Blog Stories Novels & Stories

A life spent looking backwards misses all the beauty that lies in front of it. Your parents aren’t perfect. You might have realize this. But you’re pretty darn smart. So, like I said before, we have to forgive ourselves or the coulda, woulda, shoulda, fear and anxiety will creep into a crack of our weaknesses, and overcome us. Please know we’re not perfect, and we will never claim to be. Our personal journeys have stories to tell. THAT’S for sure. When it comes time for stories, though, talk to me first… because chances are your father’s are going to be inappropriate. HA!

For this reason, I decided to move all then into strange short stories, that is already a storybook of different themes. The w******l policy does not allow me to remove or delete those books, so they will remain there but as a "paused" book. You can find only the introduction of those books on w******l and no else more. But there you can find some covers I made for those stories and that I can not upload here. The stories of a single chapter will continue to be published, of course. Each volume of Strange short stories will have 3 medium-sized stories and about 10 short stories.

Seth explained to him. “Which cover?” “Mr. Whyte I know that’s your apartment and that you’re seeing this singer” Seth revealed to Cody’s surprise. “If I know then it won’t be hard for the boss to find out too” “Who published the story?” Cody asked in a stern voice. “Three different blogs” Seth replied. “What time is it?” Cody asked in a pensive mood. “4:50” came Seth’s reply. “Tell them I want this story gone by 5:00, and let them know this is me being kind”

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Then she spoke. "Three days ago," she said, "a blog published excerpts from my private journals. Those excerpts were stolen property. They were also, in the most important sense, incomplete. What I am going to do this morning is provide context — not because I owe anyone an explanation for my private thoughts, but because context is the difference between a story and the truth." She paused.

“I’m fine.” She doesn’t believe me but she lets it go. “Okay,” she says lightly, nudging my arm. “Just don’t get us killed.” “I’ll try not to,” I murmur. The city rushes past us in a blur of glass and movement. After a moment, Cassie exhales, anger bubbling up. “But honestly, it’s sick. Why would they even drag your name into a missing—dead man’s story? These bloggers are out of control. They should be sued.”

The war of words, of ideologies, of lion roars and icy declarations, had reached a stalemate. The country was divided, but the lines were holding. Then, Melissa Ekon struck the match that would set the entire nation ablaze. It did not come through a formal press release or a sanctioned broadcast. It appeared, like a digital poison, on a shadowy, untraceable blog known for trafficking in conspiracy and celebrity scandal. The post was simple, its title brutal in its clarity: "The Truth Behind the 'Love Story.'" Attached was an audio file.

Sometimes healing doesn’t need a fix. Sometimes it just needs a pause. That night, Ryan uploaded his first anonymous blog post to the campus bulletin site: “The people who say they love you might just want to own you. And the people who seem like enemies might be the ones who see you clearly. I’m not telling this story to expose anyone. I’m telling it so no one else has to stay quiet.” And that’s when the messages started rolling in. One. Then ten. Then fifty. From students. From strangers.

Author's Note This book is a short compilation of erotic stories. Please note that not all entries are heavily erotic—some lean more toward emotional moments, dramatic tension, or character interaction. Also, 99% of these stories don’t follow a traditional plot, so don’t be confused if there's no clear beginning, middle, or end. They’re written more for mood, moments, and expression than full narratives. Enjoy the ride,no overthinking needed. 😉 ********************************************* Kael didn’t wait.

“That’s rare around here. Everyone else just writes checks.” Adrian laughed. “Yeah, I noticed.” They stepped away from the crowd slightly, finding a quiet pocket near a window that looked over the garden. Eli leaned casually against the wall, swirling his wine. “So, what do you write?” “Articles mostly,” Adrian said, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Some short stories. Nothing glamorous. Magazines, online journals. You wouldn’t know any of them.” “Try me.” Adrian smiled, surprised by the interest. “I like peace and Quiet. Most of my stories are about small things. A town nobody’s heard of. A man who grows trees in his kitchen. Real stuff.”