Storyteller Tactics Novels & Stories

“What is it?” She spoke slowly, "I realised something." "Tonight had the potential to be a performance. We were able to lean into that. He stated, "But we didn't." She agreed, "No." "And that is important. because no matter what, people will talk, but what they say will depend on what we give them. He thought about what she said. “What story do you want them to tell?” “That we’re deliberate,” Elara said. That we do not hurry. That we don’t fracture under pressure.”

Every sentence was carefully written to sound balanced, while quietly guiding readers toward one conclusion. Mara read it once. Then again. By the third time, she wasn't reading the words anymore. She was reading the strategy. Vivienne wasn't throwing random attacks. She was building a story. One article could be dismissed. Two articles became a pattern. If people heard the same suggestion often enough, they would begin treating it as truth before anyone ever questioned it. Mara leaned back in her chair and reached for her phone. Claire answered almost immediately. "I've seen it."

"I-I'm okay, so do-don't come any closer... alright?" He puts on the hood and shoved his hands into the pocket of his jacket which caused my heart to beat even more fast. He takes a step forward as I backed away, his eyes were on me while an evil smirk was lining up on his lips. "I-I told you to freeze! Di-didn't I?" I managed to say, pointing a finger at him as he gets closer and closer. "I-I told you to stay right there! I don't have money... okay? I ran away from my home! You-you won't get anything from me! Please... stay away.."

Lucas surmises. "What makes you think I would fall for something like that? Even if what you're saying is true, how do I know you'll live up to your end of the deal?" I ask, raising a brow at him. Lucas remains silent, pondering over my question. "How about this? Instead of me waiting a few days for a potential tip, we do this my way instead." I say, turning the tables on him once more. Too bad for him, I know the game he's trying to play with me. My dad taught me this trick when I was learning from him. He explained to me that businesses often partake in delay tactics. A way to make an interested buyer believe that you'll get them what they want with a promise of a set timeframe. Only for t

I hesitated a little and then I broke into a sob as I tore a tissue quickly and held it over my face like I was actually crying. Well, I had been right at the start when she entered because she was suddenly over the door as she looked down on me looking a lot like she was confused. She asked me what the problem was and I told her that I did not want to bother her with something as frivolous as that. This was my way of making the gossip sweeter. You see, when trying to sell a story, the more you hide away, the more the person involved would want to know more. It was a way of drawing them out totally that I had come up with in just a short time all thanks to her easy predictable behaviour.

"I've worked with your father for ages, heather. I would have been confident if it were to be him but you, you're all alone in this. How do you expect to pull all these off within twelve months?" "I understand twelve months is a little time, but there's a lot we can achieve. That's why we won't just sell plans. We'll sell movement. Investors don't always follow numbers they follow attention. Relevance. If we can can control the narrative, we can control the perception. And perception drives faster than a balance sheet ever will." The whole room fell quiet. I couldn't tell if they were impressed or actually concerned. But what else could I do? "Sounds risky," another member spoke up. "It's al

"Too many variables. Guards could come in from the river side, and horse patrols move through that lane quickly." "Then we control the lanes," I replied. "We steer the narrative. We plant it where we need it to be. We create a focal point and keep every guard—whether bought or not—focused on it. And we rely on the one thing Arturo can’t fake: witnesses."

The playful tone masked a genuine eagerness. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur, the words a thrilling promise. “Next… we give them just enough to keep talking. A breadcrumb here, a subtle hint there. We don’t feed the hate, Zara. We starve it. We own the narrative. Every single piece of it.” The notifications continued to roll in, a steady, triumphant drumbeat against the silence of the café. “Why are people so obsessed with the arms?” she laughed.

I pulled my jacket tighter—not because I was cold, but because fabric is the polite thing you keep between yourself and everyone who feels entitled to touch you. Somewhere along the line I learned that stories make people soft. Tell them a sad backstory and they soften toward you. Tell them nothing and they sharpen into curiosity that can be just as dangerous. I’ve toyed with both tactics. Tonight I was sticking with nothing. Silence was warmer than conversation.