fact or fiction
Is it fact or merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores the myths and beliefs we hold about our family dynamics, traditions, and if there's such thing as a 'perfect family.'
You were here already
Waking up to a knock on the door, Travis slowly put his feet into his slippers and made his way downstairs. When he opened the door there was no one there. He looked around and saw no one then looked down and saw a little black book. It was a shiny black almost glowing and in a strange never before seen color had the title “ you were here already”.
By Nolan Buenger5 years ago in Families
The Joke
A Practical Joke Frank Williams was a millionaire several times over, but if you met him on the street, you never would have guessed. His taste in attire ran to blue jeans, a well-washed cowboy shirt, and a woven straw hat with a soiled sweatband. His belly did attest to the fact that he ate well, but then some folks bulged with much poorer fare.
By Ramona Scarborough5 years ago in Families
Palmer's Books
The room was cold, dim, and quiet as the Palmer siblings looked at each other with disdain. None of them had spoken to each other in years, not because of a falling out, but because they were all so selfish, greedy, and caught up in their own privileged lives.
By Rachel C Willis 5 years ago in Families
The Curse
Friday 8:30AM February Jakob looked up at the Tobin Memorial Bridge shimmering in the crisp winter sun, contemplating his life. Seasons full of bad luck and constant pain. Stuck there motionless, he watched the Boston commuters scurry into the T station on their way to jobs they probably hated and families they loved. How he wished people could see into his soul and help him, touch him, reach him in a way that he truly needed. But they continued to pass by him, too consumed with their own lives to see a lonely, desperate and invisible man.
By Michael J Massey5 years ago in Families
Stillness
Saturday morning. He sat idly in the dark leather wingback chair my mother bought for him years ago, its age evidenced by the cracked hide where his legs rested. Steam no longer rose from the coffee mug next to him and an almond puff pastry he usually enjoyed for breakfast lay untouched, not a single crumb tempted out of place. The morning sun beamed brightly into the room, and I knew it was time.
By Rebecca Gillespie5 years ago in Families
X Marks the Spot
I want to tell you the story of Robert and Angelica Westberg. Brother and sister, Robert was the oldest with 11 years under his belt, so naturally, he was his sister’s keeper as she was only a mere seven years old. They lived, well, really, they didn’t live anywhere. They were homeless. They stayed mostly on the west side of 46th Ave but moved around when possible to avoid being caught and taken to an orphanage. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, they’re also orphans. Their parents, Micheal and Willow Westberg, died about six months ago. They went out for coffee and pastries one morning, and around 5 pm the same day, the police chief arrived at their home to tell the children the unfortunate news.
By Dejza Sims5 years ago in Families
Domo Arigatou Bitcoin Boy
Charene was stuck in traffic and getting more irate by the minute. She'd had the usual over the top busy day at work and all she wanted to do was get home to her apartment, cook dinner and collapse on the couch with a glass of wine. She didn't know if her teenage son Ethan would be home - lately he stayed out more often than in and even though he was only 14 there was little she could do about it. Ethan's father was not on the scene, after leaving Charene earlier that year for "the Skinny Bitch" as Charene called her. And to make matters worth her beloved brother Eric had recently died of pancreatic cancer, which was a blow she was still reeling from. When Richard left her after 24 years it was a shock, but when Eric died it was a visceral blow that still at times left her gasping for breath with the pain of knowing she'd never see him again.
By Helen Smith5 years ago in Families
Little Black Book
Shakti stared at her book and wept tears of joy knowing that she would never forsake her - she couldn't. She'd never before allowed herself space to grieve for all she had lost, her thin, calloused fingers cramping as she torqued them against the threadbare stained cover. Inside, her memories, her beloved letters from Jahad on tissue-thin paper, the yellow flower pressed by Mama when she was five, tucked inside as bookmark, were all she had left from another land and time. She knew the well-worn journal would protect her treasures, they had seen her through the worst part of the last trip possible here. The bittersweet anguish could not hurt her precious diary, nor the spider-webbed pleas she had etched inside day and night. This little black book was holy writ - and hers alone to carry forward.
By Julian Grant5 years ago in Families
