Plot Stories Novels & Stories

he asked. She thought for a second. “Ones that have happy endings.” “A romantic?” he asked. She never considered herself one. “I like noir—but the stories where the boy gets the girl in the end. Or vice versa.” “Top shelf,” he told her, indicating the back room. She went there and waited. What if he followed? What would that mean? She’d been out of the dating loop since she’d landed her current job, the one that had sucked up all her time, her mind, her soul, her life. Her fingers trailed over the broken spines of misused paperbacks, and she hoped he would follow her. But what would she say? What would she do?

Then, she said, “You know what this sounds like, right?” Amelia narrowed her eyes. “Don’t say it.” Maya grinned. “Enemies to lovers.” Amelia groaned. “Maya, I swear—” “Just saying,” Maya sang. “It’s a classic trope.” “Not our trope,” Amelia shot back. Maya giggled. “We’ll see.” Amelia rolled her eyes. “Anyway,” she said, “enough about him. I have other news.” “Ooh,” Maya said. “Spill.”

she said. “I thought that it wouldn’t be as busy as it was in San Francisco but its crazy busy as well. I think people in this country care more about political drama than anything else. Eighty-nine percent of the news content is just politics, politics, politics. I am yet to decide if that’s a good thing or not….” “How about your co-workers,were they friendly?” Her mother asked. “Yes, everyone was friendly,” She lied. Natasha knew that telling her mother about the antagonistic and villain-like Luyando would only make her have unnecessary worries. “I know it’s just the first day but I think people aren’t as scheming as they were back home.”

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.

He collapsed onto the cushions, thighs spreading wide, the fabric of his shorts tightening over the bulge there accidental, but my eyes darted away fast, old crush stirring unwelcome heat low in my belly. I returned from the kitchen with a glass, handing it over. Our fingers brushed electric, lingering a beat too long. He drank deep, throat working, eyes meeting mine over the rim. "You're a lifesaver." We fell into talk, easy at first, his deployment stories, the endless sand and adrenaline crashes; my graphic design grind, the late nights tweaking logos for ungrateful clients. The air thickened with the late hour, words flowing intimate, but his gaze kept wandering. To the hem of my shorts

My name was Lola Sinclair, a young wife from a small farming town. My husband, Dominic DeLuca, used to work at a construction site. He was honest, hardworking, and willing to take any job as long as it could keep our family fed. We had two children, a modest home, and a life that was never rich but still peaceful. Then everything changed. Dominic fell from a height at the construction site and badly injured his leg. The contractor responsible disappeared soon afterward, leaving us without compensation. Instead of receiving help, we were forced to cover nearly one hundred thousand dollars in medical expenses ourselves.

she asked, clearly bracing for the worst. “Yes,” I said. “But later. As a treat.” Naomi groaned theatrically. “You lied,” she hissed. “We’ll start with stories,” I said. “Real ones. Some might be scary in parts. Some might be sad. But we’re telling them so you know where you come from. So no one can tell you lies and make you afraid on purpose.” I took a breath. “Who’s heard of the curse?” I asked. Almost every hand went up.

Stephen Brock. The man continued spreading lies online almost daily. Interviews. Fake stories. Anonymous articles painting himself like the victim. At this point, it wasn’t even about heartbreak anymore. It was revenge. And honestly? I was tired of being quiet. One afternoon Amelia walked into Sebastian’s office holding a thick folder while looking unusually excited. “You’re going to love this.” Sebastian looked up from his laptop calmly. “What is it?” Amelia dropped the folder dramatically onto the desk. “Evidence.”

Obinna said. “It could also be storytelling. Like our forefathers used to hold us spellbound with their night stories,” Emelda said. “I heard a story a few years ago. How storytelling saved a virgin” “Okay,” Emelda said, inquisitive. “This is the Arabian Tales from the Thousand and One Nights. In the story, each night, King Shahriyar takes a virgin as his wife, then kills her the following morning” Emelda imagined how her audience, especially the young would keep their ears closer now to their radio sets to understand the story. She had noticed that any day she came up with a fascinating story, it had always left them excited and they called to express their gratitude.

It is times like this that I am grateful I do not have any siblings. I sat on my bed and he sat on the couch. "So... Why do you leave your old school?" "Nothing serious. My mum just decided that we needed a change of environment and I am glad I agreed because It was a chance to meet great people like you and the girls." "Aww." He said in a girlish way. "That sounds so weird and funny." I chuckled. "Let's play a game. Any suggestions?" He asked. "Uhmm... Let's play two truths and a lie!"