Story Of Fiction Novels & Stories

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.

I fought the urge to trap that deep sound somewhere in my body. "My guess is that whoever told the story must have wanted it to sound less like a conflict and more like an inspirational story. They do all of that too much these days; every story is fabricated." The smile on my lips wiped immediately at his last words. my mind drifted to the story of his family, and I wanted to ask is yours too? Is your story fabricated just as you said? But instead, I found myself asking. "How do you know the real version from the fake, then?" It sounded like a double question, especially with the fact that my face had gone from a wide grin to a cautious stare into his eyes in a second.

Though he has stopped monitoring the island every moment… The world that was crazed with digitalization had finally learnt to take a break, to talk, to love, to feel, to unplug but how long this change will last only future can tell…. Authors note: I hope you enjoyed reading Fictitious Reality. It often becomes difficult to distinguish between Fiction and Reality. In such times we should not panic. We should use our wit and reasoning to make the right judgement. Do let me know what you think about this book through COMMENTS and REVIEWS.

My imagination has gone too surreal to be called healthy. I just shook my head, continued walking, and looked a few more times behind me in case I… really… saw… a dragon…. There was nothing though. That’s it. Gramps' stories have gotten into my head. Besides, I’ve been working on a fiction about creatures similar to it. I’ve been submitting more entries to the same ol’ publisher that has rejected every of my written pieces. I just didn’t know how to give up. Not yet. I knew I was born to be a well-known writer.

Because of this, I would like to point out that this story is not for the weak of stomach or faint of heart. You’d expect to find a story like this in the fiction aisle of your brick and mortar bookstore instead of the non-fiction section where it truly belongs, and that’s okay with me. In fact, I prefer it. It makes it easier to tell a story that I find unbelievable even though I lived through it when it’s formatted and touted as fictitious. I feel free sharing the details under the guise of make believe.

“You scared the poor boy, dude.” That was the first response he got from Damien Lau after he finished telling the whole story. The doctor visited him today, and he served some mineral waters to him. He was just a bachelor who didn’t really care about food at home and only had mineral waters with him. Despite being a bad host, the painter still dared to pour his heart out by telling the story that bothered him since yesterday. Yeah, he had told his friend about his ‘experience’ with his student yesterday.

I tried my best to click the heart button on my readers’ comments on my recent post. And ever since Pauline came to my life, I started writing a book about being a single mother which became a physical book after I finished writing it. My readers are thinking that my book about being a single mother is inspired of one of my readers, little did they know that it is inspired on my own experience being a single mother. And I know that my book about being a mother has a big impact on my readers especially those who are a single mother. They were commenting about their own experience which made me agree to them because I’ve also experienced those.

They suspected I had a hand in my mother's death, and somewhere along the line, I started to believe it myself. We consumed about half of the cake while discussing various topics, and then she tucked me into bed. "Are you going to share the story about the rogue guy who meets the princess and they decide to run away? You haven't mentioned it for a few days now," I held onto her hand, not letting her leave the room until she recounted the next part of the story. She told me it was something she had fabricated herself. However, I found it captivating, as I had never encountered a rogue before. The way my sister portrayed him in the story made me believe that rogues must be extraordinary in som

The ideas for my new book kept flowing in rapidly, and I typed in each words, conveying the emotions of my characters. Yes, I wrote fictional stories, although I was yet to publish any, no one had even ever read my works before, except my mom who of course, didn't believe in my vision. She said fictional stories were basically a collection of p**n and I should delve into something else, preferably fashion and design. I, however begged to differ. I loved writing, it was the only perfect and stable constant in my life. 'I love my husband, but he doesn't satisfy me sexually. He doesn't last and can't get me off.'

He waited. It was longer than the notebook piece — considerably longer, several thousand words, though she understood from the way it sat on the page that it was still not complete, that it was a thing in progress rather than a thing arrived at. The story followed a boy — she recognised the structural distance of fiction over the transparent autobiography of a first draft, the way he had found a character who was not him and could therefore be him more honestly than he could be if he used his own name and his own specific details. The boy in the story was watching his parents.