Figment Novels & Stories

Once I was done, I wore my regular work clothes, luckily for me, I have two work shirts and skirt, I wore a black scarf to cover my hair. I picked up my clothes and kept them on the couch before I exited the room. Before leaving the house I went to the kitchen to take a glass of water and eat an apple, as I drank water Jamil and Hanan entered the kitchen "Aren’t you supposed to be in school?" I said as I kept the glass cup back to where it belongs "Mommy isn’t around and Noor forgot to wake us but for school," Jamil said Jamil is the youngest in the house, he is fair in complexion, his lips are peach in color, his eyelashes are barely noticeable and he’s chubby.

It looked like peace. "You can't come through, Hazel," the writer said without looking up. "You’re a fictional character. You don't have enough data to exist in three dimensions. You’ll just turn into a pile of ash." "Then I’ll be the most dangerous ash you’ve ever seen," I hissed. I slammed the Black Heart drive against the glass screen. CRACK.

Which makes a lot of sense since I've been thrown from foster home to foster home ever since I was a baby, with no one really caring about anything except the money they got for letting me exist in their space. Despite knowing he's a figment of my imagination, and I do know that, the fact he's been there for as long as I can remember, means the fucked up part of my brain automatically thinks of him on the odd occasion a guy even tries to flirt with me, and I feel guilty, like I'm betraying him. Betraying him!? Betraying the fucking figment of my imagination!? I'm going to die alone. Without even the company of a dozen cats, sinc

A projection, not of code or file but of a child. No older than seven. Pale skin. White hair. Eyes too sharp for innocence. Mira’s breath caught. Because the girl had her face. “You’re not real,” Mira said slowly. “I’m more real than you are right now,” the child replied, tilting her head. “I’m the version they perfected. The one who never doubted. Never broke.” Echo whispered, “What… is that?” “A splinter construct,” Mira muttered. “They built a model of me. A predictive one. Probably embedded with my neurological base code.”

Fuck I miss him. “They won’t be friends though. It says that clearly. They just don’t want total war. And if the pact ends then the dimensions will fight. And the winner will rule the other two.” “Why does it sound like something out of a nightmare?” I looked up at him. He didn’t answer. He just looked at the page again. I turned it gently and the next page had an illustration of a huge tree with a woman carved into the roots. Her eyes were closed and the runes on her skin looked exactly like mine.

“There's no one from our staff memebers matches that description." I bite my lower lip as I draw out a stiff sigh. “Thank you,” I whisper very weakly, before walking out of the cafe in defeated movements. Something strange is happening, something that defies explanation, that's for sure: I was sent back to this cafe after taking a nap inside my bedroom, then I met Hugh Montemayor, a werewolf, a character in an ebook. My money wasn’t accepted and was even called ‘fake’, my home is resided by strangers, my phone’s contact list is empty and I can't access my social media accounts.

Just as he was heaving the heavy thick wooden door closed, a pair of hands pulled it back open. There before him stood the reason for so many things. This battle. Sheiria's fatal wound. The reason that their son had been spirited away by his most trusted captain and the boy's nursemaid. Ragar was an ugly man. In both mind, heart and appearance. Unkept, wild, knotted hair. A mouth full of rotting teeth. A demeanor of cruelty and greed. The only thing about the man that resembled health was his rounded belly, suggesting a habit of over-eating and over-indulgence.

I asked him. “Marquess Ilca Noarem Usain Sloven?” dad asked. That’s quite a long name for a single person or demon. “Who is that?” I confusedly asked. “This man,” he said, then he showed me a picture of the demon that he’s talking about in the air and it was Minus. “That’s him,” I said. “So he also went to your world,” he said. “I think so, and he destroyed quite a few properties in our world and I dealt with him,” I told him.

I mean, do you have help from the Dreamtime spirits? He got that question with some regularity. Of people who believed, or wanted believe, that the spiritual world really existed. “If I had, it wouldn't have taken so long to get published. Laughter greeted his words. Then he continued. “No, I don't have help from Dreamtime spirits, or so far as I know. As for Kalti being me, no, he is a fictional creation. Three or four hands waved in the air, and he pointed to a man who asked him

"Psst." Mandy stopped and looked around. She spun when she heard a laugh behind her. A small child stood slightly behind a tree. The boy looked like a refugee in torn clothes with choppily cut, too long hair and dirt smudges on his face. "Oh, um... hi. Who are you?" His small chest swelled. "I am Patreous, son of Tyboll the Terrible." It was such an outlandish way to introduce himself that she had to fight back laughter. "Well Patreous, son of Tyboll the Terrible, I am Mandy, mate to Honey the Hell Spawn. It's nice to meet you."