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 Incan Treasure
Christopher Wilkins sighed as he walked away from his class and towards the bus stop. He had been excited to take the new ancient languages course at NYU, but he failed the class after the last three tests. Chris thought about this as it began to rain. He ran for the bus stop, thankful that he had just enough time to catch the bus for the evening.
By Richard Brooks5 years ago in Humans
A Fever in the Desert
Not even a stiff glass of whiskey could calm Michael’s nerves tonight as he scowled at the damp black book on his desk – it was completely blank. The little black book belonging to Delilah. Or rather it used to belong to her. Michael took a large gulp of whiskey, reveling in the burn he felt down his throat and then in his chest. He longed for that burn or in fact any burn that would distract him from the grief of Delilah’s murder. His sweet, hauntingly beautiful Delilah – How could he live knowing he would never again hear her melodic laughter echoing through the halls of his large estate? Knowing he would never again feel the warmth of her touch or admire her witty parlance? Yes, he’d loved Delilah fiercely from the moment he saw her glide into the gentleman’s club. She’d met his gaze boldly, challenging him to look away even with his lavish title of Duke. After that night Michael cared little of his responsibility to marry a chaste lady of the ton and produce an heir to continue his Title, he cared not of the whispers and gossip surrounding him and he didn’t even care she had birthed a child to another man. Michael thought only of Delilah, completely bewitched by her and burned like a fever in the desert. A stormed raged outside the window of Michael’s study and yet the furious banging on the door still echoed thunderously down the hall. 'Who could that be?' Michael mumured displeased and glanced into the darkness outside, it must be the early hours of the morning he mused. Michael stormed past the servants who had heard the commotion and arisen to investigate, and threw the heavy doors open. A coachman stood in the entrance holding a basket, inside the basket a screaming infant lay, thrashing wildly. She was Delilah’s; she bore her flawless dark skin and fierce black eyes. Michael’s heart lurched painfully in his chest, the resemblance being so uncanny it pained him to gaze upon her. “Here” the coachman thrust Delilah’s little bundle into his arms, slapped a soggy letter on top and retreated back into the blackness of the storm. Michael hurriedly carried the child back to his study, set the basket down on his desk and carefully opened the letter. Delilah’s hand read: 'Michael – my love, if you’re reading this I can no longer care for my daughter Celeste. It is because I needed money for Celeste’s future, I desired for her to lead a life better than my tumultuous one. Celeste’s father is the Tsar, when I discovered I was with child I knew he would cast me away and so I stole his priceless matryoska dolls and sold them to the French court. If you’re reading this he has found me and likely disposed of me. I’ve hidden the money with Celeste; it is now please find someone to care for Celeste. I wish you and I might’ve had more time Michael. My endless love and admiration,
By Natasha Byrne5 years ago in Humans
Little black book
On the subway, two girls are sitting next to each other. They look very much alike, similar hair length and color, facial features, ways of holding their body.
By Thuya Wishes5 years ago in Humans
DAY 1
The night spoke of a new beginning, one in which the sun would rise to kiss a new year, and it would smile at its new lover, for things would be good, and it would shine even brighter. Well, maybe not so brighter, for it is already so hot here already. But when the ever-resplendent glow reflects through the crack of your window, when the spiralling warmth courses over your skin, you would know that it is time, and you would get up to work. The clergyman told me that I would be walking into unexpected open doors. I reach out for the first one, which is life into the first day, and I breathe and smile, for I have made it. The other doors are lined up, each without a door knob, for there is nowhere to place it. It is just a matter of little time. My faith does a little dance, and it whispers the beautiful words in my ears. Soon it would metamorphose from what it is already into a reality, and I can't wait. It told me of its excitement, and I shared it as well. Then the sacrificial lamb was taken to the slaughter house. I watched it as it struggled for its life as steel was put to its throat, and passed through it till the sharp flat came out at the back. Everyone laughed and was joyous. Murder, I think? Well, it cannot be classified as so, but I think it to be that anyways. I have a pain in my tooth. Father says it is wisdom teeth, a new one to be added to my ever-browning collection. I wondered why it had to be so painful, even to swallow my spittle hurt so much. Father said. "Learn from the mouth, for it speaks without words to tell you that positive growth is not without its pains." I am not sure I learned so much from that, except that it still hurt even after the painkillers, and I could only stare as they shared the sacrificial lamb amongst themselves; their teeth tearing at its flesh. Well, I didn't want it anyways, I didn't want to be a part of the murder, or did I? I'm very sure I didn't want to, but the spittle dropping from my mouth as I watched them didn't concur. Sadly, sometimes we aren't just in control.
