Story Fiction Novels & Stories

He felt fast action was vital,so he tried to twist the cyclist's head back to it's proper position,BREAKING THE BIKER'S NECK! I don't own any of this stories. I found them in some creepy books. I'm thinking of writing my own scary stories, but not anytime soon. You can send me your short stories for a feature if you feel like it. Thanks for reading. Enjoy!

His attempt to reach the sword with the other hand was ruined by a hole between his ribs. Honestly, I expected more from this one. And there is no time to fool around, so- Losing my interest in this boring game I knocked him down with a kick of my leg, and rising his own sword, decapitated him, making the thick blood spill, mixing with the red one of the human, whose life he stole not so long ago. My long ears caught the sound of the approaching guards, police. When they arrive, before their eyes will lay a human body and nothing more. The red cap soon turning into dust in the foreign realm.

“And I just… write things sometimes… stupid stories…” “Stupid stories?” She nodded. “Silly things.” I tipped my head. “That’s what they are, are they? Silly things?” Another nod, and I raised an eyebrow. “Well, that really is a shame considering I’ve just abandoned my family Christmas to drive back across the country on the back of these silly stories.” She couldn’t gulp a breath quick enough. “I made the cat up,” I continued. “A silly story of my own under the circumstances, so I think that puts us on a par with the falsities, don’t you?”

Aside from Evelyn, everyone had had a few drinks, their faces flushed, clearly a little tipsy. No one knew who started it, but all of a sudden, the conversation shifted to ex-boyfriends. Some people doubled over with laughter. Others had tears in their eyes. A few stories were so ridiculous that Sophie could barely breathe from laughing. She nudged the only sober person next to her. "Evelyn, what about you?" For a moment, Evelyn's expression went blank. Unbidden, memories surfaced in her mind.

Scheur POV I kept my eyes fixed on the stone floor as I carried the heavy laundry basket down the dimly lit hallway. In this world, humans knew their place — especially when serving werewolves. Two years in the palace had taught me one unbreakable rule: avoid them like poison. Speak only when spoken to. Never meet their eyes. Never linger. A burst of excited voices echoed from the servants’ quarters. I hesitated, then stepped closer and set the basket down.

“Then maybe that’s your answer.” Later that night, Ryan stood by his window. The streetlights blurred in the distance. His inbox pinged again a reply from L. Tansey, offering a call. He didn’t answer yet. Instead, he opened a blank page. And he typed: “A Story That Doesn’t Belong To You” by Ryan Calloway He stared at the title for a long moment. Then under it, he wrote: “This isn’t a story about revenge. It’s about reclaiming.” Two weeks later.

All the characters, places, ideas or events mentioned in this book are purely fiction and does not relate to any living or dead. All the story settings and other elements are purely my imagination and fictional. Most of the concept about Heaven and Hell are based on Buddhism and Christianity. The genre of the story is fantasty romance so there will mentions of supernatural creatures and magic. Stealing of my work/any idea will serve you severe punishment as plagiarism is a serious crime. All rights reserved San 2045

“Hard and deep, for hours, until she screams herself hoarse with pleasure. They say his cock is thick as a man’s wrist and he never tires. And the blessings… gods, her family’s fields burst with grain, their coffers overflow with gold, and every child born after is strong and beautiful. Who wouldn’t want to be the one he chooses?” I had stood ankle-deep in the stream, scrubbing a tunic in silence while my stomach twisted. I wanted none of it. Not the beast. Not the endless rutting they described like some holy ecstasy. Not the fate of being dragged away to whatever shadowed lair he called home, to be claimed and bred and kept like a prized possession. I was nineteen summers old. My fingers w

If a nation’s culture survives, then so too does the nation. These were the words that passed through Celeste’s mind as she eagerly awaited the train. The underground was a strange place at this time, a place where the underclass crawled from their hidden tenements and stalked the night. Nobody knew her habit. By day Celeste was a pretty normal girl. She generally kept herself to herself, and didn’t ruffle any feathers. By night, she was Franny McCandle, graffiti artist and vandal.

"There's more, too. Apparently, the best friend's family is broke, and the harpist paid for all four years of her college tuition. Talk about nursing a viper." International viewers were just as shocked. Even my new friend, Alice Whitfield, was so upset she stress-ate three plates of buffalo wings. "Ivy, your life has been a disaster. "But don't worry. I would never betray you. Not only would I never betray you, but I'm going to set you up with my brother." I shook my head. "I can't. I promised my grandparents I'd move back home eventually." They raised me close, and settling down this far away would only worry them.