Novel & Cerita Poetry Stories

These stories ranged from tales of triumph and resilience to accounts of cultural traditions and the bonds forged through shared humanity. Luna compiled these stories into a book titled "Voices of Seoul," a testament to the diverse voices that make up the vibrant tapestry of the city. Through the publication of the book, Luna aimed to not only give a voice to those whose stories often go unheard but also to provide a platform for readers around the world to connect with the people of Seoul on a deeply personal level.

It was a collection of stories never told. She called it: “Flames That Almost Were.” She asked each family member to share something they hadn’t said before. Hope shared a letter she wrote but never sent, to a Seed Center student who dropped out and disappeared. Ayden shared a poem he wrote in a refugee camp that he was too afraid to perform. Liana shared a lullaby her grandmother whispered only once, the night before she passed. Even Damon contributed. His story was simple: a fear he once had that he would never be a good father. He wrote it down, folded it carefully, and handed it to Grace with a smile.

They ended up sharing similarities and laughing at the same things. They complained about the same small town rules. They shared stories they had never even whispered to their boyfriends, Grant and Silas. They talked about how both of them had refused their high school boyfriends sex because they worried that once the small town knew, their reputations would die. They admitted that they had only gone as far as putting their mouths on their boyfriends' cocks because it was the one thing they could hide. Both were still virgins. They even showed each other their hymens one night, giggling like they were inspecting some forbidden treasure.

With that we talked through the night . There are times that you would close your eyes, Those special memories of me will always bring back a smile, Calling my number repeatedly but with no response , If only you could have me back for just a little while you would say ,When I fade like the shadow of moon or like the whispers of the sea, The times of pain and the days of sorrow ,Miss me a little but not too long ,I want no cries, why cry for a soul gone to a better place, a home built with gold ,The time when living feels like dying ,Miss me but let me go , When I come to the end of the road and the sun has set for me , Miss me but let me go , For this journey is one we all must take , Bury

He let out the friendliest of smiles, making Anderson very uncomfortable. 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 the 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

And maybe in the end I'll succeed. The ideas have never stopped flowing, and amidst the difficulties, I've gathered them together to tell even more stories. I have a notebook full of ideas, story segments just waiting for the right piece to fit into. I've conceived many new universes. I have a love story planned that I hope will make your heart skip a beat, between two young people wounded by the world. A horror story that I hope will take your breath away, with its demons. A fantasy that I hope will transport you to a world of mysterious creatures and strange rites.

I always told them the truth that mattered most. “He was a good man,” I said. “He loved this family more than anything.” I did not tell them about the debt note. I did not tell them about the threats. I did not tell them how much darkness their father had swallowed before the end. I wanted them to remember his kindness, not his despair. Years later, I finally understood something. Poverty is frightening, but poverty itself is not the cruelest thing. The cruelest thing is when wicked people see another person’s hardship and treat it as permission to destroy them.

He just hoped that this was the start of something new, not the end of a potential good relationship… THE END AUTHOR'S NOTE. Hello lovelies. I trust you guys are doing great. So, I decided to finally start this project after putting it off for a year now. This is like a collection of my readers' suggestions and stories. You tell me what you want as the next story, and I write the prompt of the lucky person. So far, I have 20 prompts from my readers from platforms, 19 when you exclude the already uploaded one. Updates for this series will be twice or thrice a week, with a full upload of a story, not chapter-by-chapter updates, depending on my school schedules.

It was loud. We talked more than we ever had. Jack told stories about the old days with my dad—getting stuck on a roof during a storm, stupid bets they made on football games, the time they tried to build a deck and almost burned the house down with a grill. I laughed so hard my sides hurt. He smiled more than usual, that slow half-grin that made the lines around his eyes deeper. At some point I kicked off my work shoes under the table. My bare foot accidentally brushed against his leg. I didn’t pull away right away. Neither did he.

I managed, voice hoarse. Aunt Clara nodded and went back to the kitchen for snacks. The moment she was out of sight, Marcus leaned down and whispered hotly in my ear, “Good girl. Now finish that essay while my cum drips out of your pregnant pussy. We’re not done tonight.” I shivered, already feeling fresh heat building between my legs. Being secretly pregnant by my step-uncle had turned me into an addicted, dripping mess. And the risk only made me wetter. End of book 19