By Malumi Adeboye5 years ago in Humans
Not on the Same Page Round 4
Getting back out there. Jumping back on the horse. Testing the waters can be a scary thing and also a weird thing. People can seem altogether there and then as you talk to them they start to drop subtle clues. Clues that there is a reason why they are on a dating site. Trust me I'm not judging because let's face it, I was one of those people who other people were saying that same statement about. I was the one with the 8 point profile that read like a sarcastic bitch list of what creates an asshole. Which is what prompted this nearly month-long exchange.
By Mia Lynn5 years ago in Humans
The Painting
It was 11PM and the soft sounds of people working were fading as I walked to the locker rooms to receive my belongings. I was bone tired, fingers and back sore from lifting boxes all day. I looked down at my hands, they were ashy and kind of dirty. 'I should wash my hands..,' I thought to myself. I walked over to a sink not too far from my locker and squeezed the highly scented soap into my hands, lathering up the soap and watching the murky water go down the drain. I got caught in a daze of thoughts, watching the water swirling down. I was tired of this job, the mundane day to day, each day being the same like I was on autopilot or a well oiled machine with only one purpose. The feeling encompassed me, making me feel almost overwhelmed with the idea that this is how I lived. I shook the feeling off, telling myself, "You'll be fine" and turned off the sink. I quickly put on my coat and grabbed my bag, just wanting to get home and get into my warm bed. As I stepped outside, the cold brisk wind slapped my entire body. It was colder than I had expected, further dimming my mood and increasing my eagerness to get home. I waited for the bus, the wind still hitting me and spinning around me. I was freezing and this bus was certainly delayed because it had been scheduled to arrive at 11:15 and it was already 11:35. I stood there angrily, feelings still building up like a kettle on an open flame. Just when I felt ready to call a cab, the bus pulled up at 11:50. "Hello there!," said the bus driver as he let me onto the warm bus. I grumbled a lowly hello, still upset he took so long. The driver stalled there a bit, waiting for others who got off at 12. A few people started walking towards and piling in. Faces of tiredness from a hard day of work at the warehouse. The bus pulled off and softly began to rock me to sleep. My eyes felt heavy and my head was bobbing up and down, trying to stay awake and alert of when my stop was coming. I shook my body just a little, trying to invoke a feeling of energy; that didn't seem to help though because soon after I was waking up on an empty bus. I jolted up scared that I missed my stop, frantically looking outside. I sighed in relief to see I was close to my stop but hadn't passed it. I grabbed my bag off the seat to prep to get off at the next stop. As I did this, I saw a little black book underneath the seat beside me. I don't know why but I felt compelled to pick it up, so I did. It seemingly was old, with a worn out, scuffed leather cover. I flipped through it to see it was empty, until I got to a middle page. Written on that page was an address. I flipped further to see if there was anything else within the book but there wasn't, just that address. My stop had come and I quickly darted off the bus, into the cold. Luckily my apartment was only a block away. I put my keys into the door and stepped inside of my warm apartment. It was quiet and dark, no one to greet me, just me. I flicked on the lights and took off my shoes, just ready to take a hot shower but the book in my hand intrigued me. What was this address? Why was that the only thing written? I further examined the book to see if there was anything else on or inside it. Nothing, nothing at all. I put the tiny black book inside the pocket to my coat and headed to the shower. After my shower I laid in bed, tossing and turning. I couldn't get this book off my mind for some reason. It was something so normal yet so odd. It was just exciting enough to add a difference into the stagnant life I was living. I soon drifted off, too tired to think about anything at all but the peace of sleep.
