“And I soon I started to see something I hadn’t seen before,” I mumbled, I had just started this book, and already I had fallen so deep inside I couldn’t stop. “Well I had seen it before, I just chose to ignore it,” I continued. “The look of his like green eyes, his perfect curved smile. I knew at that moment I was falling in love. Something that terrified me. And always would. “He grabbed my hand slowly bring his smile into view. A smile that had me so dizzy I almost fell over. ‘Emily, Merry Christmas.’ He held out a small present, wrapped in gold paper. I took it my hands shaking as I gently ripped the paper. I gasped as I looked inside, a diamond. A pure diamond. Just sitting there rocking back and forth. I grabbed Ty squeezing him close. ‘Ty,’ I whispered, ‘How did you remember?’ “Ty laughed picking me up off the ground, ‘Your my best friend. Anything you tell me, I’ll remember. I promise.’” I stopped reading, Emily and Ty. Emily and me. Christmas last year the year before I’d left. I had given that to Emily, I had told her that exact same thing. I almost felt like she was starting to feel something for me. But I’d never thought it was true. My whole life I’ve always imagined it like it was. Me in love with a girl, a girl who’d never love me back. I’ve dreamed of this, of this happening. Not like this though, it was supposed to be in our meadow. I would finally have the courage to tell Emily and she would smile her perfect smile and say she loved me too. Then after that I don’t care what happens all I’ve wanted to know was if Emily felt what I did. The feeling like her heart is melting, burning, anything. Anything that meant she might love me. I opened the book up to the last page. “And now I’m grieving. Wanting to know the truth. I thought he loved me, I guess I was wrong. “‘Maybe he’ll come back,” I whisper, ‘I’ll just wait until tomorrow.’” I stand up, the book sadly tucked under my arm, “Until tomorrow,” I whisper. Emily’s waiting for tomorrow. And so am I. If we’re both waiting for the same thing Maybe it’s time I finally put all my reasons not to do this aside and think of all the reason to do it. I run out of the book store, the first time I ever shoplifted. And I don’t even care. All that’s on my mind is Emily. Her smile, her face, just her. The last time I saw her I had broken her heart, I had broken her heart. And now I had to fix it. I had to, it felt so right, it was the most right thing I’d ever done. Even if I have to convince her that I was wrong, I’ll still do it. You have to get though the day before you can see the stars.

Hialeah loved the library. Every morning she would walk in their, grab a new book to read and manage to finish it before school started.

    But this morning was different. She still walked into the library, still picked up a book, and still read it, but the book was a strange one.

     As soon as  opened it, and started reading, she put her hand it it and closed it so she could see the author. It read, Felicia Frog. Hialeah had never heard of this author before, but she decided to try something new.

     She reopened the book and started reading some more. The farther she got into the book, the more she felt extremely connected with the character.

     Almost too connected though.

     Hialeah was halfway through the book when she realized. She *was* the character in this book. She widened her eyes at it and closed it.

    The librarian heard it and looked up at her. “Hialeah? Are you okay? You normally finish the books.” 

    Hialeah looked up at the librarian and smiled. “Yeah, it just wasn’t as interesting as I thought, I guess!” She laughed, starting to quickly pack her things up and leave.

    She had a feeling then, just as she left the library, that something very important/strange was about to happen. And that thing did happen.

    In every one of her classroom’s bookshelves, the book she had read in the library that morning was there. And every time she walked away from the shelf after seeing it, it was always on her desk. She eventually forced herself to finish it.

          She was never seen again. And neither     was the book.

Her words came out a jumble. She couldn’t organize her thoughts. How come it’s in the tip of her tongue but she can’t actually articulate how she feels?

She licked her lips, not too full and not too thin. Not the lovely Cupid’s bow that many women covet. Her teeth were straight enough, lucky to have not needed braces. Not that her parent could afford them anyway.

