Who Wrote Frankenstein

Kanya Arundhati, a horror-thriller novelist on a well-known platform. Kanya a beautiful woman with natural red lips, always had nightmares every time she wrote a murder scene, then a man in would appear into her dream and whisper the words, “Make a wish.”In the recurring dream, Kanya will the man in .Kanya herself did not know who this man was until the face of the man in her dreams appeared in real life.What will Kanya do to avoid that man, and who is the mysterious man in her dreams? Is it the same person?

Love is a very beautiful feeling and we all want to feel it and be with the person we love but is it that easy as it is to say?Join the journey of our characters to know how they wrote their own love saga

Erin died due to a car crash but the next morning, she wakes up to find herself in a fictional fantasy world- one that she wrote about. She is given another chance to live but as fate would not have it easy for her, she is reincarnated into the side character of the novel who was meant to die. She was reincarnated into none other than the cursed princess of Lunaria Kingdom, Erin Lockheart. She is determined to live but with the odds against her, will she be able to change her fate? What price must she pay for it?

My sister, Anna Hawkins, and I are twins, but I'm slightly heavier than her when we were born. Anna has always been weak and sickly since young, whereas I'm always active and healthy. When Anna was four years old, she was diagnosed with leukemia. Mom blamed me for stealing Anna's nutrients when I got born, so I needed to return the nutrients to her. When I got my blood extracted for the first time, a thick syringe was used on me. I was so scared when I saw it. Mom told me not to be scared. She gave me a magical pen, stating that whatever wish I wrote down with the pen would come true. I wrote, "It won't hurt." When the syringe was plunged into my arm again, Mom bought me a sweet lollipop. The pain never struck me again afterward. When I was five years old, I drew a strawberry cake on the paper while getting 1000cc blood withdrawn from me. That week, Anna could sit up in bed and play on her own. When I turned seven years old, I wrote down my wish that I'd like to go on a vacation. The next day, I was sent into the operating theater for the doctors to collect my hematopoietic cells. For the first time ever, Anna's cheeks became rosy. When I was eight years old, I wrote that I wanted to become the top student of my grade. But a day before my exams, my bone marrow was drawn from me. Anna finally got discharged by the hospital. She got to wear new dresses that I never got to wear. In the year I turn nine years old, my body is heavily depleted. With a trembling hand, I can only write down a line in messy handwriting. "I hope… that I won't become Mom's daughter in my next life."

Fernando Perez a 28 years old wealthy billionaire was raped on his 15th birthday, after the unfortunate incident he had zero likeness for women and vowed not to ever fall in love with them. Then came Micaela Alvarado a popular writer who coincidentally wrote a story exactly as the past of Fernando. Fernando was curious to know more about the writer and in the process he fell in love with her. Micaela later confesses she was among the girls that sexually assaulted Fernando 13 years ago. Would Fernando forgive Micaela over his past? Read and find out!

I died beneath the Ferris wheel. The killer took a photo of the Ferris wheel and sent it to my mother. 'Mom, I want to ride the Ferris wheel with you too,' wrote the killer. In my mother's voice message, her tone was filled with hatred as she replied, "How dare you ask to ride the Ferris wheel with me when you killed your own sister? Why won't you just die?!" As she wished, I was dead. However, what she didn't know was that the one who killed me was my so-called dead sister.

Everyone knows the rules of fake dating: No catching feelings. And definitely no falling for the guy who once wrote your perfect twin sister love letters he never sent. I’m Olivia Carter: the unloved twin, the spare, the one who got dumped so my ex could marry my sister, the one currently fake-dating Rowan Parker, captain of the Ice Hawks, just to make Caleb choke on his own wedding cake. Rowan needs a girlfriend to scare off puck bunnies until playoffs. I need revenge that tastes like his mouth. We’re professionals. This is business. Except he’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the room, and I’m starting to forget the word “pretend.”

Found in the marooned ruins of Chavand was a book ripped and torn. Its yellowed pages eaten up and coiled. Forgotten and unheard about was this book until it came to light. His legends lived on, his tales of valour prevailed. His glory seemed enternal and he was worshiped and adored. But his heart remained shrouded in a cloak of mystery. His emotions, his turmoils went unnoticed in an attempt to make him great. Seen as someone who was invincible and immortal, the Rana changes your perspective from his greatness to his soft heart. Written across the pages during his last moments, he wrote his own life. Where bards would be at a loss and poets were simply lost in his glory and valor, the Rana is said to be the only one who could write about himself.

"I love you, Aires" "Who wrote this letter?" Aires asked, bending to pick the piece of paper that has fallen at his feet, his eyes pinned hers and she swallowed, "you love me?" His voice sounded strange to her ears but she couldn't fathom the emotions behind it. Timidly she nodded finally voicing out her feelings. His gaze raked over her and she stood absolutely still, "flat chest, flat bum, teeth filled with braces and clumsy as hell, I can never love someone like you so get lost" and so she ran, with tears streaming down her cheeks like rivers of water......

Amara Mensah had always believed in two things: hard work and silence. Hard work would take her places, and silence would protect her when the world tried to break her. Growing up in a modest home in Accra, she had watched her mother struggle through life with dignity, never asking for help, never expecting miracles. So Amara didn’t believe in miracles either. Especially not the kind that came in the form of men. At twenty-six, she was a ghostwriter—anonymous, invisible, and painfully underpaid. She wrote love stories for people who believed in forever, even though she herself had never experienced anything close to it. Until the email came.