Question Stories 소설 & 이야기

Which word in the dictionary is spelt incorrectly? "Come on, there's no such word in the dictionary." I replied swiftly. "Did you even think about it?" "No," I replied flatly. "It's incorrectly. The word that is spelled incorrectly is incorrectly." He explained. I burst into a fit of laughter." I did not see that coming." "How about this? What word begins and ends with E but has only one letter?" I cracked my brain in an attempt to answer his question. He looked at me with a questioning gaze and I shrugged.

“Holy shit, you actually believe that folklore crap? Missing people? Probably just idiots who got lost or ran off with their side pieces.” Julie reached back and squeezed my knee, her touch lingering. “Relax, Doris. We’re four strong, healthy young adults. Nothing’s going to happen. We’ll look out for each other. Besides…” She leaned closer, breath warm against my ear. “It’s more exciting this way, don’t you think? A little danger makes everything hotter.” Tyler smirked, his hand resting casually on my thigh now. “Yeah. Live a little, book girl. Or are you scared a big bad monster is going to come eat you?”

Paul laughed. More laughter followed. We set our plates aside and gathered around the fire. It was fully dark now. “Next question,” Paul said. “First-time story.” Jenny definitely wasn’t going to answer that one, so I shrugged, and Brian and I spoke up almost in sync. “Emily,” we said, laughing, and gave a quick recap for those who didn’t know the story. “In a tent, on a summer trip,” Diane said, and shared her story. “My parents’ bedroom—while they were throwing a party downstairs,” Paul said, and told his tale.

he said, his voice a low vibration that hit me square in the chest. The chatter died instantly. He turned around, leaning against the podium, his sleeves already rolled up to reveal the lion etched into his tanned skin. My pulse spiked. I couldn't stop my eyes from tracing the golden outlines of the beast on his arm, remembering the way it seemed to ripple in the moonlight of my subconscious. "The Art of Storytelling is not a solo venture," he began, his almond eyes finally sweeping over the rows. "To understand narrative, you must understand collaboration and the friction of differing perspectives. For the remainder of the semester, you will be working in groups of five."

she asked, clearly bracing for the worst. “Yes,” I said. “But later. As a treat.” Naomi groaned theatrically. “You lied,” she hissed. “We’ll start with stories,” I said. “Real ones. Some might be scary in parts. Some might be sad. But we’re telling them so you know where you come from. So no one can tell you lies and make you afraid on purpose.” I took a breath. “Who’s heard of the curse?” I asked. Almost every hand went up.

I replied and she smiled again. "No one would ever believe us or our story. That you married me forcefully. We look more romantic than the couples who have done love marriages." She said and giggled. I chuckled hearing her. She was right. No one would ever believe us. Not our future kids and grandkids. No one would believe our Stupid Love Story.

Photographs covered the walls portraits of strangers caught mid-smile, moments of stillness, and little stories told without words. “Wow,” I breathed. “It’s beautiful.” Ethan shrugged lightly. “It’s just life through a lens.” He motioned toward a chair near the window. “Sit. Want coffee? Or tea?” “Coffee’s fine,” I said, and he disappeared for a moment, returning with two steaming cups. When I took the first sip, he leaned against the table across from me and asked, “So, how’s your story going now?” I smiled. “Better, actually. The words are finally moving again.”

Ch-1 --------------------- [Warning: this story is in the 'incest' category. As a result, the mother and son in this tale might have a relationship which you might find unsettling. At the end, when they kiss each other goodnight, neither of them has to go to another bedroom. The father already sleeps there.]

Pinky squinted to read it, her eyes tracing the loops and crosses. "Collection of short stories for ladies," the title read. "Stories of desire, of awakening, of the first time." Pinky blinked, her eyes widening as she read on. The handwriting was feminine, secretive, as if the writer were sharing her most guarded thoughts with only the pages. It was a confession. A revelation. As she began to read.