The Still Point Book Novels & Stories

I had a plan. A really bad plan. But a plan nonetheless. Justin had a point if I was to stay here I would have to shift. Emma had left for bed and I was in my room alone with my thoughts. I quietly slunk towards the door listening waiting for any noise to alert me. Nothing. Not a soul stirred outside. Perfect. My wolf was nagging at the back of my mind desperate to shift. I couldn't go on like this. My thoughts were clouded with shifting and escape. I would go mad. Taking a deep breath calming my nerves I shifted.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. Then Came You (The Youngers Book 1) Published by Blue Violet Press LLC Seattle, Washington Copyright © 2018 by Iris Morland Cover design by Resplendent Media All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotat

The rain kept falling. The world continued spinning. But inside the small bookstore, they stood still — so close to break. So close to heal. So close to begin.

She had made her choice, and she would not dwell on things that could not be changed. On a quiet afternoon, Lyra found herself in the heart of an ancient library—a place she had visited many times before in her quests for forgotten memories. The library was vast, its shelves filled with scrolls and tomes that stretched back through the ages, documenting the lives, histories, and memories of countless souls. Dust hung in the air, illuminated by shafts of light that filtered through the tall windows. It was a place of peace, a sanctuary for those seeking knowledge.

“Patience. You can’t get anything done if you’re impatient, understand? We have to make this perfect, or we’ll get into trouble.” Joy’s nonchalant voice came through the phone as if they were not talking about killing a human, but an insect.

On the space around it. Because the point is not the whole. It’s a representation. A focus. But the interaction— Exists beyond it. “They’re ready,” Ezra says. “Yes.” I begin. Not with movement. With stillness. Intentional stillness. Holding focus. Not shifting. Not reacting. Establishing a baseline. The point does not move. But it changes. Subtly. The presence deepens. Aligns. “They’re matching,” Ezra says. “Yes.” Matteo watches carefully.

Keywords: stolen bride. William didn't flinch. The more you try to shut this stuff down, the louder it gets. Me? I felt like I was choking on smoke. That night, William was working late again. We had three days left before flying back to Francia. I was halfway through packing when I heard shouting outside—

"But Lauren must live!" "What?" "Actually, it's not just them with HIV. I've scattered blood samples across the city. Only I know where they're hiding. It's two a.m. now and three hours till sunrise. Anyone could catch HIV by dawn."

She had been thinking about this for months, had arrived at versions of the answer that were true but incomplete, and she sat now in the October morning with the garden outside and the household moving around her in its daily rhythms and she tried to arrive at the version that was both true and complete. She wrote: This is a book about what happens when people choose to stay. It is about a child who stopped speaking because the world became too large and too quiet at the same time, and about the adults around him who had to learn to be present in a new way before he could come back. It is about grief as a form of love that has not yet found its new shape, and about the particular courage of

This is the story of the floor I was standing on when I learned to do it. She stopped. She read the words back to herself. It wasn't a speech. It was slower, far more interior—a quiet, breathing thing that didn't feel the frantic pressure to resolve itself in a twenty-minute climax. She realized that the slowness she had feared was actually the entire point. Speeches landed and ended. Books stayed. A book would live inside a stranger at three in the morning. It would be kept on a nightstand, returned to in moments of quiet desperation, its margins heavily underlined.