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Love Stories
Love stories are the inspirational theme for the love. Love stories act more as a motivational factor for love to flourish.
Expressing your innermost feeling, love stories really act as greatest medium. Love stories always sing and tell your eternal love feelings to your love ones. These love stories make the lover to be together and to experience the sheer pleasure of love and romance mesmerized in each and every word of the love stories.
Love stories have motivated the entire lover from each part of the planet. Short love stories so effective, that it always helps you out to bring your internal feeling out, from the bottom of your heart.
Love stories always helps you to express your feeling and to be conveyed to your loved one`s in most perfect manner, so you all people in love this the one of best medium to express your love.
Here are some Beautiful heart touching short love stories by different famous authors:
Footprints
by Matt Thorne
We are rearranging ourselves in bed when Chris asks, “What are those red marks?”
“These?” I ask, pulling back the flesh beneath my arm. “My baby's footprints. He sleeps between me and Johnny, horizontally. Sometimes they're there all day.”
Chris is cross, not because I've mentioned my husband but because I've mentioned my son. I still call him my baby even though he's almost 3.
It's Chris's reaction that makes me feel that our affair can never become serious; that I can never leave Johnny for him. Because he doesn't realise that it is not my husband he is competing against, it's my son. It's something I've noticed in a lot of people who don't have children: their incomprehension of the nature of this love.
I know he wouldn't understand if I explained that the first time my son held me in a loving way, it felt better than any time my husband ever held me; it felt, in fact, like the embrace of my first boyfriend. And I know he wouldn't understand that I enjoy evenings in with my son more than being with him or Johnny. That when I'm sitting there watching him eat food I've prepared and he's watching one of his favourite DVDs and he turns to me and says, “I love this,” I forget any worries that I'm turning him into a couch potato and just feel love, proper love, in a way that neither of my adult men can bring me.
Although this won't last, can't last, and he will learn not to like me and then to hate me and then to forget about me, it still means more than anything Chris can give, and for this reason I can only like him, and regret our time together, already, because we have no future.
A True Love Story
by Jilly Cooper
In the local woods, among the blue speckled eggs of a jackdaw's nest, Timmy Bates spotted Henry, yelling his head off. Tim was lonely; he carried the fledgeling back to his boarding school in a paper bag and, using a fountain pen filler, fed him milk round the clock.
Progressing to beaten egg and slugs, Henry developed into a cocky, handsome bird with shiny eyes and a purple sheen. He fluttered round Tim's study, riding on his shoulder, prattling: ky-wak, ky-wak. Once painfully shy, Tim now found himself making friends with boys amused at Henry's exploits.
As June 1952 moved into July, Henry went on increasingly long flights, but he always returned to Tim's shoulder. He was the best friend Tim had ever had.
Alas, the inseparable companion of true love is anxiety. Tim dreaded the end of term: how would Henry cope in the wild?
On the last Tuesday, he carried a caged, outraged Henry deep into the woods. Releasing him, Tim fled - to wait in dread and longing for the imperious tap of a beak on his window. But none came.
The last Saturday of term was celebrated by six cricket matches - 132 boys spread over six pitches. Fielding on the boundary of Pitch Six, Tim suddenly froze - for high in the cloudless blue, like a speckle on a jackdaw's egg, a black dot was floating. Moving closer, it sprouted wings and, fluttering round Pitch One, carefully examined each identically white-clad player.
Slowly, the dot checked every pitch until it reached Pitch Six and Tim could hear a cheerful volley of ky-waks. He tried to call out but the words stuck in his throat. Surely Henry could hear the crashing of his heart?
Henry was busy checking batsmen and wicketkeeper, hovering over point and cover. Then squawking joyously, swifter than a driven four, he reached the boundary, crash landing on Tim's shoulder, chattering in delight and complacency: aren't I clever to find you?
As jackdaw stopped play, Tim's team-mates cheered a hero's return. Plumage even glossier, clearly thriving in the wild, Henry had returned to bid his young master Godspeed.
“Oh Henry, you are super,” sighed Tim. “Ky-wak,” agreed Henry.
First Love
by Adele Parks
She dropped the kids off at her ex's. He was having them for the entire weekend. How'd she manage? Without them she wasn't sure she amounted to much. Turning the corner, she bumped into Karl - after all these years - there he was, sharing the same pavement. He smelt of her youth. She leant closer, to secretly inhale him; he was trembling. Like her.
“You haven't changed a bit.” His grin lit up her stomach and a bit lower; it always had.
“Liar. Charming liar.” Small smile.
“Nineteen years,” he paused, “six months, one week.”
Delighted, shocked, Amanda blushed. “I don't believe you've been counting.”
“No. I guessed the months and weeks.” Her face muscles remember laughter. “Fancy a drink?” In the intimidating, smart bar with loud, wordless music, she ordered a G&T, he had beer. “So you don't drink Bacardi any more?'”
“No and you've moved on from Woodpecker cider. Cheers.” They clinked glasses, then fell silent. There was so much to say. Why hadn't he written after he went to university? Not once. She remembered the futile, eternal waits for the postman. He'd met someone in freshers' week; for a term it seemed like love. He read Amanda's mind: “Never was much of a letter writer.”
He wanted to ask her who she lost her virginity to; was it good? Furious and bored, she eventually had a fling with his cousin. Yes, it was; very good. She read his mind and assured him. “Pretty average really. Like everyone's first time.”
Instinctually they'd known to protect one another. They both started to laugh at the weird connection that seemed untroubled by the years of neglect. A tiny piece of discontent and disappointment dissolved inside her, she breathed a little easier. She'd loved her 17-year-old self. Still did.
