Novel & Cerita Slice Of Life Fiction

' I returned with a reply, 'Dad, I've got this. Occasionally, news about Zachary still reached me. He was working as a mid-level employee at a private company. He earned enough to get by, and his workload was lighter. Yara's health never fully recovered after giving birth to her daughter, so she couldn't work at all. As a result, Zachary became the sole breadwinner in their family. Hence, money was always tight. Rumor had it they argued constantly—about bills, about the child, about every trivial thing imaginable. His mother had a stroke last year and became paraplegic. Zachary brought her to live with them, which only made the tension at home worse.

SHAWNA'S POV: Life has always been cruel to me, I have lost all those who were once close to my heart. Standing here all alone. Well, they say, nobody's life is perfect and neither is that they are perfect... But guess that is how life is, like me. I am not perfect or either my life is, for me, life is now a mystery. It is always in suspense what the next morning bring for me?... LIFE... the four-letter word... it's amusing how tiny and simple it looks, but when we see it closely, it is a big wide world. It would take another novel to write it all about.

The message should have ruined the week I didn’t,at least not completely Life had become stubborn that way nno matter how hard the past tried to reach us, the present kept demanding attention,sofia needed breakfast,the bills needed payin even the laundry somehow reproduced overnight and Julian still stole my side of the bed despite having more than enough space ,normal life had a way of refusing to pause for old ghosts but the text lingered not because I thought someone was watching us,not because I believed the nightmare had returned but because it reminded me that some scars never disappeared completely.

I thought about coffee outside a door and chess past midnight and a floristry report in his handwriting and the pale oval stone chosen in a Marylebone jeweller on a November Saturday. I thought about what temporary becomes when you stop letting it be the whole story. What it becomes is this. A kitchen that smells like jollof rice and effort. A ring that was chosen rather than assigned. A man reading beside you on a sofa with his arm around your shoulders like you have always been there. A life that is small and warm and completely yours. Not a comma anymore. A full stop. And then, because life does not actually stop, just shifts and deepens and asks you to keep going —

I whisper to myself after a couple of minutes staring at the painting. I shake my head and eat a piece of slice melon. I know life is so hard to deal especially if things didn't go as we planned but then it would be more difficult if we always reflect reality into fantasy. Life doesn't have a happy ending, it's a constant cycle of good and bad, happy and sad, life and death. Sighing, I continue putting spread on the slice of wheat bread when suddenly someone tapped the table making me flinch. My both eyes are both wide open as I met Vicenzo's stare.

I wished I could reach back and tell her— You’re not an extra. You’re not an offering. You’re not a sentence someone else handed you. You’re a story. You get to write. “And this time, you won’t be alone.” “I’ll keep writing it,” I said aloud, surprising myself. “What?” Ronan asked. “My story,” I said. “Ours. The pack’s. It doesn’t… end because the big bad is gone. It just… changes genre.” I smiled. “From tragedy to… messy, ongoing slice‑of‑life.”

I don't know why I didn't even blink and started while saying that while his mouth is parted. "Oh, and in addition, you get frustrated because you feel like your efforts have gone to waste. According to a fiction I have read which genre is a slice of life when it's the girl who asked for it while she's drunk and you gave in, it will result to some sort of quarrel between lovers," I innocently looked at him. "Is that where this conversation heading?" He massaged the bridge of his nose. "Damn, I didn't realize that reading too many fictional stories can make someone think this way," He mumbled.

Because the Anastacius I know used to have fun by slicing people's throats. Damn it, he knows how to handle a knife well. When I read about how skilled he's at using that damn knife there's only one thing that crossed my mind. He must be a pro in cutting vegetables. I suck at cutting vegetables. In fact I never cooked, I used to be in an orphanage so they will take care of our food and the first time I entered a kitchen was for baking cookies that got Travis ill. "Well, you will get to know it later. So are you in?" He asked offering his hand again and my mind went blank. What to do now?

She made herself a sandwich in the kitchen and waited for the coffee to finish while she powered on the computer. She forgot the half-eaten sandwich and didn't even touch the coffee as she flew through the story, adding all the nuances she'd learned herself in the last few days. She now lived in a whole new world, and it showed in the words she wrote. The flowery prose she had started had fleshed out a little to add the grit of reality, the things that people faced and dealt with every day.