She starts again, she cleared her throat and her voice trembled a bit. Unsurprising since she’s a nervous person over all. She resisted the urge to run her hands through her hair, or place it on her face, or really do anything except stay still…focus on the words she said. She breathed in and out. Pfffffffffffffff

Her heart beat though. She could hear that and wondered if anyone else could too. Probably not, but that shake in her voice absolutely. She didn’t know why she bothered to step out of her comfort zone. Nothing every worked. Ever. Practice in the mirror, pills, outlines, speaking slower, toastmasters. Well I mean she hadn’t really done toastmaters but she seriously considered it. Maybe even signed up. But didn’t attend any meetings. Speaking to a bunch of people she didn’t know? Yeah no thanks. Still the things she had done? She always hoped that it would just, come to her. That one day she would wake up and be free of the crippling almost debilitating stage fright she felt when she had to speak to even the smallest of groups.

It felt…exhausting being her.

I love libraries. Something about the quiet space and the vast amount of books calmed me. It gave me the space not only to read but to think; or perhaps not to think.

The library enforced an eerie silence. My chair red, velvet, supporting me with grace. How lucky am I to have such a beautiful place I can visit? That can give me peace of mind? This was the only place I could find that.

This time I decided to pick up a book from an area which never got a visitor. It was the furthest corner of the library where it even changed it’s dark wooden book cases to flimsy metal ones that no one even bothered to glance at. Something about that interested me. You would think at a glance that it was just a sorting area for books. A place librarians left books they haven’t shelved yet. But it never seemed to change. It always looked untouched.

Picking up the first book I saw I challenged myself to read it without even looking at its cover or the blurb. It was something that had crossed my mind the week before during my English lit class, so I thought fuck it, why not? Something different I guess. Usually I’d have a genre or topic in mind. But this time I didn’t I just grabbed this soft grey, leather bound book and walked over to a quiet reading area a few rows over.

The peculiar thing about this book was that it looked like any other book. Nothing really popped itself out at me. I wouldn’t have read it if not picked out of complete random.

I opened it and the inside felt exactly the same, minimalistic and plain. The stereotypical and most basic formatting a book could have. Not that it pushed me away from reading, it just made my curiosity grow even more.

Page by page I read thoughts that grabbed me almost perfectly. Words describing the self. The self is but an image that we create and many people have several images that depend on the people we speak to. For example our parents may see us as calm collective and sensible; as our friends may see us the complete opposite. The bad influence, the chaotic, the trouble which was fun to them for a while but not something they would stick around for too long. The words rang true to me and hit a nerve. They almost made me upset, upset as-well as happy to have found that someone would write so accurately to how I see people that see me. I flipped the page to a more barren page, one that had only one question. One I couldn’t answer.

Who am I?

Did they mean, who the author was? Who I was? Or was it some random mumbo jumbo that just tried to sound profound?

I flipped to the next page to find the answer and here is what was written.

‘He sat on a chair, red, velvet and graceful. His long black hair tied in the neatest of knots and his beard shaped just under the chin.’

I began to sweat slightly at the first description but it carried on.

‘At first glance his eyes were a boring brown, the same as the contents of this book. Basic. However, with some hidden charm… enough to be seen as interesting.”

“Surely not,” I spoke quietly to myself.

‘The next page will show you yourself, your better self,”

Grabbing the next page I realise it’s weight. It wasn’t just paper, it had something attached. Opening it I see it’s a reflective page. A mirror.

Looking deep into the reflection my heart begins to tap harder against my chest. It was then I noticed, my own image peering over my shoulder, into the mirror inside the book and straight into my eyes.

I drop the book and look behind me.

Nothing.

No one.

One day, while I visited my grandmas old pawn shop, I came across a book with a silver lined cover. The pages shimmered and the writing was bold like it was written to be read in the fading light. I walked around the shop, she said I could pick one thing, but I always found myself standing in-front of this book.

“Do you think I could take this one?”

I said pointing at it, I figured I could kill two birds with one stone and also write my college entry book essay on it. It looked ancient. I waited till I saw her nod then snatched it up.

