Storyteller Novels & Stories

He was old, with a long white beard and a sweater that looked like it had been knitted by a grandmother. He stopped writing and looked up at me. "Oh," the man said, his voice gentle and tired. "You’re early, Alice. I haven't finished the 'Redemption' arc yet." "Who are you?" I asked, my heart pounding. "I'm the one who's been 'Rejected' by everyone," the man said. "The 'Alpha' of the storytellers. But you can call me **The Author**." He looked past me, through the open door, at the chaos outside—at the Dragon-Rowan tearing through the porcelain Angels.

I sat back from the island. I had told this story in pieces. To Victoria across a folder of documents. To Noah on a Singapore rooftop in the early days when the telling was still fresh and raw. To Nina over eggs at nine-thirty with forty-three minutes of anger on the other side of it. I had told it in the clinical register of a legal deposition and in the private register of a woman processing her own history and in the careful, managed register of someone who understood that how a story was told shaped what the listener did with it. I had not told it to Ethan.

“Just breathe, little one.” He stayed still, whispering soft words against my skin, kissing away the tears that slipped free. Only when the sharpest edge of the pain faded did I whisper that he could move. He did. He started slow — long, careful strokes that let me feel every inch as he sank deeper. Each time he almost pulled out, then filled me again, the stretch turned into something hotter. He found a spot inside me that made my toes curl and my breath catch. “You take me so well,” he groaned. “Such a perfect little mate… made to be filled by me.”

"He always has an excuse." "He doesn't know I'm only seven diary pages away from leaving him." "I got my period today, and the cramps were so bad I couldn't get out of bed. Dexter came home and brought me some painkillers without me asking." "He said it was the same kind he'd gotten for Brianna last time. She said they worked great, so they'd probably help me too." "I said thanks, but no thanks." "One page left. Then I'm done." The last page had only two lines.

So until our next tale, this is your Supernatural Spa's Storyteller, The Diwata, hoping that we will see you again very soon. Fare thee well.

“Thank you for your support. I’m surprised to see you here so early. In that case, I’ll start with some news about humans.” The storyteller was not only eloquent but also had many sources of information, so he could find out many things in advance. Just like a gossip station, the people here could hear a lot of news from him. “Everyone is saying that humans are causing trouble. Tell us what they're planning!” someone in the audience roared. Everyone tried to look for the speaker but saw no one. They wondered who would be interested in this topic. The storyteller smiled and nodded calmly.

For me it was a work of seconds all I had to do was to say and it was supposed to happen. I told you earlier, I'm the one who's responsible for everything and I'm the one who's lead in this story of paranormal timelines. Because I'm the Narrator, and whatever the hell I say is supposed to happen. It's nature, and I'm the creator of nature, I'm nature myself…?

It was Francine. I gave a nod but tried to maintain a stern face. Alex ran to me and asked, "So are we riding an airplane? " "Yes we are little boy." I said smirking at him and messing up his hair. The sound of horns from the taxi signaled that we were all about to have a major change in our lives. I am Attorney Providence Dalton. Provi to my my closest friends.. Atty. Pro to my colleagues… This is my story.

She took the fallen paper plane from the table and all the students were staring at her, anticipating how she'll react. "Good morning class, I am Mrs McElwain's substitute until she comes back from her maternal leave," She calmly said. The students quietly came back to their seats and stared at the auburn-haired woman in front. "I am Miranda Thorne. You may call me Ms Thorne. Now, can someone tell me what your last lesson was about?" One student raised her hand, Miranda nodded, giving the student permission to stand. “We always have Mondays as storytelling, Ms Thorne," Another student raised a hand.

It was an endeavor that aimed to illuminate the darkness of hardship with the radiant light of hope. Abigail, drawing on her background in writing, assumed the role of the storyteller. With a pen in hand and a heart filled with purpose, she began to document the intricate chapters of their journey. From the poignant moment when Sophia had been diagnosed with leukemia to the depths of love they had shared and the resilience that had emerged from the shadows, every nuance was carefully woven into the fabric of their narrative.