fact or fiction
Is it a fact or is it merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores relationship myths and truths to get your head out of the clouds and back into romantic reality.
The Chocolate Trap
Its like I take two steps forwards and one step back. The rocks sliding under my damp old shoes, I can feel the sweat streaming down my cheeks and off my face. I can feel that deep burn radiating through both legs as I hurl myself up over the last meter and onto the flat. Falling to the ground I brace myself and smoothly transition to my back continuing to breath heavy. As I lie down staring into the sky my mind drags me towards the exuding pain throughout my body. I dream of water and how one sip would wash over my desert tongue and down the back of my pulsating throat.
By Rhys Bibby5 years ago in Humans
Firmly But Gently
This past Fourth of July weekend, I spent some time in my grandparent’s farm, in Midland, Texas. This is not a huge farm, but it is big enough to keep them busy, strong, and healthy. They have an old barn that houses a couple of cows, horses, and a few goats. There are also chickens and roosters that find their way in during bad weather.
By Beatriz Magana5 years ago in Humans
Are there two of me?
Are there two of me? Could the creator of all things made only a certain amount of molds or patterns for each and every person on this planet? Could there be two of me or, even more of me, like a part stamped and shaped off an assembly line?
By Dave Wettlaufer5 years ago in Humans
Camaraderie
Alex was cold, wet, miserable and on the very edge of exhaustion; exactly as he had been for the last 13 days, 14 hours and 23 minutes. His shoulders had been holding up his Bergen for god knew how long and he felt like he would have permanent indentations for the rest of his life. He had somehow continued to trudge along behind his new troop, not having stopped once as they yomped onward. He couldn’t quite fathom the bloke at the front, Stiles, who still appeared to have a spring in his step, despite the constant rain and bellowed orders that came from the Sergeants and Corporals who were in charge of their training.
By Beth Toghill5 years ago in Humans
Retirement
Retirement was a mixed blessing, as all major life transitions tend to be. She’d been studying fungi and teaching biology for so many years, her whole life had been organized around the familiar routine of lesson plans, faculty meetings, departmental crises, grant-writing, research, grading, and of course the mentoring of students that provided her fuel for everything else. The travel bug had kept her explorations of the world expansive, challenged to fit in all the new discoveries she dreamed of into a few short vacation weeks each summer. She’d been smart to stay physically active since grade school, when track and field meets surprised her with the pull to run and jump faster and farther than anyone else. Her daily runs were the single thing that justified her allowance for all things chocolate, although the heavily disciplined guardrails went up against overindulgence during times of stress.
By JANINA M FULLER5 years ago in Humans
The Shape Shifter
THE SHAPE SHIFTER Ella had spent most of her life on the farm and thought she knew it like the back of her hand, better even. She’d walked every inch of the land, from the front fence facing onto the lane to the low mound of a hill up the back, covered in scrub and thistles.
By Jude Russell5 years ago in Humans
The Roman Line
The Roman Line By Danielle Lenaghan Sheets James was underdressed, freezing and irate, “Janet is dragging us to a creepy old barn in middle of BF Biddulph Township in -1℃! We’re supposed to be on lockdown guys. If I catch COVID…” Janet got in his face and scolded him, “You’ve always been such a pantywaist James!” She lowered her voice and turned her head toward the moon… “It must be tonight, February 3, 2021… when the clock strikes midnight it will be the 141st anniversary of the massacre… leaving a family butchered… and a farm in ashes. We’re almost to Roman Line, then it’s past the church, through the field and into the woods...” James’ brother, Matt, was way ahead of the pack. His flaming red locks aglow in the light of the waning gibbous. “I found it losers,” Matt bellowed through the darkness, “who has the flashlights?” Christine noticed the heaviness of the snow clouds, “dark and ominous,” she commented, “the crows in the naked trees are glassy eyed and watching”. The screech of a barn owl stopped her in her tracks. “I’m just going to stay here until you guys check it out,” Christine mumbled, clutching tightly to her Scooby-Doo sleeping bag. Matt was smoking a cigarette and guzzling bourbon when Donnie caught up. Donnie was sporting a headlamp and carrying two flashlights. “I’ll check for critters,” he announced as he kicked the side door in. He yelled to Matt, “It’s an 8x10 foot room, nothing but a few shovels, a rusted scythe and an old scooter covered in chicken shit.” The next room housed empty coops