Memoir Audiobook Novels & Stories

Those ungrateful ingrates would go mad, but how was that my problem? I had once survived on an abandoned island for two months. My phone was turned off. I'd power it up and call someone if I really needed help. Thanks to my frequent survival trips, I knew the local rescue squads well. All I had to do was send a signal, and they would send a ship right away. Then, help would come in two days' time. … I toiled away for the whole day, and night was soon upon me. I sat on the little bench I made, staring at the blazing setting sun as I munched on the seafood I had caught with my traps.

He only shook his head adamantly. “I know a world-renowned therapist, Maya. I can call him and he will be here before work hours end,” he said firmly. He placed both of his hands on her shoulders gently and turned her towards him. “He can help you get your memories back. He has helped a lot of patients who had gone through the same thing as you.”

My family had to put a stop to the broadcast of my memories. I huddled in a corner, feeling numb about the whole situation, but they struggled to accept reality. Sandra teared up shakily, mumbling in disbelief. Roger gasped heavily, his fists clenched, while Caleb, wearing his heart on his sleeve, punched the table. “I can’t believe Casey is evil! “Where is she? I must ask her if this is real.” The scientist wiped away a tear. “This is the donor’s deepest and most personal memory. There’s one more piece of memory. Do you want to watch it?”

Amid cheers, Michael stepped onto the stage, his voice steady and cool. "Last year, I got into an accident and lost my sight completely. I'd like to thank someone. Because of her careful care, I was able to recover so quickly. "Thank you, Ms. Goodwin." My heart pounded as I listened, trying to keep my face calm. The spotlight landed straight on Audrey. She lifted her chin and gave a shy, blushing smile. "I'm your nurse. Taking care of you was my duty." Michael's lips curled into a smile—the kind that looked dangerous.

“We improvise it live.” Pauly handed her a slim, battered paperback—Mockingbird, cover worn, pages gutted to hold a wafer-thin transceiver and a micro-SD slot. “Your new copy. Same weight as the real one. Press the title twice if you’re burned; it wipes your last three hours and plays an audiobook. Press the author twice and it pings us with location.” She slid the book into her tote without looking. “And if I press the spine?” “It complains about being objectified,” Pauly said.

"The doctors say your memory might come back in pieces. Or it might not. But you’re safe now. The Vane... the project is over." He left an hour later, promising to bring my textbooks. But the moment the door clicked shut, the static in my head spiked. I reached for my phone on the nightstand—a new device, sleek and black. There were no photos. No messages. No call history. But when I opened the "Voice Memos" app, there was a single file, recorded at 2:03 AM on the night of the "accident." The title was: "FOR THE GIRL WITH THE MICROPHONE."

A memoir was different from a speech. I had given versions of the story publicly. In rooms of thirty and rooms of twelve hundred and in the livestream that had reached people I would never meet in places I would never go. I had gotten good at the delivery, good at giving the real version without being destroyed by the real version, good at walking back into my life afterward without the story following me in ways that disrupted the life. A book was different.

His nerves calmed down to see the half closed porthole on his side and a safely private door giving him enough privacy. His hand found his phone on his side and an unattended laptop, the movie had a long end.. the replay button has been on the screen for probably hours. Glad the earphone didn’t pull his laptop. He set it aside and stretched his limbs, muffling a satisfied groan when relief flooded his muscles and meridians. ‘Is it lunch.. or dinner? What if breakfast?’ he asked mentally, half disoriented. Ren glances at the closed barrier and wonders if Mizuki is sleeping.. but knowing her, she’s probably sorting out some papers for the business meeting or whatever project she has in Boston.

That bone-deep attentiveness was a habit built day after day over three years for Vivienne, while Serena had no dietary restrictions at all and needed no such care. Sitting alone at night on the terrace outside the ward, the evening wind passing over him, he would find himself dazedly remembering countless intimate nights. Back then he had been possessive and overbearing, taking without limit, refusing to yield even as Vivienne begged him through tears. It had seemed ordinary at the time. Now, with no one beside him, he suddenly realized there would never again be someone whose eyes held nothing but him. When others chatted and mentioned the small things of pregnancy, he would suddenly go bl