Fictional Poems Novels & Stories

In the video, he wore an oxygen mask, his face pale, righteously accusing me of poisoning him. He had painted me as a villain who tried to steal his best friend's girlfriend, and, out of jealousy, attempted murder. How shameless of him. Since when had Jade become his girlfriend, and since when had I ever laid my eyes on her? More importantly, the police had not even convicted me yet. How could he openly defame me like that? My chest heaved with anger as I kept scrolling, only to find the video had already gone viral. [#RichHeirPoisonedByBestFriend]

“She’s the last person on my mind when I sleep and my first thought when I wake up. I miss her when I eat, study, sleep. I feel like crying loudly when I go into your bedroom and I see her empty space.” “Honey, but I’m trying my best to fulfill all your requirements. You know you’re my eldest daughter and I love you more than anyone” My dads eyes filled with tears as he spoke to me. “This huge mansion full of furniture and a 100 servants is still empty without mom. These fancy dresses and money can’t replace my mother.” I cried. “There’s no one to look after Anna and Zac. Anna is just 15 and Zac is 10. They need a mother. I totally agree that you’re trying your best and you love me the most

After all, every person is unique like Rayene was funny and out going but Henry was a smiling person who could laugh at your baddest jokes but couldn't crack one himself. "Okay, so in our world we don't have real vampires like here. But, we have stuff that works on engines and there are even books on people like you." "So, it's your ancestry that no longer exists?" I asked as little confused. "No! No! They are fictional characters!" "What's fictional characters?" "Well, they are something that exists only in your imagination. And, then you put those imaginative characters on paper. And, boom! Fictional characters are born." Rayene explained while moving her hands in all directions while I no

Inky, pinky, ponky, father has a donkey, donkey, died, father cried, inky, pinky, ponky. The fifth one. Yes. The dead soul of donkey never betrays me. Now I realize we're teaching the death story of a donkey to children! How cruel it is. But still rest in peace Mr. Donkey.............Maybe Mrs. Donkey too. What if that donkey is a woman. It can happen.

Disclaimer: This work is a piece of fantasy fiction. All names, characters, businesses, events, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. As a writer, I believe in the power of storytelling to create worlds that allow readers to escape reality and explore their imaginations. Each character and event in this story has been crafted with care, and I hope they resonate with you as much as they do with me.

“Of course not. It’s just a house . . . my house, as you said.” “I can’t believe it. You’re Mr. Horror, and you don’t believe in ghosts? How is that even possible?” “Okay, Bias, I’m going to blow your mind with one hell of a revelation about writers and their stories. I’m pretty sure Lewis Carroll never fell down a rabbit hole into a magical Wonderland; it doesn’t seem likely that Anne Rice believes in vampires; and I highly doubt J.K. Rowling has met any real wizards. That’s what makes it fiction and not nonfiction.”

It was a small volume of poems by a writer named Olaren the Younger, who had lived two hundred years ago at the edge of the eastern continent and had written about water and waiting. The book had been lost in the fire. She had been trying to remember the poems ever since. She recited two for me. The ones she could remember most of. They were simple. They were about a river going past a stone. They were the kind of poems a man read when he had spent his life ruling a founder pack and needed a quiet thing at the end of the day. I wrote the poems down. I wrote them on a clean page in my study. I added them to the drawer where I kept Mira's letters and my father's last note.

I was once again forced to speak to the man who broke my heart into a million pieces… I stopped writing and frowned at my words. I shook my head and deleted it. I don’t want to write yet another post about Brian. I thought about something Joseph had said on the first day of class and I started to grow inspired. Trying again I wrote: What is fiction? What defines fiction? Does it count as fiction if you’ve never seen something? Just because you’ve never seen a unicorn, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. It just means you’ve never seen it. The idea that there could be otherworldly creatures living amongst us is crazy to me because it’s always seemed like such fiction. But as I grow older, and I ex

He was an aspiring writer, a man who was slowly making a name for himself when everyone chose not to believe in him. His work doesn’t seem to fit the norm. When everyone was seeking love through poems and novels, he was writing about fantastical worlds of the unknown. Most people around him that had read his work believes that it fits as tales told to children.

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ If only fictional people existed in real life :( \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \