Put Me In A Story Novels & Stories

Normally I never minded. But tonight… tonight was different. Tonight I needed privacy. I returned to my chair, my movements slow and heavy, and lowered myself back behind my desk. My eyes drifted toward the couch where my husband and son sat watching me carefully. I swallowed hard. “Let me tell you a story,” I said quietly. They both frowned slightly but said nothing. “This story,” I continued, my voice trembling, “is about a young girl named Sheena.” My fingers twisted together in my lap as memories I had buried for decades forced their way back to the surface.

Someone always does. I gathered the folder, slid it into my tote, and lay down with the light still on. Tomorrow, the chapel. The next day, the clinic. By Sunday, Veronica’s desk. By the memorial, I’d have more than doctored photos. I’d have a story people already know how to tell. A story that fits headlines and dinner tables and men who prefer their wives obedient. A story that says: She did this to herself. He chose her. Now he’ll have to live with her. And with the truth I make for her.

And I’ll be here, showing up for you, because you showed up for me. So pour your coffee. Re-read that scene. Send it to a friend. Cry. Scream. Laugh. Obsess. Let yourself feel. Because this story? It’s not just mine anymore. It’s ours. With all my love, — O.J

Dear Readers, First, let me say a heartfelt thank you for being part of the journey with *My Mate's Betrayal and Rejection.* Seeing your love for my story through your comments and engagement has been a source of immense joy and motivation for me. As a writer pouring my heart and soul into this story, your support means more than words can express. Writing takes time, energy, and passion, and every bit of encouragement makes a difference. That’s why I’m reaching out to you today: if my story has touched your heart, made you smile, or even brought you to tears, I kindly ask for your support.

I can't force my stories on anyone. I know my plotline, nothing has been “dragged out”. It's okay if you don't like it. I'm not going to beg people to read my work. I wish you guys well and my story isn't going to change for anyone. Peace and Love! ❤️

As I got to my feet on trembling legs I said, "Just about any kind of story you can imagine come on and you can pick one or two out." "Do you have any stories where they put a blindfold on a girl and she has to do stuff to a bunch of people?" "I think so, do you like those kind of stories?" "Yes, very much." "Have you ever done anything like that?" "No, but I've imagined it. I think it would be sexy to be standing in front of a group of people having my boyfriend telling me what to do and describing what the other people were doing."

If everything I thought I knew about how we met, how we connected, how we fell, was just another story someone else had written. Tonight I will have dinner with Jonathan, but tomorrow I will decide what to do about Adrian. But right now, in this will, I made myself a promise...No one would write my story for me again. From now on, I will be the one holding the pen. And if that meant burning down every narrative they had constructed around me, every plan they had made, every assumption they had operated under... Then I would strike the match myself.

She showed me how to make the story come alive, how to make it breathe, how to make it matter. I wove and wove, my paws moving through the threads with growing confidence. Finally, the story was complete. I looked at the Story Weaver. "What now?" "Now you share it. You tell it to the wolves of Silvermoon. You let it become part of their existence." I gathered the wolves in the great hall. "I have woven a new story," I said. "A story about love. A story about endurance. A story about the connections that bind us together."

The shopkeeper, an elderly man with kind eyes, greeted her warmly. "Welcome, dear. You seem like someone with a story to tell. What brings you to our little haven?" he inquired, peering over his reading glasses. Marvis, feeling a sense of camaraderie, decided to share a glimpse of her journey. "I've recently started a new chapter in my life. Leaving behind a past that no longer served me." The shopkeeper, nodding knowingly, gestured to the shelves. "Ah, the power of stories. Sometimes, the ones we create for ourselves are the most transformative. Take your time exploring; you might find a tale that resonates with your own."

“I’ll write back.” I buy a small paperback on the way out because I want to put money into a place that gave me my breath back for an hour. The cashier gives me a free bookmark that says, You are already the story. I want to cry again. I don't. I put it in the book like a secret.