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.
Empty Wine Glass
The ride home was tranquil one could hear the tires of every car on the road. If one can be still enough, they might listen to the individual conversations of the people in the cars beside them. Alisa thought to herself; she was so tired of him getting upset to the point he would not acknowledge her. Alisa felt he did not care about her feelings; the only feelings that matter was his. Alisa always just always listened to how he felt. This time he did not talk. He remained silent; he did not even look at her. Alisha placed her perfectly manicured hand in the middle of the seat between them. He did not reach for her hand, and they enjoyed holding each other's hands while driving home. He just kept his eyes on the road and said nothing. She always tried to ease him by telling a joke to make him laugh. It did not work; he would not say anything, he would get quieter; the only thing they both would hear is their breaths; one can count their breaths. The ride home with him felt like a stab at the heart.
By Latoiua Foster5 years ago in Humans
A Knight With Wine
Leaving work later than usual, Cayla hopped off the last step with more perk than she actually felt. She was terribly relieved she’d thought ahead and packed some toiletries and a clean pair of jeans in her backpack before rushing out the door this morning.
By Nicole Deviney5 years ago in Humans
Was it even real?
Ring ring ring hello? You sleep? If I was sleep would I have answered? Now before you jump to conclusions Jarrell had been calling for a second date for over three weeks now , however I just couldn’t do it . See lets rewind to our first date .
By Alexendria Mccullough 5 years ago in Humans
Pour, Swivel, Smell, Taste
Every Thursday night Mrs. Walker comes in and sits at table 39 by the window, and asks for our Finest Merlot. She orders a bottle and two wine glasses. She asks the waiter to leave the bottle at the table. She pours herself a glass, places the glass stem between her two fingers then swivels it on the table. She picks it up to smell, then taste. She always leaves the second glass empty, as if she was waiting for someone, and stays until we are closed for the night.
By Sheba Lawshea5 years ago in Humans
Petit Merle
She took the protective pocket off the Velcro strip and placed a "Laura's Pick" card inside, then refastened it under the cubby holding the St. Emilion Merlot the employees had just tasted from their weekly shipment. The long finish still lingered in the back of her throat. It was not a surprise to any of her colleagues at the wine shop that she had chosen a merlot to promote.
By Laura MacLeod5 years ago in Humans
Muñeca Linda
Barbara had just stepped outside the store, on the way back to her motel, when one of the plastic bag’s handles broke unexpectedly. The bottle of Merlot she had just purchased shattered into one thousand pieces upon contact with the curb. The ruby-brick explosion on the grey cement was followed by Pollock-like dripping as Barbara carried to the closest trashcan the rest of the unfortunate bottle wrapped in the bag, like a bloody murder weapon. “At least I saved the frozen pizza,” she thought.
By Milena Anfosso5 years ago in Humans
"In the Country"
Even the countryside is petrifying for females. Stories of women being broken seem to be confined to the cities. They are not. The local news stations and channels should come take the 20-minute trip from the closest city terrain to where I live “in the country” as my owner’s friend, Miguel, would say. He is Guatemalan, but Los Angeles is what he has known most of his life. I’ve pick up a lot of information just laying around and being present.
By Laura K Zielinski5 years ago in Humans
Love Is A Battlefield
Paris 1941 Evie could have been arm candy for some pathetic SS officer, but she made a vital decision right after her parents were forced to billet a Nazi officer in their home in the 17th district. Paris would return to the way Paris was, Evie planned on it, no matter what the cost. Head and eyes forward, smiling at the local men and ignoring the invaders, she headed to the Metro station to catch her train to work. Dark wavy shoulder-length hair and full red lips, she might be mistaken for Veronica Lake. As a features writer at Paris Match, Evie worked on fashion and film pieces and could often be found rubbing elbows with designers and actors most evenings. Her stories always had a subtle edge to them, subtle digs to the occupying forces without ever really saying anything.
By Michael J Massey5 years ago in Humans
Joe Danone's
I am sitting at my scarred, candlelit drum table. I have an eye on the door and an eye on Raul - a Spaniard among Italians - who hangs about by the coat rail wearing his hideous crushed-velvet jacket that doubtless reeks of cheap tobacco, tasked as ever with nothing more taxing than taking diners’ coats and sending them on to their waiter. Moving shapes appear in the frosted door and Raul huffs and grumbles, then lets a young couple in and frets about them, demanding their coats, making a meal of finding space on the coat rail for the young couple’s garments.
By jamie harding5 years ago in Humans
