Small Story About Life Novels & Stories

I said. My face was pale as death, and a nagging ache twisted in my stomach. It was an old pain that had been with me ever since I spent those three years in that cellar. Every day, I ate stale bread and lumpy mashed potatoes that had been sitting out forever. The bread was so thick and dry that it was almost impossible to swallow. Panic flashed across Henry's face. It was something I hadn't seen in ages. "Sabrina, I swear I didn't know! Do you think I'm lying?" he asked.

“I'm Moniquinha, an ordinary girl. Even if you don't relate, it's okay. You may be an exception, a bright person, a special girl. And that's the amazing thing about it all: being different. Because, like I said, I'm pretty ordinary. And from the height of my normality, this book of randomness was born. Small texts, from short stories to chronicles, with experiences and bitterness; reflections and hope. This first chronicle, for example, I wrote on the bus, the day Lelete told me about her resignation from her second job. She called, crying, that she couldn't take it anymore, that the world was boring. And the worst, I agreed with her and put it on paper.

Sometimes fights ensues from the disagreements and the rarely good neighbors would try to separate the fights while the others would chant and clap to encourage it, some rugged boys would go ahead and provide them with weapons and most times, people die and some sustain ugly injuries from this regular incidents. Over time, I got tired of staying with the old woman, she was becoming naggier by day and it irritated me so much. She never really appreciated my efforts but I didn't actually give a damn because, as much as I was afraid of the streets, I was streetwise and astute. I saved up money for myself from the extra profits I made and I bought more chickens to increase the egg productions. O

Sinking into a plush armchair, I unfolded the paper and relished the soft rustle of the pages as I flipped through the sections. Suddenly a group of tourists began to gather in the lobby, waiting for their tour guide. I'm not fond of crowded places, which is why I prefer to drive or walk instead of taking the subway. When they left to start their busy touring day, I continued to read the newspaper and stumbled upon an interesting short story about a traveler falling in love with a small-town bakery girl. The story was like a well-worn comforter, familiar and comforting despite its predictability.

They laughed together, the easy laughter of people who'd survived everything life threw at them and come out stronger on the other side. Outside, the city hummed with millions of stories in progress - people meeting and parting, struggling and succeeding, loving and losing and learning. Somewhere out there, a young woman was probably worrying about a mistake she'd made, not knowing it might be the catalyst for everything good to come. Somewhere out there, someone was fighting their way out of poverty, not knowing they might someday help others do the same. Somewhere out there, all the ordinary disasters and lucky accidents of human existence were unfolding. And here, in this brownstone that

If you just back down, I'll mark you again," Leon said. I couldn't help but scoff at his ridiculous words. So, he did know how harsh the wastelands were? When we first arrived six years ago, the climate was harsh, and the guards were strict. After finishing the grueling labor, I couldn't even get a sip of hot soup. With my delicate constitution, I quickly fell ill. A few Rogues wandering the wasteland snuck into my stone hut that night. They laughed nastily, threw off my blanket, and tore my clothes. "Of all the she-wolves sent here, you're the prettiest. Be good and let us have some fun..." In that moment of hopeless despair, I suddenly thought of Leon and Lucas. They were probably with Mil

“That’s rare around here. Everyone else just writes checks.” Adrian laughed. “Yeah, I noticed.” They stepped away from the crowd slightly, finding a quiet pocket near a window that looked over the garden. Eli leaned casually against the wall, swirling his wine. “So, what do you write?” “Articles mostly,” Adrian said, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Some short stories. Nothing glamorous. Magazines, online journals. You wouldn’t know any of them.” “Try me.” Adrian smiled, surprised by the interest. “I like peace and Quiet. Most of my stories are about small things. A town nobody’s heard of. A man who grows trees in his kitchen. Real stuff.”

We got in his car and I returned his jacket, which he took begrudgingly after I ensured him multiple times that I was not cold. There was a comfortable silence in the car as we both rode through the night traffic. Although it was nearing midnight, the city was still full of life. Thousands of people were moving around, carrying on with their lives, each with a different story of their own. Because that was what everyone in this world was living in; a story. A story that intersects with someone else's story at some time and so on.

‎ ‎The story was told—not of battles, but of a long life, of love that lasted, of peace that was chosen every day in small ways. ‎ ‎The children taught it to their children. ‎ ‎The grandchildren to theirs. ‎ ‎The light was not a flame. ‎ ‎It was a hearth. ‎ ‎Warm. ‎ ‎Steady. ‎ ‎Home.

She smiled happily to herself for a moment and kissed the golden ring on her middle finger. *** It was 9:00 pm. The freezy night breeze blew as if it was also excited about Zayd's proposal. I was busy writing down a new story out side the house, while grandma was reciting some du'a in her room. I was writing my true life story; with me was my old diaries and a huge Oxford learner's dictionary. I placed them on a large marble table outside. Just doing what I do best- writing, playing with words and creating my own ideas. I started with the unfortunate accident that led to my parent's death. Grandpa's heart attack and how Uncle Ibrahim abandoned us all for that his grumpy looking wife and her