Fiction Is Real Novels & Stories

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. REMEMBER: The world of fiction where the characters of my story reside is void of realities of HIV and STI. In the real world where we live in, HIV and STIs exist. The story is merely an escape from that world, so that I can release my subconcious, which is full of crazy and messy sex fantasies. The scenes in this story should never be recreated in real life. Guys, never ever attempt barebacking, rape or other unsafe sex ac

She could already sense his body reacting, both here and in the real world. "After you left, it got me thinking about a few things. You see, my mother, may she burn in hell, she isn't real. Yet her presence here was very real, an entity beyond a sense memory. That got me to thinking about the difference between reality and fiction. What here was a lie, and what was the truth? Clearly, you and I are truth. This place, in a way, is truth. It's all part of a code.

I steadied my breathing, “Do you know that if you put in the same energy you use to read into school, you’d be a grade A student.” She stuck out her tongue at me in retaliation. “You really need to read this one; it’s about fairies and werewolves,” she gushed, “I can’t wait to meet an actual fairy.” “Fairies don’t exist, Leslie,” I said in a bored tone. “Of course they do,” she argued, “If they didn’t then why would people write about them?” “Because it’s a myth, and it’s fantasy, it sells well.” “Every myth is based on truth,”

It's all a fantasy. Fable has been my escape. An unhealthy one. A safe pretend world where I could bury myself. Just like how Zee cried after she finished the final Harry Potter book, or how Jamie bases so much of her worth on the fictional version of herself that lives across a thousand Instagram pics, in the comments and likes of a thousand strangers. Just carefully constructed lies to comfort and lull. Dreams.

The fake ring on my finger suddenly felt unbearable, as if I had put thorns on myself. It was weirdly heavy. This was just a physical reminder of every lie currently keeping my life from collapsing. I needed to get home. Take it off. Wash this entire day off my body. My legs stopped walking as my phone vibrated inside my purse. Once. Twice. Then a third time. The whole of my body went cold. No. At least not here. Not now. But deep down, I already knew. With trembling hands, I pulled out my phone.

Jake fired back at me as I stood the silence amazed by this level of effrontery. "So, I get attitude in my own house?" I threw the question to no one at all and sat on the couch. "You told me that you and Megan were just partners, so what do we have here?" Jake queried with his phone in my face again. "Oh please, take that away from my face." I implored. "You have probably gotten another fake news from your fake ass sources." I replied. Jake looked at me quietly and busted out into a phase of laughter. He laughed so hard that he clinched his belly and I watched confused, wondering whether I cracked a joke.

Those small moments of encouragement make me want to keep writing, even on the days when it’s hard. This story might not be perfect, but it’s honest. Every chapter is written with effort and thought. Some parts may move fast, others a bit slower but that’s how stories breathe. I hope, somewhere in between, you find something that sticks with you. --- PREFACE Before you start, I want to say this clearly: This is a work of fiction. Everything you’ll read — the names, places, businesses, and events comes from imagination. Some details may feel familiar, but they’re not taken from real life. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or to actual events, is purely coincidental.

“What is this? I told you we just need a brief description. I didn’t ask you to make up some bullshit story.” “I added some colour-” “You didn’t add colour,” he interrupts the writer. “You wrote a whole fucking horror story. When did any of our children die? We didn’t pick up exploded elders in the forest. Everything we say needs to be believable. This is not.” “I’m sorry, your highness,” the woman says. “I write fiction, not-” “Do better next time,” Johnathan interrupts and shoves the folder back in her hands. “Who has the fact sheet about this man?”

Things weren't what they seemed to be or used to be, but suddenly reality had started to set in, and I was more than aware of this and was beginning to accept it. What appeared to be fiction in this universe, I now questioned. If vampires were real, other made-up stories might also be as genuine as they come. In my bed, cuddling I was lost as to how I was feeling just now. Should I accept reality as it is now, or should I keep fighting until I managed to get away?

However, until now, I didn’t have any feelings for Siska, but my hatred for her grew more profound. Their assumption was wrong because they read too many romance novels. I wonder why they follow the flow written by the author in real life? Don’t they know how to tell the difference between fiction and real life? I think they all carried away with the novel’s plot and applied it in their daily life. I can only give a faint sigh to those who always think of life as the path they have arranged. But they are not the ones who govern fate and destiny. Sometimes the things you plan didn’t always go the way you planned in your mind.