Truth Or Fiction Novels & Stories

From all the fake stories that all the nearby locals from around here are telling, I'm even more curious to know the truth. Well, I was always among those types of people who would go all the way just to find the truth. There's no changing that. I guess you haven’t been told yet that curiosity kills the cat. My conscience taunted me. I’ve been told so but it sucks to be you, I’m not a cat. I cheekily argued back. Are these stories just some myths or are they real? Is it true that there are monsters residing in the depth of the forest or is it just some made up stories? What if it's true?

“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.”

It then became a rumor before it finally became a fabrication of your enemies. The end product is the woman believing her own tale, I shit you not. Men are caught up by their lies. Women are held hostage by theirs. That is one of the huge gulfs between the sexes; men fight using facts, or fight their way out of their own lies. The ladies fight for the truth - their own, imaginary truth.

But tying it to me made no sense. Unless the point was never truth. Unless someone was building a narrative. And somehow that scared me more than the poison itself. Because in royal courts, a manufactured narrative could become fact. Evidence could be planted. Witnesses could be bought. Footage could be cut and reshaped. Documents could be forged. In this palace, truth was not always truth. Sometimes truth was whatever the powerful decided to repeat until no one could challenge it. We reached the detention building.

'Why is that even funny?' 'Because, humans wouldn't know the truth if it hit them in the face like a tsunami,' he said. 'Truth is nothing but fiction, told by the greatest storytellers this world has ever known. Of course, they were also the best liars, but that's the real secret to great story-telling, isn't it? Possessing the ability to make people believe you. Stories become truths so powerful that people forget that the tale itself was so fantastical, it couldn't possibly have been real. Serpents and apples. Building a massive boat full to the brim with every species of animal known to man. Five thousand people turning up to your dinner party when you only have five loaves of bread and t

Her shoulders trembled as she covered her face with her hands, muffling her quiet sobs. Zach had been paying her three thousand dollars a month—more than her husband ever earned. But who would willingly trade decades of freedom for a little extra money unless they had no other choice? "I can give you more," I said. "More than what he's offering. All I ask is that you persuade your husband to tell the truth—for his own sake and for my mother's justice. Your husband didn't do it in the first place. The real culprit is still out there, living freely."

There is no ambiguity about the status of fiction, but there is considerable ambiguity about that of the other two kinds of stories. The problem is that it is only quite late in the development of a human society that people begin to understand the distinction between traditional beliefs and beliefs that are arrived at by experiment, research and the rigorous application of reason. The name that we have for this latter category of beliefs is “science”. I want to make it very clear that the distinction between science and non-science is not that of truth and falsity. That is an entirely separate issue. The distinction lies in the way that the two belief systems arrive at their conclusions.

I steadied my breathing, “Do you know that if you put in the same energy you use to read into school, you’d be a grade A student.” She stuck out her tongue at me in retaliation. “You really need to read this one; it’s about fairies and werewolves,” she gushed, “I can’t wait to meet an actual fairy.” “Fairies don’t exist, Leslie,” I said in a bored tone. “Of course they do,” she argued, “If they didn’t then why would people write about them?” “Because it’s a myth, and it’s fantasy, it sells well.” “Every myth is based on truth,”

It could instigate conflicts and hostilities then wars, sinkholes and landslides from earthquakes and even blizzards and storm surges from typhoons among others. We cannot be telling lies without exposing part of our truth. Somehow, in the space between falsity and truth, is the vast expanse of ocean of options waiting to be enabled, initiated or activated. There is, however, only one choice for every occasion. A prior false statement once supported with a chain of greater misrepresentations could only be coupled proportionally by an insurmountable amount of audacity to live up to one’s beliefs and ideology or the complete lack of it.

I talked about the specific difference between accuracy and truth, which I had been thinking about since the student had said it to me in the first year and which I had been developing as a concept for three years now, sharpening it with each group until I could say it clearly. I said: accuracy means the measurements are correct. Truth means the thing is doing what it actually does, and the illustration shows it doing that. A heart can be anatomically accurate and still not show you what a heart does, which is sustain life, which is the reason the measurements matter. The measurements serve the meaning. When you make the measurement the point, you have produced a diagram. When you make the m