Autobiography Stories Novels & Stories

Harrison grabs me by the shoulder, "There is light out of here, just don't give up. I will go find this Brendan and speak to him. I can't make you any promises, but we can at least fucking try." Every single one of us could live our lives out like a sad sob story. There's more than enough pain to go around for that. But maybe what nobody ever told you is that you don't have to be defined by your broken dreams. I am a living, breathing story. Yes, and I am on the goddamn front page of the newspaper. But nobody else can live my tales like me. They can't tell my story. Not like I can. Living, breathing stories, moving about time and space in endless ways. Don't you think there's some kind of m

Sophia's POV My mother read the last page first. I'd told this story many times now. In the autobiography. At the grave. On the porch in August with the family gathered and the August light doing what August light did. To Catherine in the sitting room with the rabbit and the fire. I'd told it so many times it had become the story rather than the memory. The version that had been handled enough to be smooth. The edges worn down by use. But on a Tuesday morning in December, sitting at my desk with the fourth edition of the autobiography in my hands, I turned to the last page.

That was all I cared about—me. “Challenge accepted.” I giggled, my head slowly tilting as I felt the booze kicking in. “Keep it real,” he shrugged. “I’m not a writer; I don’t have time to craft stories. My mom was a whore, literally. I was just one of those crazy-ass kids who didn’t wanna get aborted, so she kept me.” I glanced at him as I brought the cup's rim to my lips while he listened intently. I took a sip, continuing my “autobiography.” “I never met my dad, so I never got to ask him why he didn’t use protection. Anyway, during my sophomore year of high school, my mom's boyfriend took advantage of me. I got pregnant, and my mom kicked me out when the bitch heard that the baby daddy was

I nodded, not showing how disappointed I was. One thing about him is that whenever he is angry, he overworks and I don't like it. I watched at the trees as baba driver revved up the car to life and drove into the lonely city of Abuja. The late hour sun was a bit harsh on my tender skin, the skin I took time to nurture. The weather changes easily, I vividly remembered when my cousin Khadija told me it is freezing. The house stood out different from the way I knew it. The house was painted and a giant gate replaced the old one.

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.

Caroline mumbled in anger in her office. “I don’t care if you say that you love me or not because I’m in love with your money baby” She laughed and talked to herself. ***** Everyday Caroline used to be in my dad’s office and managed all the files before my father came but the next morning my father waited for Caroline in his office but she didn’t come until and unless he called her by himself. He reached out the intercom and announced. “Caroline please come to my office.”

I wish I had gotten to hear these stories from her. Engrossed in it, I keep on flipping pages as I picture each thing she says, hanging on every word she has written. She has me hooked and I definitely do not want to drop it. I keep on reading and reading, her life is like a novel to me even though it is supposed to be an autobiography. After some time it feels like she is in the room with me actually telling me these stories, I wish she was. Hearing all these things from her personally would have been the best but alas it is not to be.

You all know I love having a mommy, or a daddy or anyone really, I’ll take a non-binary caregiver really, I don’t mind really. The story, most of my stories have a little bit of me in them, I write being inspired by friends and events in my life, this story, well you could guess who got me inspired this time, I started to write while drinking my coffee getting carried away with the story, I paid no attention to anything but my laptop, I’ll do few chapters tonight, maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll sell it later and make enough to buy a jacket.

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.

It kept me afloat. Back in the day, I used to scribble stories in cool notebooks that I purchased from the school’s bookstore. I remember vividly the time one of my teachers confiscated one of my many notebooks with unfinished scripts because I was focused on writing instead of listening to the daily lesson. She returned the notebook and may have said that I may have some potential. Fast forward to recently, when I finally decided to create a story based on what May or May not have happened in my life. I never thought that I would actually be able to get this novel out.