One Thousand Stories Novels & Stories

His face is even more puzzled. If you’re wondering how casual currently we are, even though we ended last night on an awkward note, well… I explained it. Usually, in stories, they just skip to the next day/ chapter as if nothing happened, but NO. IT’S NOT LIKE THAT AT ALL. How I wish it was. I have to thoroughly explain EVERYTHING. Even the finger-partner part. Good heavens, they don’t know about that! Why? IT’S BECAUSE THEY DON’T DO IT! I can’t believe it. They go straight to the point; no foreplay! What a sad world this is…

Back then, I told myself they were just like family, so there was no need to get jealous. However, all those little signs I had ignored played back in my head, over and over. When she came back, we launched our design studio. I landed a whale of a client, a deal that put us on the map overnight. On the night of our big bash, I had one too many and wanted her to pick me up. I called over and over, but got nothing. Finally, a coworker ended up driving me home. The morning after, she came to me with puffy, red eyes, spilling the story of how Yoel was heartbroken, how he had drowned his sorrows in booze at the bar, and how she had stayed with him through the night.

Suit pouted childishly at Anderson, and continued, “Do we have a deal, Mr. Anderson?” Anderson stared back and forth between Suit and the scroll. His mind was racing. The contract sounded simple enough. Straightforward, but he did not understand. ‘What did he mean by survive ten stories? Did he not say I was going to tell a story? What does survive the story mean?’ Question after question popped up into his head. He could not help himself. He had no idea exactly what it meant, but one thing was for certain; He would not move forward if he did nothing but constantly question the situation.

“How did we end up owing that man money? Explain it to me right now.” My father slowly stood up. His knees made a cracking sound. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “It started six months ago. I borrowed from him for a shipment. Electronics coming through the port. It looked like easy profit. I put everything into it. But customs seized the whole load. Lost every dollar. I borrowed more to cover the first debt. Interest kept adding up. Now it’s one hundred thousand dollars total.” My mother’s eyes widened. “One hundred thousand? You never told me any of this. While I was working extra hours at the store, you were out making deals behind my back?”

We promised to meet online the next evening (his wife worked 12-hour shifts at the local hospital in the evenings from 7:00 pm, so he had all the time in the world to chat). As soon as I could, I rushed home from work, grabbed a snack, and went online to read his stories. He had 17 posted stories about man-to-man sex, and I found myself so aroused I jacked off three times as I read them. At 7:30, a message popped up on my screen: “lovingman” is calling.

First was White's necklace, then it was Crimson's picture, and now, that terrified expression from Lilac. I wanted to live my school life peacefully, but it's like there's this external force trying to get me involved with those three no matter how hard I try to avoid it. Whenever I see them in trouble, I can't just leave them alone. At this point, I don't know what to do anymore.

“Always be vocal, and if he won't listen, kick him out of the bed.” “How about a compromise?” she asked. “If you're going to enjoy it. Next.” “Two: I learnt that having an orgasm is not a bad thing.” “Alas, it's not. It's a damned good thing.” “I learnt that I shouldn't be afraid to try new things. Like the Bdsm thing. Even though we stopped somewhere and didn't go all the way.” He was nodding. “Good, good.” “I learnt that I should not liken myself to pornstars because they're too good to be true.”

Prologue Kanua Village, Zambia; January, 1991 There was a murderous glow in the eyes of the ten year old Luyando Chimeko as she stood watch over her drunk and passed out father snoring away on the mat inside the tent that a good Samaritan had lent to them which they had come to regard as their home for the past one week.

"Alright. Why don’t both parties take some time to cool off? The hearing is tomorrow, and the judge will make a ruling." After I got home, I exported all the videos from my phone, then I edited them and added captions. At midnight: The sound of drilling from Unit 601. Footage of Carl stuffing toothpicks into my lock. Mason dumping trash outside my door and hanging the dead rat. At the end, I added a photo of my mother’s shattered urn beside my diagnosis report. I captioned it: "Residents of Unit 601, the Carvers have been harassing and bullying me because I bought my apartment $30,000 below market. They destroyed my late mother’s ashes and attempted to extort $230,000 from me."

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