Self Written Novels & Stories

After he r mum left she decides to go outside and water the flowers. She takes a bucket and goes outside with a bucket full of water,as soon as she steps out,a neighbor Mrs Ney was busy with her flowers too.Good morning ma'am Lucinda says ,morning Lucinda how are you?when did you come back.I am ok ma'am she smiled I came back yesterday oooh how is work?Work is fine thank you.Lucinda is one of the people who don't like sharing their life activities, she carries on watering her flowers and plugs in her earphones and starts singing loudly.Mrs Ney's son comes out with a bottle of water in a T-shirt and shorts good morning mum ,morning Dray how are you?I am fine mum wanna do my workout outdoors t

I flicked through the social media app to Fiona's profile, and there it was, a fresh post. A selfie of the two of them, Fiona looking alluring and Charles, my very own husband, with his arms around her, his smile soft and adoring. The caption hit me like a punch. [Today, you're all mine.]

So I pretended like I got a text. “Oh God ... Pancho , I apologize But I have to leave now , my friend drank a tad too much and got into a minor accident, I have to go to the hospital now.” I lied. “Alright , I will take you.” He offered. Argh! “It’s fine really, I brought my car , I don’t want to bother you further , now that Theodore isn’t in town , I’m sure you have extra work to do , I don’t want to take your time ... thanks for coming out to meet me.” I said and faked a smile .

Then write your own version documenting your part of infinite work. That's how change happens. One partial contribution at a time, across time, compounding into transformation no single person could achieve alone."

And if no one else would… I would. That night, by candlelight at the corner of our small kitchen, I sat with my notebook open. The carrot—my carrot—stood in a small glass vase beside me, like a trophy made of earth and willpower. With deliberate strokes, I began to write. To the Honorable Minister Rafaela En Sai,

Will had even heard Kyle complain about the customers teasing him as well. Twice a week he would sneak into the forest for food, furs and leather. His arm had finally regained some mobility, it wasn't as strong as before, but Will wasn't disabled at least. He had created his own little 'workstation' in a cave he had found on a hillside in the forest. It had some smaller tools he had stolen from the various shops in the town. He never took much. At first he thought about leaving some coins behind, however he didn't really know the value of things. So Will figured it didn't matter if he took it without paying. Maybe someday he could pay them back in another way.

Deciding silence was the better option, she waited for her turn. When it came, she tumbled into the room, nearly tripping over the threshold. Mr. Bradley, perched behind his desk with his usual ridiculous reading glasses balanced at the tip of his nose, greeted her with an amused smirk. "Please come in, young man," he said, sipping his tea. "Thank you, sir," she rumbled, adopting her best “manly” voice. "And your name?" "My name? I’m… uh… Patrick. Patrick Smith, sir."

Ophelia I have never been so thankful in all my life for someone to walk into a classroom. The teacher I have for English was embarrassing me with all his praise for my grades and writing. My old school had sent over some of my writing, and Mr. Nash thought it was great. He was encouraging me to think about a job in literature. I told him multiple times that I wanted to be a literature professor. There was nothing wrong with our conversation, it just bothers me a lot when people overly praise me since I’m not used to getting that much praise. My old teachers had figured that out and made sure to keep the praise to a minimum.

Later, after she fell asleep, I opened my laptop. The blank title field waited. I typed. Until I Wrote Him. The words settled. Not hopeful. Not tragic. Just true.

I slammed the blank page onto the desk and I wrote three words in a jagged, violet script. **[I AM REAL.]** The room began to shake. The mahogany desk started to pixelate into grey dust. The Writer didn't scream; he just watched me with a look of profound, terrifying curiosity. "Careful, Elara," he whispered as the walls began to dissolve into white light. "If you write yourself into the 'Actual Real', there’s no 'Undo' button. If you die there... you stay dead." "Good," I roared. "That's how life is supposed to work!"