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 Gallery of Lost Things
Brigida Brandt was the icon to talk about in the little seaside town known as Windling Cove. Her would-be mansion sat looking over the cliffs cascading down to foamy blue waters, and many a teenager had been dared to jump from such a height to resurface in the sea below. It was said Brigida often watched the adolescent charades from her veranda and wore a faint smile on her thin lips.
By Jillian Spiridon5 years ago in Humans
Cursed Dream
I woke up with sweat pouring off my face into a glistening pool on my pillow. I glanced over at the clock on my bed-side table. The illuminated numbers on the screen had just turned over to midnight. Then I remembered suddenly. I quickly shoved my blanket aside and hopped out of my bed. I ran over to the sliding balcony doors. I left them open hoping the cool ocean air would soothe my slumber. The wind made the white frilly curtains dance around my figure. That’s when I saw it out in the distance.
By Natalie Miller5 years ago in Humans
Sink or Swim
I sit watching another ship pass by on the horizon, transporting it’s cargo to ports faraway. My spirit remains restless, my being transfixed by the constant sound of the waves slapping the shoreline. The water calls to me shows me the possibilities of freedom. Sink or swim? I don’t swim. Here I sit, stranded; lost in daydreams guided by ships.
By KJ Aartila5 years ago in Humans
Something In The Water
Chapatis are not nice. Anu does not like them and will not eat them. They’re dry, they taste like nothing, they make her thirsty, and her father says she shouldn’t drink too much water on a ship. That she’ll run through the supply meant for the whole crew. He can say what he wants. She’s not eating this chapati.
By Damini Kane5 years ago in Humans
Good Girl
It was 4 am. I had tried to sleep but my mind was racing. I felt the crushing weight of fear on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. The gnawing emptiness in the pit of my stomach reminded me I had forgotten to eat again. The horror of facing my worst nightmare in daylight had turned me into a zombie, unable to sleep or eat, not able to do anything but unable to do anything, either. I moved slowly in the dark, towards my kettle and made myself a mug of steaming, strong, black coffee. Slipping on my jacket, I grabbed my keys and carried my coffee to my front door. I opened the door and walked across to the other side of the street. I ducked down an alley by the side of an expensive boutique hotel. I reached the end of the alley and found myself in the marina. I could breathe again. I made my way to a concrete bench and sat down, clutching my coffee for warmth.
By JoJoBonetto5 years ago in Humans
The Ocean Healing
At 35 years old, Reni knew that he could no longer live as he did for the first 34 years of his life. The lazy, reserved, soft-spoken and usually timid character that defined him had to take the back seat for good this time otherwise these habits would erode his life away like the way the 6-foot waves he was currently looking at were eroding the rocky shores of this fish farm beach on which he had found solace.
By James Ssekamatte5 years ago in Humans
I've Been Here 103 Days, I Think
I've been here 103 days, I think. I try to remember every night to scratch another tally mark on the smooth part of the wall, but I'm sure I've forgotten to do it some nights. I'm starting to run out of space. The majority of the walls are either old, corroded and water-damaged, or rough red bricks that can't be drawn on. I can't waste my paper by drawing tally marks; then I'd have nothing to write on. He only gives me 3 blank sheets a week, because I asked for it. That was kind of him. I use the space wisely; I got in the habit of writing in small letters so I could fit more on the page. I write slowly, so more time passes. I don't write about anything important.. only about what I see and feel; what I can't change. But I'll never write about what he does to me. The minute I write about that, it becomes real. I won't accept that as another thing that can't change. Instead, I write to forget. The pain, the fear, the hunger, the cold, the lack of brain-stimulation, the loneliness.. all of it.
By Danielle Gargano5 years ago in Humans
The Last Ferry Home
"Last call for the seven o'clock ferry! Last call!" Harriet tried not to feel too discombobulated as she attempted to juggle her wheeled suitcase, her carry-on bag, her purse, and a windbreaker. Now she remembered why she didn't like traveling alone: there was never anyone else around to help with the luggage. The extra hands would have been nice right about then. And then, just as she managed to get up the ramp and past the ferry's threshold, her jacket escaped the crook of her elbow and fell to the ground. She offered an apologetic smile to the ferry worker waiting to collect her ticket, but he didn't even move an inch to help her retrieve her wayward windbreaker.
By Jillian Spiridon5 years ago in Humans
Things Aren’t Always as They Seem
When we arrived at the Bowling Alley it was packed. There was a group of young professionals who had clearly decided to have some kind of weekend get-together. They had booked most of the alleys but luckily we got one. While the boys went to get the drinks I sat down with June.
By Rejoice Denhere5 years ago in Humans
