Stories Within Stories Mga Nobela at Kwento

Updates for this series will be twice or thrice a week, with a full upload of a story, not chapter-by-chapter updates, depending on my school schedules. What fantasy do you have? Comment on it, and you might be lucky enough to get your story chosen.

And maybe in the end I'll succeed. The ideas have never stopped flowing, and amidst the difficulties, I've gathered them together to tell even more stories. I have a notebook full of ideas, story segments just waiting for the right piece to fit into. I've conceived many new universes. I have a love story planned that I hope will make your heart skip a beat, between two young people wounded by the world. A horror story that I hope will take your breath away, with its demons. A fantasy that I hope will transport you to a world of mysterious creatures and strange rites.

It was then he got caught by my Mom to be cheating on her. It was a big blow for my Mom because several times he had promised to end the relationship but only for her to find out after a few months that the mistress was transferred to another house only. I was tired seeing their relationship fall apart. And that is why, here I am in a convent trying to have some peace of mind and saving myself from possible heartaches in the future. I don't believe in fairytales anymore. For lovers, it's only once upon a time they were happy, then they end. So here is my story.

A handful of younger coordinators sat on the stone steps near the training circle, their posture open, their attention direct. “Not rules,” one of them said quickly. “Stories.” Lyra hesitated. Stories are carried differently than directives. Rules could be followed, adjusted, or replaced. Stories stayed. They shaped how people thought long after the moment had passed. They were harder to control. Harder to limit. More honest. She sat anyway. She did not choose the stories carefully. She chose them truthfully.

“Boys don’t know what to do with a woman’s body. They don’t know how to work a pair of tits like this until a girl is dripping wet and begging.” He pulled back to look at me, my nipples red and glistening from his mouth. “Are you dripping wet for me, Stephanie?” I couldn’t lie. My whole body was trembling. The evidence was soaking my shorts and I could only nod. a tiny, shameful movement. “Tell me.” “I’m… I’m wet,” I whispered. “Louder. Let me hear what a filthy little hitchhiker you are.” “I’m wet!” I said, my voice cracking. The admission sent another gush of moisture between my legs.

“ we have eighteen minute left, we goanna be fast. Anyway this is the last one” We took the envelope side the bag, we opened it “The building that has most stories” “ what do they mean by that “ “well every building always have a story, like the house we living in it was where my Granny had sex” Annabel blabbed “ eww seriously not that kind of story” Abigail squeeze her nose “Well what it mean a building with stories” “ yea, how do you expect us ……….the library, it the library” “ it filled with different stories” we said to together pointing fingers to our self.

I smile at my daughter and say, “Over medium, please.” Then she looks at Gabriel, fighting a smile. “Can you eat better than you can dance?” The girls erupt into laughter, and Gabriel holds his hands up in defeat. “Look at it this way, ladies: I gave you a great story.” Britanya looks between me and Gabriel and winks. “Doesn’t seem like the story’s over.”

Her fingers brushed along the edge of the table before she turned back to us, her expression no longer soft—no longer just a mother’s. This was something else. Something older. “…There are stories,” she began, her voice steady but low. “Stories that were never meant to be passed down openly. Not because they are false…” A pause. “…but because they are dangerous.” Kael stepped slightly closer to me. Not interrupting. But present. Watching. I didn’t move. Couldn’t. “What kind of stories?” I asked. Her gaze settled on me. And for a moment— I saw something there.

Tension flowed through my body. The only thing on my mind was this: Impress them. The man in the middle picked up my file. “I can see here that you have written several stories. “Yes, sir.” “And you want to work with us?” “Yes, sir.” He leaned back slightly. “Then tell us something, Miss Molley. Why do you think storytelling is important?” For a second, my mind went blank. But then the words slowly returned. “Stories help people understand themselves,” I said. “Sometimes people cannot say how they feel, but they can see themselves in a story.”

You all will loved it. Give it a chance. Also give reads to my other books if you like the story. "Her Saviour Alpha" "Pregnant With My Rejected Billionaire" "My Billionaire Mafia Queen : Battle of Love" . Thank you