The Street Book Novels & Stories

A man in a half-tied robe talking to the camera like it was his fifteen minutes. "This whole street's a mess," he said. "Drugs, teenage hooliganism, graffiti, trash everywhere. I've been saying for years someone was gonna end up dead back there. This isn't the first girl they've found like that. This is about the city letting things rot." I turned the volume down. Positional asphyxia. No bruises. No blood. Just silence. Funny how quiet the world gets when you take out the parts that don't matter. No one would know.

I walked into the inner part of the book shop and excused myself after I belched. “This one is Six Thousand Naira”. “If you interrupt mw again, you won’t like what I’ll do to you…” The shopkeeper saw my countenance and left me alone, before going to fetch cellophane bag. He picked up the 2009 Guinness Book of World Records and bagged it, and waited patiently for me to pick another book. I soon picked The Family by Mario Puzo and Carol Gino. I was handing the novel to the shopkeeper, who was already with a calculator, when I saw it. It was a dark hardcover book, with pink and dark designs. I smiled broadly and extracted it from the shelf with both hands.

But I laid in the dark thinking about what Selene had said earlier. The people protecting Damien's position have already demonstrated they will remove anyone who gets close enough to matter. *** Stead Street in the early morning was kind of quiet. It was the kind of street that were never quite busy, the particular emptiness of a block that served mostly administrative purposes and didn't generate the kind of foot traffic that made a street feel alive. Number forty-seven was midway along the street, between a solicitor's office with its shutters still closed and a document storage facility whose loading bay held two unmarked vans that hadn't moved since I turned the corner.

~VITTORIA~ "Welcome?" He jeered, glancing at his guys before turning back to me. "You're an annoying chick you know? The only female in Brooklyn's Costa Nostra yet you're always making trouble!" He shouted in my face. Making trouble? Like I was the man who killed his damn leader. I felt the little rain of saliva that flew out of his mouth on my face and instantly got disgusted. I hissed and stood up, scrunching my face up. "You know one thing I hate?"

Alizeh: 'I know, but I can't control my laugh! Varun: "I can say this also with that other meaning, but I am not like that na!" Alizeh: "I know that you are not like that, I know it really well knows! by the way when is my book coming!" Varun: "Maybe 23!" Alizeh: "Yayy, I will keep it with me always!" Varun: "You can also keep me with you always!" Alizeh: "I know, you can also keep me!"

She asks. “This one suits me better. Thank you.” I grin. “My pleasure. Let me ring it for you.” With that, I follow her to the counter. After I’ve paid the bill, I exit the store and walk back to the library. It’s a lot more crowded today at Carmelia Street. Teenagers and adults are both loitering around the street. From family to friends and lovers. Normal 0 false false false EN-US X-NONE X-NONE /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable

And I'd walked straight into the middle of it and told him it felt like a cage. We were both right. That was the frustrating part. I found myself on a street I liked without consciously heading there — one of those older blocks in the city that had somehow survived being modernized, with narrow storefronts and uneven pavement and trees that were older than most of the buildings. There was a bookshop on this street that I'd visited a handful of times before everything changed. Small and slightly cluttered and run by a man in his seventies who organized the shelves according to a system only he understood.

Come pick a bouquet from these Flowers in a Dumpster. Eidolon Avenue: The First Feast by Jonathan Winn—where the secretly guilty go to die. All thrown into their own private hell as every cruel choice, every deadly mistake, every drop of spilled blood is remembered, resurrected and relived to feed the ancient evil that lives on Eidolon Avenue. Through a Mirror, Darkly by Kevin Lucia—Are there truths within the books we read? What if the book delves into the lives of the very town you live in? People you know? Or thought you knew. These are the questions a bookstore owner face when a mysterious book shows up.

Not just from the heating or the faint scent of coffee, but from the atmosphere. Posters lined the walls, famous queer authors, quotes about love, resilience, self-discovery. The shelves were stacked with books I'd only ever read in secret, books I’d hidden like contraband. People looked lively, laughing and chatting. Two women sat at a corner table, fingers intertwined, reading from the same book. A boy with a septum piercing waved at us from behind the counter, his voice bright. “Welcome! You’re just in time for open discussion.” I froze as a good kind of astonishment washed over me. I’d never seen this before, not in person. A place where no one whispered, no one judged, no one laughed cr

“I want to see what you look like when you’re happy and no one is watching.” “Everyone is always watching.” “Then we’ll pretend they aren’t and hope they believe us.” The city unspooled beyond the glass, a ribbon of brick and steam, laundromats and blue awnings, sidewalks that knew too many stories. He didn’t take her toward the obvious district; he turned into streets that smelled like bread and cut flowers, away from the cameras that liked names too much. The first stop was a bookstore—new to her, with high windows and an owner whose glasses were always slipping down his nose, the kind of place where you can hear paper breathe.