Unspoken Book Novels & Stories

The intensity of her gaze, mirrored by the others, made it clear they were curious about what had occupied my time, especially since it wasn’t a large volume. “What’s the title?” I shrugged. “History.” “History of what?” Sinclair asked, stepping closer to me, with the others following suit. I turned to the cover of the book, furrowing my brows when I saw an entirely different name in a language I didn’t know, yet somehow understood: ‘The True History of the Supernaturals and Gods.’ “How do you know it says history? The language is one we don’t know; it’s the one written on the caves,” Rachel remarked, a glint of jealousy flashing in her eyes.

I choose not to press further, realizing that some truths are meant to unfold in their own time, guided by the willingness of those who bear them. A new kind of understanding surfaces between us, one born out of the unspoken words and evaded truths. It's a subtle bond, acknowledging that some chapters of one's life are closed books, waiting for the right moment to be opened, read, and understood. The unspoken question lingers, but it doesn’t feel as heavy now. It’s more like an understanding between us, showing respect and a connection, rather than a big question needing an answer. It’s as if we both agree without words that some stuff doesn’t need talking about. The thing we don’t talk abou

Arian's pov I never thought a book club meeting could feel like a battlefield. Today, we are reading The Art of Forbidden by Linda Lively, and from the very moment I flipped through its pages, my face had been hot. The story is about a powerful president who was secretly in love with his male secretary, and if that wasn’t bold enough, the prose was filled with intimacy, longing, and heat. Naturally, everyone thought it would be for people to take turns reading aloud. But I wasn't really in the mood to read, not after what the police said to me.

Her voice trailed off, but the implication hung heavy in the air. Margaret’s gaze sharpened as she took the book. She ran her fingers over the cover, her lips pressing into a thin line. “This is no ordinary book,” she said quietly, her words laced with certainty. --- Explaining the Truth “What do you mean, not ordinary?” Ryan’s father, Michael, asked, his skepticism evident. Margaret looked up, her gaze piercing. “This book is a gateway, a connection to another realm—a spiritual realm. It doesn’t just tell a story; it pulls you into it. Your children aren’t just unconscious; their souls are trapped, fighting in a place between life and death.”

Warmth I hadn’t felt in years. I blinked slowly, sure I was hallucinating. Maybe I’d finally cracked. Maybe I was dead. “Am I dreaming?” I croaked, my voice raw from a neck that was strangled hours earlier. The wolf tilted its head, and then… it spoke. But not with its mouth. Its voice echoed directly into my mind, smooth and clear like water flowing over stone. “No, Quinn. You are not dreaming.” My breath caught in my throat, and I shuffled back until my spine hit the cold wall. My heart thudded in my chest. I’d seen things. Heard things. But this? This was different.

None of my family members came, just as I had asked them not to. I don't know what kind of life I'll have now that I'm married to a man who doesn't have any feelings for me. What have I gotten myself into?! °°°F.G°°°

And why was my heart racing when he had his eyes fixed on me. ********* Aunt May had a ladies hangout with some of her friends leaving me alone. My step uncle also met with a distant friend of his, but I wasn't bothered about being left home alone. I had the room to myself, dressed exactly how Uncle Wilton would have wanted me as I read another piece from my collection of erotic book. My legs were growing weak and I spread them wide while imagining my step uncle was touching me from behind. I should had reprimanded myself right there but I was too overwhelmed by the flow of erotic thoughts. My hand reached downwards skirting past my abdomen.

Completely unguarded. And that, more than anything else, unsettled him. Because he could feel it. In his chest. That deadly spark again. He scanned the cover, thumb following the title, then back at her. "Why this one?" "It's a book about sadness," she told him quietly. "But not the kind that cries out. The kind that settles into the space between us." Some dark, wordless flicker showed behind his eyes. He nodded once, palming the book into his coat pocket as if it was evidence in a case he wasn't ready to break yet.

The expression on Don's face was the expression of someone recognizing something he had known but had not yet heard spoken. Ernest said: "You said we are the fifth book. But the five books are: The Inside Account, The Ground Keeps, The Emergent World, The Ordinary Morning, and the journals. The journals are the fifth book. The unwritten book that the four written books approached. The journals are the inside account at its most inside — the building happening in the writing, not the writing about the building." Don was quiet for a long time. The fire settled. A piece of coal shifted, sending a small spray of sparks up the chimney. The February light had shifted again — the cloud had passed,