Poetic Stories Novels & Stories

Before there were doors between worlds, there were stories. They whispered from hearth to hearth and ship to ship— of wolves that ran like midnight wind, of foxes with nine tails and nine more tricks beyond that, of fae who looked like carved moonlight and smiled like knives. Humans loved those stories—as long as they stayed in books and bedtime. The moment a story breathed, the moment a pair of eyes glinted from a tree line or a shadow stepped out of the corner of a room, humans did what humans do best when they’re afraid.

“But how do you want to portray the terms of progress in this?” “I wanted to show a picture of how the idea of storytelling began. It started in different parts of the world and established the commonalities of views in various segments. Stories were created as a product of imagination and vast knowledge. People liked stories because they always had a possible happy ending. It portrayed virtuous leads and ideal societies. With such different roots, stories evolved and today, we’ve come this far in literature because of the introduction of novels.” “That’s correct,” Brett said. “But don’t you think it would be a tiring task for us to clear the questions that would arise in terms of the subjec

In recollection, I think of that line from one of Shake- speare’s sonnets: Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire? But at the time there was no poetry save that of cock, spit and grunting, and the desire to take him fully in my throat. I think that’s a kind of poetry too, a space of being absorbed in a moment that language can weave patterns around but never hold. I went far, far down. At the final push, my throat opened like a tiny gate and I held him inside me. With my gag reflex subdued, I was also subdued, at ease and wide open to him, connected and silenced. I sucked back along his length, feeling calmed, slurped on his end, then went down ag

“Then what’s the point.” That made me pause. Because that question wasn’t even sarcastic. It was genuinely him trying to understand. So I sat up a little, book forgotten for the moment. “Poetry makes things deeper than plain boring words,” I said slowly, choosing it carefully. “It’s like asking why an art painting tells a story instead of just writing the story underneath it. It’s not just about information. It’s about feeling it.” He stared at me for a second. Then leaned forward slightly. “You don’t have to go all diplomatic,” he said. “Just say what you want to say.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “I did.”

The flames of passion consumed them entirely. Joshua gripped her legs and drew her closer to him, his masculinity infiltrating her femininity even further. Danica's body shook with each thrust from Joshua. She couldn't stop crying since the pleasure was so intense for her. His every thrust was harsh, but she enjoyed it. Every thrust convinced her she was the only one and no one else mattered. He will never grow tired of loving her, no matter how many years pass.

And just like that, a new idea was born. Two weeks later, they hosted the first Story House Open Mic Night. Survivors from all walks of life—young, old, rich, poor—stood under string lights and told their truths through spoken word, music, and dance. Marla read a poem she’d written about monsters under beds and the power of found families. River read a passage from his novel. Skye stood last, heart pounding, holding her journal. “I used to think stories had to be neat. That they had to begin and end in predictable ways. But life isn’t a book. It’s a heartbeat. Messy, beautiful, flawed—and worth it.”

Hope you enjoyed every bit of the compiled stories! Thank you!

I consoled him and gave him some water. “She locked me up in the store room” “WHAT? IN THE STOOR ROOM? HOW DID YOU COME HERE! Tell me everything.” I questioned. “I was locked inside since morning and when she opened me up, I ran and hid here. She warned me that she’ll lock me again if I told this to anyone.” I stood up and as I went forward Zac held my leg and started to cry. “Please don’t go. I don’t want to get locked please.”

Really, Alain didn’t understand what his best friend’s question meant. Realizing that the innocent man didn’t understand what she meant, Brielle turned her body to face Alain, then started to speak seriously, “That’s the classic way, Al. In line with: ‘You are similar to someone who always appears in my dreams,' or ‘Have we met before? Your face is familiar to me.’ I didn’t expect a famous painter like him to use that ancient method to flirt with you.” Alain blinked slowly as he tried to comprehend the series of explanations from his best friend.

His hands venture over her curved body, exploring. They pull apart and open their eyes. They stare at each other, deep into each other's eyes. Hussaini's full of wonder and love, Nafisa's full of curiosity and passion. No words are spoken but a story worthy of them is communicated. He leans in a softly kisses up and down her neck. She lets out little whimpers of anticipation. He works his way back to her tender, smooth lips. As they kiss she rolls him over and lies on top of his strong, muscular body.