A Story About A Story Novels & Stories

Third Person's POV After returning to Newmont, Lorenzo did something he should have done a long time ago. He went to see a psychologist. It wasn't because he was depressed, but because he wanted to figure out one thing—how had he become like that? How could one person be so cruel to another? The psychologist was an old man in his 60s, with gray hair and gold-rimmed glasses. He spoke slowly and deliberately. "Do you think you ever loved Sofia?" the psychologist asked.

She told him about Maren and Nell and the warrior and his daughter named Petra. He listened with complete attention. When she finished he looked at her across the desk. "You are becoming the story this pack tells itself about what is possible," he said. She looked at him. "Is that what it is," she said. "Yes," he said. "Every pack has those stories. The ones that define what the pack believes about itself and what it can become." He paused. "You are one of those stories now." She sat with that. "I did not do anything extraordinary," she said. "I stopped running and did the work."

Emma's POV I tell him. Not everything all at once, because everything all at once is not a story, it is a collapse, and I have spent two years turning what happened to me into a story that I can carry rather than a collapse that carries me. So I tell it the way I have learned to tell things when they matter, which is slowly, in order, with the exact weight each part deserves and no more. I tell him about the marriage.

I said, "Like we've said. When what they're doing is forbidden, it makes the story even better." "Right," Jennifer said. She was already engrossed in another story. My phone buzzed a moment later. Another brother/sister tale. For a moment, I paused. Was this really appropriate? Had we crossed the line? Five minutes later, I was too busy reading the story to care. *

My ride was already waiting outside. ***** Sitting in my room engrossed in the book I am reading. After the visit to Sarah's house, I got home and no one was home as usual. My parents are very busy people. My dad owned various oil companies in Different countries and of course had to travel from time to time. My mum is a businesswoman. She travelled a lot too. Hopefully, she'd be around tomorrow. Deciding that the book was starting to bore me. I opened the I*******m app and started scrolling through the posts.

I said, small. "Great," Dr. Hartman said and pressed a second star on my sweater. "Two today. You're being brave." Miss Vivienne's smile folded the air. "Do-Over Stories help us make better memories," she whispered. "When you tell them, they get stronger." After a while, the stories became like a repeated song. Miss Vivienne would tell one version and then ask me to say it back three times. Each time I said it, Dr. Hartman stuck another star. My hands got sticky with the shine and my chest felt both full and empty.

Looked up. “My grandmother told me a story,” she said slowly. “About the village she grew up in. About something that happened there — something unjust. She told it every year at Christmas. The same story. Exactly the same words.” She paused. “I asked her once why she kept telling it. She said — because if I stop telling it, it stops being true.” The room was very still. Mia looked at her. At the story she’d brought. At the reason it had stayed.

His face is even more puzzled. If you’re wondering how casual currently we are, even though we ended last night on an awkward note, well… I explained it. Usually, in stories, they just skip to the next day/ chapter as if nothing happened, but NO. IT’S NOT LIKE THAT AT ALL. How I wish it was. I have to thoroughly explain EVERYTHING. Even the finger-partner part. Good heavens, they don’t know about that! Why? IT’S BECAUSE THEY DON’T DO IT! I can’t believe it. They go straight to the point; no foreplay! What a sad world this is…

She pointed with her finger and ran it down these books looking for a particular cover. “I have been saving this story for the right moment.” She directed her son to sit in the chair and when he sat down, she gave him the book. It looked ordinary to him, but it was obviously special to her. “This is the story of a young man who found a friend while on a journey. It is called ‘The Tale of Meru’.” He looked surprised because he was half expecting another history lesson. “Are you sure you have the right book?” “Yes, Yvayn, I am. I am not as boring as you would like to think I am.”

I sat next to him and saw the children sitting on the floor. I waved at them and smiled and they did the same. A few minutes later, they begged James to tell the story again. It's good that I'm not the one being asked, gosh, I'm going to run out of saliva again. "Oh, I'm going to tell a story so listen carefully okay. The title of this story is Bamboo and the turtle."