By Manu Noel5 years ago in Humans
Dear Sir
I did my research. I looked them all up. Searched online. Called in some favors. I know people who know shit and what they don’t know they have the right access to find. And it cost me nothing because I’m good to people. So, they all owe me from some long-ago generosity I graced upon them. A spare bedroom. Rent money. A borrowed car. An alibi.
By ANGELA WESLEY5 years ago in Humans
Painting in the Rain
The letter came when it was raining and I had been looking for my notebook for three days. I see the postman from my second-story bedroom window and jog down the stairs, hoping to grab the mail from him before he slides it into the swimming pool in the bottom of my letterbox. The new box, that didn’t have a rusted hole in the roof, was sitting in the garage, waiting for a sunny day that hadn’t come. Three months and it hadn’t stopped raining. I can’t even work. I had plans to use the basement as a studio but the foundations leak and water runs down the walls, making it feel like a mountain cave, complete with ambient dripping noises.
By Naomi Davidson5 years ago in Humans
The Misery of Safety
Harriet woke up on Thursday morning at 6:15, just like she did every single morning of every single week of every single year. She used the bathroom, put on her robe and slippers and headed out to her kitchen. She popped the little pod into her coffee maker, made her daily cup of coffee, added exactly two tablespoons of light cream and sat down to drink it while skimming her email. She allowed herself exactly twenty minutes every day, then headed to the bathroom where she flossed and brushed her teeth before hopping into a very hot shower. She always started by washing her hair and applying conditioner, which she left on while she washed her face, rinsing it out before proceeding to wash the rest of her body and shave her legs and armpits. This regimen took exactly seven minutes. She squeegeed the shower door and grabbed a towel, wrapping herself tightly before stepping back into her bedroom. As always, her clothes had been carefully laid out the night before, and after applying body lotion and allowing it to dry, she stepped into her outfit of the day. She sat down on the foot of the bed to put her shoes on, and suddenly began to cry. She was inexplicably overcome with sadness at the fact that her life had become so horribly, boringly routine. Ever since her mother had disappeared when she was twelve, she had become more and more bound by habit and predictability.
By Toni Licciardi5 years ago in Humans
The Girl with Nine Roses & No Name
I come from the incredible India which, over centuries, has evolved into a very unique ecosystem of cultures and collective behaviors. The influence of the West on the East isn’t a myth either, rather a stark reflection of the contrast between the rising aspirations and ambitions of India’s middle class towering over the ill-fates of a larger number of low-income groups. Debating income and class differences is a different arena of reality altogether, especially in countries like India. But there exists an interesting reality, amongst many other such realities, in the outskirts of New Delhi, the capital city of India. In the hustle bustle of Noida’s Sector 16 area, within a 10-mile distance from the capital’s center, one can find all kinds of materialistic pleasures at one’s disposal, if one has pockets deep enough. Fine dining restaurants, gourmet delicacies, luxury cars, lavish shopping malls and what not. Two 5-star shopping malls and an amusement park grace the area within a square mile radius which also has the Metro Rail connectivity to cater to the footfall. More megastructures are coming up in the vicinity including a full-fledged film city by 2023. And right outside these megastructures an ecosystem flourishes, comprising cooks who light the ovens inside the royal kitchen, the mechanics who repair the exorbitantly expensive cars, store attendants who spend their days selling items they cannot afford themselves and the notorious auto drivers of Delhi/NCR infamous for their rowdy traffic manners.
By navnS5 years ago in Humans
The Ticket
Grandma sat in her old wicker chair, rocking back and forth fervently as she gripped the pencil in one withered wisp of a hand. In the other she held firmly open a worn, leather-bound black notebook, the pages stained from decades of mug bottoms and spills. It was Grandma’s one prized possession; I am ashamed to admit that if forced at gunpoint to choose between saving me and the book, there was a very real chance that she would opt for the latter.
By P.L.5 years ago in Humans
A Once-in-a-Lifetime Opportunity
I. At some point it wasn’t clear whether my eyesight had begun to blur or the writing had become illegible. I squinted, pulled my glasses low on my nose, squinted harder, and pushed them back up. A bead of sweat dripped off the tip of my chin onto the page, obfuscating it further.
By Leigh Dollard5 years ago in Humans