Fiction
A Court of Thorns and Roses Series Review: Unveiling Sarah J. Maas's Fantasy Empire. AI-Generated.
Discover a detailed and spoiler-rich review of Sarah J. Maas's "A Court of Thorns and Roses" series. An in-depth breakdown of characters, world-building, themes, and more.
By info with usamaabout a year ago in BookClub
The Beginning of The End.
"Oh, please call me Nicole." He was quite hell bent on referring to me as Ms. Maxwell but I wouldn't have a bit of it. "Nicole." The way my name rolls off his tongue sends shivers of delight down my spine. My name has never sounded so appealing until now. I chortled to hide my flustered state and tucked in a fallen strand of my hair behind my ear. “Life is long when you live it,” is a phrase I've heard a handful of times and it has taken root deep down in my soul, and derives pleasure from buzzing relentlessly in my ears. Jason and I had been together for over a year now and it has been vibrant reds and happy yellows. He was my forever but he's been distant a lot lately. “Could it be that he has gotten a hold of the report of my recent trip to the doctor's?” I asked myself. I ensured that I kept it safely, away from a third eye. I decided to talk to him rather than blurting out the truth now. I just need some time to wrap my head around it all. I would tell Jace eventually. I would. "Hey babe, are you alright?" I asked him one cool evening while we sat on the patio watching the sunset. "Nothing, my love, why do you ask?" "Well, maybe it's just me but I picked up on something." He smiled, though it wasn't reaching his eyes and asked, "What could that be?" "You've been distant." I replied. He shot me a straight look and sighed deeply. "Yeah, I guess I have. Sorry about that, love." "Wanna tell me what's it about?" "Wanna know?" he retorted good-naturedly. We both laughed while he sobered up and made a statement that chilled me to my bones. *** "I'm sorry to inform you, Ms. James, but the infection has been there ever since you were a child. It's raging now because it was left untreated. Moreover, it runs in the family, this you know." "Is there anything we can do, Doctor?" I pressed. There has to be something. I can't give up now. Especially not after what Jason told me. "If there was, I'd have suggested it. I'm sorry once again, Ms. Maxwell." "So how long do I have left?" "A year at most. 9 months if you stress and fail to use your medication religiously." I sigh dejectedly and stood up, offering him my hand. "Thank you, Doctor." He sent me a simple nod and a rueful smile and went his way. If I could, I would curse my family for putting me through all these. The deadliest disease in the world is coronary artery disease. CAD occurs when the blood vessels that supply blood to the heart become narrowed. Untreated CAD can lead to chest pain, heart failure, and irregular heartbeat. Apparently, my own heart was failing and it's only a matter of one year before it gives out completely. *** I stared at the night sky littered with stars, trying to immerse myself in the simplicity of its beauty but it was so damn difficult. I burst into uncontrollable tears and wept for the failure that is me. I'd die alone, I know that for a fact. My grandparents and parents had suffered the same fate of this deadly disease and I had hoped it would pass me by. Hope was a luxury I couldn't afford. Not anymore. The tears kept pouring out and I thought about my life. Only two words come to mind. Too short. Suddenly, well not so suddenly, a sharp pain shot through my chest pulling me down until I'm on the floor of my room, clutching at my chest and groaning in pain. My meds are tucked away too— I didn't want Jace to see them, but now, I desperately wished they were on my bedside table. I dragged myself to my wardrobe and brought out the portmanteau where my drugs were at. I remained on the floor until I felt slightly better and then picked myself up and flopped down on my bed. I slept off instantly. The medication had that effect. *** I heard rustling around the room and thinking it was from my dream, I tossed and turned and continued my sleep until I was jerked awake by a very angry voice. "What the hell is this, Nicole?" Jason boomed, flinging the doctor's report around my face. My poor heart skipped ten beats and I stuttered shamefully. "I was going to tell you Jace, I swear." "You were going to tell me, really?" He shouted. "I was," I replied solemnly. His shouting wasn't good for my heart but I couldn't dare tell him that. "I should've told you sooner, I'm sorry." "Of course you are." He sneered bitterly. "Remember when I told you that I couldn't be with someone who was sick and dying because of what happened to my mother?" I nodded my head, tears streaming down my face. "You, you told me that it was nothing to worry about! You lied to me! You pretended all this while!" He thundered. "God, Nicole!" There was a catch in his voice as he said this. I couldn't help but feel bad for him, yet I was the one dying. He threw a glance my way, shook his head and left. He left. My forever left. *** It's been 10 months since Jason left. Thinking about it now, I had no more tears left to cry. So far, not a word came from him and I had taught myself to live whatever life I had left to the fullest. Enough moping around what-could-have-beens. I've successfully written a book, The Beginning of The End, a story of my life. Now, I'm seated at my typewriter, bringing my errant thoughts and words in perfect synchronism and trying to finish up another book— which I was rest assured would live longer years than me.
