Metaphor Stories Novels & Stories

Make stuff up. Right? I meet Gavin’s calm gaze and speak carefully. “So. This story’s . . . a . . . what do you call it? A metaphor. Symbolic. Of how you realized there was more to life than your writing career.” Gavin raises his eyebrows and says, “Is that what you think it is?” I clasp my hands together on the booth’s tabletop so hard my knuckles ache. “I don’t really know what to think, Gavin. You brought me here with cryptic allusions to a Truth, then have me read these stories . . . ”

This may not be one of those Big Book stories we had read about men who were like our kinds doing impossibles and we were taught to believe in everything. Joseph and his coat of many colors and the Samson of the strongest and the rest of the stories. Not withstanding i was taught well in the powers of story telling, i had understood that one could actually change people, humans, you could take away their faith and beliefs and captivate their mental thoughts through story telling. That was the case of me and my people and for many years now i had believed in the sorcery of words. Words counts, words are magical essence of living with people in unity, teaching and bending people with the gift

She asked me in a very shaky voice. “Those comments don't mean anything babe. You are not a slut or a tramp. You are a wonderful person. All those people, the poster, the commenters, they do not know anything about you and if I am being honest, they do not deserve to know you. You are an amazing person, babe.

’” At this, my mouth twisted with scepticism, and my grandfather noticing this gave a dismissive wave. “Of course it was a metaphor child, but it got me thinking. To every great lie, there is a kernel of truth. The same applies to stories, and something about it kept nagging at me, so I started to… experiment with my powers. But nothing worked, and after months of it I finally gave up. But the idea remained, and as I grew older it haunted me. “I have always been a sore loser, so occasionally I tried it still but failed. It wasn’t until an unexpected run-in with a gathering of Hunters on a scale and size far beyond anything we Shadows had ever seen that I finally had some success.”

Once bitten, twice shy, as they say. Two years later, I was pregnant again. Time seemed to have passed by so quickly. Sometimes Horace would ask me, "How many years do I have left?" See? He was sharp, too. Just because he didn't ask often didn't mean he couldn't sense something was off. When he asked, I'd answer, "Only tomorrow. You should hurry up. When you're gone, I'll use your money to fill the house with young men. You know I could do it, right?"

Really, Alain didn’t understand what his best friend’s question meant. Realizing that the innocent man didn’t understand what she meant, Brielle turned her body to face Alain, then started to speak seriously, “That’s the classic way, Al. In line with: ‘You are similar to someone who always appears in my dreams,' or ‘Have we met before? Your face is familiar to me.’ I didn’t expect a famous painter like him to use that ancient method to flirt with you.” Alain blinked slowly as he tried to comprehend the series of explanations from his best friend.

“My friends, our journey is long. Let’s save this for another day, would everyone agree?” After a pondering pause, all heads nodded in agreement. “Now, I have a story to tell.” He scooped a blue powder and tossed it into the bonfire. “Once upon a time….” The flame burst again, but this time, fiery images of animals, humans, and landscapes appeared. From the Greek heroes like Perseus and Jason, the adventures of Thor and Loki, and to the African spider god, Anansi, which was our first time hearing it, every story he told was brought to life by the flame.

Shayla resisted longer, peppering me with last-minute questions about whether clouds slept and if frogs had birthdays. Lucas waited until the others were settled before speaking quietly. “Can you tell a story?” Something in his tone—hopeful, vulnerable—unlocked a memory deep inside me. “My mother used to tell me stories,” I said softly. “Would you like one of those?” Three heads nodded eagerly. So I began. I told them about the moon that fell in love with the sea but could never touch it, about the brave girl who taught the stars how to sing, about the fox who tricked winter into leaving early.

Story written with a randomly generated story as the base. Street Dog looked at the delicious sausage in his hands and felt hungry. He walked over to the hole in his cardboard box where the snow-wet street reflected his dangerous surroundings. He had always hated the dark Slum with its disturbed, dull dirty. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to violence and always let him hungry as if no amount of sausage would ever fill the hole in his belly. He was a mut, he was street dog.

Should I…give it a try? Shaking my head, I smirked at her. “What’s with the metaphor? You know you’re bad at inspirational talks.” She flushed, embarrassed, and huffed, “At least I tried!” Then also started to chuckle. “A lion and a hyena kinda are cringe, no? It was the best I could think of, honestly.” “Yeah, I’m just a normal human. I never expected to be compared to a hyena, of all animals.” I chuckled and went for the front door. “I’ll return in the morning.”