“Thanks grandma!”

I walked out with my prize in hand, a part of me was excited to read it, and the other wondering when I would find the time. As the weeks passed I finally found the time. One evening when we were having power difficulties I decided to pick it up and get started.

I set up my reading station, a couple of highlighters, pencils, and candles to read with should the power drop again. When I opened the book the light danced on the pages, it was brilliant and captivating. I started to devour the words with highlighter in hand when gradually something seemed off.

I shook my head and kept reading chapter by chapter, finally I stopped at chapter eight. Something was off, very off. I yelled for my dad and he came quickly.

“Dad I need you to read this real quick.”

I pointed down at one paragraph, he agreed and started, a look of confusion going across his face.

“This is about your first day at high school.”

He looked at me as he tried to piece it together.

“Every page is like this. It’s like somebody knew my life and wrote it down before I could even live…”

“Where did you get it from? It seems a bit odd.”

“Just Grandmas pawn shop. I was helping out a couple weeks back, she let me pick one thing out like usual.”

He put his left hand grabbing his chin as he tried to think through what was happening.

“The only thing I can think is for you to keep reading, I guess. See what happens.”

I nodded my head and he walked out of the room asking me to let him know what happens. The thing is, I didn’t sleep that night, I read everything I could, but then something happened.

I made it all the way to the night I was reading in the book, every page was blank after, and words appeared as I did things.

“She looked through the mysterious book as her heart pounded inside her chest.”

As I read that line my heart did begin to pound. How was I supposed to be okay right now? I watched Never-Ending Story growing up, but this, this was straight out a movie you don’t survive. A piece of me was expecting to read something about being watched from my bedroom window.

I shivered with the idea of it. This whole book had me squirming in my chair. You could hang hats on the goose bumps it was producing. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breathes. I decided to close the book and call it a night. This could be sorted out in the morning, if morning came… I opened my eyes with a start. Now why did I have to think that. I scrunched up my face and went to the kitchen making a coffee. No way I was sleeping tonight.

Warm light glazed the window sill, spilling forward onto the wooden table. Warm tea, freshly brewed, sat on top of it peacefully, the light it was refracting into my eyes would have been annoying if I didn’t have sunglasses on.

The book in front of me splayed out its pages, wide open, words that were meticulously typed out lay dormant on the paper. The light danced over them all, partly obstructed by a tree, but still shining through the branches like a canvas painting.

I looked around to look at giant shelves of books, all differently colored, and all differently unique.

I sighed in contentment. I loved the library.

It had endless rows of new stories, poetry, and graphic novels to pick from. All from different countries and places that I had never been to before. Some that I haven’t even heard of.

I laced a finger into the warm handle of my tea and tilt it up to my face. Warm liquid gushed down my throat. Earl Gray never tasted so good.

My eyes lazily focus back onto the book in front of me. It wasn’t a book with anything new, that was for sure, just a boring plain protagonist who liked going to the library, reading books, and drinking tea. Surely just substituting for the reader who was mostly likely reading this.

Which I mean, they fit my description well, but I mean, I’m white, with brown hair, hazel eyes, and a pretty lanky body. Here in the United States, that’s pretty much the ‘normal’ type of look, or most common at least. I think.

They too, were also watching their table in the library bloom with golden sunrise light, lightly brushing their hands against the tea cup’s handle. What a coincidence.

Their clothes resembled autumnal colors and themes, the author going so far as to describe a pin on their backpack as a smiling pumpkin.

I had to take a step back. I looked down to my green backpack. It had the same pin, almost down to a T. I then looked back to myself and my clothes, which were varying shades of cactus green and warm oranges and yellows leaning towards orange or green.

I look back up to my book vaguely catching emphasized words of onomatopoeia before hearing them myself.

‘Thwack!’

My head snaps over to look at the loud noise that racked the normal quiet library. I couldn’t see who, in fact, did drop a book on themselves, but I could hear the wince and them curse under their own breath.

