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.
Impacting Others, Happy or Brilliant, and Huggers
The Stranger on the Bench It started on a rainy Thursday. Leena had just quit her job — not dramatically, just quietly walked out of the glass doors, box in hand, heart pounding. The email she sent afterward was polite, professional, and filled with more truth than HR would appreciate.
By waseem khan7 months ago in Humans
🌳The Forest Her Son Never Saw
The villagers thought she had gone mad. She no longer spoke at the market. She no longer wore bright colors. The laughter that once spilled from her door had vanished. Ever since the accident, she'd become a shadow—moving through town like a silent breeze, leaving silence in her wake. Every morning, she walked alone to the edge of the village with a tiny sapling in one hand and a small shovel in the other. The path was always the same—through the cracked dry grass, over the rocky bend, to the open hill where nothing had ever grown. And there, with the sun barely rising behind her, she would dig a hole and plant another tree.
By DR. Allama iqbal7 months ago in Humans
Baba Vanga and the 2025 Apocalypse Prophecy
Baba Vanga, the famous blind mystic from Bulgaria, has become a legendary figure in the world of prophecy. Known for her eerie predictions about major world events — from the 9/11 terrorist attacks to the war in Ukraine — she remains a subject of fascination long after her death. Among her most haunting forecasts is a claim that the apocalypse would begin in the year 2025.
By Eleanor Grace7 months ago in Humans
The Hummingbird Weaver of Willow Creek
The first time I saw the hummingbird, it wasn't flitting amongst the honeysuckle or sipping from the feeder Mable kept meticulously clean on her porch. It was woven into the fabric of a memory, shimmering, tiny, and impossibly vibrant, right at the edge of my vision. I was eight years old, huddled in Mable’s dusty attic, the air thick with the scent of mothballs and forgotten dreams. Mable, my great-aunt, was a woman carved from old oak, her hands gnarled but surprisingly delicate when she picked a wilting rose. She wasn’t prone to flights of fancy. Yet, she was the one who taught me to see.
By noor ul amin7 months ago in Humans
