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.
In the Eye of the Beholder
In a small corner of her apartment in East Hampton Martha had given birth to a masterpiece. The colours were vivid, the composition flawless, the light so believable, it was almost like magic. Martha couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten something, so lost was she in the process of creating this little wonder of tender brushstrokes and smudges. She knew, this was the piece that would open the doors into worldwide art recognition for her. Undying praise from a community so competitive, not even the hardiest stockbroker would stay sane for long. Martha's hands sweated excitement just from thinking about the coming evening. She remembered every mark she had put on the canvas in the last few weeks - or was it months? - it was like breathing life into empty space. Space that was now filled for all eternity.
By Zora Kastner5 years ago in Humans
Lucky Orleans
“Kristy! What the hell are you doing?” I yell as she rummages through my dresser and throws my clothes into a suitcase. She looks up and smirks, “We’re finally leaving this place!” I laugh hysterically, “You realize I have a job and responsibilities right?” I watch as Kristy closes the suitcase and grabs a duffle bag. Moving to a different drawer, she looks up, “So? This is everything we’ve dreamed about. We can finally move to Italy!” I’m so confused right now! How can we just pack up and leave? As if reading my mind, she throws a little black book on the bed.
By Susie Gunderson5 years ago in Humans
The Journal
Your hands ran across the sturdy wooden shelves of your local bookshop as you wandered down the aisles. You’d been searching for a book to fill the hole in your heart left by the last one you had devoured in one sitting. As the shelves ran out of possible books and you neared the darkest corner of the shop, your fingers slipped over a dilapidated little black book. The worn exterior caught your attention, having felt so many smooth titled spines throughout the selection. All of your attention homed in on reading the cover of this small book. But no title was to be seen on its cover, spine, or back. Interest peaked at the tip of your nose as you flipped open to what should be home to a title page. There on the first page, perfect swirls of the letters M.A.P. rested beneath the words “This Book Belongs To”. Your brain ran through its traffic of thoughts in attempt to figure out what type of book would belong to someone. As guilt quickly pops in, you close the journal and hesitate for a moment with it still resting in your hands. You look for a barcode and hope to discover a price; something to indicate that it is safe for you to read. As you turned it over your eyes fell upon the edges of the book, where “Read Me” was sprawled into the fore edges. With curiosity holding you by your tongue, you traipse up to the register to leave your decision in the hands of the shopkeeper. The old man had been peering out the window at the grey clouds in the sky when you pulled him from his ponderings. You gently set the little black book on the counter and asked if he knew the price. He shook his head and said it must have been a book someone left behind. He offered that you could keep it, though he didn’t understand why you would want to. So, with a goodbye, you left the bookshop with your eyes intent on discovering the owner of the forgotten journal.
By Forest Evergreen5 years ago in Humans
Jupiter's Day
Meredith set her bags down on the bench in front of the bus stand and began rummaging through her purse. Normally she would walk, however today she had stopped at the market and both she and the perishables she had purchased would appreciate the reprieve from the sun’s scorching rays.
By Lisa Richardson5 years ago in Humans
Lost and Now Found
The summer sun was blasting down from directly overhead. If not for the shade of the white tents dotting the area, we would all be dying of heat-stroke. The local vegetation leaned more toward low scrub and brush than anything an outsider would call trees. Men and women in jeans and hiking boots wearing matching t-shirts carefully sifted through loose dirt in screens. I was here mostly because my family had been hunting in these woods for generations, so I hired on as their guide.
By Jason Wallace5 years ago in Humans
Semicolon savior
Was he dead or alive? This thought kept circling through my head as I pulled on my cowboy boots and turned the song on the radio up. “Dry your tears dear girl, put on my boots and hat...” the song was speaking to me and all I could do to keep my composure was to listen and breath. I grabbed his patchwork fedora hat, tilted it off the side of my head, took a quick glance in the mirror and headed for the door.
By Healthy mountain gal Crystal5 years ago in Humans
Keeping one’s goals in mind
It was an Autumn Melbourne evening when Sarah curled up in bed for the first night in her new home, a one-bedroom apartment alongside the Peninsula. She could not help but feel a sense of relief, a sense of ease. She realised this was not a moment that would come along too frequently. Really, how often does someone buy a home? How often does someone receive a lump sum of $20,000 in inheritance? These were only some of the thoughts going through Sarah’s comforted mind.
By Karen Makarucha5 years ago in Humans
All the little things
It’s the little things that add up to big things. My first relationship as an adult started with a little smile, followed by a little conversation. Seven years of little encounters later we found ourselves engaged and grappling with not so little problems. After our engagement, I moved to the small island in the Caribbean where we both grew up to help take care of his elderly grandparents while he pursued a Master’s degree. Two months after my relocation, his grandmother was placed in a hospice and shortly after his grandfather died. My fiancé began to unravel by drinking a little at first, followed by, a little gambling, a little partying, and consuming a little drugs.
By Heiddy Rocha5 years ago in Humans
Stormy Micheals
Stormy wore tiredness on her face, like the sagging skin on a turtle. She was tired, tired of prison, tired of going, tired of going back, tired of hustlers, grifters, bad girls, gangsters, tweakers, junkies, butch bull dykes, testosterone-filled prison guards, and really tired of her own shit. She had been here this time for nine hundred twelve days, six hours and fifteen minutes. At the Nevada State Penitentiary Camp for women the last six months with a parole date of 1 month out, she was just trying to keep her head down and her mouth shut. God knows she had caused enough damage in her life with her mouth. Like a Fox News host, she just spouts out shit she has no idea about and usually offends someone and ends up in a fight. It is just easier to not say anything, cause like a snare in the forest for a hare, she can snap at a second's notice. It’s like walking around with a string of hand grenades strapped to her belt with all the pins pulled out half-way. Everywhere she goes, things could explode without notice or warning, any unsuspecting human can get blown up along the way, and Stormy isn’t sure why all the bodies are left in her wake but is convinced somehow it isn’t really her fault. She’s not stupid though and has begun to see a pattern that seems to involve her in every stupid thing and bad luck scenario she’s been in.
By Tony Blankenship5 years ago in Humans
