Story's Or Stories Novels & Stories

Because they've learned that the stories we keep — the ones we tell, the ones we hold, the ones we pass on — are the stories that save us. And they're finally ready to tell them. End of Chapter 177

Stories that are waiting for the right wolf to tell them. I smiled. "Then I will tell them." I gathered the wolves of Silvermoon in the great hall. "I have found the first story," I said. "The tale that started everything. But there are other stories. Stories that have not yet been told. Stories that are waiting for us to tell them." The wolves listened, their eyes bright with curiosity. "These stories are the future. They are the tales of wolves who have not yet been born, worlds that have not yet been created, possibilities that have not yet been realized. They are waiting for us to bring them into being."

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.

"Used to be. Gave it up when the stories started costing more than they were worth." That answer carried weight, the kind that invited questions but also warned against them. I set the mug on the low table in front of me and leaned forward slightly. "What kind of stories?" "The kind that get people hurt when they come out wrong. Or when they don't come out at all." I felt a flicker of recognition then, something tugging at the back of my mind like a half-remembered name. "You sound like someone who has been burned by the industry."

My hands curled at my sides. “I “I was human, I said.Low-status. Easy to sacrifice.” Rowan frowned, small brows knitting. They knew the broad strokes now. We’d never lied about that part. “But the thing about stories,” I said, “is that they only work if you keep telling them the same way. If you don’t stop and ask, ‘Who decided this was how it had to be?’” I glanced at Ronan. He was watching me with that look he still got sometimes—half awe, half something like an apology that had turned into gratitude over the years.

EMMA The walk up the stairs felt like a fever dream. My legs were still shaky from the two massive orgasms Sarah had ripped out of me downstairs, and my inner thighs were slick with a mixture of my own juices and her saliva. Jake’s cum had dried in streaks on my skin, but my pussy was already throbbing again, aching to be filled. Sarah led us by the hand—her full, naked body glowing under the hallway light, heavy tits bouncing with every step, ass jiggling enticingly. Jake followed close behind, his thick cock still rock-hard and bouncing, glistening from fucking Sarah’s cunt.

I joined an orchestra and was either on the road or about to be. Dexter and Brianna both got into the graduate program and stayed on at the university research institute. We hardly saw each other, and the few days a month we could actually sit down for a meal together, he'd bring Brianna along. Whenever I asked why, it was always the same thing. "She's always saying she misses you. I can't just hog you all to myself." So every date that was supposed to be just the two of us somehow turned into three. I reminded him over and over not to talk about biology, but they'd inevitably drift into bacterial reproduction or whatever conference was coming up.

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.”

he said, his voice a low vibration that hit me square in the chest. The chatter died instantly. He turned around, leaning against the podium, his sleeves already rolled up to reveal the lion etched into his tanned skin. My pulse spiked. I couldn't stop my eyes from tracing the golden outlines of the beast on his arm, remembering the way it seemed to ripple in the moonlight of my subconscious. "The Art of Storytelling is not a solo venture," he began, his almond eyes finally sweeping over the rows. "To understand narrative, you must understand collaboration and the friction of differing perspectives. For the remainder of the semester, you will be working in groups of five."

She was going to ask her to assign the story to her. Robert and Stella were in Stella’s office. The two were going through some of the articles submitted by other workers to see which stories would sell. After seeing how successful Robert had been in his last three articles, Stella had considered his opinions important and once in a while sought his advice. “This story by Jenny is good, but we can change its angle a little bit. Focusing on the human angle will make it reach the audience. people love reading about what affects them,” Robert said. “I thought so. That is why I set aside those stories,” Stella said, setting up two cups of coffee for both of them. It was cold outside, and it was