The War Of Art Novels & Stories

The power of older women remains one of civilization’s least adequately studied forces. I escaped to the library because I needed a room that admitted silence without trying to interpret it. The lamps were low. Fire steady. Snow at the windows. Books everywhere, all of them pretending people came to houses like this for learning instead of concealment. The war room lay behind the hidden panel, and the hidden panel lay behind the library wall, and I could feel its existence the way one feels a bruise through clothing. I stood by the mantel and let the quiet reach me.

I was going to be the thing that was still there every morning when he lifted his chin instead of looking at the floor, until the lifting of the chin became the default and the looking down became the habit he had to consciously override instead of the other way around. After the war. Six days. I turned from the window. There was work to do. There was always work to do and the work was not separate from the rest of it. The work was how I loved things, through attention, through preparation, through making sure that the structures around what mattered were solid enough to hold it. I sat back down at the desk. Pulled the map toward me. Found the notation Austin had made in the margin before he

except for one, I notice. I hitch in a breath as my gaze meets the eyes of the brooding War God. His eyes are colder than an Arctic wind, and though he holds the Goddess of Love in his arms, he barely seems to notice her. His eyes flit from me to Apollo, his expression unreadable, other than the obvious tightening of his jaw. I force myself to pull my gaze away, focusing with difficulty on Apollo, who's smile has turned amused. "Interesting dynamic there, you two." He says in a voice that holds the smallest, almost undetectable amount of bitterness. "In all the myths, it is Aphrodite and Ares who are in love, unable to stay away from each other...and yet...that has never been the case." "Wha

Waniya Sadness does not seem a burden, when you never had the pleasure of being happy. I have always been in a fight and flight mode, struggling to prove that I am worth something, even though nobody cared. The darkness inside my body has deepened itself to the point that I can't breathe without hindrance. If I could show you a visual graphic of how this darkness feels, you will see black thick branches wounded around my heart and lungs like that of an ancient oak tree. And when I start to speak, those branches reach inside my throat and they gag my tongue, breaking my voice. The person I want to be is trapped inside my body which does not feel like my own. I'm familiar with the darkness onl

She looked up and smiled as I approached, and we exchanged warm hellos. As we sat down, Sarah began to explain why she was interested in adapting my book into a movie. She told me that she had read the book and had been deeply moved by the story. She believed that it had the potential to resonate with audiences on a wide scale, and she wanted to bring it to life on the big screen.

Sighing, she turned her thoughts back towards the problems she now faced, allowing them to fill her. What would happen should war begin, would she ever see her friend again? What did John want with her mother? Tears slid down her cheeks, what would she do as the world twisted and changed before her very eyes, barely giving her a chance to come to grips with what she now knew. For if war did begin, would she be able to fight? And could she kill to protect those that she cared for? The questions looped and repeated as she rounded a corner, terrified that she would watch everyone that she ever knew die.

I stuttered. “Exactly. Your father’s pack is in danger. Our intelligent sources tell us that he is planning to wage a war against your father’s pack. You and I know that your father can not fight off Fenrir alone. Your father’s pack is the weakest of the four packs.” Ryker said, spitting nothing but facts. My jaw clenched. “Why would I be so sure , you are a lair Ryker. You are very cunning and manipulative. I can not place all my eggs in one basket by trusting you.

VITTORIA’S POV Three days before the wedding, I was sitting in the library. Not hiding. Not lurking. Sitting, comfortably, curled into one of the leather lounge chairs with a book resting open in my hands. The Art of War. Sun Tzu had lived and died long before men like Nikolai De Luca ever learned to call themselves kings, but strategy never aged. Power never changed. Only the pieces on the board did. I liked ancient warfare texts. They were honest. They didn’t pretend victory came from morality or mercy. They understood what most people refused to admit, wars were won before the first blow was struck.

“I feel like I’m living in a novel.” That’s actually a good way to think of it. “You are, Mara. This is a game. We are going to tell the people a story. One so heartbreaking and gut-wrenching that they will want to fight for us. “And then. Then we will make them fear their own kind. Their own leaders. I will turn them on each other.” “That is- iit's brutal, Johnathan. It’s dirty and wrong.” “Brutal and dirty, yes, I agree… but I don’t think it’s wrong. This is a war unlike anything the world has ever seen, my love. And there are no morals in war. It is the only way.”

They had fought the best of the worst — demons, the devil — and now they were poised on the edge of something so much larger than themselves. The thing roared, twisting before my eyes as if just existing in this place, alive, was draining every ounce of its energy to hold it together. “You don’t get it,” it hissed. “This war … you know … it’s not only against you. It’s against everything. To be against the very warp and woof of reality itself.”