Short Stories Using Figurative Language Novels & Stories

Make stuff up. Right? I meet Gavin’s calm gaze and speak carefully. “So. This story’s . . . a . . . what do you call it? A metaphor. Symbolic. Of how you realized there was more to life than your writing career.” Gavin raises his eyebrows and says, “Is that what you think it is?” I clasp my hands together on the booth’s tabletop so hard my knuckles ache. “I don’t really know what to think, Gavin. You brought me here with cryptic allusions to a Truth, then have me read these stories . . . ”

Before there were doors between worlds, there were stories. They whispered from hearth to hearth and ship to ship— of wolves that ran like midnight wind, of foxes with nine tails and nine more tricks beyond that, of fae who looked like carved moonlight and smiled like knives. Humans loved those stories—as long as they stayed in books and bedtime. The moment a story breathed, the moment a pair of eyes glinted from a tree line or a shadow stepped out of the corner of a room, humans did what humans do best when they’re afraid.

Keith didn’t go inside the shop but passed in front of it because he thought the shop must be closed. As he passed by he noticed something odd, He saw that the shop was open and there were customers inside. “Who must be dealing with the customers when I’m here.” He whispered to himself. Keith tried to look carefully but he couldn’t see anyone properly. “I’ll come to work tomorrow” He started to walk towards his home and noticed people. People who would look rich. He saw a family in a car who was waiting for the signal to turn green.

Her words flowed effortlessly, painting a new story—the story of Theo and Mama Hazel, of nighttime adventures and endless dreams, of love that knew no bounds and a bond that transcended the ordinary. As she penned the final lines of the story, a sense of peace settled within Mama Hazel. The power of storytelling had once again worked its magic, not only in Theo's dreams but also in her own heart, reaffirming the timeless truth that the greatest stories are those written with love, shared with joy, and woven into the fabric of our lives.

I can't even open up to my new best friend and it is killing me. I felt anger. I felt disappointed. If I can't go to Jordan, maybe he will come to me. The last time I shouted his name, he appeared. But I have tried that already. I went to the river eight times just to shout his name but he never came. I even looked deep in the woods but nothing! The only difference was that I was in danger and it was dark. Just maybe, if I scream for help in the woods at night, he might show up.

"Shut up and take it." Short. Short. I. Long. Short. Long. Long. N. Long. Long. Short. G. She was destroying my back to tell me a story. Every strike was a letter. Every drop of my blood was ink. Long. Short. Long. Long. Y. Long. Long. Long. O. Short. Short. Long. U. I. AM. SAVING. YOU. I looked at the stone. A beetle was crawling through a crack in the mortar. I watched it. Focused on the tiny legs. Anything to keep from screaming.

What the fuck? "We can start there, actually," she said, sitting forward, her voice becoming lighter, as if I'd just given her an opportunity she hadn't expected. "What you just said is an idiomatic expression, meaning it describes something true without being literally true. You're not a horse, and there's no river, but everyone understands exactly what you mean only if they have context." She pushed the glasses up and smiled brightly again, blinding me almost. "Figurative language is one of the areas your English teacher flagged. So if that's where you want to start, that actually works perfectly."

We never got to see how they lived happily though, but the smile in the last scene after which the The End, flew or swivelled or zoomed in, made it obvious. Nisim did tell me later that The Thief was a short story and short stories ended that way! It was five pages long, much longer than the stories in the book Deuta had gifted me on my eleventh Birthday – Aesop’s Fables – the stories in this book were never more than two pages. And always with a moral at the end. The Thief didn’t have a moral – that was the best part though – I never liked memorizing morals. But the thing was, my brother was calling the longest story I had read till then, a short story! By then, though, I had some idea of a

There was one solitary, big book on a low table between them. "The title of the tale is The Binding of Autumn," he began, his voice an entrancing whisper just in harmony with the shriek of the fire. “It's the tale of a harvest god who offers a mortal woman a choice: one night of absolute freedom for one year of unimaginable riches for her people." He didn't move as his eyes met hers. "The consent is the matter at hand. It must be freely bestowed, not coerced, and whispered three times into the skin of his throat." “Do you have any idea what sort of story you're going to be reading me tonight?”

Author's Note This book is a short compilation of erotic stories. Please note that not all entries are heavily erotic—some lean more toward emotional moments, dramatic tension, or character interaction. Also, 99% of these stories don’t follow a traditional plot, so don’t be confused if there's no clear beginning, middle, or end. They’re written more for mood, moments, and expression than full narratives. Enjoy the ride,no overthinking needed. 😉 ********************************************* Kael didn’t wait.