Realistic Fiction Stories Novels & Stories

"You know nothing about me, Cairen. But I don't read romance. It's cliche.” I have never read a fiction book in my life. It's boring and gives me a headache. “Romance is not cliche. It shows true love and how the characters struggle in the name of love,” I remarked, biting my lips not to laugh. Zach wrinkled his nose like I was saying a nasty thing. "Why is it called fiction? It's not a real thing that happened. I would rather read about things that happened in real life than bullshit imagination," he grumpily said.

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

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.

“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.”

Her own hand was between her legs, her fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles over her pussy. Mira’s own hand drifted down, pressing against the damp fabric of her running shorts. She was soaked. The sight, the sounds, the raw, unfiltered sex of it all hit her like a physical blow. Her clit, a small, sensitive nub beneath her hood, throbbed in time with the pounding rhythm from the clearing. She leaned against a tree, her legs feeling weak.

He replied, "All books are fiction." "Not all." "You know what I mean." He shook his head, as I continued. "I like stories that take me somewhere else," I said, "Stories that make me forget reality exists and make me paint pictures in my head. His eyes flickered briefly. "That explains the paintings." I nodded. "It helps." "So, you're one of those romance people that enjoys all those ridiculous stories.” He said, “Where girl meets boy, girl hates boy. And then by some silly ass miracle, they both love each other at the end of the day.”

"I read those too. And I wouldn't hesitate to admit it." "Fine. I'm a romance reader. Because life is beautiful in the romance world. All that gorgeous, unrealistic nonsense authors sell us, the perfect love, the whole thing." I let out a small laugh. "I know it's ridiculous. But I love them. Even if that kind of love only exists in books." His response wasn't what I expected. "Who told you it wasn't real?" "What?" "Every story, fiction or not, comes from something true. Someone lived a piece of it first."

"What if the author thinks about that way? What if she really deliver that story that way?" "Or what if the real unexpected love story begins from a reader and a fictional character. It's way more unexpected."

So, the best thing for me to do is to avoid her. People still say stupid things about her. I am already very tired of hearing all the side derogatory comments about her. it is very sickening. People should just learn to stop all this petty bullying. It is not cool at all. I entered the library and I picked a seat at the far end of the library. I picked a literature textbook. Literature has been giving me issues for a while now. I want to really focus on it today. I sat down and started skimming through the textbook. I honestly do not understand what I am reading but I just continued.

But I don't break eye contact with this mysterious woman who's decided tonight is the night she stops being careful. The night we both do. "So what do you do,When you're not hiding in expensive hotel bars refusing to give your name?" A ghost of a smile apeaers on her face. "I traffic in narratives. I take messy, complicated realities and turn them into stories people can believe in. Make the unacceptable palatable. The truth into useful fiction." "Dangerous work." "Someone has to do it." She takes a sip, and I'm transfixed by the curve of her throat.