Stories Within Stories Novels & Stories

I always told them the truth that mattered most. “He was a good man,” I said. “He loved this family more than anything.” I did not tell them about the debt note. I did not tell them about the threats. I did not tell them how much darkness their father had swallowed before the end. I wanted them to remember his kindness, not his despair. Years later, I finally understood something. Poverty is frightening, but poverty itself is not the cruelest thing. The cruelest thing is when wicked people see another person’s hardship and treat it as permission to destroy them.

he said. She told him. The stories that survived. The communities that built record-keeping in narrative because institutions failed them. The specific, living practice of keeping things true by telling them. He listened. Completely. “Your stream and my unit,” he said when she finished. “Are having a conversation they didn’t know about,” she said. “Until now,” he said. “Until now,” she agreed. He held her gaze. “We should build something,” he said. “What kind of something?” she said.

“I told you, I won’t force you.” “But we must, I mean we can’t fake the-” “We’ll mark each other. It'll be enough to sustain our story. I know how you feel about it, but the mark will fade away eventually. We'll renew it once in a while.” By the end of this talk, he was only in his underwear. A small whimper escaped my mouth causing me to slap a hand over it. His laugh filled the room. Despite the turmoil of emotions that were ravaging my mind, I couldn’t deny the fact that his body was nothing less than perfect.

he pounced back with a kela! “Yes he knows,” I responded. And then I told him about the night when I had that insightful conversation with my elder brother. For a moment, the insight flashed in front of my eyes: For the greatest story-tellers, telling their story is their deepest yearning. It’s their way of life. “And what about Mahideo? Have you told her?” he said, and started walking towards the gate. “She knows that I love writing stories. Isn’t that good enough?” “No, because she thinks this is just one of your whims,” he shot back. I needed a change in the topic. I didn’t like the way he was pestering.

'But there's a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother's story, because hers is where yours begin. Stories are light. Light is precious in a world so dark. Begin at the beginning. Tell someone a story. Make some light. Stories you read when you're the right age never quite leave you. You may forget who wrote them or what the story was called. Sometimes you'll forget precisely what happened, but if a story touches you it will stay with you, haunting the places in your mind that you rarely ever visit. When we read a story,

A life spent looking backwards misses all the beauty that lies in front of it. Your parents aren’t perfect. You might have realize this. But you’re pretty darn smart. So, like I said before, we have to forgive ourselves or the coulda, woulda, shoulda, fear and anxiety will creep into a crack of our weaknesses, and overcome us. Please know we’re not perfect, and we will never claim to be. Our personal journeys have stories to tell. THAT’S for sure. When it comes time for stories, though, talk to me first… because chances are your father’s are going to be inappropriate. HA!

“Pero parang unfair, Sir. Nabubuhay sila nang maayos na parang kinalimutan na ang lahat.” “Paano mo naman nalaman na ang taong ‘yon ay maayos na? Hindi naman ibig sabihin na kapag mas malakas ang iyak ay mas nasasaktan ang tao. Hindi rin lahat ng sugat ay nakikita ng ating mga mata. Pero ‘wag mo nang patagalin ‘yan, Blue. Ang pananahimik sa katotohanan is also a form of lying at kapag nakasakit na ’to ng taong nagtiwala sa’yo, then it is called betrayal.” Hindi ko na talaga alam ang dapat kong gawin. All this time kasama ko lang pala siya.

The frustration I’d been carrying for months—Sarah’s endless trips, the cold bed, the way she barely touched me anymore—felt heavier in the quiet. We talked about safe things at first. Her grad program. My latest project at work. How the cabin’s owner had overdone the rustic charm with all the plaid blankets and antler decor. The wine went down easy. A second glass followed. Then a third. Millie’s laughter came easier as the bottle emptied. She told me about a disastrous date she’d gone on last month. It was about some guy who spent the whole dinner talking about his fantasy football team. I chuckled, but my mind kept drifting to how her lips looked wet from the wine, how the sweater had sli

The story of the cursed wolf was this. The story of the Alpha was this. The story of the manor was this. The story of the garden was this. The story of the flowers was this. The story of tragedy was this. The story of return was this. The story of rest was this. The story of breath was this. The story of recognition was this. The story of dissolution was this. The story of the reader reading this was this. All stories are this. Appearing as story. All non-stories are this.

“But how do you want to portray the terms of progress in this?” “I wanted to show a picture of how the idea of storytelling began. It started in different parts of the world and established the commonalities of views in various segments. Stories were created as a product of imagination and vast knowledge. People liked stories because they always had a possible happy ending. It portrayed virtuous leads and ideal societies. With such different roots, stories evolved and today, we’ve come this far in literature because of the introduction of novels.” “That’s correct,” Brett said. “But don’t you think it would be a tiring task for us to clear the questions that would arise in terms of the subjec