and remnants left behind by previous partiers. Red shattered bong glass, empty beer cans, and a plethora of cigarette butts littered the room. Donnie picked up a forgotten deck of Tarot cards lying on a beer-stained Mad Magazine. He flipped the top card, revealing The Fool. Instantly, he heard a loud wooden creak and ran into the cattle stalls. Dust particles danced through the burst of moonlight beaming from the hayloft. A large figure rose in a cloud of dust and shone a blinding light. Donnie blocked his eyes and pivoted away before he heard Rory burst out laughing, “I came in through the hayloft, idiot! You look like you browned your trousers buddy!” Rory inspected his surroundings, “nothing up here but a coffee table, some pigeon shit and a bunch of empty beer cans.” Janet, James, Matt and a reluctant Christine appeared one by one in the hayloft. “Come on up Donnie,” belched Janet, “unless you’re the chicken shit!” By the time Donnie climbed the wooden ladder, Janet had the decrepit table set with a bowl of apples, six candles, a photograph and an antique pocket watch. Donnie was breathless, but still able to give Janet some crap, “what the hell Janet, who is this dude?” She snatched the photograph from his hand. “That’s William Donnelly,” Janet thundered. “Everyone knows about the Donnelly massacre. It’s part of Lucan lore, something we all whispered about, way before our parents wanted us to. It’s rumored that the Donnelly gravestone was removed from St. Pat’s cemetery in the 1960’s and placed in an old nearby barn. The monument, etched with the word ‘murdered’ under the names of the five butchered, was attracting too many tourists, each chipping away pieces for a souvenir. I believe that gravestone was brought here!” Janet picked up the watch and began to swing it back and forth like a pendulum. “This belonged to William Donnelly…the word ‘mother’ is engraved on the inside cover...” “You’re so full of it, Janet,” spouted Matt. Janet’s brows knitted, “if everyone will just shut up, I will tell you why we’re here.” Janet passed shot glasses to the obedient five then proceeded to pour each a nip of absinthe. Rory was the first to bark, “that’s not a shot Janet, I’m not a child.” Janet spit back, “actually, you are a child Rory, but ‘the green fairy’ will make you hallucinate if you have too much of it. Just sit down and listen.” Janet removed her hood and dusted the snow from her white parka. She took a sip of absinthe and began her monologue. “It was February 3rd, 1880, a cold night with snowflakes in the air and Taurus’ fiery red eye peering through the dark sky. The Vigilance Committee assembled at Cedar Swamp Schoolhouse. Grievances about the horse mutilating Donnelly clan were endless. It was just after midnight when the armed party of thirty-five started on their journey toward the homestead.” “Nothing good happens after midnight,” Christine interjected, only to be shushed by Janet’s death glare. Janet continued, “The ringleader, James Carroll, crept into the darkened house…alone…and handcuffed sleeping Thomas Donnelly. James Sr. was awakened by the intrusion and eventually Johanna and Bridget came downstairs to see what the ruckus was. When Carroll signaled, his men burst through the front door, piercing Tom with a pitchfork, and pulverizing him with shovels… James and Johanna were bludgeoned and trampled by the drunken invaders… Bridget ran screaming for the stairs but was ruthlessly hunted and viciously slaughtered… The oil from the family’s lanterns provided the fuel the posse needed to burn the little farmhouse to the ground… Next, they headed to William Donnelly’s place, 3 miles away. The angry mob yelled repeatedly for Will to come outside. Will’s brother, John, was spending the night and opened the door to see what the commotion was. He was riddled with bullets as he stepped over the threshold. You see… Will survived the Donnelly massacre! The vigilantes thought they had killed William, but they shot John... Why do I have Will’s photograph? And Will’s pocket watch? I believe he will talk to us!” The swinging pocket watch in Janet’s right hand came to an abrupt stop. Christine grabbed Rory, hiding her pale face in his pea coat. “You did that,” snapped Donnie, “quit messing around Janet.” “This is real Donnie, so if you can’t handle it, you can leave,” snorted Janet. “I’ll go with you Donnie,” stuttered Christine, clutching tightly to his green bomber jacket, only to get ripped away by Janet’s outstretched arm. “Both of you need to sit the hell down or this isn’t going to work.”
By Danielle Lenaghan Sheets5 years ago in Humans
Empty Garden
INTRODUCTION As usual, it takes the man nearly 30 minutes to panic. By then, he has noticed the signs and notes. His apartment walls are covered with them, hundreds if not thousands of short and not so short messages to him. Somehow he intuits that he wrote every note he sees throughout his tiny studio apartment. Maybe he remembers it. All he knows is he has little concern about who wrote them.