A series of ‘Shhhhhhhhhh’ was ushered towards the source and I furrowed my eyebrows.

I try to read my book again, but several interruptions occurred before my eyes even met the edge of the paper. All really odd, and weird.

At the end of the day, I self diagnose myself with main character syndrome.

Cozy sock and a cracking fire place, it was all I needed to enjoy the afternoon snuggled up with a book. As I walked to the couch my grey cat scurried in front of my feet, to avoid tripping on her i hopped over but that darned tail flickered. A toe curling howl deep from the cats diaphragm rang and with the speed of the latest NFL super star my feet sprang to action and flew forward so fast that my toe got caught on the corner of the coffee table. Flashes of pain ran through all of the nerves through my body. Time slowed and I had to find the nearest seat to get off of my throbbing toe. As my body slumped onto the couch I took a breath and it looked over at the cat hoping it was okay. He Kay just smirked and walked away. I caught my breath and out the injured foot up and saw that black leathered book sitting on my coffee table. Maybe a few tantalizing words would help ease the pain. I grabbed the book and started to read. It started, “this book is dedicated to a friend that sheltered me, fed me, and showed me nothing but love in one of my past lives.” The cat jumped up on the couch and put his chin on my lap in that instant and sat enjoying the heat that resonated from my body on that cold winter day. I kept reading and the book became something beautiful. A biography of an individual written from a pets perspective. It spoke of a first encounter where the main character, the pet was found in a box out on a cold rainy day. Then about cute little games they would play where the pet would run and hide then randomly jump out and scratch at toes. How at times the main character would get clumsy and wrongfully bare all of its weight on the cats tail but talk to it in a baby voice and ask for forgiveness. I looked at my mittens and smiled as he purred on my lap enjoying a good scratch. It read “but deep inside I could see the hurt and pain inside, the loneliness and the heart break. I made it my duty to to bring warmth to his life. One of my favorite memories was at a cabin in the mountains we would snuggle up. My chin would rest on his lap and I would purr the Melodies of universe. It was his favorite, he would pet me constantly and show his affection time and time again so I learned to never stop.” The more I read the better it got, but eerily the detailed connected to my life with such precision. The more and more that I read the more I related to the main character. Was I really that lonely, no of course not. I had Mr Mittens right. I set the book down and tossed more wood on the fire, then went back to the book and read about a strange happening where the cat felt a disturbance and used it warrior cry to warn the owner of danger. “I sang my proud and loud cry to inform the person I loved and the person that loved me that a visions energy was around. Something dark and evil, a presence that was hungry and would not cease until it devoured everything it wanted.” All of the sudden I heated the cry out in the distance. I looked down and the cat was gone. It was his cry, he sounded like a banshee in the wilderness. I tossed the book on the coffee table and ran over. As I entered the room the cat was in I was blinded by the light, out mud room had so many windows. Then I saw it, an open door what seemed ten feet away were the biggest black eyes I have ever seen. An enormous black bear standing on all four feet sniffing around the patio. My eyes widened and again the car hissed and then the bear looked in with curiosity. I calmly but rapidly strode across the room praying and hoping the bear would stay away and I shut the door and bolted it shut. My heart was beating so fast and I took a deep breath and looked down. “Thank you Mr. Mittens” then I looked at him with an odd suspicion, an author indeed.

“She Tucked A Stray Curl Behind Her Right Ear. Her Brown Curls Surrounding the top of Her Head as would a golden crown. Each strand giving life and making a statement of the young 25 year old, she was a queen without a kingdom. Young Tierra was what you call a homebody and rarely spoke unless first spoken to. However, when provoked, she is known to leave storms in her wake. God Bless the man who receives her hand. In marriage that is! It was a warm fall night. The beginning, you know? Like When the leaves first start to fall and change colors. Beautiful was one word for it. At least it would have been except for…” Amber sets her book facedown on the mahogany coffee table set in her studio apartment, the safe side of Minneapolis, Minnesota. She was born and raised here, so she did not expect what was to happen next…

