Books with title The Scribble Monster

Monsters seek her help because she is the Scribbler.One monster wanted more.Phoebe Wilson survived the monster’s attack, but she lost her best friend and her special abilities. Though upset about her missing friend, Phoebe does not miss her Scribbler abilities. Without the abilities, she believes she will finally make her dad happy by being a normal teenager.However, the monster is back and it wants Phoebe.

The spectacular new middle-grade fantasy series from bestselling authors Garth Nix and Sean Williams.Since moving to the town of Portland, many bizarre things have happened to Jaide and Jack Shield. The twins have discovered their own magical powers--and have seen how they can go horribly wrong. They have met cats who talk and humans who keep silent about deep, dark secrets. And they have begun their fight against a deadly force known only as The Evil.Still, Jaide and Jack have yet to meet the strangest resident of Portland. It's a creature that only comes out at night, a beast that defies human description. Jaide and Jack have never seen it . . . but they're about to. And when they do, destruction and disaster won't be too far away.

Stephen Crane (1850-1893) is regarded as a master of American short story writing. First published in 1898, “The Monster” is one of his best-known novellas. It is a study of prejudice, fear and isolation in a small town near New York, where an African-American man suffers the pains of social exclusion after being disfigured by fire in order to save another man. This edition also contains the enlightening essay “A Note on Stephen Crane” written by literary critic and painter John D. Barry (1866-1942) in 1901.

Johnson passed through two rooms and came to the head of the stairs. As he opened the door great billows of smoke poured out, but gripping Jimmie closer, he plunged down through them. All manner of odors assailed him during this flight. They seemed to be alive with envy, hatred, and malice. At the entrance to the laboratory he confronted a strange spectacle. The room was like a garden in the region where might be burning flowers. Flames of violet, crimson, green, blue, orange, and purple were blooming everywhere. There was one blaze that was precisely the hue of a delicate coral. In another place was a mass that lay merely in phosphorescent inaction like a pile of emeralds. But all these marvels were to be seen dimly through clouds of heaving, turning, deadly smoke.

Example in this ebookChapter IWhen the clergyman had gone, the bride turned.Before her was an open window before which was the open sea. In the air was a tropical languor, a savour of brine, the scent of lilies, the sound of mandolins that are far away. Below, in the garden, were masses of scarlet, high heaps of geranium blooms. A bit beyond was the Caprian blue of the San Diego Bay. There, a yacht rode, white and spacious. The yacht belonged to her husband who was beside her. She turned again and as passionately he embraced her; she coloured.For the moment, as they stood there, they seemed so sheerly dissimilar that they might have come of alien races, from different zones. He, with his fair hair, his fair skin, his resolute and aggressive face, was typically Anglo-Saxon. She, with her delicate features, her dense black hair, and disquieting eyes, looked like a Madrilene Madonna—one of those fascinating and slightly shocking creations of seventeenth-century art that more nearly resemble infantas serenaded by caballeros than queens of the sky. There was a deeper contrast. He appeared frankly material; she, all soul.Leisurely she freed herself.“One might know,” she began, then paused. A smile completed the sentence.He smiled too.“Yes, Leilah, one might know that however I hold you to me, I never can hold you enough.”“And I! I could be held by you forever.”On the door came a tap, rapid and assured. A page entered, the preoccupation of the tip in his face, in his hand a platter of letters.The man, taking the letters, dismissed him.“Miss Ogston,” he continued. “From your father, confound him. It is the last time he will address you in that fashion. Miss Ogston,” he repeated. “From the Silverstairs, I fancy. Gulian Verplank. There is but one for me.”He looked at his watch. “The launch from the yacht will be here shortly.”“When do we start?”“Whenever you like. The Marquesas will keep. Bora-Bora will be the same whenever we get there. Only——”“Only what?”“I am in love with you, not with hotels.”“Let us go then. There will be a moon to-night?”“A new one, a honeymoon, a honeymoon begun.”“Gulian! As if it could end!”In pronouncing the “u” in his name her mouth made the sketch of a kiss.“You would not wish it to?” he asked.“When I die, perhaps, and even then only to be continued hereafter. Heaven would not be heaven without you.”She spoke slowly, with little pauses, in a manner that differed from his own mode of speech, which was quick and forceful.Verplank turned to the letter that had been addressed to him, and which he still held. Without opening it, he tore it into long, thin strips. It was, he knew from the imprint, a communication of no importance; but, at the moment, the action seemed a reply to her remark. It served to indicate his complete indifference to everything and everyone save her only. Afterward, with a regret that was to be eternal, she wished he had done the same with hers.Yet, pleased at the time, she smiled.“Gulian, you do love me, but I wonder do you love me as absolutely as I love you?”Verplank, with a gesture that was familiar to him, closed and opened a hand.“I do not know. But while I think you cannot love me more wholly than I love you, I do know that to me you are the unique.”Leilah moved to where he stood.“Gulian, and you to me. You are the only one.” She moved closer. Raising her hands, she put them on his shoulders. “Tell me, shall you be long away?”“An hour or two. Apropos, would you care to leave before dinner?”“Yes.”“We will dine on board, then. Is there anything in particular you would like?”“Yes, lilies, plenty of lilies; and pineapples; and the sound of your voice.”Lifting her hands from his shoulders to his face, she drew it to her own. Their lips met longly. With the savour of her about him, Verplank passed out.To be continue in this ebook