The Book Woman Novels & Stories

My hatred of The nonsense Concept-of-Women's-Happiness-bullshit sister Elise taught me once, two years ago. I remember she said, "--at the end, a woman's ultimate happiness was to fulfill her destiny. To do so, thou shalt be modest but charming, full of smiles, calm in her nature, smooth in her speech, forgiving, loyal and devoted to thy husband, never rejects the will of thy husband and thy attitude towards his wives has no prejudice; sincere and full of understanding--,"

Was someone trying to tell me something? I picked up the opened book and studied the page. It was written by a woman in Australia who claimed to have been in contact with a pack of werewolves who’d allowed her to study them. I remembered how a good deal of it had sounded so farfetched that I’d closed the book with disdain. Now, after having dealt with and dissected one of those vile creatures, I re-read the pages with more interest and a far more opened mind. After leaning against my desk and reading a few more pages, I decided to pick up the rest of the mess that was caused by Max and my little sex tryst and then take the book upstairs with me. I was craving a sandwich and a glass of wi

The stunning woman suddenly controlled the ancient book and slowly attacked the huge fire array at the front. Almost at the same time, waves of laughter suddenly sounded...

She twisted and wrenched the book sideways, ripping the knife from the woman's hand. The woman gaped at her in surprise, hands empty. Felecia used that moment of surprise. She struck out with the spine of the book, hitting the woman square between the eyes. The woman stumbled back into the man, one hand pressed to her face. Felecia grinned. She wasn't that far removed from her street urchin days. The man shoved the woman aside. Her gaze locked with that of the man and her smile vanished. She took a step back into her stall and grasped the knife, wrenching it out of the book.

A girl asked behind Imogen. "I was just looking around" She answered. "Alright, take your time, miss" The girl smiled and left. Imogen wandered around the bookstore, looking at every shelf for a book to read until her eyes found one. "Longing For A Woman" She called out and reached for it, but a voice stopped her and took it before she could. "Longing For A Woman, written by Emma stones, is a story that tells the tale of two women falling in love and parting," A man said while Imogen moves back, a bit uncomfortable.

Some were bound in what might have been leather, but most were wrapped in cloth stained with strange patterns that seemed to shift when one looked away, or sealed in wax that had melted and hardened again in uneven blobs like frozen tears. “This is where we keep the things you didn’t write,” the woman said, running her fingers over a stack of books wrapped in dark green cloth. Her touch was gentle, reverent almost. “The parts of the world that grew on their own while you were gone, while you were living your life in another place and time. Your manuscript was just a seed, Miss Isadora. But seeds have a way of sending roots into soil you never knew existed.”

Bella Pov Karen's book hit number one on the bestseller list three weeks after it published. I saw it displayed in the window of every bookstore I passed. "The Other Woman: A Love Story" in big letters with Karen's photo on the back cover. She was smiling in that photo. Looking innocent and sympathetic. Nothing like the woman who tried to poison me.

The way you might be looked at by someone who had been studying a picture of you for years and was now seeing the original for the first time. "Flame Keeper," he said. His voice was quiet and even and gave away nothing. "You found the book." "I found the book," I confirmed. "How do you know about it." "Because," he said, "I know who wrote it." The room was very still. "The woman who wrote the hidden book," I said carefully, "has been dead for three hundred years." "Yes," he said. "So how," I said, "do you know who she was."

That was the account of a woman who had bought candles on sale and had eaten the meal alone and had worn the green dress to a dinner she attended by herself. "Yes," I said. "I am ready." "Good," she said. "Call me after the Thursday meeting." I put the phone down. Went to the bassinet. Picked up Eleanor. She looked at me with the dark, patient eyes. "Someone is going to publish the book," I said. She looked at me. "The book I wrote for the women in the long middle," I said. She kept looking. "You were born in the chapter about arrival," I said. "You are in the book."

The neighborhood lay in ruins, with rubble and dust drifting in the air. I furrowed my brows, my OCD pushing me to walk away. Just then, a hunched, filthy woman came in my way. She was wrapped in a filthy down jacket, its original color long buried beneath layers of grime. She clutched a handful of empty plastic bottles, her eyes vacant and glassy. “M-Ms. Bray?” She spoke, her voice raspy and scratchy. I stopped in my tracks and looked at her from a distance. It took a while for me to scan her bloated and wrinkly face before I recognized her to be the once arrogant Little Miss Sunshine.