Chapter Four - Smoke and Dark Wine

“With a voice to make Sinatra weep, he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever found. In fluid movements and sweeping gestures, he waltzed around the stage ever so gracefully, trailing the cord from his right hand, crooning into the mic in his left. In his looks, he was handsome enough, but he couldn't be described as anything but lovely as he sang, so full of wistful longing and melancholy as he was. His voice was soft and low and his words were mournful. Eyes, deep and so, so sad, found hers across the room, catching her movement as she picked up her drink. That slow voice settled in her chest like the long draw of bourbon that burned down her throat. “As the world went down, and we were going around, I said this is where we say goodbye.” It was the last note, and the song was ended simply and short, the music fading long before his voice. From her seat at the bar, Kate observed him. As the small crowd gave a smattering of applause, he went about fitting the microphone back into the stand, tucking his hair behind his ears. He took a drink from a glass of red wine by the base of the mic and shed his leather jacket, leaving him in a rumpled white dress shirt. Deft fingers undid the knot of his tie and slid it from under his collar in one long pull. Putting it with his jacket a few feet back, he turned back to the bar room with the neck of his guitar in hand. Kate knew from word of mouth that he was decent on a six-string, though nothing exceptional. That was to be expected when you were left-handed, and that was what made him good. “

                                                                           89


The book thumped closed softly in his hand and he rested it on his knee. The cover faced up, sunlight half obscuring the upper section that proclaimed the book a “ New York Times Bestseller.” 

At the bottom, the author’s name. Florence Grave. On the back, a picture showing a fair-skinned woman with a strong jaw and narrow eyes and a pretty mouth. She wore a cream-colored french blouse in the shot, the very same she wore now. Sitting on the stone picnic table, feet on the bench, Gideon slid his arm to let the hand holding the book hang between his legs. It was his left, the dominant one. In the right he rested his cheek with his elbow on his thigh. A little ways away, Florence was in a booth, turning a piece of dark blue pottery over in her hands. When she handed it to the seller, she glanced around as she went to pay and her eyes swept over him. He nodded ever so slightly as they did. She paused. She said something quick to the vendor and started towards him, eyes on his until she was near enough to see the book. Smiling, he asked, looking up from under the brim of his hat, “Caught your eye did I?” For a moment that dragged on, she just stood before him. The late-day sun backlit her red hair, framing it in gold and turning the edges of her shirt see-through. Even without any kind of heel, she was remarkably tall. It put her high above him in his seated position. “It seems I’ve caught yours as well.” She took a place beside him, letting their legs knock together as if they were old friends. “Yes, you have.” He flipped the book back over, showing the tan and ebony cover trimmed in red. “I loved the book” “I love your music” Gideon continued smiling, breathing in the cold autumn air and the peace. For two famous people, they were going remarkably unnoticed at a bustling town fair. “It wasn’t a smoke-hazed bar room.” He said, idly thumbing the pages. She leaned against his shoulder, just a bit. “No. It was here, twenty years ago. I was nineteen and writing short stories.” “And I was a nobody singing other people's songs for tips.” A grin appeared, baring white teeth that were a little crooked. “Now we’re both somebodies.” In a brazen move, Gideon turned towards Florence and brought his hand to her face, curling his guitar sting calloused fingers in her wind tousled hair. Her eyes brightened as he spoke. “The things we owe to beautiful words.”

This is the story of a girl whose name is Makayla Lily Jones who has 2 sisters and a lot of friends who were popular and she was too.

My sister was walking to Royals Academy and her friend ran into her. Maddie said” hi” and ran to class. When she got to 184 everybody was looking at her she wanted to know why she said”Is something wrong?” The class looked at her until her teacher walked in. Makayla just got there in time before class started. A boy walked up to her and acknowledged “Hi my name is Ethan.” She started blushing and he looked at her for a moment and walked away. She knew that she had a crush on him.