Fiction
I read Half His Age
If there's one book you add to your reading list this year, make it Half His Age by Jennette McCurdy. I went into this one already a fan of McCurdy as an author, but this book solidified exactly why she's become one of my favourites. It's personal, it's immersive, and it's the kind of story that stays with you long after you turn the last page.
By Parsley Rose a day ago in BookClub
The Day I Heard What Silence Really Meant. AI-Generated.
I was sitting in the living room, scrolling through my phone, the way I always did after a long day. The TV was on, but I wasn’t really paying attention. It was just noise background comfort. Across the room, my dad sat in his usual chair. He had his book open, but I could tell he wasn’t reading it. His glasses were perched on his nose, his eyes fixed on the same spot on the page. He hadn’t turned it in a while. For years, I had been used to this. The quiet evenings. The way he never said much. We weren’t the kind of family that filled rooms with talk. Conversations were short, practical. Growing up, I thought that was normal. I thought silence was just how people lived. But that night, something felt different. It was like I had finally noticed the quiet for what it really was. “Are you okay?” I asked, breaking the stillness. He looked up, startled, as if he’d forgotten I was there. He nodded quickly, almost too quickly. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice low. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to go back to my phone, let the moment pass. But I didn’t. “You seem... not fine,” I said, my voice awkward. I wasn’t used to pushing, especially with him. He hesitated, then closed the book slowly, resting it on his lap. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face. I could see the weight in his movements, the kind of heaviness you can’t fake. “I miss her,” he said quietly. It hit me like a cold wind. He didn’t need to say her name I knew who he meant. She had been gone for six months. My mother. His wife. I had been so caught up in holding my own grief together that I hadn’t stopped to think about his. I thought he was fine because he never said otherwise. He went to work. He made dinner. He read his books. But now, with those three words, I saw the cracks that had been there all along. “I miss her too,” I said. For a long time, we just sat there, the TV flickering in the background. I wanted to say something something big, something that would make it better. But nothing came to me. Instead, I got up and walked over to his chair. I sat on the armrest, the way I used to when I was a kid, and leaned my head against his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, but he reached up and held my hand. His grip was steady, warm. We sat like that for what felt like hours, not saying a word. And for the first time, the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt full of grief, of love, of everything we didn’t know how to say. That night, I learned something I hadn’t understood before. Silence isn’t just silence. Sometimes it’s a wall, a way to hold back the things we’re too afraid to feel. And sometimes, when you sit with someone long enough, it becomes something else. A bridge. When I went to bed, I didn’t turn on my phone. I didn’t need any noise to fill the space. Before I left the room, I glanced back at him. He was still sitting in his chair, his book unopened, his glasses in his hand. But he looked different lighter, maybe. Or maybe I had just finally learned how to see him. That moment didn’t fix everything. Grief doesn’t work like that. But it changed something. Sometimes, the most unforgettable moments are the quiet ones—the ones where nothing happens, except that you finally hear what the silence has been trying to tell you all along.
By DJADA Mahamata day ago in BookClub
Benedict Bridgerton's Blind Spots
Your Honour, my Client, Mr Benedict Bridgerton, is a good man, but his upbringing has left him rather an idiot. This is not to suggest that Mr Bridgerton is a bad person, but merely that the extreme privilege of his lifestyle has left him with some exceedingly large blind spots.
By Natasja Rose3 days ago in BookClub
THE EMBER AND THE ECHOES. AI-Generated.
Episode 12: The Descent The garderobe chute was a vertical tomb of slime and centuries of decay. Kaelen slid, bracing himself with elbows and knees against the slick stone, the stench of ancient waste a tangible presence. The ringing in his ears from Kaelan’s silencing blast began to fade, replaced by the rush of blood and a distant, thunderous roar.
By Akua Anita10 days ago in BookClub
There Is Only One True Unreliable Narrator...
The unreliable narrator: A new trend in the literary fiction world, usually also falling under the category of unlikeable narrator and plotless fiction. I think, in many ways, the tiktok-afication of this term has pulled it away from what it actually means and is often used as a synonym for an unlikeable narrator.
By The Austen Shelf11 days ago in BookClub
This Book Made Me Afraid of My Own Thoughts
I didn’t expect Intercept to stress me out as much as it did. I picked it up thinking it would be a fun, fast sci-fi thriller, something intense but easy to digest. And it is fast, yes—but it’s also the kind of book that quietly messes with your nerves. I noticed halfway through that I kept pausing, not because I was bored, but because my brain needed a second to breathe.
By Rosalina Jane13 days ago in BookClub
Book Review: Nobboi Doshok by Koushik Ranjit
Koushik Ranjit’s Nobboi Doshok (The Nineties) is a reflective and emotionally grounded literary work that revisits one of the most transformative decades in recent social history. Rather than presenting the 1990s as a fixed historical period, the book approaches the decade as a lived experience shaped by memory, emotion, uncertainty, and youthful aspiration. It is both personal and collective in nature, capturing the inner world of a generation that came of age during a time of transition.
By Manish Bhatia14 days ago in BookClub
THE EMBER AND THE ECHOES. AI-Generated.
EPISODE 3: THE VALE OF WHISPERS Leaving the Marches felt like shedding a skin. The loud, bloody chaos faded into a damp, watchful silence as Kaelen entered the Blackwood Vale. The air grew cold and carried the scent of pine and deep, rotten earth. This was Lord Theron Vance’s domain, and his influence was a chill that seeped into the bones.
By Akua Anita14 days ago in BookClub
