Young Adult Classic Books Novels & Stories

Feeling at a loss as to what to do with myself, I decided to explore the library. Wandering through the currently empty house on my way to the library, I begin to find myself feeling rather lonely. Flicking Kenzie a quick text to see what she is up to, I walk through the door and into the library. Perusing the shelves I see that the majority are classics such as Charles Dickens and Jane Austin. But tucked away in the corner I spy one of my favourite fantasy series. A Song of Ice and Fire by George R. R. Martin. Curling up in the lone red leather chair I open the first book and begin to read.

Luca looked amused but followed without protest. Inside, the air smelled of old paper and dust. Stacks of books filled every corner, and a sleepy cat dozed on the counter beside an elderly woman who greeted us with a kind smile. I wandered between the shelves, fingers brushing against spines — romance, poetry, mystery — stories that once felt too far away from the life I’d been living. I picked up a worn copy of The Little Prince and smiled faintly. “I used to read this when I was a kid.”

Gerey turned his attention back to his bag instantly. With trembling hands, he zipped up his bag, exhaled and walked up to the Librarian who offered him a plastic blue tag that had the number ‘0169’ etched in black on it. “Uhm, do you know where I can find books on - fairy tales? For kids between the ages 7 to 12?” Gerey's eyeballs danced around for a yellow pair of eyes on a face with unusually large ears.

Emma said, walking deep into the living room. "Thanks." She walked to a set of shelves on the far side of the room, running her fingers over the spines of his books. A lot of them were classics, novels by Dickens, Voltaire, Dumas, Melville, and Hemingway. She smiled when her fingers ran over the spine of not one, but three copies of Mitchell's Gone with the Wind. There were modern novels, too, including Stephen King and Sidney Sheldon, but they didn't look as well read as some of the others.

Forster. The second shelf held old pulp novels from the thirties and forties. When he was fourteen years old his great grandmother, recognizing a hungry reader, started giving him one novel a month. They bore such outlandish titles as The House of Darkness, The Tree that Screamed, The Strangler Fig, The Devil’s Mansion, Crimson Ice, The Undying Monster and Heads, You Lose. He’d consumed those books one after the other, a new junkie mainlining his first fix. Grandma White promised him when she passed, he could have them all. Those books were older than any of the others in his office.

"You should read more books. Ellie. Books are like ladders of progress for werewolves." "Oh yeah? Do they also include 'XX Bedtime Stories', 'One Hundred Thousand Whys' and 'Those Mysteries of the Universe You Don't Know'?" "What's that supposed to mean, Ellie?" I ask. She picks one of the books I got her. "Jack and the Beanstalk? What nineteen-year-old girl reads childish folktales anymore?" "That's relatable to our legend, Ellie," Chris calmly says. "But not to mine," she protests. "Thanks, but it just isn't what I was expecting."

Saturday class was a small group that morning. Some days the roster swelled to the point that we had to move to the library to fit everybody. When I had my druthers, though, I kept it in my own classroom. Easier and more comfortable for me to get stuff done in there without having to relocate, and frankly, the books I had on my shelf to keep bored students awake were better than what our librarian kept on stock. Calvin and Hobbes anthologies, Jack Handey's The Stench of Honolulu, or, for kids I trusted better, Gary Brodsky's The Art of Getting Even: The Do-It-Yourself Justice Manual. Some real gems in my collection.

Alana let go of our hands, darting toward the children’s section at the end of the hall. Suddenly, it was just the two of us. Standing side by side in the narrow aisle of classic literature. Gareth tucked his hands into his pockets, scanning the spines of the books with a quiet, respectful interest. "What do you usually go for, Claire?" he asked softly. His voice seemed to blend into the hum of the air conditioning. I ran my fingers along the worn spines of the hardcovers. "The classics. Jane Austen, the Brontës... anything with beautiful prose and a happy ending. I suppose I like the escape."

I sat myself down on the thin bed she had on the floor, seeing an alarm clock that had a setting of 3:30 am while she had a few books scattered throughout the area. 'The Great Gatsby' 'Nicholas Nickelby' 'Catcher in the Rye' along with a few I didn't recognize, yey they were all classics. All things that just showed how truly remarkable she was. Thumbing through the novels I was taken aback by the amount of notes she had within the margins, she was truly a remarkable person, brilliant at that. Her compassion through her hardships, her sheer unwavering love or want to be kind to others even when shunned for most of her life just proves that she was always meant to be Luna, my Luna.

These were the stuff used by Dante when he was a kid. She looked around, and curled up her lips when she saw the books on the shelf. Was Dante already so boring when he was a kid? What he read were masterpieces, biography of great people. When she was young, the books she read were fairy tales and stuff like that. Sure enough, she could be angered to death by comparing with him! "Why don't you have any toy?"