I Want To Write A Novel Mga Nobela at Kwento

On the day the college entrance exam results are released, I rank first in the entire province. A top student from another school, Heather Cliffton, publicly reports me for cheating on the Englorian exam. She says, "Someone who's never scored above 145 points in Englorian could never have a higher total score than I do." My seatmate, Louis Henderson, steps forward as a witness. He says, "She copied my answer sheet during every exam." The Department of Education launches an investigation, and my admission to a top-tier university is put on hold. My mother cries all night. My father is nearly fired from his job. The entire internet brands me as a cheater. During a livestream, Heather chokes back tears and says, "I just want justice for myself." I am about to explain when she adds, "If the one who scores 145 points in Englorian can sit down and pass an Englorian college entrance exam paper on the spot, I'll kneel down and apologize." I smile. I'm a Canalian-track student. I don't even take the Englorian paper in the college entrance exams.

I stumbled across an encrypted folder on my husband's phone, filled with photos of a little girl I'd never seen before. From newborn to first steps, sorted by month—two full years' worth. But the child in those photos wasn't our daughter. When I confronted him, he said she was a girl named Rosie from the children's home I sponsored. The director sent growth updates, and he'd been saving them for me. I never imagined that my warm, thoughtful husband would use my charity to spin a lie. Because every single photo was geotagged to the apartment complex next to his office. And the children's home was on the other side of the city. I didn't call him out right then. Because I wanted to know whose child she really was.

For the past three months, I've slept only three hours every day just so my team and I can create an app. Thanks to our hard work, the app goes absolutely viral to the point we've garnered over 100 million registered users on the first week of its launch. At the afterparty, my wife, Stacie Woodward, announces that her godbrother, Tory Frost, who's the PR manager, will be the one receiving the million-dollar bonus. She then tosses me a few 50% discount coupons that can be used in shopping malls as my bonus. "You're just a code monkey—why do you need that much money anyway? You can have these discount coupons. Use them on anything you want. At least buy some nice clothes for yourself. Don't go around wearing these rags. You'll just end up humiliating me more." I plead to her in a low tone, "Have you gone crazy, Stacie? My dad needs the money for the best medication in order to save his life! Can you please stop joking around?" But Stacie clings to Toby's arm, looking high and mighty. "Your dad's dying, isn't he? He might as well stop wasting the public resources! I can always choose him a better grave and hold a nice funeral for him when his time comes!" As I look at Stacie's smug face, I just smile at her instead of getting mad at her. She must have forgotten that the app's core algorithm and the user growth model are built using my private, undisclosed technology stack. That means the copyright is mine and has nothing to do with the company. I just smile while nodding at Stacie. That night, I activate the technology stack's self-destruct and migration protocols.

I had been married to Derek for six years, and we had a three-year-old son. He was poor, earning only $2,000 a month, but I had no complaints; I took care of everything at home for him. After getting dinner on the table for the whole family, I finally had a minute to check my phone. A video popped up on my feed: a twenty-two-year-old girl from a rural area whose hands, roughened by years of hard labor, looked like they belonged to a sixty-two-year-old woman. I looked down at my own hands, just as worn and scarred, and stared at them blankly before tapping into the comments. I expected people to feel bad for her. However, to my surprise, the comments section was flooded with a single sentiment: "Why would anyone marry a penniless loser?" One of the top-liked comments came from a couple; in their photo, they were pictured holding hands—fingers tightly intertwined—with the girl sporting a massive diamond ring. The accompanying caption read: "A man who truly loves you would never bear to let you suffer." I felt a pang of envy. Given the choice, who wouldn't want a glamorous life? As I was about to close the app, I accidentally tapped on the couple's photo, enlarging it. In the background, previously too blurry to make out, was a face I recognized. It looked exactly like my husband, Derek Sterling. I froze, and almost against my will, I tapped into the account's profile. Post after post of lavish photos of them together flooded my screen. And then I saw him clearly. The scar above his brow, the one he got when a shelf fell on him while protecting me, was still plainly visible. It was my husband. It was Derek.

"Two families are here today hoping to adopt. You can choose which one you'd like to go with." In my previous life, I chose the Parkers, who owned a small neighborhood store. Life wasn't particularly comfortable, but they cherished me like their own. They fully supported my writing and helped me become a moderately successful novelist. Meanwhile, Sean Lowe chose the affluent Bennett family. Their home was comfortable, but cold and detached. He spent more than a decade trying to earn their affection, but never truly became part of the family. Now that I'd been given a second chance, the moment I saw the Parkers again, I nearly called them Mom and Dad. But Sean beat me to it. He threw himself forward and said, "Mrs. Harper, I want to go with the family that owns the store! I love snacks the most. I'll be good and listen to everything they say!" He buried himself in Claire Parker's arms like a kitten that had finally found its way home. I stopped behind him and didn't move. If my guess was right, he had been reborn too.

