Myth Stories Short Novels & Stories

My breath came in short gasps. Tears strolled down my eyes. I couldn't help but whisper, “Best birthday gift, ever. ”

Instead, because rationality had been quietly losing ground for days, I heard myself say, “Folklore.” Judith’s brows rose just slightly. “Local?” “And… broader.” I tried to sound casual. “Wolf myths. Shape shifter stories. That sort of thing.” Judith did not laugh. That, somehow, was worse. She only nodded and came around the desk. “Back left corner. Mythology, regional legends, comparative folklore. We also have some fiction if you want the less academic versions.” Less academic versions. Like I was shopping for bedtime stories instead of trying to decide whether my life had cracked open into impossibility.

And the silence hurts worse than anything. End of story 3

I lived for the idea of them. The thought of being pinned beneath an immortal body, feeling those icy fingers slide over my heated skin, the sudden sharp sting of fangs sinking deep into my neck, followed by that forbidden rush of pleasure so intense it bordered on agony… it haunted my dreams and ruined every ordinary man who ever tried to touch me. My friends had long since given up. Every time I brought up another dark romance, another obscure vampire lore theory, another fantasy where the heroine begged to be drained while she came undone, they would groan and roll their eyes.

My pussy clenched around him in rhythmic waves, milking him, and he followed moments later. His release filled the condom as he drove into me one final time, his body shuddering against mine, his breath stopping, then returning in ragged gasps. We stayed there, tangled, breathing. His forehead pressed against my neck. My fingers traced the scar along his ribs. "How'd you get this?" I asked. "Fell off a wall when I was seventeen." "Were you running from someone?" "Running toward someone." He lifted his head. "Bad habit. Getting worse."

"And then I watched you come out of that circle and I understood, finally, that we never wrote any of it down. Do you know why? Because the people who saw it didn't survive to write it. What we've got is the story told by the ones who ran." She turned her head. "You're the first of your kind anyone's laid eyes on in four hundred years, Maya Cole. And every wolf on this earth has spent that whole time being told a bedtime story about you." "What's the story?" "Depends who's telling it. In mine, you eat the moon." Odette shrugged one bony shoulder. "Which is a thing you say to a child who won't sleep. It isn't history. It's what's left when the history runs." A thin smile. "Congratulations. Yo

She gritted form her teeth. Abram move closer to stare at the legendary king and queen of Zhatiera and the ruler of all Khiones. They are considered as bedtime stories, a made up legend made to scare children from roaming at night or do bad things. Stories has it they were awful, evil creatures with horrible disfigured face and monster like body that could rip a person to shreds and even eat them when they are terribly hungry.

“Here, it’s almost time for dinner.” “Thanks,” the boy replied before taking a huge bite. “Did your father ever tell you any stories concerning an old man and a foggy hill?” Rhina inquired. “Nope,” Ishida answered plainly. “How many stories about old men did he tell you?” the girl asked. “Quite a lot! Seven, if I remember correctly. ‘The Woodcutter and the Door of Fates’ was one... ‘The Old Man and the Desert of No Return’ was another. Oh yes, there were ‘The Legend of King Makarael the Great,’ ‘Hayami’s Grandfather,’ ‘Heroes of Aquarius,’ ‘Sir Kharkin of the Seven Seas,’ and ‘Aram the Master Sage.” Ishida recalled. “None of them were about a gravestone or a hill.”

"I haven't. And if I have it doesn't matter. Sometimes Old Nan would tell the same story she'd told before, but we never minded, if it was a good story. Old stories are like old friends, she used to say . You have to visit them from time to time." "That's true." Meera walked with her shield on her back, pushing an occasional branch out of the way with her frog spear. Just when Bran began to think that she wasn't going to tell the story after all, she began, "Once there was a curious lad who lived in the Neck. He was small like all crannogmen, but brave and smart and strong as well. He grew up hunting and fishing and climbing trees, and learned all the magics of my people." Bran was almost ce

His father brought some clarity to him and insisted that it’s a collection of Middle Eastern and South Asian folk tales that were originally published together during the Islamic Golden Age. “Honestly dad, this isn`t a story, I see it more like a biography and a bizarre one of course. Begging a man with one thousand and one stories not to die, is funny. Would you please tell me a story of its own in its own originality? Junior pleaded at the end and for the second time. “But son, I must tell you something. Scheherazade according to myth was a fictional character. A make believe. That is an imaginary character” While laughing with her husband.