eyes, currently a dull hazel, go wide in alarm. “She gave you…?”

Cole brings it to me, sitting back down on the couch while the kids roll around with their toys on the rug in front of us. Maeve is slack in Aviva’s arms, both of them fast asleep on the opposite couch. I smile at the image and quietly rip the paper away. It’s a book. Smaller than average and bound by fresh leather. There’s no title engraved on the cover. I look up at Cole, thinking he’d be smiling and a little pink in the cheeks in anticipation for my reaction, but he looks grave. I open it. It’s a printed rendition of the Book of Whispers.

“Please? Pretty please?” I sighed and finally relented, although my fingers were already black from handling this seemingly ancient book. I flipped to the next page, where the story immediately began. There was no cover page, and no title to be seen anywhere. “Once upon a time,” I read, deciding that it wasn’t worth arguing about and that I could make something up if the story got strange, “there was an old man who lived all by himself.” A strange premise for a kids’ book, I thought to myself, but kept reading.

I glance down at the small hand still holding mine. How do you explain something like this to a child? None of it belongs in the world of an eight-year-old girl. My eyes hand on the book sitting on the bedside table and i slowly reach for it. The cover shows a colorful illustration of a little fox standing in a forest. I open it absentmindedly, flipping through the pages as I try to think. Iris watches me patiently. Finally, I sigh softly and close the book halfway, then I look back at her.

Just then. “Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, `and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice `without pictures or conversation?”

or someone? I walk to the desk. It’s painted light blue, with flowers carved into the edges. A bookshelf above holds a small collection of picture books Ruth says I love. But when I take one down, feel the shiny new cardboard cover, turn the pages, it feels alien to me. There’s not a single word on the pages, just pictures of animals, of trees and flowers. Why would I love a book I cannot read? I turn toward the door, and Ruth pops back in. “Oh, you’ve finished your breakfast. Lovely. Would you like anything else?”