One Shot Writing Novels & Stories

I won’t let that happen. Drawing my sword, I step into the clearing, keeping my movements fluid and precise, using the element of surprise. The first soldier doesn’t even have a chance to react before my blade meets its mark, a clean, silent strike that leaves him crumpling to the ground. The others hear the soft thud, heads snapping toward me, but by then, I’m already moving, slipping between them like a shadow, striking each one down with swift, practiced precision.

All of it made infinitely more powerful by the red silk blindfold covering her eyes. It was all eerily familiar. Like yanking the moment straight out of her latest chapter. That wasn't possible, obviously. Carry was a traditionally published author. This was her second book. Her first had bombed, so she switched to Erotica. It was her ticket to freedom. She kept it well guarded. Not that bill had time for p**n anyway. Certainly not hers. He had her holding her breath with anticipation. Her body stiffened as another thick inch of his cock slid into her. Then he pulled back and shoved even deeper.

It was the start of a new day. Winter was creeping closer, and the back lawn of Serenity Villa was already covered in frost by morning. Aspen had almost mastered the art of bone compression, and Andrew was ready to teach her real assassination techniques. He said, "A true assassin only gets one shot. If you can't take the target down in that one moment, you've already failed. And when that happens, you're left with only two outcomes." Andrew stood in gloves, his breath turning into mist under the icy wind.

Written by: Jesudamilola Abiola✍️ Genre: Er*tic, trilling romance and suspense 👙Katrina POV👙💋 I closed my eyes and ears as I heard the gun shot I was so scared I felt no pain of gun shot on my body “Who did she now shot?” I thought and slightly opened my eyes I stared up at her and saw her standing close to me I stared sideways and saw a man lying on the ground full of blood

“So I write without him.” Scott’s gaze sharpened. “Exactly.” She typed a sentence. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too. Winnie leaned over her shoulder, reading without touching. “That’s too soft.” Freeda’s jaw tightened. “I’m not writing for comfort.” “I know,” Winnie said. “Write like you’re closing a door.” Kris added, “And don’t explain. Explanations are where people start asking you to prove you’re sane.” Freeda’s mouth tipped slightly. Not a smile. More like recognition. “They love asking women to prove that.”

There was absolutely no miracle coming from anywhere. The guard stood up, wiped his face with a few noisy snorts. If this was to be the last respect he'd pay to a wizard he'd lusted and fantasized being all his lives, he wanted to do it right. The others were just as silent, all watching Sir. Oswic move on a leg and dragging the other which poured blood out like ink out of a faulty pen as it was dragged along a plain sheet of paper, to the bin where it would be rendered useless forever.

I'll be posting prompts for story openings based on our ongoing contests, successful outlines and designs, and if you are up for it, take it and write it out~ Come back to me with your own story and I have contracts to offer~ (well, if you already have a senior editor with GN, go to them :P Code for outline: User ID + Writing Sample ------- When she's preparing dinner for him, he's out there dating; When she's drinking with men to get a business deal for him, he is announcing to be single for the price of his stock;

It was done, with no coming back. Even if she knew it, she sat again. Took her best pen, paper, and ink. And began to write all untold worlds, into beautiful poetry. That later, she would just save in the deep of her drawer, and never let it see the morning light again. The letter went so: Dear friend, Of You are reading this, is because you already read my first letter. But I still want to tell you, once more. You are special, very special to me.

There’s a split second where everything stills — the weight of it in my hands, the faint chemical smell of paint, the quiet hum of anticipation in the room. Then I pull the trigger. Pop. The first shot hits. A wet splat of black against fabric. Ilkay’s muscles move. He doesn’t make a sound. Oh, we’re doing it like that? Fine. I pull the trigger again. And again. And again. Ten shots. Two per idiot. Each hit lands with a sharp crack and a burst of dark paint, blooming across their backs like violent ink stains. Their muscles flinch every time — small, involuntary betrayals — but not one of them breaks.

It was a one-way trip. Shawn crouched down again, mentally calculating how many shots she'd fired versus how many the sniper had used. He rolled out of her hiding position and fired six shots at the toppled table. The gunman ducked for cover once more, but Shawn pressed his self-confidence, advancing toward him with each trigger pull until he was practically on top of him.