Myself Stories Novels & Stories

Someone always does. I gathered the folder, slid it into my tote, and lay down with the light still on. Tomorrow, the chapel. The next day, the clinic. By Sunday, Veronica’s desk. By the memorial, I’d have more than doctored photos. I’d have a story people already know how to tell. A story that fits headlines and dinner tables and men who prefer their wives obedient. A story that says: She did this to herself. He chose her. Now he’ll have to live with her. And with the truth I make for her.

It’s the question I’ve been dreading because the answer isn’t going to be something that they want to hear. But everyone is staring at me, and I can’t bring myself to lie. “Stories,” I say finally. “Real stories about real people. That’s what matters to me.” There’s a moment of silence, and a flicker of something that looks like disappointment flashes across Elise’s gaze. “How... quaint,” she manages, before turning her attention to Meg’s phone, who is scrolling through her most recent bikini pictures and talking about her breast augmentation.

"Madison and I have always been open. You're the one who's always scheming and playing dirty." "Ed—" Edward stiffened suddenly. That had been Younger Me speaking. I pressed on as if I'd lost all strength, saying, "I don't want to stay trapped in the past anymore. I don't want to stay trapped here." I didn't want to keep waking up every night from nightmares filled with a baby's cries. I definitely didn't want to keep living like some kind of criminal, prone to the curses and humiliation of anyone. I had been telling the truth when I said I really had gone back to my own room. But why had no one believed me?

Tension flowed through my body. The only thing on my mind was this: Impress them. The man in the middle picked up my file. “I can see here that you have written several stories. “Yes, sir.” “And you want to work with us?” “Yes, sir.” He leaned back slightly. “Then tell us something, Miss Molley. Why do you think storytelling is important?” For a second, my mind went blank. But then the words slowly returned. “Stories help people understand themselves,” I said. “Sometimes people cannot say how they feel, but they can see themselves in a story.”

I have to remove such comments because it's really devastate my mentality. Why my English is bad? Because I've never been to school like you all. I self taught or self study myself in the house. So you see why I'm not good at English. Please I'm really trying to edit the story. I love my readers and their opinions matters to me most. Love you all ( heart broken 💔💔)

“I believe in you but what’s important is do you believe in yourself?” “I do.” “That’s what matters. As long as you believe in yourself, everyone’s opinions don’t matter.” “Do you think so?” “I know so.” “I have written a lot of short stories which i haven’t shown to anyone.” “Really?” “Yes.” “I would love to read them.” “I’m excited about the new story i thought of.” “What is it about?” “It’s about the most notorious crime family in Zambia.” “That sounds interesting.” “I don’t know where the idea came from but each and every day, it grows stronger,” Ludo smiled.

‘‘ I love to hear and watch you talk, I already told you, you are great, you are beautiful, you need to have some faith in yourself, have a little faith, just a little,’’ he added. His words were pleading with me to try, to believe in myself, to have a little faith in me, even if I didn’t want to. ‘‘Well, its not that personal, but I heard that a few years ago, a girl, some girl, committed suicide here, that she was pregnant and jumped to her death right here, I- I don’t know know if it is…’’ ‘‘That girl,’’ he interrupted, ‘‘That girl, that girl is my sister, she is my sister, its not just a story, she is someone that I love dearly, someone that isn’t here anymore, so yeah it true, the stori

Thank God my heart is happy, it's not economic value that I'm looking for but more self-satisfaction. My husband is proud of me, yes, my results are not in vain, everything I get is not easy from a life full of twists and turns for 35 years. My patience, my hard work, and most importantly keep the spirit and pray in all the joys and sorrows of life. My three children embrace and kiss me, maybe only Queeniera can read and understand now. But someday my two children will read all of my novels. Take the good stories, and leave the bad stories to be imitated.

I said, “that’ll be enough.” He hummed the agreement. Outside, under a moon that had become backdrop instead of deity, pups probably whispered exaggerated versions of my life. Inside, in the dark, with my mate and my child and a badly spelled comic pressed to my heart, I knew the real story: A girl who’d once believed her background had become a legend, not because a goddess chose her, but because she chose herself—and taught others they could too.” And then invited everyone else to do the same.

A new post from the same anonymous account. "That was just the beginning. Over the next few days, I'll be posting more of Lila's stories. Stories about other guys at school. You might even find yourself in one of them. Stay tuned to see just how perverted Lila Richmond really is." My hands were shaking. This person did not just have one story. They had multiple stories. Stories about different people. I had written so many over the past year. Stories to process my confusing feelings. Stories about Ryan. Stories about Derek before I knew him. Stories about random guys I found attractive. Stories that were never meant to be read by anyone.