By Eyitayo Okanlawon about a year ago in BookClub
Shadows of Courage
The sky above Shima glowed unnaturally bright, a hue not born of sunrise nor sunset. It was August 6, 1945. The city of Hiroshima stirred with the quiet rhythms of a Monday morning—vendors setting up stalls, children preparing for school, and factory whistles soon to blow. Among them walked Hiro Tanaka, a 28-year-old medic recently returned from the Chinese front. He was a quiet man, carrying more ghosts than medals, and determined to do what little good he could in the final, desperate days of war. Hiro was scheduled to assist in surgery at a temporary clinic in Shima, just across the river from Hiroshima’s bustling center. He had always preferred Shima’s calmer streets. That decision, so small and innocent, would mark the beginning of a journey that would haunt him and define him in equal measure. At precisely 8:15 AM, the world changed. A blinding flash swallowed the sky. The roar that followed shook the earth like a furious god. Windows shattered. Buildings vanished. Screams twisted with silence as a mushroom cloud bloomed where once stood the heart of Hiroshima. From Shima, Hiro was knocked to the ground, his eardrums ringing, his skin blistering from the heatwave. But he survived. He rose, bleeding, his eyes squinting against the searing light. The city was gone. In the hours that followed, Hiro became a machine driven by instinct. He tore cloth from his own clothing to bandage the burned. He carried the dying across makeshift bridges of fallen beams. He searched for survivors, following cries and coughs, pulling children from the wreckage, cradling old men in their last moments. Shima had been spared the worst of the blast, but the fires and radiation soon crept in like death’s shadow. For three days, Hiro worked without rest. He did not think of food, of sleep, of safety. He thought only of hands reaching from the ashes, of eyes pleading with unspoken fear. He became a hero not by title, but by action, as the people of Shima whispered his name in the dark. But the war was not over. On August 9, news reached them that a second bomb had fallen—this time on Nagasaki. The government was crumbling, messages fractured and confused. But Hiro knew. He could not remain in Shima knowing another city was suffering as his had. He joined a group of doctors and relief workers bound for Nagasaki, reaching the outskirts two days later. The sight was all too familiar: buildings reduced to bones, rivers choked with ash, a silence louder than any scream. In Nagasaki, Hiro found a girl—barely twelve—clutching the body of her younger brother beneath a collapsed roof. She had not cried. She simply stared. He freed her gently, speaking only in soft words. She followed him everywhere after that, never speaking, but always watching. He named her Aiko—“child of love.” She became his shadow, and in time, his heart. Together, they brought water to the thirsty, carried wounded to aid tents, and lit candles for the dead. Hiro’s face grew gaunt, his hands blistered, his lungs heavy with dust. But he never stopped. In both cities, survivors came to call him Kage no Eiyū—the Shadow Hero. Winter came hard that year. Food was scarce. Radiation sickness claimed many, including Aiko, who fell ill in early December. Hiro held her hand through the fevered nights, whispering stories of cherry blossoms and her future. But she passed in her sleep, her tiny hand slipping quietly from his. For the first time since August, Hiro wept. In the years that followed, Hiro continued to serve in silence. He refused honors, declined interviews. He rebuilt clinics in both Shima and Nagasaki, training new doctors, sharing knowledge of radiation burns, and planting sakura trees in memory of the lost. By the time he passed away in 1972, Hiro Tanaka was barely known beyond the survivors of those cities. But in Shima, where the cherry blossoms bloomed each spring, children were still told the story of the man who walked through fire, twice, and never turned away from the shadows. And in Nagasaki, a single sakura tree grew by a stone with no name, where visitors often found a paper crane resting in its branches. A quiet tribute to a hero history forgot—but hearts remembered.
By Jahangir khan about a year ago in BookClub
Best Sex Writing : The State of Today's Sexual Culture. AI-Generated.
Unleashing the Flames: How Sexy Short Stories Can Ignite Passion and Enhance Intimacy In the realm of romance and connection, the power of imagination often goes untapped. While grand gestures and heartfelt conversations hold their own significance, sometimes the spark needs a different kind of fuel – the kind that ignites within the pages of a well-crafted, sexy short story. More than just titillation, these narratives can be potent tools for rekindling passion, fostering deeper intimacy, and even enhancing your understanding of desire.
By Fashion Worldabout a year ago in BookClub
The Drum That Wept Blood
The old woman’s voice cracked through the stillness like a bone snapping in the dark. Her one good eye stared into the fire, her other long since taken by the very curse she warned of. Children huddled around her, clutching at their blankets, yet unable to turn away.
By CoyoteDeityabout a year ago in BookClub
‘Don’t Be Sad’ Book Review
Life isn’t simple. We’re constantly being tested, whether it’s in significant, life-changing ways or minor ones. Sometimes we feel like the whole world is against us – and then there are moments in which we feel we have conquered the entire world, yet we are still unsatisfied with our accomplishments. While at times we may believe that true happiness comes around less frequently than those of turmoil, we have to remember that we are human. We will undoubtedly experience sadness… and melancholy has a tendency to quickly take over our emotions and body, making it difficult to even recall our purpose in this world.
By EMRANUZZAMANabout a year ago in BookClub
