Short Story Books Novels & Stories

She poured herself another glass of cheap red, already on her third, and dropped onto the couch in her pencil skirt and blouse, buttons half undone. The city lights through the rain-streaked windows. Her laptop was still open on the coffee table, case files glowing like accusatory little rectangles. She should sleep. Instead she reached for the dusty old book she’d bought on a drunken whim two years ago at that weird occult shop downtown. *Daemonologie for the Modern Woman.* Stupid. But tonight it felt like the right kind of stupid. She flipped it open, scanned a page at random, and slurred the words under her breath. Latin? Probably, didn’t matter.

For this reason, I decided to move all then into strange short stories, that is already a storybook of different themes. The w******l policy does not allow me to remove or delete those books, so they will remain there but as a "paused" book. You can find only the introduction of those books on w******l and no else more. But there you can find some covers I made for those stories and that I can not upload here. The stories of a single chapter will continue to be published, of course. Each volume of Strange short stories will have 3 medium-sized stories and about 10 short stories.

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?”

I grabbed my purse and headed out the door, turning back for my book on the kitchen counter; reading books will forever be my first love. At The Tasty Place Diner I found what might be my new inspiration. He was tall, almost roughed, not too soft. I don’t know what to make of what happened. “Mr. Blackwood,” he had signed my book; who was he? He was light skinned. I usually like men a shade closer to purple. His chest was broad, too broad. Usually my men are slimmer. He had lazy eyes that looked intense just when he needed them to be. Bedroom McDreamy eyes... And he smiled like a humming bird, glorious and slick.

Ch-1 --------------------- [Warning: this story is in the 'incest' category. As a result, the mother and son in this tale might have a relationship which you might find unsettling. At the end, when they kiss each other goodnight, neither of them has to go to another bedroom. The father already sleeps there.]

She patted his head like he was her oversized baby, repeating herself when Damian shook his head happily. "What's that?" He lay down, wrapping his arms around her legs. He moved her hand from her belly to his head. "Tell me." 'God, baby, your dad is jealous of you.' As she stroked his hair, she began telling the tale. "It's a children's story. You really don't know it, love? It's about a rabbit who races against a turtle." The book she was holding was a collection of classic fables-popular bedtime stories or early reading practice for preschoolers. The short text, accompanied by bright illustrations, made it easy for kids to enjoy.

Architecture, one she expected, and a collection of short stories by a Japanese writer she'd heard of but hadn't read. "Mrs. Tan used to read to me," he said, before she asked. "Short stories specifically. She said novels required too much commitment from the listener." Lena looked at the collection. "Was she right." "About most things." He looked at what she was holding, the undecided third book. "Get it," he said. "I'm not sure about it." "The fact that you're still holding it is the decision." He moved toward the counter.

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“You think I am old? Age is just a number. I still believe I am young. You never know, I might even outlive you.” Shiva’s face tensed a little. He looked down, avoiding the old man’s eyes. They stepped out of the store, filled with their own thoughts, and ambled in opposite directions towards their homes. Shiva carried a short-stories collection in his backpack from the shop. Mr. Ben had told him he could take any book from the shop to read. He planned to read it to his sister at night. She loved stories, especially those with happy endings. She loved to imagine herself as a character in those stories and live the happy lives vicariously. This was the only pleasure Shiva could give her – for

He gestured toward the narrow aisle between fiction and children’s books. “Storage wasted on that back room. And don’t get me started on the courtyard out back. Prime square footage doing nothing but growing weeds.” Before she could fire back, the kids started filing in for storytime, backpacks thumping as they dropped onto the colorful rug. Elena shot him a warning look and moved to the front. She picked up *The Adventures of Benny the Bookworm*, her voice shifting into the warm, animated tone she used for the little ones.