Collective-stories Novels & Stories

"Sometimes, storytellers tap into a collective consciousness, where these universal themes intertwine and emerge in different forms." I looked up at him, my mind reeling with the implications of his words. "Are you saying that my story is part of something bigger?" Lex nodded affirmatively. "Yes, I believe so. I have often wondered if there's a grand tapestry of stories connecting every writer and every era. Perhaps this contest is just the beginning for you, a stepping stone into a greater narrative unfolding." A rush of excitement coursed through me as the possibilities expanded before my eyes. To think that my humble story could be part of something larger than myself ignited a fire withi

Sanket asked They all nodded. "then I'm successful in it. I'm a good story teller." Sanket jokes "now you all go to sleep it's late night," Mishika said They all nodded and went to their rooms. "Why did you tell them this story, Sanket? They don't need to know about our past." Khwaish said and Mishika noded "I didn't tell them that it's true. I just shared It as a story that will help them in future. Now come on don't waste time you have to check on Ekansh as well if he need something or not," Sanket said

“Remember how you’d get all dressed up in barely anything under your clothes and we’d go to Coverts? We’d watch the other couples, get so turned on and fuck all night” I swallowed, my nipples tightening at the memory. I hadn’t thought about Coverts, the members-only swingers club, in years. Nathan and I were more watchers than swingers, watching everyone’s pleasure, which heightened our own. When we first began dating, we went often. Each time, we’d end up having some of the best sex of our lives.. We would role play or do some light kink. The last time we had gone to Coverts, Nathan was as fit as a horse. Or so we thought...

They liked being in a throuple, and raved about how they were living their best life. Much in the same way that they shared other things, they got pregnant within weeks of each other. They’re both in school now, getting farther along with each passing day.

The extended family dinner at the sprawling suburban house in suburban Chicago was hitting its fourth hour. Thanksgiving leftovers were being reheated, football highlights blared from the living-room TV, kids chased each other through the hallway, and the adults were deep into their third round of wine and stories about “the old days.” The dining table was still crowded with half-empty casserole dishes, cranberry sauce stains, and crumpled napkins.

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…

“Because the Harvard MBA will tell you what HBR said last month. I’ll tell you why your Q2 campaign in Austin failed and how to fix it before Q4.” That makes him stop walking. He turns, really looks at me now. “Go on.” And just like that, round one starts. I don’t know it yet, but I’ve already lost. Because the problem with playing games with men like Dominic Cole is that they invented the rules. And the problem with revenge is that it requires you to carry the person who hurt you with you, every single day, until you become them. But I don’t know that at 8:02 AM on a Monday.

We went inside the massive room, and she showed me all of her collections before she speaks. "The world is like a huge library that is filled with books. It’s a book that contains everyone's story. Everyone has their story written somewhere in the library. It can be a book of love between two lovers from a distance, an inspirational story of a family, a story of an unbreakable friendship, or the story of a war against long-time enemies. Our stories don't always have a happy endings. Some ends in tragedy and others end with a twist and unexpected turn of events. No matter what is written in our final chapter, it always ends up with a lesson.

The thought made her pulse quicken, like she was holding a secret that wasn’t meant to be found. She hesitated only a moment before sitting cross-legged on the floor and flipping the cover open. Inside, in messy handwriting, was a title scrawled across the first page: “Collected Stories — From Women, For Women.” Chloe blinked. The handwriting was feminine, rushed, and almost secretive. She turned the page and read the introduction, scrawled in looping letters:

"We show everyone steady." He said: "Yes." She went upstairs. She heard him go back to his study. She thought: we are in it now. The rumors arrived by the second week of December. They arrived in the particular and specific way that managed narratives arrived — not in a single place or a single form, but distributed, the particular and specific distribution of a story being seeded rather than broken, appearing in three different industry publications within four days of each other, in the particular and specific language of concern rather than attack: