Story For The Day Novels & Stories

Hi. I had a crappy day. Everything went wrong. I locked myself out of the house, thankfully my sister lives nearby. I forgot everything today and was so clumsy. So instead of writing for the stories that I am actually under contract for, I decided to do something else. I have this idea for a new story and there's no pressure to be good, since it's just for fun at this point. So I decided to write the first chapter of a new story, hoping it would get me out of the bad mood I was in.

Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow is the day where two clans will fight life and death, defending the honor of their group even if it costs them life and blood. And this morning, Angel chose to be a normal human being, at least he wanted to spend time happily with his mother. Because no one knows what will happen tomorrow, whether he will live or die. "Mom, let's go!" Mrs. Matthew frowned. "Mommy is off today." "Therefore, I want to take mommy for a walk today."

ONE DAY IN A YEAR Nicholas POV Every time, we say we would do it tomorrow; Little did we know that tomorrow never comes. I was a boy with a loving mother and a carefree father. It has always been 'never say never. In the beginning when we were young and free and we had nothing disturbing our day. We just sleep, eat and do them all over again. But, now we aren't flying freely and when we fly over the sun we get burnt.

“Maybe it’s supposed to.” With a deep breath, Skye broke the seal. The letter was handwritten in blue ink, each word deliberate. _“I used to pass by The Story House every day on my way to the clinic. I never came in. Not until the day I stood on the edge. I was going to end it. Everything. But the sign outside that day said: ‘You are more than the worst thing that ever happened to you.’ I don’t know who wrote it. But I walked in. I sat down. I wrote my story. I cried. I left.

A simple, human story. Jeff chuckled, a warm, rich sound that echoed in the clearing. He joined us, and with a few deft strokes, he added the schematic of an engine next to my house, a beautiful, impossible machine that powered nothing but the joy of its own design. We spent the day there, the three of us, covering the bank with our stories. Tales of love and loss, of engines and empires, of quiet moments and loud rebellions. They were not for anyone else. They were for the stream, for the mud, for the forest. They were for us.

Yeah, I followed him. After an hour of staring at each other, the walls and ceiling, he spoke up. "Tomorrow is my parents death anniversary." I shifted uncomfortably. Hearing stories like this are really boring to me. You're probably thinking that I'm a psycho but that's how I roll. A tear slipped down his face.

If I follow what you want it means you will know the story already. how will you still wanna read it?" she asked. He smiled. "you are so funny. I don't have any intentions of telling you how the story should go. it'd be boring that way. why don't you take me as your tutor has tag editor." He said looking away. she smiled "huh? tutor! yes! yes! but..." she stopped smiling. "but I don't have any intentions of having a writing career. This just for fun." "are you rejecting my offer?"

I made a promise. To who? My creator. Myself And Princess Gabriella That I would fulfill my dreams. I'll be persistent no matter the cost. But what to do? There are only 24 days left! That's enough to change my Destiny. I am Malisa Bree and this is my Story! Enjoy! I hope you'll learn a lot from it. Thanks for reading.

I thought about a three-year-old girl in a red jacket and a September morning in Phoenix and twenty-seven years of living inside an incomplete story, and the woman that story had produced, who had walked into a café on a Thursday morning and decided to say the true thing without a speech. "I want to go to bed early," I said. "Yes," he said. We went inside. The city continued below the terrace without us and the November night did what November nights do and in the morning there would be the DNA kits to arrange and the Priya Sharma kickoff to prepare for and the Hartley section two to give Maya time to finish and the hospitality group inquiry to assess and the ordinary accumulation of a pract

Mason came apart after that. He drank around the clock. He drank himself into a stomach bleed. The captain who had once led missions could not stand up most days. The squad cut him after he failed too many disciplinary checks in a row. He had no job. He had no money. He drifted around the streets all hours of the day. Sometimes he caught wind of me, on someone's phone, in a passing conversation. I had quit the office. I had become a novelist. I had taken what had happened to me and put it on the page. The book had done very well.