Voice In Literature Examples Novels & Stories

I sat alone in the cold, dark cave, the weight of the silence pressing against my chest like a thousand-pound stone. The air was thick, stifling, and it felt like every breath I took was being stolen from me. I had heard voices before—soft whispers, familiar ones—voices of my mates, their comforting tones reaching me across the distance, always guiding me, reassuring me that they were close. But now, silence. A deep, aching silence. I tried calling out, my voice breaking through the oppressive stillness, "Dylan? Velma? Where are you? Please... I need you."

He opened his mouth to roar, to call his guards to kill me, to scream his defiance at the sky. But nothing came out. Damon’s mouth moved, his throat worked, his chest heaved with effort, but the only sound was the whistling of the wind. I hadn't just silenced him; I had stripped the "concept" of his voice from his body. I had reached into the atoms of his vocal cords and rewritten them into silence.

3. That voice, something about that voice, called to her, but Bella was so tired. She was warm and cozy and weightless, no one expected anything from her, and that was so nice. But that voice seemed to call to her very soul, and the tingles wouldn't let her ignore it. That voice loved her, was worried about her, was begging for her to come back to him, and Bella could feel herself slowly beginning to rise past the veils, getting closer to the door, and she knew that if she opened it, they would be right there waiting for her. 'Believe in him,' the voice in her head whispered, 'let our mate in,' it pleaded, sounding almost frantic now. And Bella reached for the door.

They become rabid and dangerous to themselves and others. "Looks like you made yourself at home already," a voice said. The book fell from my hands in shock. I was so engrossed in reading the book that I didn't hear the sound of his footsteps. I stood up to look at him at the entrance. He stood there resting on the door frame with his legs crossed.

Its voice echoed back at it from the stacks, slightly off, like someone had started to rewrite the script. The cords binding me trembled. The pen warmed in my hand. The hum under my feet surged, up through my knees, my spine, my skull, like the whole library was breathing with me. All around us, the voices of former Key Authors rose—a layered, wordless sound like the intake of breath before the first line of a story, threaded with the whisper of pages turning and the faint clack of ancient keys. And for the first time since I’d woken up on that bus, I realized: