Semi-autobiography Novels & Stories

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.

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.

" 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

My fingers clenched around the candy, its stiff edge almost cutting my palm. Indeed, in our previous lives, he had been convinced that my only purpose was to be a blood bank and organ donor to Susie. Since Susie still died after I donated my kidney, that meant I served no purpose in this life, and the Grants had no reason to bring home a loser like me. I smiled, violently wiping the tears I couldn't fight back as I told myself—the old Yvie Grant was dead and I would live only for myself.

Whenever my dad is served with a bowl of food, I will watch him steadfastly and almost unblinkingly until he leaves a portion of the morsel for me. The occasion that I wasn't born with a silver spoon was a fight that I must fight, before this time, from the inception of my life, I noticed that I was enclosed in a place too tight that I hardly could move my legs and hands; that made me uncomfortable. Not knowing where I was as my eyes could see nothing, the question of how long my staying there will take was always in my head; I never knew who I was: a man or an animal? Or where I was: in the womb or another form of closet. And sometimes I felt that where I was could have some bruises accompa

Learning how to turn his past into something useful. It was slow. Hard. But he stuck with it. And watching him transform from crime lord to student to counselor was beautiful. A year after Sam was born, the book published. “Ten Ways to Kill Alpha Penking: A Memoir of Survival and Love.” It hit shelves on a Tuesday. By Friday, it was on the bestseller list. People connected. Hard. Reviews poured in. Interview requests. Speaking offers. Amelia’s life exploded. In a good way. But still overwhelming.

The soft late-afternoon light streamed through the window of the office Zion had specially set up for her on the second floor of the house. Maeve sat in front of her laptop, her fingers paused over the keyboard. It had been almost two years since she began writing in secret, during the early mornings when insomnia brought back the hardest memories. The book was born from pain. From those scars she had carried since her youth—abandonment, emotional abuse, violence disguised as love, and the slow, painful process of rebuilding herself beside Zion.

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."

Chapter V: Memories It was a little blurry and muddled but Ren was sure it was a tiny memory of long back then. It was from one of his adventures as a rebellious child, he’s small though. He likes to escape and sneaks out of the house whenever the babysitter has fallen asleep, but Ren is a good little kid you see, he always makes sure to be back before they notice he’s missing. It was near winter, the remnants of autumn season was slowly fading and the wind began to get more chilly in the morning and every night. Although not cold enough to puff a smoke when talking.

He didn’t follow. I made it to the back studio and stood in front of the mirrors. The candle on the corner table was still half-burnt from the night before. I lit it. The flame flickered gently, and in its light, I saw the outlines of the collection I had kept to myself for weeks. I unrolled the sketches and spread them across the cutting table. The fabric samples were still pinned to the boards. Charcoal strokes traced curves, scars, burns, silences. This wasn’t fashion. This was autobiography.