I am sure it must be great feeling, reading these romantic stories.
Expressing your innermost feeling, love stories really act as greatest medium. Love stories always sing and tell your eternal love feelings to your love ones. These love stories make the lover to be together and to experience the sheer pleasure of love and romance mesmerized in each and every word of the love stories.
Love stories have motivated the entire lover from each part of the planet. Short love stories so effective, that it always helps you out to bring your internal feeling out, from the bottom of your heart.
Love stories always helps you to express your feeling and to be conveyed to your loved one`s in most perfect manner, so you all people in love this the one of best medium to express your love.
Here are some Beautiful heart touching short love stories by different famous authors:
Footprints
by Matt Thorne
We are rearranging ourselves in bed when Chris asks, “What are those red marks?”
“These?” I ask, pulling back the flesh beneath my arm. “My baby's footprints. He sleeps between me and Johnny, horizontally. Sometimes they're there all day.”
Chris is cross, not because I've mentioned my husband but because I've mentioned my son. I still call him my baby even though he's almost 3.
It's Chris's reaction that makes me feel that our affair can never become serious; that I can never leave Johnny for him. Because he doesn't realise that it is not my husband he is competing against, it's my son. It's something I've noticed in a lot of people who don't have children: their incomprehension of the nature of this love.
I know he wouldn't understand if I explained that the first time my son held me in a loving way, it felt better than any time my husband ever held me; it felt, in fact, like the embrace of my first boyfriend. And I know he wouldn't understand that I enjoy evenings in with my son more than being with him or Johnny. That when I'm sitting there watching him eat food I've prepared and he's watching one of his favourite DVDs and he turns to me and says, “I love this,” I forget any worries that I'm turning him into a couch potato and just feel love, proper love, in a way that neither of my adult men can bring me.
Although this won't last, can't last, and he will learn not to like me and then to hate me and then to forget about me, it still means more than anything Chris can give, and for this reason I can only like him, and regret our time together, already, because we have no future.
A True Love Story
by Jilly Cooper
In the local woods, among the blue speckled eggs of a jackdaw's nest, Timmy Bates spotted Henry, yelling his head off. Tim was lonely; he carried the fledgeling back to his boarding school in a paper bag and, using a fountain pen filler, fed him milk round the clock.
Progressing to beaten egg and slugs, Henry developed into a cocky, handsome bird with shiny eyes and a purple sheen. He fluttered round Tim's study, riding on his shoulder, prattling: ky-wak, ky-wak. Once painfully shy, Tim now found himself making friends with boys amused at Henry's exploits.
As June 1952 moved into July, Henry went on increasingly long flights, but he always returned to Tim's shoulder. He was the best friend Tim had ever had.
Alas, the inseparable companion of true love is anxiety. Tim dreaded the end of term: how would Henry cope in the wild?
On the last Tuesday, he carried a caged, outraged Henry deep into the woods. Releasing him, Tim fled - to wait in dread and longing for the imperious tap of a beak on his window. But none came.
The last Saturday of term was celebrated by six cricket matches - 132 boys spread over six pitches. Fielding on the boundary of Pitch Six, Tim suddenly froze - for high in the cloudless blue, like a speckle on a jackdaw's egg, a black dot was floating. Moving closer, it sprouted wings and, fluttering round Pitch One, carefully examined each identically white-clad player.
Slowly, the dot checked every pitch until it reached Pitch Six and Tim could hear a cheerful volley of ky-waks. He tried to call out but the words stuck in his throat. Surely Henry could hear the crashing of his heart?
Henry was busy checking batsmen and wicketkeeper, hovering over point and cover. Then squawking joyously, swifter than a driven four, he reached the boundary, crash landing on Tim's shoulder, chattering in delight and complacency: aren't I clever to find you?
As jackdaw stopped play, Tim's team-mates cheered a hero's return. Plumage even glossier, clearly thriving in the wild, Henry had returned to bid his young master Godspeed.
“Oh Henry, you are super,” sighed Tim. “Ky-wak,” agreed Henry.
First Love
by Adele Parks
She dropped the kids off at her ex's. He was having them for the entire weekend. How'd she manage? Without them she wasn't sure she amounted to much. Turning the corner, she bumped into Karl - after all these years - there he was, sharing the same pavement. He smelt of her youth. She leant closer, to secretly inhale him; he was trembling. Like her.
“You haven't changed a bit.” His grin lit up her stomach and a bit lower; it always had.
“Liar. Charming liar.” Small smile.
“Nineteen years,” he paused, “six months, one week.”
Delighted, shocked, Amanda blushed. “I don't believe you've been counting.”
“No. I guessed the months and weeks.” Her face muscles remember laughter. “Fancy a drink?” In the intimidating, smart bar with loud, wordless music, she ordered a G&T, he had beer. “So you don't drink Bacardi any more?'”
“No and you've moved on from Woodpecker cider. Cheers.” They clinked glasses, then fell silent. There was so much to say. Why hadn't he written after he went to university? Not once. She remembered the futile, eternal waits for the postman. He'd met someone in freshers' week; for a term it seemed like love. He read Amanda's mind: “Never was much of a letter writer.”
He wanted to ask her who she lost her virginity to; was it good? Furious and bored, she eventually had a fling with his cousin. Yes, it was; very good. She read his mind and assured him. “Pretty average really. Like everyone's first time.”
Instinctually they'd known to protect one another. They both started to laugh at the weird connection that seemed untroubled by the years of neglect. A tiny piece of discontent and disappointment dissolved inside her, she breathed a little easier. She'd loved her 17-year-old self. Still did.
I am sure it must be great feeling, reading these romantic stories.