Springtime Stories Novels & Stories

“The gods made sure the world would never forget those eyes.” The long winter had broken. Snow melted from the mountains, revealing living green beneath. The scent of grass and spring flowers filled the air again. Yet the peace that came with spring felt thin, fragile, like glass before the strike. Storm sat in the grass beside the porch, chubby fingers reaching for a butterfly that danced just out of reach. Every time he laughed, the wind stirred, soft at first, then strong enough to ripple the trees. His energy hummed through the air like a living current.

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’ve been craving your cock for a week now, I want you to fuck me endlessly. Then she sent me a photo of her naked, a dildo inside her wet pussy. Fuck. My cock throbs with her picture. I took off my clothes and laid in the guestroom where Aeris used to sleep. Then I masturbated while thinking of her. I captured my cock with my semen then I sent it to her. The next morning, I was completely excited. Linda wasn’t here today because she went to visit her new condo so Aeris and I would have solo access in this house.

I open the next file. The work continues. April ends. Outside the window, the city moves through its spring. The bodega on the Clinton Hill corner has its door propped open for the first time since October. Spring has arrived. Everything is exactly what it is. Exactly where it is supposed to be.

Something that had been seeds in November and cold ground in January and was now, in March, doing the thing it had been doing all along without anyone watching. I leaned in closer, it was unmistakable. Fragile and certain all at once, the way new things were — committed to existing before it had any business being sure of anything. "The sunflowers," I said. "The sunflowers," he said. We crouched at the planter together in the cold March air and looked at the small green thread of a thing that had decided to grow in a city garden in a month that barely qualified as spring, and neither of us said anything for a while because there wasn't anything to say that the thing itself wasn't already say

I could do whatever I wanted with it and fill it with whatever scent I fancied. Before I set my phone to silent mode, a message popped up on the screen. I had edited the sender's information to a string of numbers, and the message consisted only of a short sentence. [Spring is here. The ginkgo tree has blossomed where our baby is]. I deleted the message and did not reply. The pair of baby socks lay quietly on the white cloth beneath the window. I turned off the lights in the living room and entered my bedroom. I had an early morning the next day.

My eyes drifted to the date in the corner of the photo, and my breath caught. November 6. Three years ago. The day before that was the day I found out I was pregnant. I had been so happy then. I believed that once Ethan heard the news, he would cry happy tears like I did. I thought he would rush to marry me and give our child a complete family. However, the moment I told him, the smile vanished from his face. “Vivian, I have told you many times. Marriage and children are not part of my plans for the next few years.

**Seeds of Change** Winter arrived in Port Haven with a quiet intensity, blanketing the town in a layer of soft white snow. The garden that Lillian and Nicholas had worked so hard to tend was now a peaceful scene of bare branches and gently frosted flower beds, resting beneath the quiet weight of winter. Despite the cold, there was a warmth in the air—a sense of anticipation and contentment that had taken root in their hearts.

Just a house full of smoke and laughter. Amethyst remembers crying on Citra’s lap after a boy broke her heart in fifth grade. Citra had offered to turn him into a newt. Nora—soft and shaking—tells how Citra helped her through her miscarriage. How she showed up with soup, silence, and a fierce kind of love. Each story is a seed. And each seed is scattered. By the end, the mound is covered in wildflowers. And we are all crying. Hawk closes the circle.

The above sentences are the thoughts of the author about what he thinks, but it is my duty to tell all the things he has in his mind. The space science and the beginning of the human era, why I always talk about the past, why I'm interested in the dead stories, why I tell a tale of another time, why I don't like the present and, also why I'm not narrating about those dumbasses who were about to close the mysterious case of random killing by an unidentified criminal (creature)? You might have so many questions and confusions about the fact that I puzzle a simple story in what we call a Riddle…? But you can still believe in me that I'll give you a gift tomorrow.