By Shawn Ingram5 years ago in Humans
This Fisherman Was Attacked By a Shark and Lived to Tell the Tale
At the nine-o’clock whistle blast we waded into the surf. Each man towed behind him, by a light line tied to his lead-weight belt, a buoyant, hollow fish float. We would load our fish into these floats immediately on spearing them. This would minimize the amount of fresh blood released into the water. Blood might attract from out beyond the reef the big hunting fish––the always hungry and curious great predatory sharks that prowl the deeper water off the South Australian coast. Lesser sharks––like the bronze whaler and gray nurse––are familiar to skin divers and have not proved aggressive. Fortunately, the dreaded white hunter, or “white death” sharks, caught by professional fishermen in the open ocean, are rarely seen by skin divers. But as a precaution, two high-powered patrol boats crisscrossed our hunting area keeping a wary lookout. The weather was bright and hot. An offshore breeze flattened the green wave tops, but it roiled the water on the reef. Visibility under the surface would be poor. This makes it difficult for spearfishermen. In murky water, a diver often gets too close to a fish before he realizes that it’s there; thus he scares it away before he can get set for a shot. By 12:30, when I towed to shore a heavy catch of parrotfish, snapper, snook, boarfish, and magpie perch, I could see from the other piles that I must be well up in the competition. I had 60 pounds of fish on shore, comprising 14 species. It was now 12:35, and the contest closed at two. As fish naturally grew scarcer in the inshore areas, I had ranged out to three-quarters of a mile for bigger and better game. On my last swim in from the “dropoff” section of the reef, where it plunges from 25-foot to 60-foot depth, I had spotted quite a few large fish near a big, triangular-shaped rock which l felt sure that I could find again. Two of these fish were dusky mornings––or “strongfish,” as we Australian skin divers usually call them. Either of these would be large enough to tip the scales in my favor; then one more fish of another variety would sew things up for me, I decided. I swam out to the spot I’d picked, then rested face down, breathing through my snorkel as I studied through my face glass the best approach to the two fish sheltering behind the rock. After several deep breaths, I held one, swallowed to lock it in, upended and dived. Swimming down and forward, so as not to “spook” them, I rounded the large rock and thrilled to see my quarry. Not 30 feet away the larger dusky morwong, a beauty of at least 20 pounds, was browsing in a clump of brown weed. I glided forward, hoping for a close-in shot. I stretched both hands out in front of me, my left for balance, my right holding the gun, which was loaded with a stainless steel shaft and barb. I drifted easily over the short weed and should have lined up for a perfect head-and-gill shot, but… How can I describe the sudden silence? It was a perceptible hush, even in that quiet world, a motionlessness that was somehow communicable deep below the surface of the sea. Then something huge hit me with tremendous force on my left side and heaved me through the water. I was dumbfounded. Now the “thing” was pushing me through the water with wild speed. I felt a bewildering sensation of nausea. The pressure on my back and chest was immense. A queer “cushiony” feeling ran down my right side, as if my insides on my left were being squeezed over to my right side. I had lost my face mask and I could not see in the blur. My speargun was knocked violently out of my hand. The pressure on my body seemed actually to be choking me. I did not understand what was happening. I tried to shake myself loose but found that my body was clamped as if in a vise. With awful revulsion, my mind came into focus, and I realized my predicament: a shark had me in his jaws. I could not see the creature, but it had to be a huge one. Its teeth had closed around my chest and back, with my left shoulder forced into its throat. I was being thrust face down ahead of it as we raced through the water. Although dazed with the horror, I still felt no pain. In fact, there was no sharp feeling at all except for the crushing pressure on my back and chest. I stretched my arms out behind and groped for the monster’s head, hoping to gouge its eyes. Suddenly, miraculously, the pressure was gone from my chest. The creature had relaxed its jaws. I thrust backward to push myself away—but my right arm went straight into the shark’s mouth. Now I felt pain such as I had never imagined. Blinding bursts of agony made every part of my body scream in torment. As I wrenched my arm loose from the shark’s jagged teeth, all-encompassing waves of pain swept through me. But I had succeeded in freeing myself. I thrashed and kicked my way to the surface, thudding repeatedly into the shark’s body. Finally, my bead pushed above water and I gulped great gasps of air. I knew the shark would come up for me. A fin brushed my flippers and then my knees suddenly touched its rough side. I grabbed with both arms, wrapping my legs and arms around the monster, hoping wildly that this maneuver would keep me out of his jaws. Somehow I gulped a great breath. We went down deep again––I scraped the rocks on the bottom. Now I was shaken violently from side to side. I pushed away with all my remaining strength. I had to get back to the surface. Once again