An apocalypse driven by natural disasters. Survival of the fittest. Typhoons, floods, deadly cold, scorching heat, earthquakes, tsunamis, insect plagues, acid rain… After struggling through three years of the apocalypse, Nicole Floyd met a brutal death. Miraculously, she woke up and found herself three days before it all began. Nicole seized the advantage to reclaim her storage space, flipping the switch on full-on stockpiling mode. She shopped until she ran out of money, and her storage was packed tight. She also looked for the dog that had saved her life once before. She sharpened her knives, stacked her supplies, and took care of unfinished business. She paid back every debt, whether owed in blood or in kindness. And then, disaster struck. Her right hand gripping a knife and her left stroking the dog, Nicole pressed on through the ruins of a world without order or morals.

The Day I Was Reborn, I Rejected the Alpha In my previous life, on my third year as Luna, I took an arrow tipped with wolfsbane meant for my Alpha mate Julian. My wolf was nearly killed, and I lay comatose for three full years. When I finally woke, Julian held my sister Lyra's hand and told me they were in love. He wanted me to step aside. My adoptive mother, Eleanor, pressured me to accept it. I refused. When the three of them closed in on me, I appealed to the Council of Elders. In the end, the Council ruled that Lyra be exiled. She couldn't bear the humiliation, and took her own life. Julian let me keep my title as Luna, but he hated me for the rest of his life. He would look at me with cold, dead eyes. "You should never have woken up. Then I wouldn't have lost Lyra." My adoptive mother blamed me too — for killing my sister, for destroying our family. Seven years later, grief and alcohol had hollowed Julian out completely. On his deathbed, the cold mask slipped. He gripped my hand. "In the next life... will you let me have Lyra?" Something in me went numb. After Julian was gone, the pack fell apart without an Alpha. Every one of them cursed me for being the one still alive. In the fighting that came after, my own pack handed me over to a rival pack. They put a dozen arrows through me. I died alone in the wilderness. When I opened my eyes, I was back — back to the day I first woke up.

After I get pregnant with my second child, all the pets in my household start viewing me as their biggest enemy. The tabby cat who once loved clinging to me now poops in my nutritious meals every day. The parrot who only knows how to repeat "hello" begins cursing at me to suffer from a miscarriage. "Die, Leanne Foster!" When I feed the goldfish, they protest against my efforts by quitting food entirely. The next day, they are all dead. Even the terrier I've kept with me for ten years lunges at me like a mad bitch the moment she sees the baby clothes in my hands. After I almost suffer from a miscarriage, I plan on giving the pets away. But my daughter, Harper Steele, hugs the terrier and the cat as she pleads to me sadly, "Mommy, please don't give them away!" My husband, Adam Steele, is worried about my unborn baby, but he also doesn't want to hurt Harper's feelings. In the end, he comes up with a compromising solution. "Honey, there's still one month left till your due date. Just endure the pets for a month, okay? I'll lock them up in their crates and make sure that you're safe." Eventually, I agree to that solution after giving it some thought. But unexpectedly, on the day my water breaks, as soon as I dial Adam's number, the pets rush out of their crates simultaneously and begin tearing at my stomach with their claws and fangs. In the end, I close my eyes weakly from the sheer pain. I can never understand why my pets hate the unborn baby in my womb that much. When I open my eyes again, I've returned to the day I find out I'm pregnant with my second child.

Five years ago, my girlfriend, Stacie Garcia, got crippled in an attempt to save me. Out of guilt, I stayed by her side and took on all the hardest grunt work so that I could use all of the money I've earned on her. But when I'm in the middle of cleaning a Porsche's dealership, I witness Stacie flirting with another young man there. To my shock, she's even standing without any problems. Stacie tells the man in a generous manner, "Which car do you have your eye on? I'll buy you any car no matter how expensive it is as long as you like it!"

I spent five years chasing Tyler Watson, only to get kidnapped right in front of him. He just stood there and watched. As a result, I suffered. After I escaped, he acted all high and mighty and proposed to make up for his tiny bit of guilt. The second we got our marriage certificate, the Simp System’s voice rang in my head. “Congrats, host! You’ve completed your mission.” Just like that, my sanity finally returned. While Tyler waited in a hotel for me to bring him contraceptives, I went live to expose his cheating. For good measure, I even called the anti-vice office to report my dear husband for soliciting prostitutes.