Fictional Books の小説・ストーリー

“It’s for my job. I have a few projects coming up. I'm just jotting down some notes.” “And what do you do?” he inquired. “I’m a writer.” “What do you write?” I paused, staring at him for a moment, tapping my fingers on the leather seat. Realizing this conversation was inevitable, I decided to just get through it. “I write novels.” “About what?” "About Fae folk and other magical creatures… They are fantasy books.” I could consider them my history books, but that was left unsaid. "Are your books any good?" he inquired, shifting his gaze towards me. His lips were twisted, like he didn’t believe a word I was saying.

Some of them read multiple times judging by the cracking of the binding. History. Military strategy. Economics. Law. Psychology. Philosophy. One entire shelf of biographies of powerful men across different centuries and continents. And then something that surprised me. Fiction. A whole section of it tucked into the far corner like something private. Novels. Some of them old enough that the titles had faded. I pulled one out carefully. A Russian novel. Thick. Dense. The kind of book that required patience and silence and the willingness to sit inside discomfort for extended periods.

I wandered through the aisles, running my fingers along the spines, feeling a sense of belonging I hadn't felt in a long time. I spent the whole day there, completely lost among the books, reading story after story until I lost track of time. One book caught my attention "The Adventures of Sir Flufftail" a ridiculous but absolutely hilarious story about a brave and very dramatic rabbit knight who went on quests to save stolen carrot cakes from mischievous squirrels.

The bookshelf was just as tall as Andrew so he could easily access the books there. The bookshelf had all sorts of books, ranging from fictional novels to nonfictional novels, to educational novels and textbooks. Her eyes caught titles like; The Redwall series by Brian Jacques, Caddie Woodlawn by Carol Ryrie Brink, The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros and a lot more. Even the Encyclopedia was in his bookshelf. And there was also some novels on the basis of business and finance. The book the lad was currently reading was The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie.

I'd secretly wanted to for years but I never thought I was close enough to the type of guy he likes. Man, oh man! I couldn't even tell you how many men were inside me. Or how many I was inside of. Practically every one of them was addictive! Big, long, hard, rubbery, torpedo shaped, giant, thick, thin, you name it, everything a man could ever hope for was right there. In me, on me, against me, around me; there were slime covered bodies slipping and sliding - it was way better than ALL of my fantasies!

“I mean you’re the owner of this place and you must be the one who looks after the accounts right?” “N- N No!” The old man shuttered. “Why is that so?” “Keith is the one who takes care of everything including the accounts.” “I thought you were a sensible man Mr. Paul.” Henry laughed and left the shop. “What did your friend mean” Mr. Paul got puzzled. “ I don’t know… He was speaking b******t! Don’t pay attention to what he said” Keith said in shaky voice. “I need the accounts book right now and I will check each and every account from the last month till today!” Mr. Paul ordered Keith and walked towards the counter.

There were ladders, too, nestled against the shelves—long wooden ones that reached for the heavens. They seemed to beckon me, whispering promises of untold stories, hidden just out of reach. But the real magic was in the rows of fiction books, the ones I knew best. The ones that offered escape, that invited me into lives and realms I could never touch in the real world.

Kiara's pov "Caught in a lie" That was the name of the Novel I read. Our dear author just had to lock the chapters in the end, which made the last chapters open only if you pay. And always I left it as I don't want to waste my money for just a novel. I could have used it for something else.

He takes it and scans the lines quickly. “Where did you get this?” I ask. “My parents collected books from all over the world. I have no idea where this one came from.” His face stays mostly blank as he reads. He clearly doesn’t care much for old books. “These are just boring words.” “This is history about Zephyra’s kind. They’re called Crimson Born in this book, and if you look here, they have a queen usually sent down by the goddess.” “This is just fiction.” “Who writes fiction this way?” I groan. “Look at how it’s written