I could breathe. But all around, the water was crimson with blood—my blood. The shark breached the surface a few feet away and turned over on its side. Its hideous body was like a great rolling tree trunk, but rust-colored, with huge pectoral fins. The great conical head belonged unmistakably to a white hunter. Here was the white-death itself! It began moving toward me. Indescribable terror surged through my body. One tiny fragment of the ultimate horror was the fact that this fearful monster, this scavenger of the sea, was my master. I was alone in its domain; here the shark made the rules. I was no longer an Adelaide insurance salesman. I was simply a squirming something-to-eat, to be forgotten even before it was digested. I knew the shark was attacking again and that I would die in agony when it struck. I could only wait. I breathed a hurried little prayer for Kay and the baby. Then, unbelievingly, I saw the creature veer away just before it reached me, the slanted dorsal fin curving off, just above the surface! Then my fish float began moving rapidly across the water. The slackline tightened at my belt, and I was being pulled forward and under the water again. At the last instant, the shark bad snatched the float instead of me and had fouled itself somehow in the line. I tried to release my weight-belt to which the line was attached, but my arms would not obey. We were moving very fast now and had traveled under water 30 or 40 feet, my left hand still fumbling helplessly at the release catch. Surely I’m not going to drown now rushed through my mind. Then the final miracle occurred: the line parted suddenly and I was free once more. They tell me that all I could scream when my head reached the surface was: “Shark! … Shark!” It was enough. Now there were voices, familiar noises, then the boatful of friends that I’d been praying would come. I gave up trying to move and relied on them to help me. In this new world of people, somebody kept saying, “Hang on, mate, it’s over. Hang on.” Over and over. I think without that voice out there I would have died. The men in the patrol boat were horrified at the extent of my injuries. My right hand and arm were so badly slashed that the bones lay bare in several places. My chest, back, left shoulder and side were deeply gashed. Great pieces of flesh had been torn aside, exposing the rib cage, lungs, and upper stomach. Police manning the highway intersections for 34 miles got our ambulance through in record time. The surgeons at Royal Adelaide Hospital were scrubbed and ready, the operating table felt warm and cozy, the huge silver light overhead grew dimmer … until late that night or early next morning I opened my eyes and saw Kay alongside my bed. I said, “It hurts,” and she was crying. The doctor walked over and said, “He’ll make it now.” Today, a year and a half later, my lungs work well, although my chest is still stiff. My right hand isn’t a pretty sight, but I can use it. My chest, back, abdomen, and shoulder are badly scarred. God knows I didn’t want to, but Kay realized right from the start that I had to go skin diving again. A man’s only half a man if fear ties him up. Five months after I recovered, I returned to the sea to leave my fears where I had found them. But my skin diving is different nowadays. I’ve got my confidence back, but with it came prudence. You can’t count on getting through a second round with a shark; anyhow, there are plenty of risks you have to take in this world without going out of your way to add needless ones. So now I stay away from competition and leave the murky water to the daredevils who’ve never felt a shark’s jaws around their chest. I could not see the creature, but it had to be a huge one. Its teeth had closed around my chest and back, with my left shoulder forced into its throat. I was being thrust face down ahead of it as we raced through the water. Although dazed with the horror, I still felt no pain. In fact, there was no sharp feeling at all except for the crushing pressure on my back and chest. I stretched my arms out behind and groped for the monster’s head, hoping to gouge its eyes. Suddenly, miraculously, the pressure was gone from my chest. The creature had relaxed its jaws. I thrust backward to push myself away—but my right arm went straight into the shark’s mouth. Now I felt pain such as I had never imagined. Blinding bursts of agony made every part of my body scream in torment. As I wrenched my arm loose from the shark’s jagged teeth, all-encompassing waves of pain swept through me. But I had succeeded in freeing myself.
By Jaramie Kinsey5 years ago in Humans
A Ghost Story Without Any Moral
Author's Note: This story feels like fiction, but it's actually a collage created from past (real) diary entries about my encounters with a ghost living in my house-- a perfectly ordinary slab-on-grade brick and vinyl siding house in a perfectly ordinary southeast Louisiana residential suburb built in 1979. I have no clue where we acquired a ghost. Diary entries have been lightly edited for clarity.
By Amethyst Qu5 years ago in Humans
Emerald
Emerald is my name, and I keep the watch for Sector Seven here in Richmond. Three days on, four days off, from Horse Creek in the north to Shockoe Creek in the south, all the way out to the hinterlands on the Chickahominy River. Easy as pie; a piece of cake. I could walk it off in my sleep without stumbling, patrol it in a dreamy daze.
By Charles McGuigan5 years ago in Humans
