A Story About A Story Novels & Stories

“I told you, I won’t force you.” “But we must, I mean we can’t fake the-” “We’ll mark each other. It'll be enough to sustain our story. I know how you feel about it, but the mark will fade away eventually. We'll renew it once in a while.” By the end of this talk, he was only in his underwear. A small whimper escaped my mouth causing me to slap a hand over it. His laugh filled the room. Despite the turmoil of emotions that were ravaging my mind, I couldn’t deny the fact that his body was nothing less than perfect.

The above sentences are the thoughts of the author about what he thinks, but it is my duty to tell all the things he has in his mind. The space science and the beginning of the human era, why I always talk about the past, why I'm interested in the dead stories, why I tell a tale of another time, why I don't like the present and, also why I'm not narrating about those dumbasses who were about to close the mysterious case of random killing by an unidentified criminal (creature)? You might have so many questions and confusions about the fact that I puzzle a simple story in what we call a Riddle…? But you can still believe in me that I'll give you a gift tomorrow.

He let out the friendliest of smiles, making Anderson very uncomfortable. Anderson stared back and forth between Suit and the scroll. His mind was racing. The contract sounded simple enough. Straightforward, but he did not understand. ‘What did he mean by survive the stories? Did he not say I was going to tell a story? What does survive the story mean?’ Question after question popped up into his head. He could not help himself. He had no idea exactly what it meant, but one thing was for certain; He would not move forward if he did nothing but constantly question the situation

That was my house. On this Tuesday night it was all going to be different from what they used to hear from their famous Rufous the Nightingale stories and not the usual fairy tales, or lazy tortoise stories neither was it going to be Harvey but a story i had decided to tell them ... my story... pardon me OUR STORY i meant. I cannot finish this story, the story of my life without mentioning to them each in the scene where they were birthed and whom their fathers were... The story i am about to tell is not a story but a History , my History , our heritage, history is the highest form of story ....the highest story of my home.

“Can we do stuffs that you like? Only in a more subtle way. Me being a beginner and all.” He caressed her hair. “What if you don't like what I like?” “I'm willing to explore.” Gabriel had to smile up at the ceiling. “You said Fola told you about my kinks.” “Yeah.” “So what exactly did that talkative tell you?” “Nothing much. How did he find out?” Gabriel shrugged. “Who knows? Besides, I don't really hide stuffs.” Her voice was shy and tiny as she asked, “Is it like BDSM? I've always wondered what it was like.”

And thought: > “This is what a story does when it stops needing chapters.” > “It becomes a grove of breathing people no longer waiting to be told who they are.” I then grinned. Not for symbolism. For staying.

There was one solitary, big book on a low table between them. "The title of the tale is The Binding of Autumn," he began, his voice an entrancing whisper just in harmony with the shriek of the fire. “It's the tale of a harvest god who offers a mortal woman a choice: one night of absolute freedom for one year of unimaginable riches for her people." He didn't move as his eyes met hers. "The consent is the matter at hand. It must be freely bestowed, not coerced, and whispered three times into the skin of his throat." “Do you have any idea what sort of story you're going to be reading me tonight?”

The message contained a blurry video of more than ten seconds. When I opened it, I froze instantly. The video was shot from a long distance across the building, with the camera pointed directly at our bedroom. In the frame, I was alone, struggling to free myself from under the bed. There was no second person, no suggestive posture, no improper action—only an ordinary person’s embarrassed scene of being stuck and saving herself. But because of the tricky shooting angle and deliberate cropping, it could easily be misinterpreted by people who did not know the truth.

And the silence hurts worse than anything. End of story 3

"I am the one who finishes the story." The Architect chuckled and tapped his pen against his palm. "That is the funny thing about stories. They never really finish. We just keep adding new chapters. A war here, a betrayal there, a bit of romance to keep the readers hooked. It is a cycle. And you, my dear, are the best loop we have." He flicked his wrist. The floor between us shifted. It turned into a long, deep pit filled with sharp, jagged metal scraps—the remains of all the versions of Lagos that had been deleted before.