Vignette Stories Novels & Stories

I NEED BLOOD, I NEED MORE ENERGY" Linx replied as white fangs popped out and his eyes became red and swollen, before I could say another word, Linx vamp sped out of the house, I tried to follow him, but I couldn't catch up, as he is a hundred years older than I am It got to a point he stopped, because we had gotten to an open area, He turned left, he saw two men bringing and injured patient out of an ambulance, the sight of blood made him feel relieved. "Blood" Linx clamoured as all eyes around were on Linx, I noticed him trying to hide himself from sun rays, I took a look at his bracelet, I was getting dried, so was mine, we took shelter at the nearest shade, I told him to wait there while

He let out the friendliest of smiles, making Anderson very uncomfortable. Anderson stared back and forth between Suit and the scroll. His mind was racing. The contract sounded simple enough. Straightforward, but he did not understand. ‘What did he mean by survive the stories? Did he not say I was going to tell a story? What does survive the story mean?’ Question after question popped up into his head. He could not help himself. He had no idea exactly what it meant, but one thing was for certain; He would not move forward if he did nothing but constantly question the situation

His hands venture over her curved body, exploring. They pull apart and open their eyes. They stare at each other, deep into each other's eyes. Hussaini's full of wonder and love, Nafisa's full of curiosity and passion. No words are spoken but a story worthy of them is communicated. He leans in a softly kisses up and down her neck. She lets out little whimpers of anticipation. He works his way back to her tender, smooth lips. As they kiss she rolls him over and lies on top of his strong, muscular body.

Seeing my reluctance, Grace hit my shoulder playfully. “Come on girl. We're not bad girls." She teased. I smiled. “I don't know of other ways to classify a bad girl but I know a good girl doesn't smoke. Only a bad one does." I said smoothly, getting carefree with them. Grace smiled and sat on the bed, the cigar clipped between her fingers. “You know..I was once like you...Innocent, gentle and harmless but.. we all have our past stories. Stories about how our past affects our current life situations.." She said and smoked out the cigar again.

The circle was drawn in Himalayan salt and crushed pomegranate seeds, the air thick with the scent of burnt honey and Ava's desperation. She wasn't praying; she was bargaining. Her knife, usually an extension of her will, felt heavy and dull in her hand. The critics' words echoed, derivative, lacking fire, safe, carved deeper wounds than any blade. Michelin stars felt like distant, dying embers. Inspiration had deserted her like a fickle lover. So, she turned to the unconventional section of her grandmother's grimoire, the one bound in suspiciously soft, warm leather. Incubus Minor: For Creative Ignition. Price: Nights of Service.

“Then how the hell are these stories supposed to help me?” Gavin exhales and stares silently at the book for several seconds before he finally says, “Honestly? I don’t know how much it will help you with your case, specifically. But these stories tell about this town, about what happens in its dark corners. And I don’t know if there’s any explanations for them. They just . . . are.” “Okay. So what did that weird kid mean when he said you were supposed to be a ‘Witness’ to the end, and that you had to . . . ”

Nathan and Miranda understood that storytelling held immense power—a power to heal, to inspire, and to create lasting change. Motivated by this realization, they set out on a mission to document and share these stories of resilience. Through captivating interviews, powerful photographs, and poignant narratives, they aimed to create a platform that celebrated the triumphs of the human spirit. They believed that by amplifying these stories, they could reshape societal perceptions, break down barriers, and foster a greater sense of empathy and understanding.

The café's warm ambiance seemed to foster openness, prompting them to also share their personal thoughts and experiences. ‌ "You know," Carlin began, a contemplative tone taking over, "I used to think that journalism revolved around major stories—the ones that make headlines and reshape the world. But being here, I realize that sometimes, it's the smaller stories that carry the most weight." ‌ Vanya's smile was warm. "And it's these small stories that remind us of our shared humanity, the common threads that bind us." ‌ As the day progressed, they further explored the village, finding connection in their interactions with villagers. They absorbed tales of triumph and tenacity, of dreams purs

Don't get it wrong. Sometimes stereotypes were spot on correct and sometimes they weren't. This was again, another case in Brianna Samuels. She wasn't one of those bitches that everyone knew about because of stereotypes, that lived for gossip and brought people down just so they felt better about themselves. Okay, well Brianna did live for gossip, but mostly the harmless type of gossip and she definitely did not live to step on people. The type of gossip she lived for would basically be classified as petty theft in contrast to murder. Basically who dated who and who's hot and whatnot.

The above sentences are the thoughts of the author about what he thinks, but it is my duty to tell all the things he has in his mind. The space science and the beginning of the human era, why I always talk about the past, why I'm interested in the dead stories, why I tell a tale of another time, why I don't like the present and, also why I'm not narrating about those dumbasses who were about to close the mysterious case of random killing by an unidentified criminal (creature)? You might have so many questions and confusions about the fact that I puzzle a simple story in what we call a Riddle…? But you can still believe in me that I'll give you a gift tomorrow.