Realistic Fiction Novels & Stories

"Yeah, tell me 'cause I sleep halfway through even picture books." I sighed and leaned back on the chair. "I just like to lose myself in fiction to forget reality. You know, a reality where my life's too short to do stuff like they do in books. Or even in real life like falling in love, having children, growing old, finding some treasure in some remote island, murdering someone--- " "You can still do that, I'll help you hide the body," he suggested while waggling his eyebrows and because of his creepy expression, I laughed.

ARCANE DELIGHTS I slowly close the journal, settle it in my lap and gaze at its black leather-bound cover. I rub its pebbled surface lightly, thinking. Only stories. These are only stories. Fantastical stories. A little more fantastical than I usually prefer, though well-written, by someone with a much greater command of the craft than I yet possess. The vivid characterization, meticulous attention to detail and a surreal sense of place makes me want to believe these stories happened, but I know they couldn’t have, and am ready to dismiss them as nothing more than fiction . . .

he spoke without hesitation. Everybody seemed perplexed by his answer. He was a fantasy writer. How many personal real-life experiences could have happened? “How is that possible?” The same girl asked, mimicking my thoughts. “You’re a fantasy author, so your writing is fiction.” “It depends on your definition of fiction. I have a broader sense of the word. What makes something fiction? Just because you can’t see something with your eyes, doesn’t make it not real.” “Like air…” I found myself talking softly from the back of the room, getting Joseph’s attention.

Patting her ‘fro, she answers the question: “Well, if you ask me, I'd say that the line between Fiction and Reality should not be blurred. In real life, no Mafia is going to sweep you off your feet and pamper you like a good girl. Or, treat you like his princess. It's all make-believe. Entertainment. No single Mafia man out there is like the ones that you read about in the pages of my book. Or any book in the Mafia-Billionaire Romance genre for that matter.” Like an obedient puppet, the Interviewer is quick to agree on that take.

There was something in his expression—something almost vulnerable beneath the usual control. For a moment, I wondered if he was talking about himself. "What about you?" I asked. "Do you read?" "Not fiction. Too much make-believe." "That's the whole point of fiction." "Maybe. I prefer reality. Even when it's ugly." "Reality is overrated." "So is fiction. At least reality doesn't lie to you." I wanted to argue, but something in his tone suggested this wasn't a casual observation. We talked for over an hour. About books and work and nothing important. About Phoenix and Seattle and the difference between rain and desert heat.

sabi niya saka tumayo na. I can't still process everything. Everything seems so impossible. It's like something I didn't expect to happen. I've read a lot of fiction but nothing compares to this reality. The reality is scary. Reading books is like stepping into the world of fiction, but if you close the book again, you'll be back to the reality where the things in the book is less likely to happen in real life. "Cap," bati ni Jungle. I know it's Fauve. I can smell his scent.

“What?!“ Richard Tyson had his fist clenched in boiling fury. “It was Ursula. I think this is one of her schemes to have me pander to her every sexual whim.“ Arthur spoke with much assurance, narrating in detail his encounter with her earlier. “That scheming witch!“ Richard rasped. His fury was evident in his blue eyes. “Wait till I get my hands on her.“ “Ursula's one thing. The press is another. How could they buy a story so absurd as this?“ Arthur threw the crumpled magazine in a waste bin. “How could they not?“ Richard retorted. “You're one absurd personality. Your absurdity clicked perfectly with the story's.“ Richard gave a fake beam, rubbing at his jawline. “Are you trying to get me ca

“Are we characters too?” “Yes, we are and the author is the creator of this world who has put us at places like pieces of puzzle scattered all around the world. Some pieces might fit and some might not fit together, but when they are put in their right places with the right pieces — it creates an art — and it is called complete. That’s exactly what this world is — an assembly of all kinds of people who, when brought together, form an art.” “You make life sound so beautiful. Fictional life is the best life. Real life sucks,” I said.

There was a chance that the marking wouldn’t work because she was human and honestly as much as it pained me it would probably be for the best if it didn’t. An hour later we were in the jet ready to take off and go back to the real world that was our lives and I felt dread in the pit of my stomach. My appetite was gone but Finley ate breakfast on the jet as if she hadn’t eaten the whole weekend. “Do you ever think about the reality of the things you write?” I asked her. “There is no reality in what I write Damon, that’s why it’s called fiction,” she said as she made herself more comfortable on the leather chair.

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