Realistic Fiction の小説・ストーリー

Welcome to a chapter of introspection and self-discovery. What follows is a dialogue with self, an intimate conversation that delves into the depths of one's thoughts, aspirations, and inner conflicts. This is not merely a monologue, but a discourse between different facets of the same being. In this chapter, you will witness a journey of questioning, reflection, and realization. It is a moment captured from the protagonist's narrative, a moment where they engage in a profound dialogue with themselves, exploring the intricacies of their desires, fears, and ambitions.

Either I’m losing it…Or I’m not. And somehow, neither option feels comforting. I drag in a slow breath, trying to ground myself. “Maybe It’s just your imagination,” I whisper out to myself. Because that would make the most sense. It has to. Because the alternative? The alternative is that I’m not imagining anything at all. And that thought… That thought is enough to make something cold slide down my spine. So I choose logic. I have to. Because if I don’t then I’m just blurring the lines between my reality and the things I write. God knows I spend more time inside the fictional worlds I create than I do in the real one.

I had to have done that before, especially in a more reserved place. Zylah had only believed it because she was crazy, and had a great tendency to wish her literary novels were real. Even if I were lying, she would create a world based on my information, just to have a parallel reality in which to live. Even if she was suffering from vomiting, even if she felt the energy in the air, she still had a hallucinated glow in her eyes. The way she was when she started a new book and swore with her feet together that her favorite characters were real people and that she just didn't know them because she was an ordinary human.

he said merrily. He was really excited on my behalf, genuinely excited not just faking it or pretending for my sake. “What do you mean by genre?” I asked sheepishly. “The type of movie you watch is called a genre. There is fiction which means things that don’t usually exist in real life… well, for humans anyway. Some of those things that are classified as fiction are actually quite real in our world, like werewolves” he said while smiling. My eyes widened “They make movies about us?” I asked incredulously.

4. Gavin has finished his pancakes and is now sipping from his coffee, watching me with a neutral expression. I again push the book away from me, as if prolonged contact with it could hurt me, somehow. Which is ridiculous. It’s just a journal full of stories, that’s all. So what if Gavin’s story about the Pital girl was eerily accurate? Gavin wrote fiction for a living, he made stuff up. That’s what writers do, right? Make stuff up.

To her surprise she wasn’t shocked to be speaking to an animal but she wondered in her heart what this could mean? “Am I dreaming?” she asked. “Not exactly.” Well then am I dead? Dead? What does that even mean? What is death? Can conscience be killed? Can someone’s passions and dreams be silenced? Who you are can’t be stopped. She replied. Our life can’t be stopped it only takes another form. She then asked her how she got here. Well she told her “I’m not really sure about that?” There are many ways to our world and many reasons people are brought here. Some come after death. Some are brought here in flashes because the pain of their own world. Some have a very special purpose I was promised

The impact was so strong I could feel my neck crack as it got jerked back. 7. Winning the state soccer championship with a club I met in Rio... The window started cracking from the pressure of the water outside of the car as we were sinking towards the bottom. 8. Attending a concert with Rachel... I took a deep breath as the water started to swarm me, my clothes were drenched. 9. Completing lab projects after school with Leander... I went to the little air pocket that was left, to take another breath 10. Realizing there was no escape from the situation and being okay with it.

I want to write. The clarity of the understanding was physical, almost like an impact. Not an autobiography—not memories sold as a trauma spectacle for public consumption. Not the clinical account of a survivor so others could learn lessons. Fiction. Worlds created from scratch with their own rules, inhabitants who could bleed and love and break and rebuild without the world pointing at me and saying this happened to her.

These are the unbelievable, untruthful verities popularized by some of the fiction writers by introducing unreal events, human beings, and unusual, odd lifestyles through their works they had normalized such concepts. Reality is different. Far different from what's being told in such stories. I tried to give reasons to myself. 'No, I don't have any powers.' I said inwardly. Assuring myself that it's all a lie. "But…!" A doubt rose its head inside my chest causing a slight yet sweet aching. I closed my eyes, gradually tending to shut everything disturbing my mind. "Why the heck is he getting all the attention of these girls? … I'll lure him into the trap of my sweet lies and will take the sec