The Street Novel Novels & Stories

Most novelists struggle to have their debut novel published, but once published they often continue to be published, although very few become literary celebrities, thus gaining prestige or a considerable income from their work. Every novel worthy of the name is like another planet, whether large or small, which has its own laws just as it has its own flora and fauna. Thus, Faulkner's technique is certainly the best one with which to paint Faulkner's world, and Kafka's nightmare has produced its own myths that make it communicable. Benjamin Constant, Stendhal, Eugène Fromentin, Jacques Rivière, Radiguet, all used different techniques, took different liberties, and set themselves different tas

And it was October, meaning it was either overcast or raining all the damn time. The novel called for wet weather. Well, it was wet all right. I swerved out of traffic and made my way down A Street, then B, then C. Who the hell named streets after letters? Finally, I stopped at my destination and turned off the truck. My new place was a six-bedroom beach house that had fallen on hard times and been recently renovated. The owners had put in a quarter of a million in updates, and were more than thrilled that a movie star was going to be their first renter.

Azazel added and suddenly the hounds trampled upon the cracked floors and suddenly vanished. Catching at glimpse at across Venezuela, Caracas, the city was on fire. The horsemen riding across he streets, each of them, causing something relating to their names to happen. Each street death rode upon, people end up falling dead without any cause and each Street war rode upon, people fought continually until one kills the other.

I could feel them now. I quickened my steps. This street is known for its evil activities and inhabitants. It was formerly a musicians' street until one gun warlord had a case with one of the initial inhabitants so he dislodged him from his home and occupied it. In fear, all of them abandoned their homes, making way for the likes of the gun warlord. All sorts of crimes were committed on this very street; kidnapping, killing, stealing, abduction, and rape. I had almost forgotten about this Street. The night breeze here is extra chilly and carried the evils of its dwellers. The air felt stuffy.

Chapter five Micah’s POV What the fuck kind of mafia N*****x nightmare had I landed in? Was I being tested? Everything that had happened from the warehouse till now felt surreal, like I’d wake up in a cold sweat any second and laugh at how messed up my dreams had gotten. But I wasn’t waking up. And Elio Romano... God. What the hell was that earlier? Why did he storm in like a man possessed, only to stop short like he was fighting himself? There’d been tension in the air, thick enough to choke on.

Charlie Benji’s house wasn’t really what I expected. Although I didn’t really know what to expect. He had an unreadable air about him when it came to trying to figure out the more personal details about his life. He didn’t behave like a street racer or conform to what my idea was of a man who spent his time participating in an illegal underground racing ring in New York City. He ran a shelter for troubled youths for crying out loud.

Story written with a randomly generated story as the base. Street Dog looked at the delicious sausage in his hands and felt hungry. He walked over to the hole in his cardboard box where the snow-wet street reflected his dangerous surroundings. He had always hated the dark Slum with its disturbed, dull dirty. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to violence and always let him hungry as if no amount of sausage would ever fill the hole in his belly. He was a mut, he was street dog.

Serene Street hadn't changed much in the past several months. It still felt like a forgotten corner of the bustling city—no towering skyscrapers, no luxury cars, and no designer stores. Just uneven rows of buildings, air conditioners dripping water nonstop, and barbecue joints downstairs that probably didn't even have a business license. Noelle walked along the street. Finally, she flagged down a cab and returned to her hotel. This time, she slept surprisingly well. She didn't even dream once throughout the whole night, and when she woke up, it was already well past noon.

A cab driver asked. "Tourist Street!" I answered, because of the noise my voice seemed loud "Enter," the cab driver said giving my a cynical look "I won't drive in though" "It fine by me" I stormed into the car, slamming the door. The driver gave me a puzzled look "Go, I'm not going to eat you" I laughed Tourist Street was the shadow of the city. It was a dangerous stretch where underground deals where struck and the police were paid to stay. But millionaires were made there