Semi Autobiographical Novels & Stories

"What am I? Where am I? Where did I come from? How was I formed? These are the few of the countless questions that were weaved within the fabrics of my mind. Somehow I started noticing that some of the occurrences I felt happened by routine: the descending liquids and solid substances; the vibration that surged in descending order toward the location where I was enclosed; the frequent movement of the vessel carrying me. There I was locked up not knowing when its day or night; raining or sunning. My choice was taken from me, I guess, not by the vessel carrying me; but by trap of my formation. The inscrutable state that I was kept me startled. And my heart pounded as I linger in that closet. O

" I took a deep breath and heaved a sigh. He was looking at me with some kind of resolution in his eyes; like he was hell bent on convincing me yet pissed off at the same time that I was not buying it. He clenched and unclenched his jaws and did the same for this fists to as he groped the steering wheel in one hand. "You don't have to give your self that kind of stupid storyline. You can simply write your autobiography. How about your legs? Huh? Write about them. Can't you? I've known you for a while now and I know you are not shy or insecure about sharing your story because you have bene doing just that on your Instagram posts for a while. You can simply just write about your legs and inspi

And as I looked into the host's eyes, I knew that this was just the beginning of an incredible journey, one that would take me to places I never thought possible. As I continued to share my story, the host's eyes widened in shock and surprise. "Cynthia, I had no idea," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your book... it's about you, isn't it?" I nodded, feeling a sense of vulnerability and exposure. "Yes, it is," I admitted. "The book is a semi-autobiographical account of my life, my struggles, and my journey as a wife and a woman."

And as I looked into the host's eyes, I knew that this was just the beginning of an incredible journey, one that would take me to places I never thought possible. As I continued to share my story, the host's eyes widened in shock and surprise. "Cynthia, I had no idea," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your book... it's about you, isn't it?" I nodded, feeling a sense of vulnerability and exposure. "Yes, it is," I admitted. "The book is a semi-autobiographical account of my life, my struggles, and my journey as a wife and a woman."

It was, Mara understood now with the clarity of six more years and one catastrophic October, extremely autobiographical. She had known this at twenty-four. It was why she'd stopped. She hadn't been ready for the autobiography to exist. For it to be legible to other people. For someone to read it and recognize her in it before she'd recognized herself. She kept reading. The first hundred pages were better than she'd remembered. Genuinely, surprisingly better — not perfect, uneven in places, the pacing wrong in chapter four and a secondary character who disappeared without explanation around page sixty. But the voice. The voice was something.

Samantha's with me, I didn't want to risk her life but, with what happened a while ago, she's at risk. The memories were still hunting her every time she hears gunshots and things involving violence she would space out or hallucinate. She panicked a while ago and now, she's sleeping on my shoulder. I guess the past was still a dark room for her, it left her unhealed scars. She couldn't let go of it. I was like her when my parents died. The scenery I witnessed kept on bothering me every time I closed my eyes but a mafia boss couldn't be weak, so I tried my very best to remove those memories from me and finally move on from it.