Poetry Stories Novels & Stories

“Then maybe that’s your answer.” Later that night, Ryan stood by his window. The streetlights blurred in the distance. His inbox pinged again a reply from L. Tansey, offering a call. He didn’t answer yet. Instead, he opened a blank page. And he typed: “A Story That Doesn’t Belong To You” by Ryan Calloway He stared at the title for a long moment. Then under it, he wrote: “This isn’t a story about revenge. It’s about reclaiming.” Two weeks later.

The above sentences are the thoughts of the author about what he thinks, but it is my duty to tell all the things he has in his mind. The space science and the beginning of the human era, why I always talk about the past, why I'm interested in the dead stories, why I tell a tale of another time, why I don't like the present and, also why I'm not narrating about those dumbasses who were about to close the mysterious case of random killing by an unidentified criminal (creature)? You might have so many questions and confusions about the fact that I puzzle a simple story in what we call a Riddle…? But you can still believe in me that I'll give you a gift tomorrow.

he pounced back with a kela! “Yes he knows,” I responded. And then I told him about the night when I had that insightful conversation with my elder brother. For a moment, the insight flashed in front of my eyes: For the greatest story-tellers, telling their story is their deepest yearning. It’s their way of life. “And what about Mahideo? Have you told her?” he said, and started walking towards the gate. “She knows that I love writing stories. Isn’t that good enough?” “No, because she thinks this is just one of your whims,” he shot back. I needed a change in the topic. I didn’t like the way he was pestering.

Omar looked at her face The moon was glimmered its luminous on her face while her nose pin shines through it, Her white teeth biting her bottom lip while her hair was softly flowing with breeze Omar didn't realize when he started leaning towards her, feelings his closeness to her, Hana fisted his shirt, her heart jumping in hr chest. "Hana!" When their lips was inches apart, Omar called her, to ask for permission. Hana hold onto his arm tightly, not having strength to open her eyes or nod her head. Two budding flowers in lawn faced each other as moon hide itself behind clouds to spread darkness. The End

Side by side, Christina and I strolled through the gallery, taking in the vibrant artwork. Christina's love and knack for art were off the charts. She had a way of uncovering the hidden tales in each piece from angles no one else seemed to see. "Erick, check out this painting." She gestured towards an oil painting named 'Nirvana', her eyes alight with excitement. "It's a phoenix rising from the ashes, feathers scorched but eyes blazing with hope and strength for what's ahead. It reminds me of you." Her words caught me off guard, and I turned to her.

"And I am that wolf?" "Perhaps. Perhaps you are the one who will write the stories that have not yet been told." I was silent, absorbing the weight of its words. "What stories are waiting to be told?" "The stories of the future. The wolves who have not yet been born. The worlds that have not yet been created. They are all waiting. They are all hoping." "Hoping for what?" "Hoping that someone will remember them before they exist. Hoping that someone will carry them into being." I emerged from the Library of Lost Stories with a new purpose.

I'd spent five years in this city, and everywhere I looked, I saw traces of Dexter and me. But I couldn't spend my whole life living inside those traces. I picked up my violin and took a deep breath. I lifted my chin and walked out onto the stage. It was time I started walking toward something brighter. The song was one I'd written myself, lyrics and melody, with the violin carrying straight through from beginning to end. But during the chorus, I froze for a split second. The camera had landed on a man and a woman in the crowd. Every other couple the camera had panned to leaned in for a kiss on instinct, but they didn't.

For this reason, I decided to move all then into strange short stories, that is already a storybook of different themes. The w******l policy does not allow me to remove or delete those books, so they will remain there but as a "paused" book. You can find only the introduction of those books on w******l and no else more. But there you can find some covers I made for those stories and that I can not upload here. The stories of a single chapter will continue to be published, of course. Each volume of Strange short stories will have 3 medium-sized stories and about 10 short stories.

The story of the cursed wolf was this. The story of the Alpha was this. The story of the manor was this. The story of the garden was this. The story of the flowers was this. The story of tragedy was this. The story of return was this. The story of rest was this. The story of breath was this. The story of recognition was this. The story of dissolution was this. The story of the reader reading this was this. All stories are this. Appearing as story. All non-stories are this.

The old woman shivered and held her paper bag close to her chest. “Can’t you hear me? "Keith exploded. “Please let me go. I have very less money and I’m a needy person. I have purchased my bread for tomorrow morning. Please have piety on me!” The old woman cried with teary eyes. “This is the last time I'm warning you to hurry up” Keith moved the knife closer to her face. The old woman took out her valet but kept it in her hand. “Please” The old woman begged. The tension between them increased and Keith pushed the old lady down the road and snatched her valet. He ran away as fast as he could and didn’t turn around.